We All Need a Good Laugh
The first weekend we got here, we had told the younger kids to shower to prepare for church the next morning. If you’ve read our previous posts you know the bathrooms had geckos in them and the kids were terrified to use them. Whenever Liam needed to use the bathroom, he asked someone else to check it before he would enter. Then he would canvas the room like a policeman clearing a house on a raid. This time he came pleading to me. I quickly glanced over the bathroom and told him all was well without really looking. He stealthily enters, bends his head to waist height, and informs me that their pet gecko is under the sink. We have tried to scare this particular gecko out multiple times to no avail. He then says it’ll be okay because that one never comes out from under the sink. I’m fine with that as I really don’t want to track down a broom, spend 15 minutes trying to coach the gecko out, and have it run helter skelter in every direction but outside while he screams every time it comes in his direction. As he shuts the bathroom door I hear, “okay little gecko the first rule is don’t poop on my clothes. If you poop on my clothes, I’m going to be really mad!”
We also have tried to buy a car. It’s not like in the US. They do have showrooms but they don’t carry the cars on the lot. You order one, they have it delivered to the dealership, and they register it for you. When it’s ready, they call to let you know you can pick it up. This can take anywhere from 2-6 weeks depending upon the vehicle. Since we don’t have much experience driving on the opposite side of the road and with so many in our family that we want to make sure can fit, most dealers drove a car to our house to test drive. One day, a salesman showed up with a car. They all bring their premium models to show off the features but all the test drive cars are rough. There are two kinds of cars in a India: those that have been in an accident and those who will. So naturally these have also been at least scratched. Dennis, the salesman, and I load in the car. Our plan is always to take a short drive out the main gate of the subdivision down a 3/4 mile road to the back entrance and then to our house. It takes less than 10 minutes and the fastest you can drive is 35 miles per hour.
We take off from our house and head toward the main entrance. It’s about a mile drive. As we approach the guard station at the main gate, there is a large speed bump. Dennis rolls up it and the car kills, rolling back down. I think “great! I guess he better practice driving stick some more because it’s been years since we’ve had to.” He tells the salesman that he thinks we are out of gas. The salesman says no and to try to start it again. He tries several times but it won’t start. We get out and the salesman gives it a go. Nope, we are out of gas.
At this point, I can’t help but to laugh. What will we do now? There is a gas station at the main entrance. I suggest that we put it in neutral and push it there. That would be a sight. Everyone already stares everywhere we go. There aren’t any other Americans in our town and from the registration website we think there are 12 other white people total! The salesman gets on the phone. Dennis and I are dying. We decide to push the car over the speed bump and into a parking spot by the park. We offer to push it but the salesman is beyond embarrassed. It’s finally decided that I will drive, while they push. With minimal effort, we get it moved.
The salesman then gets a friend who works in the subdivision to drive him some gas on his motorcycle. He shows up with gas in a plastic bottle and attempts to pour it in. I think 25% ended up on the ground. The rest of the test drive thankfully was uneventful. In case you are wondering, no we didn’t buy the car and we still don’t have a car yet.
The final funny story of the day, I have asked Dennis to write about.
Ok, I feel a little embarrassed writing about this, but as Heather has been doing most of the writing, I guess I had better help. She asked me to write about our first pressure cooker experience. Now, we cook. The fact is, we very seldom eat out; however, back in the US, our only experience with a pressure cooker was for canning, with a very different pressure cooker, or with an Instapot. So we can’t say we are pros, in fact we are neophytes, but hey, I figure “how hard can this be.” My wife and I are both college educated, not that that means a dang thing when it comes to cooking, and we both know our way around a kitchen. However, overconfidence is the plume in every fools hat.
So we start to unbox the pressure cooker and we realize we aren’t in Kansas anymore and no one even knows who Toto is. Instead of a nice rotational locking lid, like we are used to, we pull out a lid shaped like the Starship Enterprise with a diving board attached. No kidding, the lid is an oval with a gasket on top with a spring board handle. Then when we pull out the pot, it looks like they got over zealous when they formed the pan and bent over the top. I am sure that Heather will include pictures of the contraption for you to look at. Now I know some of you are very familiar with this type because after our experience I looked for one on Amazon.com. Much to my chagrin, looks like they are there. I was sure we were dealing with at the very least a plot to discourage home cooking, but by my calculation, I figured this contraption was a full on crime against humanity. Did I mention we were neophytes with this type of kind of cooker?
Now that we have it out, how in the world are we supposed to use it? So Heather instantly grabs the instructions and proceeds to read them,......twice. Me, nope, I just grab the thing and try to start putting the lid on. Remember the hexagonal cubes that had the different shapes cut out on the different sides and you had to put the square in the square hole, star, triangle, etc. that we all played with as toddlers? Well this pan lid is level 578 of that toy. I rotate, angle, twist, push, pull, tap, and pray to get that lid on. My wife starts to stare at me like the idiot I am. I do finally get it in the pot like it goes, and then I just hand it over to her. I figure she read the instructions, she can get the lid back out.
Now with the assembly semi figured out, we decide to give our first pot of rice a go. We measure the rice, water, and salt into the pot. Then I quickly make sure I look busy so she has to put the lid on. To her credit, she does struggle some, but gets it on much quicker than I did. Though in my defense, she wouldn’t let me read the instructions....... anyway we are all ready to go. For the rice that we put in, the instructions say to heat on high, then after the first whistle, turn the heat to low and after the second whistle to turn of the heat and let the pot cool on its own. Whistle? We have never had a pressure cooker that whistled. I figured it would be like a teapot. So we put the weight on the spout and turned on the stove. Then the waiting for the first whistle to begin.
This is where I think the designer of this thing is some recluse that hates people. First, the whistle takes just long enough that you think you messed up and aren’t expecting it anymore. It definitely catches you off guard. Second, calling that a whistle is, well, a load of crap. When that thing went off it was like standing two feet behind an F16 jet at full throttle. It made Moby Dick’s blow hole look like a squirt gun. My danger meter from 1-10 pegged at 327 and I go into full blown defcon 5 mode. I start to push wife, daughter and anyone else in that kitchen out because I figure “there she blows” is going to turn into “there she blows up.” That triple sized, gargantuan freight train atomic bomb whistle was the longest 15 seconds of my life. When it finally stops I remember that somebody has to go back in there and turn the stove down now. Now, I know who should do it, me, but that thing scared all the courage I had right out the window. However, I know I can’t let my wife do it, because, well that’s the worst kind of cowardly. So I slowly peek around the corner to assess the situation. That pot is just sitting there like nothing is wrong. Just happily perched over the fire of the stove. I wait a full minute expecting at any moment to catch aluminum shrapnel to the face. When that doesn’t happen I slowly, I don’t know why I thought that would help, sneak back up to the stove.
I carefully reach out and gently turn the stove down. Just as I start to relax, Moby Dick fires off round two. I lost all composure. I can’t tell you all that ensued, but suffice it to say, I made my wife go turn off the stove.
In the end, the rice was good and now with some experience we wonder why we didn’t use a pressure cooker more in the US, but that first time was a doozy.
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