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Paradigm of Melange - April 2010

Every other day, I pride in my competence in and around the kitchen, and yes, I most certainly know the difference between corn flour and self-raising flour. Well, maybe my sixteen year old cousin (Do I have one?) is a closer pal of the cooking range despite being a guy, but I still pride in myself because most of the girls I know are shameless gluttons who can’t cook for themselves and have to depend on either their mothers or some chef in some rodent-infested fast food outlet. Pity them! At least I can cook, which is fundamentally an added bonus for devoted foodies. I don’t have to thrash anybody’s front door every time a pang of hunger snags at my bile juices. Biologically, I’m not sure that happens.

Today, I discovered a marvel for all those incompetent devils who can’t master the art of cooking or baking, and ergo, have to call on expensive professional chefs for bites every now and then. This one is for the bachelors and bachelor-girls who have cravings at two in the morning, and there’s a conspicuous pile of homework languishing on the table adding to the woes of a flagrantly impoverished refrigerator. Here is a five-minute recipe that you can enjoy at any time of the day without having to forego the brilliant taste of chocolate cakes. Neither is this a cheap, bland substitute. This is bloody brilliant.

You need:

4 Tablespoons cake flour
4 Tablespoons sugar
2 Tablespoons cocoa
1 Egg
3 Tablespoons milk
3 Tablespoons oil
1 Coffee Mug

Mix flour and cocoa. Spoon in one egg. Pour in oil and milk, and mix well. Set the mug in the microwave for three minutes on a maximum power of approximately 1000 watts. Wait until the cake inside stops rising, and settles down. Tip the cake onto a saucer and you’re all ready to dig in.

Easier than you thought, right?



Since I have certain dietary restrictions owing to my doctor’s lunatic notion that dairy products and eggs can kill me, I made a few substitutes. Instead of milk, I used coconut milk powder, but I could’ve used soy milk as well. I’m a rather large ignoramus when it comes to thinking for alternatives. Gladly, the coconut milk didn’t make even a smidgen of difference; it tasted exactly like the chocolate cakes from memory. Since I’m not allowed eggs either, I used half a teaspoon of baking powder and a tablespoon of corn starch paste. Again, it made no difference that the human tongue of mine could feel.

This recipe stole away exactly five minutes of my time, and since the third minute, the aroma of freshly baked chocolate cake has been lingering in my little kitchen, despite its tiny size.

As I savoured the cake, I came up with a brilliant plan for all those stuck indoors with no dinner and no culinary abilities to speak of. Maybe the cold, ruthless snow has grown to an intimidating nine inches outside. So they can put on their cooking gear, boil some two-minute noodles and bake the cake. The noodles can be suffered with salsa, salad, or left-over gravy. The chocolate cake necessitates no other companion and makes for a perfect dessert.

Finger-lickin’ love,
Maimoona Rahman
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Tedious Twilight

April 28th 2010 08:28


If my Prince Charming even considers slipping a Twilight’ Engagement Ring on my finger, I swear upon my late great, great grandpa that I’ll whip the daylights out of him before figuratively flicking him out of the planet. I hate Twilight that much


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So Not a Journalist Am I

April 27th 2010 19:49


Once upon a time, I dreamt of carrying my writer’s dreams to the realms of journalism – creative, constructive, and unconventional journalism. I wanted to be the living nightmare of every conniving, monstrous Member of Parliament, who never had the scruples while embezzling from money set aside for welfare, or while setting their henchmen to do away with the innocent coroner. Somewhere in my head I had conjured up the possibility of employing journalism to humble away the awful politicians of Bangladesh who have sired and mothered only corruption and poverty. Success, I thought, meant to tread all the paths forking from journalism which no journalist had ever dared to tread


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