So it is 8:58 and I had invited people over for drinks "around 8:00." People have told me about how Indians take fashionably late to new levels, but this seems ridiculous. Needless to say, to fill the time I thought I’d write this entry, but can I really think that my first guest will be fooled by my seeming nonchalance?

I wonder what it would be like if all appointments were so loosely adhered to…you would go to the dentist and he’d show up an hour or two after your appointment time. Scaled up, doctors would tell expectant mothers that their baby is due sometime between March and November.

I’m also a little anxious about bothering my neighbours. They have literally taken me in as one of their own; giving me tea to drink in the morning and never failing to offer me dinner in the evening. If I plan to cook for myself I have to lie to my “Auntie” and tell her that I ate between the office and home. That is how persistent she is with her offer of food.

On Sunday she insisted that I come over for something to eat. She apologized profusely that she only had mutton curry, rice, sambal, curd, and Indian sweets to offer me; obviously more than a complete meal. My Auntie, her daughter, and her two nieces proceeded to give me serving after serving of delicious, spicy curry and white basmati rice. At the outset she asked if I wanted a fork. Again, “when in Rome”....

“No thank you Auntie, I should eat Indian style.”

My confidence has been growing as I get used to eating curry with roti (flat Indian bread), but curry and rice was an entirely different prospect. I used my thumb, forefinger and middle finger to mix a bit of the curry sauce with the rice (I’ve seen Indians do this so I thought it was a pretty safe move). Of course, Auntie and her three relatives are standing over me as they watch me do this, heightening the awkwardness to levels I have not yet experienced. [Parenthetically, it is 9:10 and there is no one here].

I take a bit of meat and try and get it to stick to some rice before I shovel it into my mouth with my forefinger and middle finger. This action brings a number of grains of rice onto the plate (ok, not a problem), the table cloth (whoops), my shirt (D’oh), and finally my chin. The looks on their faces as they watched this perfectly straddled humour and horror.

Again my auntie asked, “I will get you a spoon, no?”

“No, I want to learn to eat Indian style,” I say with more than [okay so people arrived at around 9:20 and I had a great night with my “closest” friends of the past four weeks] a hint of obstinacy.

“Ok, no problem” she says sympathetically.

On the upside, the food was some of the best that I’ve had in India. This was true up to a point. After having the curry, sambal, chutney, and rice in several small servings, she insists that I end the meal with a delicious mix of rice mixed with buffalo milk skin.

I knew that buffalo milk is more popular that cow’s milk, “more fat,” she says with pride. “Cow’s milk is for health.”

I, of course, think about the buffalos I have seen being herded through the streets. They are huge, wide beasts, with the curled horns that look a bit like a 1960s perm. They are also spattered with their own muck, which seems to be the overriding impression as I sit there about to enjoy their redirected milk.

She skims off the top layer and plops it on top of my rice. She then motions for me to mix it in with my hands and to add some salt and pepper. As I have learned from a young age (mostly from watching my older, pickier brother when he was kid) when confronted with a situation like this the most important thing is to have a full glass of some liquid that is preferably very flavourful. So I put my glass of water (damn, I wish I had some mango juice) in my left hand and started to mix the milk skin and rice together. The faintly musty smell of the buffalo milk just hit my nose as I took my first bit, pushing the milky, wet rice into my mouth with my middle and forefinger. Unfortunately the smell was an accurate introduction so I made sure to not breath through my nose and took a huge gulp of water to send the rice down.

“Hmmm, that’s very different, very good.” I say, trying rather pathetically to hide my cringing.

“Good, have some more,” she says as she puts more of the milk skin on my plate.

I should have known that was coming, so I insist that I am getting very full and can’t possibly have any more. She reaches to serve me more and I physically cover my plate.

“No, Auntie, thank you so much, but I will only have what is on my plate.” I say, trying to perfectly balance a firm but appreciative tone.

I get the rest down, and luckily, there is a delicious Indian sweet to follow: a this triangle of cashew paste with edible silver on one side. At this point eating silver doesn’t really phase me and I know that silver doesn’t really have any objectionable flavour, if any at all.

I get up and wash my hands. “Thank you so much, Auntie. That was wonderful. Delicious food. Thank you.”