Mango Lassi

Anyone who has ever gone to an Indian restaurant with me knows my utterly predictable weakness for a mango lassi. One, I just like the taste, but, as I've shared before, because of my hillbilly southern Indian linage I grew up thinking that green peppers were called mangoes, and thus just knowing what a mango actually is somehow in my addled brain speaks to a level, although a limited one, of cultural sophistication. This last trip to India seemed to be the mango lassi trip, and I think my favorite one came our last full day in Pushkar when Steve and I were bumming around the old town. The students had gone back to the glamping site with Adi to rest (youth is wasted on the wrong people) so we took the opportunity to do some exploring. We stopped in a couple places in the old town looking for a mango lassi but no one had one. At the second one a guy told us to follow him to his restaurant because he had one; actually, he told Steve to jump on the back of his motorcycle and they'd head their directly. I don't know if he was going to come back and get me later or if he just thought that Steve looked like a better candidate. Instead we just told him we'd meet him there, and after getting the directions ("it's right across from the Brahma temple" - and since there's only one Brahma temple in Pushkar, and, well, the world; actually, I don't know if that's completely true, but there aren't many - we figured it would be easy to find) we made our way there. The guy was quite pleased that we did actually show up, and the mango lassi was quite good.

I think Steve was talking about liminal spaces, and I was talking about girls.

Mmmm, mango lassi . . .