Deepavali/Diwali: A Dissection.

Deepavali/Diwali always meant long holidays, fireworks (crackers, really) going off all day and all night and a smorgasbord of sweets sent by neighbours.

Time passes. Diwali meant more prep time for exams, duties I'm required to cover, congested shopping areas with hordes of police-protection and crackers going off all day (bursting them between the hours of 10 PM and 6 AM has been banned. One of the rare useful laws the Government has passed)

However, there are some consistencies in Indian festivals. Things that don't have a shot in hell of ever changing. Read clash-y huge-budget releases (Vijay/Ajith, Vijay/Surya or Rajini/Yeah, right), marathons of sitcoms/"cine" programs on the TV, explosive rise in gold prices...

And yeah. Food and Family/Friends. Not in that order. Mostly.

While everybody wakes up at the crack of dawn for their oil-baths and the like, we sleep in. Wake up to the third cookie-hamper coming from one of Dad's friends. Lounge in front of the TV with a cup of black chai, getting my digestive enzymes ready for a true Tamil-style Deepavali feast.

C's mum's lunches are legendary... things you brave the rain and dangerous, Lakshmi-vedi-filled roads for. I learnt this when I overstayed one evening at their place, almost a decade back and was served piping hot rava kesari, bonda and filter coffee.

Meant to be consumed, sitting on the famous swing:

While being the butt of all jokes. Wait, that's just me.

This time, my little sister joins us for the first time, decked in her pattu-pavadai. She keeps me busy and worried enough... some how, I still get embarrassed. That stays consistent, too.

After catching up on the latest and sipping on preprandial juice, we wait for the last person to join us (with well-deserved guilt plastered all over their faces, anticipation over ours'). File into the dining room. And let the feasting begin.

Cautionary note: The photos, being taken on a stormy, grey day and by someone with zero photography-skills, will not do the food justice. But this practically applies to every post on the blog.
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Puffy pooris!

Served with chana masala, bursting with plump chickpeas and fresh coriander in a fragrant tomato-onion gravy. Meant to be scooped up with little pieces of the pooris. Not to be eaten in handfuls, like you would with popcorn. Doesn't stop me.

Eid's tamilian counterpart. Brinji/Vegetable biryani with buttery croutons strewed on top.

Fluffy grains of rice, crunchy bits of vegetable are tossed with variety of heartening herbs and spices. Soul-food and sophistication on a plate.

Eaten with a little raita made with homemade curd/yogurt and crunchy onion. And medhu vada.

The logical, human thing to do is to overdose on the extremely-rare-to-come-across and excessively-delicious Tamil-veg food. Experience has taught me better. Always save space for Thayir semiya.

Doesn't look like The Piece de Resistance, does it now?

I'm eating the leftovers (which I unashamedly asked Aunty to pack for me to take home) even as I'm typing this post. It ranks up there, with Nutella, for me. How else can I describe it?

C's mum protests each time I rave over the Thayir Semiya... it's extremely simple and unworthy of high praise, she argues.

But you know what they say about the best gifts coming in brown-paper packages.

This time, the best gift is boiled vermicelli tossed with homemade yogurt, a little milk, salt and pomegranate, basically. It won't taste the same if I make it. I've accepted it, and it's a valid life choice.

Lunch finishes with the best part of the meal (I'm allowed to have up to 4 best parts, right?) That would be the

Dessert! Homemade maavu ladoo, adhirasam (holy yum!), coconut burfi and chocolate cupcakes. This is also the time when you collect your Diwali bounty from all those in attendance: homemade murukku, sweets, foreign-chocolate (notice the Ferroro Rocher!) and gifts to take back in neat little Ziploc bags and boxes.

Calories don't count. Calories don't exist. They're in your head. And in textbooks of Physics. Wear your fatpants. You can believe in them again tomorrow.


The evening ends with introducing my fearless sister to fireworks. Not ones that are products of child-labour. Not enough to pollute the environment and exacerbate an acute attack in any passing asthmatic. Just enough sparklers to match the ones in The Sister's eyes (who randomly declares "I'm so happy!")

So I've realized what Diwali/Deepavali actually means: Tamilian hospitality, good (albeit annoying) friends, great food and grey skies lit with laughter and light.

Thanksgiving.

Dates-coconut-dry fruit samosa.

This is one of those Ramadan posts that never made it in time because... Life happened. Lame even to my ears.

I don't know how often I can post from now on, but seeing the viewer stats makes me extremely grateful (and I check them each day!). It eggs me on to post more than I possibly can.

This does not mean I don't cook or eat out. I do loads of both, trust me. Uploading photos on the blog and typing out semi-sensible words are time-hoggers. How many alternative adjectives exist for delicious, anyway? Don't answer. Many, I know.

There's nothing in life worth starving over or compromising on your food habits for. Not skinny jeans (Apple bottoms, any one?), not gorgeous blazers (wear them even if you have man-shoulders). Not long duties (granola and fruit to the rescue!). Not heartbreaks, not jiggly love handles. None of it.

At one point, Kate Moss's famous comment ("Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels") was practically the guiding point of my life, but I like to think I'm finally beyond crack-inspired ideologies.

Incidentally, I've got to get around to doing a review. So many places I want to physically push you into going; so many I don't want you to waste your money and Sundays over.

For now though, I'll post a recipe that most people would consider a bastardization of the samosa, but is indigenous to my village-of-origin and would be fiercely defended by the natives (it's politically correct for me to insult them, I checked). I might have played around with the recipe, adding dates to the filling, somewhat inspired by the sticky date rolls you get in Chinese restaurants.

 It takes five minutes to throw together (a wee bite more than that, maybe), has practically zero cooking (unless you're willing to deep fry) and tastes beyond excellent (to my tastebuds, at least. And yours', if you like cardamamom and coconut). Oh, and is healthy. If you're willing to not deep-fry it.

Try making these when older, distinguished guests visit. I meant it when I said no excuses were allowed.

Dates-and-coconut samosas/samose:

Ingredients:

Readymade wonton/samosa wrappers: 5
Dates (juicy medjool-type dates): 10*
Coconut, freshly grated: 1/2 cup
Sugar (white granulated): 2 tbsp (or to taste)
Cardamom (ground) 1 tsp
Cashews: 10 or so, halved
Split channa dal (roasted): 2 tbsp
Honey and sesame seeds: to serve

*This recipe is traditionally made without the dates, as the photos indicate. A handful of raisins are added in its place.

Method:

In a medium saucepan, saute the deseeded and chopped dates in a little butter or ghee until it turns gloriously gooey. Not for more than a couple of minutes, though, it'll turn chewy and caramelized. You can also make this healthier by steaming the dates. Keep aside.

In a small bowl, combine the coconut (you can use sweetened desiccated coconut, but skimp on the sugar in that case!), powdered cardamom, the roasted dal and mix. Add the dates if using. Or add raisins and cashews instead.

Take a sheet of samosa wrapper. Make a cone out of it.

First you fold one end of the rectangular wrapper into a triangle. Fold into another triangle. Repeat until you have a cone.

Stuff in the mixture, close and seal.

For sealing, we generally use a mix of flour and water to form a runny liquid that usually works as an adhesive.

Brush with ghee/butter and bake in a preheated oven (greased baking sheet, please!) at 180 C or 350 F until golden brown and crispy. And yes, you can deep fry it like a regular samosa.


The golden brown one has obviously been deep-fried.


Drizzle the honey over the piping hot samosa and sprinkle on the sesame seeds.

Or set these out on the table while you search for the organic white sesame seeds that you picked up at Spice Route and come back to see that the family has polished them off. And since it was Ramadan and every one was famished, I didn't even get to deliver my oft-repeated speech on etiquette/manners/uncouth behaviour et cetera.

Ramadan Kareem. Part One.

Nobody, not one person, loses weight during Ramadan.

It isn't just because of the dip in your Basal Metabolic Rate and your body going into starvation-and-scavenge mode. Don't believe everything a bunch of loser-doctors tell you. It's because of the food, dude.

Every Ramadan, I promise I'm going to be good. Attend prayers, stay away from gossip (until dusk, at least. Let's be realistic), feed the hungry and not call sons-of-bitches, sons-of-bitches. It's post-Dusk, Indian time, now. Swearing is not horribly punishable, just plain punishable, when you're not fasting.

Food-wise, I resolve to eat healthy. It is a sincere, written statement, that I fully plan to adhere to. Deep-fried food only once a week, sweets only twice a week, circuit, low-intensity exercises and so on. I stay on that plan for a good, painful two days.

So, after breaking open my fast with an obligatory date, I start off with the fruit. The smell of bondas filled with meat-and-potato explode in the kitchen, with swishy-frying sounds to boot.

But I have my fruit salad. It has mangoes, bananas, oranges, apples, pomegranate. What more does a girl want?

A girl wants Masala vadai that the neighbours sent. A lentil-cumin-curry leafy masala vadai with a cup of ginger-and elaichi tea.

Oh, no. I'm staying away.

I settle for sugar-free pomegranate juice and keerai (greens sauteed with dried red chilli, coconut and caramelized onions). What more could even the hungriest girl want?

Maybe just a teensiest bit of nombu kanji from the Al Huda Masjid in Sait Colony. Every body loves Nombu Kanji, it's soul food. An almost-khichdi like concoction that is given to every person who drops in for prayer at dusk, along with dates and something fried. My non-Muslim friends bug me for this more than they do for Eid biryani.

I eat my little bowl, and I'm happy that I've stuck to my written statement. Go, me. Right.

Dad pops in with bags of food. Unpretentious little paper boxes and newspaper parcels. You know how they say that the best presents come in brown paper packages?

Thus starts the end of my diet and the quest for Obesity (happy, happy quest). Those parcels are from the food stall near the Walajah mosque at Triplicane. Written statement, off to the bin you go.

Check it.

Shammi kebabs. Lamb and lentils pulsed to a fine paste and deep-fried so that it's crispy on the outside, and tender and juicy and spicy on the inside.

Oooh, yes. A little ketchup, and I'm a fat ten-year-old again.

Little chicken and potato cutlets, shaped into hearts and breaded with seviyan and deep-fried.

A big-boned muslim man in kurta-pajamas, a topi and the gruffest of voices made this, I should think. Weirder things have happened.

Some beef kebabs and onions, I have no space in my stomach for. I manage a bite. Why just one bite of grilled spicy kebabs-and-onions (which with Diet Coke is the best supper I can ask for)?

I'm saving the best for the last.

Haleem. I could marry this.



Hello, lover.



Minced meat, broken wheat, vegetables, caramelized onions, dollops of ghee and lashings of spices are simmered for hours-and-hours, topped with lemon juice, some more caramelized onions and a sprinkling of coriander. Served steaming hot. But then again, I can have it congealed and cold; I love it that much. One teaspoonful fills every crevice of your stomach and every chamber of your heart. Did I mention that I like it-like it?

And as one of my best friends, Z, likes to say, "it's sunnath to eat something sweet at the end". Preachy little jackass, who can justify just about anything in this world. Come back to Madras.

So I have to have this gorgeous baked almond halwa, right? It's baked. That's healthy. Semolina, dairy, eggs, nuts. All of it is healthy. Except that is caramelly and decadent and I make enough pastry to not kid myself into oblivion.

All of the above is available at very reasonable rates near the aforemention masjid at Triplicane. I'm told that it is flooded with men at iftiari (breaking of the fast time), who I'm not sure will take very well to a strange girl coming up and photographing away to glory. You know me, though, I'll be more than happy to scandalize people.

Just not now. After all that meat and sugar, I can't move a muscle. I slip out of my food coma only to let the neighbour from down the road in. She brings in a basket of medhu vada and Mysore bonda. I knew checking her Blood Pressure regularly would have its perks.

I know this post comes right after the one on people starving... but there's no place for guilt here. These are hardworking people, striving in the heat to make delicious food they can barely afford. I'll happily give them the money for smaller portions, I've given more for less tasty food. Or neighbours who want to share their home and heart with you... can't turn that down. I wish I could share all of it with all of you.

What is it about food that makes you miss people terribly?

I wish you were here, Syed Sisters. So you can eat double of what I do and make me feel less guilty.

I wish you could have shared this meal with me, W. So you can lie blatantly that I'm skin-and-bones and that I should eat more and fatten up... and proceed to eat double of what I do and make me feel less guilty. This isn't just the food talking.

Rosogollas/Gorging over split milk.

Milk, in India, comes in three forms.

One is the tetrapak form. Like in the civilized world. You have Whole Milk and Slim Milk in allegedly-hygienic-and-definitely-expensive sealed packs. It is a luxury, or a backup plan when regular milk is unavailable.

The age old format is the milkman bringing his Aluminium cans filled with fresh, unpasteurized milk. He may or may not have a couple of cows he keeps tending to, as he drops the canisters off at doorsteps. This sight has become practically extinct at Madras; they disappeared around the same time Sparrows did.

The form that is rampant are the Aavin polythene bags of milk. Homogenized/toned milk at Government subsidized rates. Delivered promptly from the co-op, right after the paper boy deftly flings your newspapers into a puddle of murky rainwater.

And in the Summers, inevitably, at least one to two litres of milk curdles each week. Unfit for a morning cup of chai. Usually thrown down the drain, curdy lumps and all. Or given to the stray cats, who inhale it all up with zero gratitude.

Not if I have a say over it (the throwing down the drain bit, the cats I like).

When life gives you split (as in curdled) milk, you do what? Make rosogollas, of course. So obvious.

Maybe you can't make that cute boy like you, maybe you're crap at making your boss see sense (your version of sense IS sense, sweets). You can, however, make rosogollas out of curdled milk, and that's a true and real feat.

And if Life does not give you curdled milk, make your own by pouring a couple of tablespoons of lemon juice/vinegar/yogurt to a litre of scalding hot milk. In less than two minutes, casein coagulates to give paneer/ricotta/chenna that are the base ingredient of rosogollas.

You don't need much else. Cardamom, sugar, and the ability to consume these yummy calorific concoctions
with no qualms. That's all.

Rosogollas:

Ingredients:

1 litre milk, curdled.
2 tsps ground cardamom.
1 cup sugar.
3 3/4 cups water.
1 tsp rose water for the syrup (optional)
Saffron, for garnishing (optional).

Method:

1)Hand the curdled milk to drain in muslin/cheesecloth/ chiffon dupatta. You can use the whey in roti dough.

When you're sure it has been drained completely, take the paneer out and knead with the ground cardamom.

2)Pinch out twelve equal portions of the paneer.

Use your thumb and fingertips to massage the paneer into submission.

3)Shape into balls, and set them aside.

4)In a pressure cooker or a large pan, add the water and the sugar and stir. Bring it to a boil.

Drop in the paneer balls carefully. Fasten the lid of the pressure cooker(allowing a bit of steam to escape-keep the "weight" off), or cover the vessel . Lower the heat to medium and cook for about 5 minutes in the pressure cooker(the first whistle should be blowing now) or 10-15 minutes for the pan with the lid.

5)Take it off the heat. Open the lid after the cooker has cooled down a bit. Spoon out the puffed-up rosogollas and syrup into a glass bowl.

Serve chilled, adorned with a couple of strands of saffron.

Source: BV's adaption of a few Youtube recipes.

You might have a few glitches in the beginning. The first time I made these (I'm serious about the milk curdling thing happening way too often!), they didn't puff up at all and I got little hard paneer balls (that still were delicious). My sister-in-law, the artist, took over and hand-crafted these little beauties with infinitesimal patience, and they turned out to be stunningly fabulous.

Make it. If you're in sweltering Madras right now, you know you've got motive/rhyme/reason to.

Sea Shell Arabian Specialty Restaurant/The Mundu and The Abaya.

I'm going to behave, for a change.

All my restaurant reviews have been posted on Mondays or Tuesdays. Who does that? Unless, of course, you live in a lovely, alternate reality where you get to dine out (or be wine-and-dined) on weekdays. Incidentally, if you live that kind of a fancy life, do mail me on how to get there. Like a 12-step programme or whatever. I'll give you cupcakes in return.

Normal people, who socialize during the weekends, rejoice. I know this doesn't apply for doctors, but sorry, guys. You dug your grave, now you lie in it.

So. The rest of you, listen up. For you, I've eaten, re-eaten, drunk digestives such as mint tea/zeera water and eaten out some more. Only so you know where to go right away, instead of taking the long, unsavoury and horrendously expensive route.

You know of my love for the Mediterranean and Greek food, I'm guessing? My family opposes of this love affair (again, guys?). It simply does not suffice for them to cut a piece of artfully arranged steamed fish and dip it in the tiny drizzle of lemon-cilantro sauce and chew on it for an hour and a half. On the other hand, their palates have been spoilt silly... they can't have mass-produced, chain-restaurant-y food either.

So all day Sunday, we scour the Sunday newspaper supplements and burrp.com. We read reviews, we call other foodies, we draw up a shortlist of new places to eat out at. We slick on our lipglosses, spray on Chance by Chanel, get into the car, full of preprandial glee... and we land up at Seashell Arabian Speciality Restaurant.

Before you smirk, NOT the one on Greams Road (that would be Seashell Cafeteria, same people, less posh). Yes, I do go there to pick up quboos (pita) when I'm too tired to make them at home. W and I used to religiously eat there at least once a week, during my internship. Usually on Fridays, after Jumah prayer, when he emotionally blackmails with his stories of childhood days in Saudi Arabia, when Friday would be a mini-festival of sorts.

I'd do my song-and-dance about the wastage of money and the usage of calories, but, seriously. Canteen chapatis and dubious kurma or grilled chicken and LOTS of it?

Grilled chicken, it is, and if you plan on going there with the family or with friends, don't go to the one on Greams Road. It's named Cafeteria for a reason. It's packed, loud, serves quick-and-delicious food, but won't do for a peaceful night out. Instead, head to Anna Nagar.

The interiors are repetitive. Wooden tables, velvet-lined chairs, yellow lighting, Aquafina bottles, tissue papers with their name printed... the regular shebang. It does not aspire to be "different", thought provoking or invoking or controversial. You don't have to be on your best behaviour, smile extra wide or be extra polite. It's the kind of place where it's OK if your nephew decides to shed all his clothing until he looks like John Abraham in Dostana (given that said nephew is under the age of 2). It is even OK, and smiled upon, if your sister decides to put on an impromptu dance show for all the people in waiting. Not OK if she says "Sanjeevanam Herbal soap valangum Maanaada Mayilaada, After the Break!!" at the end of it, though.

And yes, this is still a food blog. Moving on.

Do me a favour and order only the Arabic or Malyali dishes, OK? If you plan on getting Chop Suey or Kashmiri Pulao, you can't blame me if it tastes bad. This restaurant is run by Malyalis who've returned richer from UAE and other parts of the Gulf. And I presume you're not the type to go to Mainland China and ask for Saffron Prawn Risotto, so do me this favour.

The Arabic dishes we had were...



Repeat after me. Arabian style Grilled Chicken.


The ARABIAN-STYLE grilled chicken. Not the violently-red tandoori chicken that they also serve, but the ARABIAN grilled chicken. They've brought the wrong thing many, many times, so you might want to spell it out/describe it to them. With a side of pita bread, hummus and thoum (garlic mayonnaise, not unlike an aioli). It's tender, juicy, spiced just right... make pita pockets, and dive in.

This would be the chicken shawarma, with a side of pickled radishes/carrots and chilli. Don't leave without ordering at least one. A smorgasbord of just-grilled chicken, heated with tomatoes, onions and mayo and tossed. The entire concoction gets wrapped in pita or a parantha (Yes, I know).

Why the heck am I describing shawarma to you? It's as ridiculous as explaining what white Modern bread is. Sounds like I just want to make you all jealous at some subconscious (and mostly conscious) level. The simple ones are priced at 50, but go on up to 120 bucks as they get more fancier and decked with more components.

And the one semi-flop of the day... The dish above. That would be the Grilled Fish Platter/Samak Tawa. Fish, that I have reason to believe, drowned in Masala and then was cremated, just in case. Far be it for me to criticize flaky fish that has been charred outside by fiery coals. It's the masala that's a downer. Too much of it, coating my mouth completely.. even spoonfuls of the garlic mayo or one of their famous milkshakes wont wash it away fast enough. It you like well-done meats on bread, this could be your thing.

And that would be Koji Rice/Qabsa. Or Redemption After The Grilled Fish, as I like to call it. You can call it a deconstructed Arabian biryani, I guess (but please don't).  Steaming, mildly-spiced rice that's serve with sides of tomato paste and caramelized onion in little cups. You need to mix the tomato and onion into the rice, spear a little grilled chicken/lamb and eat it all up. If it isn't steaming hot-hot, send it back, citing sacrilege. Priced between 140 to 160 bucks a plate, serves at least 3 people easily.

And now for the Keralite part of the menu. Appams (hoppers) would be a good start.

Fluffy little crepes that taste almost sweet, due to the liberal use of coconut milk. At 15 bucks a piece, I think they are a steal. I choose not to pay heed to Mum's stories of how appam would be sold fresh off the griddle at my native place, for mere pennies, during her childhood days. So last millennium.

Do you know what the perfect foil for the sweetness of the fluffy appams would be?

Meen curry! The spicy tangy (tamarind!) curry complements the Appams beautifully. Priced at 110 bucks a kadai. If I had to nitpick, I'd say that the sourness and spice of the gravy doesn't permeate into the tender fish, but I'm a big seafood lover, the type to even eat a blackened, overspiced fish, so I found this quite delicious.

On a completely unrelated note. Fish, crab, squid, prawns, lobster. Steamed, baked, broiled, grilled, Chowder'd, Calamari'd, Fish-and-chip'd, in a robust curry or a well-made biryani, I'll eat anything except shallow-fried, rubbery fish. Seafood=MMMMMMM!!!!

As you've probably surmised, I eat quite a bit of dessert as well. The folks here have a long, long Dessert menu. Remember Sharjah milkshake? Bananas, Malt, Vanilla ice cream? That and a lot of milkshakes that you've had at Fruit Shop on Greams Road feature predominantly. But since I've already made a Trifle for Dessert (it's always with a capital D) at home, we give it a miss.

Quite a feat, considering how the smell of the scalding hot chocolate sauce on the Sizzling Brownie the neighbouring table ordered wafted over to our table... What kind of a moron gobbles gargantuan amounts of food and shows off to the whole world, anyway?

Nan Khatai/Cardamom-scented sugar cookies.

Has there been any food you turned your nose up at, as a child, and you weirdly crave now? Let's take dosai, for example (Fermented rice pancakes, for the uninitiated.)

Chitra says she's jealous of me, each time I take photos of a dosai and put it up. I'm attributing it to the fact that she hasn't been in India for almost a year. At my house, when my mum makes dosai for dinner from the batter she made idlis with, for breakfast, we all groan. Go on a hunger strike. Give it up in ten minutes and eat 5 dosais (my brother, the wuss). Refuse to budge and sneak down at midnight to scarf down a bowl of cereal (me).

Nan Khatai is one those ubiquitous things in the snack-almirah. Often mispronounced as "nana katha", they're quite simply cardamom-flavoured sugar cookies. One of recipes that has all the women of the house come out to the porch and make on languid afteroons, gossiping about who ever isn't there then. Each tries to outdo the other with the shaping of the cookies. The children pop in and about to steal handfuls of the raw cookie dough.

After the Information-about-Calories Age and the following Age of Calorie-awareness, however, I gave up on them. If I was going to embracing obesity, why not with cheesecake or lasagne, right?

Thank God for the Age of Food Obsession. Now I'm willing to have a bite of almost anything, if it's tasty enough and halal. Mum and sister-in-law were making these biscuits the other day, and I photographed them for you to see. And put it up for you to try on your own/salivate.

Nan Khatai:

Ingredients:

1 kg/2.2 lb All-purpose flour (maida)
1/2 kg or 1.1 lb Powdered Sugar
1/2 kg Ghee *
4 tsp powdered cardamom

*If you have no access to ghee, click here or try using browned butter!

Method:

1)Mix together the dry ingredients- sugar, cardamom and the flour.

That's a lot of cardamom. The cookies need it.

2)Make a well in the centre, and add the ghee into it.

Mix into a dough with your hand (the heat from your palms will help everything bind together).

You can use a hand-mixer, but it won't taste right. Says mum. Don't knead it so much like you would for bread, because you'll get stiff, hard cookies. Just mix until you can take small balls and shape them into cookies.

3)Get everybody together, make sure they've sterilized their hands and start shaping!

You can do traditional designs (circular, with a finger-indentation/"the Indian tear" in the centre). Or circular cookies with incisions.

Or go crazy, as much as your imagination and skills allow.

Or shape out letters for someone special or for your food blog.

4)Bake in a preheated oven at 180 degrees centigrade or 350 degrees Fahrenheit. These cookies should take 10-15 minutes (the bottoms should be golden-brown). Or what the heck. Taste it.

Let it cool down to room temperature on a wire-rack. Store in airtight containers. Or serve with tea.

These keep for a while. As long as you're one of those perfect people who doesn't eat between meals. Or you have a mum who locks everything up in a snack-almirah.