We have a maid. Her name is Asha. Asha comes for about an hour a day, 6 days a week, and sweeps, mops, does the dishes and takes the garbage out. I think she’s about 45, with 5 children. Asha speaks very little English (even less than I speak Hindi), but we muddle along ok between her English, my Hindi, and a lot of miming. I like her a lot.

Fresh milk is a little hard to get hold of here (unless you buy raw milk, which requires boiling and the Centers for Disease Control don’t think terribly much of), and so when I last went to the big supermarket I bought a few bags of it. (Like cooking oil, it is sold in bags).  I had idiotic hipster fantasies of making ricotta using this recipe, but for unimportant  reasons didn’t get around to it. I’d had the milk for nearly a week, and assumed that it would be off. So, I put the bags in the rubbish. 

When I came into the kitchen this morning, Asha was carefully washing the bags of milk under the tap, rolling them back and forth under her fingers. She asked me if  I was sure I didn’t want them. I confirmed that I didn’t. She asked if she could take them for her children, and I agreed.



  1. […] was not, in fact, so stricken by shame from my last post that I was unable to blog. Just got  a bit caught up in research and it all seemed a bit too hard. […]

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