"Kitchen Fires" in India are actual fires, in the Kitchen.
They are real, constant threats to the lives and persons of the sari-clad women who tend them, and boil quantities of oil over them; both to the innocent and inadvertently clumsy, and to those, perhaps less innocent, whose dowries have not been paid.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
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