When people talk about the dividing line between childhood and adulthood, the mythical first apartment can play a prominent role. I say 'mythical' not because this place does not exist. No - I say mythical because in fact, it is enshrined in myth. But unlike Hercules, Hera and the rumored orgies of the ancient Romans, the 'first apartment' might not deserve such hallowed recognition.
When my sister moved into her first apartment at age 20, I couldn't ignore the swiftly creeping signs. The first time I visited, I went with her on numerous shopping trips. But while I still eyed the babydoll ballgown that could also double as lingerie, her tastes had changed. First, she wanted antique chairs. Then she wanted end tables with ceramic patterns on them. After that, she found a full set of vintage designer china - at a mere $6 a piece, it was a steal, in the sense that we'd actually have to steal it in order to be able to afford it - and so on. It was like that children's book, "If You Give a Moose A Muffin," all over again.
By year three of living on her own, she had tassels on her drapes, and little ceramic eggs painted in white and black. She had a full set of casserole dishes, and two - two! - can openers.
Then there's me. I just opened a bottle of soy sauce using a door.
It began two nights ago, over my third bowl of Maggi that week. When I first moved out on my own in Delhi, my cousin warned me that I'd be eating a lot of Maggi.
"Nonsense," I told her proudly. And for the first week, I proved her wrong. I bought vegetables, flour and butter. I made Thai curry and spaghetti with alfredo sauce. I tried to make pan-fried cookies, too, but I probably shouldn't brag about that.
Anyway, by week eight, I'd like to say that I spent my evenings whipping up apricot-glazed pork tenderloin with braised baby potatoes, or souffles of pigs ears with lentils and ascots, or arugula garnished with South African patella. I thought my dinner parties would be legendary, and my neighbors would knock timidly on my door around mealtime with bowls under their arms and the pleading expressions of characters from a Charles Dickens' novel - "Please, ma'am, may we have some more?"
But after two weeks my mania fizzled, and now I spend most of my evenings huddled in front of my computer and watching endless rounds of American TV serials, slurping sloppy wet noodles out of a bowl and trying not to splash the screen.
But I do find my own ways to challenge this lifestyle, which is what brings me to the soy sauce in the door jamb.
Maggi is about as flavorful as Ramen Noodles, and for the past two weeks I've been doing various things to it - adding potatoes, onions, cheese, ketchup, etc - in an attempt to turn it into something it might not be, a little like a person preparing to finally meet someone they've only exchanged emails with in the past.
Which is when I thought about adding that standby Chinese food staple - soy sauce. For two days, my excitement built. This afternoon, I went down to the corner grocery and was surprised to find a relatively cheap glass bottle of the stuff, which I immediately trucked back to my apartment.
A few hours later, even though I wasn't hungry, I was ready to take my new soy sauce for a spin. I brought out the pot, added Maggi Noodles and hot and sour soup mix, a bit of curry powder, some red chili, a few flakes of rosemary, and even a healthy spoonful of tomato puree. Then a Maggi packet. As this uneven red concoction bubbled merrily away on the stove, I unscrewed the plastic lid on the soy sauce bottle.
And stopped short in horror.
I was staring at a crown cap. At that moment, all the mistakes of my living situation passed before my eyes. Why didn't I choose to live with roommates, from whom I could borrow a bottle opener? Why didn't I live in the United States, where I could pop next door and borrow one from the neighbor? Why didn't I live in a proper house, with tasseled curtains and two can openers?
The most important question, of course, is who the hell secretly seals a soy sauce bottle with a crown cap, but perhaps I never learned this key fact because I grew up in a household stocked almost exclusively by Costco, a company that revels in anti-establishment packaging.
I twisted and tugged and pulled. I sawed at the cap with a knife, and then tried to dent its smooth metal surface with a pair of scissors. I took one side of the cap in between the teeth of metal tweezers, and beat at the other with a spoon. I shook it like a maraca, I rattled it like I was performing a Satanic ritual. At one point, I put the bottle in a half Nelson, a skill I haven't called on since sixth grade, and tried to politely but firmly tell it who was boss.
Well, I almost admitted defeat, and slumped back to my soyless Noodles. But then I remembered - it's not for nothing that I got a college degree in procrastination from the University of Google.
A quick search for "how to open a beer bottle without an opener", and the collective wisdom of the ages - or at least, the jackasses on the Internet - was mine. There was a frightening video of an obese man opening a bottle in the soft flesh of his forearm. There was another YouTube video that claimed to show how to open a beer bottle with a piece of paper, but the related links pointed to 'other magic tricks.'
Eventually, I found a question and answer forum. The first suggestion was, "Check to see if there is a real bottle opener around."
Very helpful, thanks.
The list-maker had even added, as a tip, that many electric can openers can also double as bottle openers, as if the sort of person who owned an electric can opener would ever be consulting such a list.
Then I came to the third suggestion - "Use the hole in a door jamb."
Finally, news I could use! I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the reluctant bottle, wedged its head in the narrow metal slot where, when I closed my bedroom door, the lock normally slid in. Alas, the bottle was too wide. But there was also a very useful metal edge hanging off the jamb (for the non carpenters among us, here's what it looks like) and, as the website recommended, I applied horizontal pressure.
The bottle neck was made of glass. The risk of spills, soy sauce geysers and injury loomed large. I kept applying horizontal pressure.
In terms of the technical finesse required, the maneuver was, I'd say, somewhere between sealing off an errant artery in the hippocampus and giving birth, or landing a triple flip on freestyle skiis and classical ballet, or...anyway, with a great gush of brown soy sauce, the lid finally popped off and came to a rest on the floor.
I mopped up the mess (limited, really) and with a sense of real accomplishment, tipped a generous helping of soy into my by-then overboiled noodles.
Were they tasty? They were awesome.
But coming back to the real question: how much does your first apartment really make you an adult? Living in this apartment - my first real apartment - requires time management, financial werewithal, and occasionally, the same skills I polished years ago at wilderness survival camp. A friend of mine, of the 'two can openers variety' recently mailed me to say that she'd love to see my apartment - "I'm sure the decor is somewhere between urban chic and boudoir" she said. She's right, if by 'urban chic' she means 'found art' and by 'found art' she means 'instead of a table, I use a cardboard box'. It has a certain element of the boudoir, too. The bed is the only place to sit down.
I don't know at what point daily life stops feeling like a McGuyver, but I like to think that'll be the moment when I finally start to see myself as a legitimate entry in the adulthood sweepstakes. Until then, I still feel like I've borrowed my parents' car without telling them, and I have to get it back without them noticing.
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