LoveAlways
Bluelighter
O cool I love top chef. Ted allen is fuckin cool. I'm not a big fan of padma but whatever I love watching everyone cook and then having a competition with someone else and myself afterward!
atlas said:^^
That 4v4 totally owned. I was glad to see Marcel and stephen win the quickfire, and glad to see Elan completely fucking fail at his course when he couldn't cook spanish food.
In other news, the season three chefs look like fucking chumps. :-(
YESatlas said:i want stephen to replace ted allen.
AmorRoark said:I can't wait to drool over food and Padma.![]()
stinkfoot said:i agree.....Padma is hot.
but, how in the hell did she end up married to Salman Rushdie?
damn, i just did some research.....he's going to be 60 on june 19th.
atlas said:I'd like to know how she ended up with what look like shark bites on her arms
Vogue—April, 2001
Almost flawless
by Padma Lakshmi
Can a terrible scar suddenly become a thing of beauty?
It depends, discovers Padma Lakshmi, on who's looking at it.
The accident happened on a Sunday afternoon filled with sunshine. I was fourteen years old and on my way back with my parents from a Hindu temple in Malibu. The traffic was quite heavy for a Sunday. I remember thinking how strange that was. Then there was a loud bang, and I looked out the windshield and saw nothing but the prettiest blue sky. I thought I was dreaming because I'd been nodding off, but then I realized we were part of that blue sky. Our red Ford Mercury sedan was airborne. Flying in a car felt like an exhilarating hallucination, an unbelievable ride that oddly remains one of the most beautiful images in my memory.
We were in the air for what seemed like a very long time, flying off the freeway and 40 feet down an embankment. We hit a tree dead-on and it stopped our fall. Blood, glass, dirt, and leaves were everywhere. We seemed to have been buried alive. The tree trunk had fallen directly on top of our car. I remained conscious, covered in glass, for the 40 minutes it took for the paramedics and firelighters to get through the traffic. They used the "jaws of life"—giant metal upfront cutters—to open the car roof like a sardine can. A helicopter landed in the middle of the highway to take my parents away. An ambulance carried me to the hospital. I finally passed out. When Iwoke up hours later, I had tubes coming out of several places in my body. My right arm had been shattered and my right hip had been fractured. After surgery, I regained the use of both of them but was left with a long scar on my arm. It was half an inch wide and seven inches long. I wished I’d had a conversation with the doctor and asked him to cut on the underside of the arm instead, where the scar would have been hidden. Now it was too late. But my parents and I had been fortunate. We all survived.
When I first got the scar, I was self-conscious about it. I perfected a casual pose that hid it under my left hand and thumb when my arms were crossed. But I also knew my scar was a symbol of my survival. The surgery that put it there had saved my arm. After nearly a year of physical therapy in the mornings before high school, I could once again stir pasta, dance, embrace others, throw a Frisbee or football and, in countless other ways, be a normal American teenager.