I’m about to visit a local ceramic painting cafe, but here’s what I did this morning while you were all asleep. It took a few hours to make these. I was sort of trying to experiment with interesting ways to serve the food. Which is how I explain my use of lots of different kinds of plates. I mean for the top photograph, I turned a bowl upside down. I liked that it had been designed with a neck at the base of the bowl – which meant that when I poured a bit of left over olive oil on top it didn’t spill over the sides.

I know photoshop can be a little dishonest – so here’s the original. I used the sharpening function though.

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Incase that bothers you… Here’s the original-original.

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Below I used a slate coaster.


This is the second time I’ve ever prepared spring rolls. So I have to remain humble about it and I do intend to get better over time, I enjoyed cooking and eating this meal tremendously. I learned from watching my maid Mala cook in Dubai a few times as an infant, watching my paternal grandmother preparing dolma, watching arab women hand make bread with their hands – on stoves and without frying pans. I used Vietnamese deep fried egg paper that I purchased from an AZN shoppe in Hackney months ago.

They’re supposed to be crunchy – but I made them using a lot of citrus liquids. I like soft pastries. I used lemon and orange juice. I’ll include a recipe list here incase you want to make some.


When I worked at Fatface, (I didn’t mention that on my CV because who in the fucking hell would) (They call their often wildly anorexic staff – that is rejected job applicants who’d of preferred to of worked Jack Wills or Abercrombie and Fitch rejects ‘FATTIES” – that is the official job title) – I once worked with a temporary regional manager who taught me that he rather preferred for Fat Face to put less stock on the shop floor, as it made the items look better. There would be two items of every size available on the shop at any given moment and on a good day, it was a successful selling point from a VM (Visual Merchandising) perspective as it kept the staff actively interacting with the shop floor and engaging with products.

So I kind of put that into my choice to only photograph a tiny portion of what were many spring rolls. Here is me preparing them on one of my instagrams. I maintain two of those. One has followers (I’m sure at least 10 or so of them might be real, but I’ve not invested in fake followers because my ego is too big to be able to cope with remembering investing in fake accounts to follow and/or comment me)


Can you imagine though: that amongst the reasons I got sectioned, was that I was preparing sushi in my bedroom? (I’ll explain – my family were being rude, nasty and inhospitable and I found that unpleasant – so I avoided being around them. The kitchen was very compact and there was no where to sit. Which is fine, I love compact spaces – but at the time I had a pretty severe bowel condition and not-sitting was difficult. We’ve since had the kitchen relocated.)

Here are some cooking related facts: I was never taught how to cook by my mother. Not once. If I told you about the home cooked meals we had growing up while I was stoned and / or drunk, you and I would laugh together at my mother’s domestic incompetence – which I am inclined to ADMIRE as a feminist. If I told you in a court of law, trying to manipulate you into sympathy – you’d be appalled.

I was raised being told “You will have maids and servants when you grow up.” And if you knew my family history, that wouldn’t be a made up fairy tale – that would be a “when you consider the countries you originate from: it is correct that you have staff to help you maintain your home. It is good for the economy – we come from countries where the divide between the rich and the poor is vast and somewhat unacceptable – so if you have the money to hire home help – you sure as fucking hell do it. There are women who need that money to send their children to school.”

My grandmother used to visit places in Paraguay, where people lived in little shacks and tents, to find staff to help her at home. And she did not have a mansion, she had a humble two floor home.

When I was in the ward, after I’d been exposed to medication that gave me severe akithisia – which meant I was shaking uncontrollably and carrying ridiculous amounts of energy that actually caused me severe abdominal pain (on top of a bowel condition). My doctors prescribed me the wrong mediation to combat this – they gave me lorazepam. A medication that makes you drowsy, intended as an alternative to drugs like valium for high levels of anxiety. I did have anxiety also, which was a natural response to having my autonomy stolen from me and not being given an adequate dialogue with a professional psychiatrist. But that was not akithisia – which I read that a doctor inflicted upon themselves on purpose for a medical study and described it as actual torture.

In spite of the protests I’d made to the staff, that I’d technically grown up in an abusive home – which went unheard because my psychiatrist fancied my sister who decided to look quite nice that day (in what I’d personally describe as a flourescent yeti jumper)

I found out through first hand experience though that the people in charge over the vulnerable and ‘unstable’ spiritual masters that are imprisoned in psychiatric wards – people who have learned to love abusers unconditionally and have rejected the ideals expected of them from the most boring dregs of a society that conforms to ‘normality’ – the social workers, psychiatric nurses and even the psychiatrists, for all of their years of studying the human body – are completely, unequivocally irresponsible and stupid.

I still don’t like hearing knocks on doors. I called up ESA and told them that even though I tried to enter full time education to do a Masters Degree – I couldn’t do it. I was too damaged by the medications I was forced to take, I was too damaged by being introduced to people who robbed me of my autonomy, touched me without permission and who told me lie after lie after lie and pretended that they weren’t observing me when I knew they were. One time I was exercising in my personal space, where I dressed and undressed in a faux privacy and I hit my head on the ground. I mean I really smashed my head, I fell on it with all of my body weight – I could’ve damaged my neck. I’m heavy. By some coincidence a nurse allowed herself into my room as if she had not been watching me and said “are you alright?” and I knew enough – and I replied “Hm? I’m fine.”

There were many moments like that, for years of my life. I act stupid and it helps me get the answers I need. I discussed this by telephone with women I intuited to have big mouths – I want these experiences to be widely discussed. I want everyone who was involved in what was truly torture to not only experience what I did, but to learn to value their personal freedom because I will never not be a person who was sectioned and abused – probably raped a few times when I was sedated – in a hospital – and they will never not be people that engaged in that abuse, they will never not be people that contributed to trauma. Every single person that “looked after” me in that period deserves to lose their job and be given a criminal record too.

My spiritual practice, throughout my life, has taught me that karma is a very real aspect of human existence. My spiritual practice has taught me that you reap what you sow, be it good or be it evil. Do as you wilt but accept that consequence is absolute – even a psychologist or any kind of buff with an understanding of the human mind will tell you that you manifest your own lessons and you will be reminded for the remainder of your life of every nasty thing you ever did, every cruelty, every lie told for any false or unacceptable reason – and the results of your actions will perpetually bring you back to what you have not learned, until you do learn. That is – until you accept that you are in the wrong, and that is an inevitability, your sense of guilt will increase and then it is likely that you will experience “psychosis”.

And no spiritual master like me will help you – because we will value the lessons you need to learn in order to grow. For everyone else.

There is a God but that doesn’t mean that God “loves” you.



Published by KARINITA

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