Hi friends,
This is for all those who think that i am a gr8 cook ( and for all those who dont think so, well, dont waste ur time reading further ;) ). Like every cash-rich, business magnate has a rags to riches story to tell and a humble beginning ( but he never is humble in bragging about it in subsequent interviews ) to mark his start-up days, every cook too has his/her bad hair days ( though discovering a strand of hair in one's spoon-ful is the most mortifying experience ).
I would like to share with you d experiences of my first venture into the world of pots, pans, knives and ladels. Usually, like every war-worn warrior teaches the rules of the battle-field to his scion, every mom, passes on her culinary skills to her daughter ( nowadays the sons too are not behind with their stag - stays in foreign lands, how much can they survive on khakhras, theplas, achaar, and chivdas ). I too had been a mute spectator as my mom used to dish out the most delicious of recipes before i could bat an eyelid. It was like she used to wave her magic-wand and caste a spell and the aroma of the most delectable potions used to seep into the air....hmmmm.
I was all of 11 years then, studying in my 6th grade. It was the day of holi ( dhuleti ) when colours are played. I was studying for my final exams and had a paper on social - studies to write the next day. Mom and dad had gone to a religious place, some 50 kms from home. I was all alone in the house and the shrieking and bacchanalia from outside seemed to inflate my solitude ( I had taken a solemn vow that i would not venture out and study for the exam the next day ).
Mom had not prepared lunch and was to do so after coming home.
The clock started ticking ( though a minute seems to translate into eons when u r all alone and studying while ur friends are having all the fun ). I was studying history and somehow the hierarchy of the Mughal emperors just didnt seem to interest me. I thought of doing something that would attenuate my yearning for adventure and at the same time satiate the hunger pangs devouring me. I hit upon the idea of stepping into the kitchen and prepare the lunch mom was supposed to prepare on returning home. Voila !! What an idea, it would also make mom feel elated and proud of her little daughter.
Cooking can be fun. It can be interesting. It can be the greatest stress-buster. But if u r an amateur and dont have the cushion of a watchful-eye on you when u make a debut into the kitchen, believe me, its as good as fighting the Battle of Plassey without your full armour :( I was also experiencing the same anxiety that a struggler feels on first stepping out of his train to Mumbai from some little-known ramshackle hamlet of India. But adventure has always been the greatest aphrodisiac ( dont get any false ideas ;) for me. And i have the reputation of accomplishing any task i set my mind to ( though this time i wasnt sure that i would be able to protect my vulnerable record ;) ).
Where to begin ? My first and most daunting dilemma. How did mom go about it ? I saw her making the vegetables, but they always seemed to be cut and ready to cook to me. The sight of plates full of evenly diced, dewy from wash and fresh as a pansy vegetables always met my eyes. When did mom cut them ? Here i learnt my first lesson in management, garner your resources and keep them ready before you actually take the plunge.
So i was left with the task of cutting the veggies. Mom had taught me to cut them so that was not a problem, but the issues here were accuracy and mortality rate ( a large part of d potatoes i peeled, went into the dust-bin as i couldnt use the peeler properly and used the knife which made the skin peeled very thick ). However, huffing and panting, i did cut the potatoes and ladies-finger ( though they were not as symmetrical as my own fingers ;) ).
The next task was kneading the dough. God save someone who does not like a mess ( a perfectionist, finicky, petulant gal like me ) and is ordained to knead the dough. Ooooops, what a gooey mess. How should i deal with it ? Pour water into the flour or put bowls of flour into water ? Eureka.... does not matter whichever way you do it, the denouement is going to be the same... So, i mixed the flour and water. Ooops, again a hurdle, i put oodles of water for the sake of hurrying up with the task of kneading. And lo behold ! i had a gooey semi-liquid substance sticking to my fingers and adamant enough to cling on to me after repeated attempts of detaching :( How does mom do this ???? The back-up plan i could think of for this contingency was only putting in more flour ( that day the dough i kneaded was sufficient to feed 8 people instead of the usual 3 i was supposed to take care of - see, my first attempts at philanthropy ;) )
Anyway, the dough taken care of, the next step was to cook the veggies. I had seen mom doing what we in gujarati call as " baghaar " or north indians call as giving a "tadka". I put oil into the pan, put some mustard seeds in it for the veggie. Now, next problem, how do i know when the oil is heated and how do i get my cue to put in the veggies. Yeah....another brain-wave, put some asafoetida ( heeng ) into the oil and if it sizzles, the oil is ready :) I did exactly that. It sizzled and oh man, was that sound music to my ears, sweeter that sonu nigam crooning in the back-ground as i'd aped mom in this one of her habits of putting on the radio while cooking.
I put the potatoes in first ( did a toss-up actually as i couldnt decide what is the chronology of putting veggies ). Then the bhindi followed. Wow, it was a made for each other couple, aloo-bhindi, it sounded like a Mozart symphony to me. My first preparation on the gas-burner ( before that it had just been benign cooking without the flame like making nimbu pani, sandwiches, mixing bhel etc. ). Hey, but i still needed to de-cipher what masalas to put in. Salt went in without any second thoughts. But then the problem arose. What else did mom put in ? I ransacked the whole 'masala-dabba' to figure out which spices to put in. I put chilly powder, a lot of it actually to give atleast a spicy taste if the sabzi turned out bland and tasteless. Turmeric went in and then i was befuddled. Whether to put in dhania-zeera or plain zeera or garam masala ?? Well, my choice finally went to dhania-zeera. Atlast, the sabzi was ready :) Gratifying it was to see that i had neither burnt it nor kept it raw. It was cruncy and just the right taste ( i'd kept on tasting it after every additional ingredient i put into it to avoid any error later on and had consumed almost a quarter of it ;) ).
Making the daal was not equally challenging as mom had already boiled it in the pressure cooker and i just had to put the tadka. I now felt like a pro and was even ready to take risks of putting ingredients into it that i'd never seen mom doing :) But complacency can be devastating as i learnt it the hard way. I went into the dining room to lay the table and left the daal on the flame un-attended. Poor thing, it must have called for help, but i was too engrossed in the job at hand and was also doing a little jig ( embarassing, but i've vouched to be honest on this blog ). So the daal burnt. It did not char or anything, but there was a pungent smell of burning in it :(
Now the next task was making of chappatis. This was easy ( relatively to my previous expeditions ). I did roll the chappatis but could not attribute any specific shape to them. Then again a spark of genius ;) I took a rimmed bowl, perfectly the diameter of our average chappati, put it on the amoebaic shape i'd rolled out and knived out a perfect round. Wow, this was truly something. A pile of perfectly round chappatis, perfectly roasted ( i had learnt roasting as i used to help mom in making chappatis earlier ) filled up the casserole.
I needed to make some sweet dish to make the meal complete. So i took some chilled milk from the fridge, made some custard and put freshly cut fruits into it :) Now i was really beginning to enjoy the experience and was really thrilled.
I was just done with everything when i heard the car honking in our garage. Mom-dad had come home. The feeling i had at that time cannot be described. It was like an artist putting up his painting on the gallery after pouring his heart and soul out onto the canvas. My job was done and now it was for my parents to shower the bouquets or brick-bats on me.
I wouldnt elaborate on what my mom told me on that day. But i guess it would suffice if i say she was beatified :) She told me that she felt as if her daughter had mastered the one bastion that every woman, howsoever savvy and emancipated ( i hate this word and feel it is too hackneyed ) she is, would love to conquer. I felt like a Regina and another maxim that i mentally marked up for future reference is - the way to a man's heart is through his tummy :)
