Cooking is a fine art, attempted by many, chosen as a profession by some, but mastered by few. I, unfortunately, come in the last category.
My predicament in the cooking department began when my mother undertook a 12-day trip to Pune, to participate in a music programme.The decision to go on a trip was announced at the dinner table, which was met with stark silence on our part. This was comprehensible if certain facts are put in the right perspective.
For one, (Father, elder brother and I) appreciate and contribute to mother's cooking quite ?substantially? by means of consuming everything that is served without much hassles and very little complaints.Secondly, none, with exception to my mother, know the nuances involved in cooking (including washing and cutting vegetables), and hence the prospect of managing the household for more than 10 days left us petrified.The third factor was that father was averse to eating hotel food as he has a very delicate tummy. And consumption of any type of hotel food often leads to a serious round of disagreement with his stomach.
Lastly, of the three, only I happed to be what I term ?kitchen-friendly? help with both my father and elder brother least considering the prospect of helping with the cooking.Mother?s reassurance to us in the cooking department came in the form of a long list of do?s and don?ts for preparing homemade meals during her days of absence.
The night prior to her departure to Pune was spent in explaining the nitty-gritty?s of the day-to-day household chores (including the menu for feeding an emancipated street dog that had taken shelter in our compound).After she left early on Sunday, I woke up early in the morning, quite confident of the ?little? tasks that lay ahead. I entered the kitchen with a lot of confidence only to realize that my mind had not retained the instructions given to me the previous night.I made quick breakfast, lunch with whatever food was left the previous.
An eerie feeling told me that the days ahead would not be as smooth as I had initially perceived. And soon true as I had thought my mother's maternal uncle's daughter-in-law's somebody and her companion, dropped in to say hi to us.
After the customary handshakes and smiles, I excused myself and went in for my maiden attempt to prepare tea. I poured the milk in a container and heated it. Later I put the tea powder and proceeded to use the filter, but in my haste, I dropped some of it on the floor. Later I added two spoons of sugar. As the milk was insufficient I proceeded to add, what I perceived as milk powder.Tea was served. And I waited with bated breath to see the result. And the result was instantaneous.
The raucous twosome became instantly silent after just two sips from their cups. Much to my relief, they scurried away stating that they had other relatives to meet before they left home for the night.The reason was not too difficult to decipher the reason for their early exit. In dire haste, I had inadvertently added baking soda instead of milk powder.
But much worse things were yet to come.My first-hand experience in preparing lunch had just begun. I had begun with a delicious curry that required sufficient amounts of chopped carrot, onions, ladys fingers, chilli powder and too dal. A quick-read of the recipe handed to me on the eve of departure by my mother, made the preparation seem a child's play.
I chopped the veggies, as instructed, although the onions literally left me in ?tears of joy?. The curry was to be garnished with chilli powder and a bit of sugar. I was behind the 1:00 p.m. lunch schedule. It was already 1:30 p.m. and I was feeling quite hungry when father streamed into the kitchen, asking about my progress.
Blame it on the fragrance wafting through the kitchen or his hunger fangs, but he began a long lecture on why hotel food was best to be avoided and how certain preservatives used in food items were carcinogenic.The plates were then kept on the table and we began to eat. My father was the first to taste the food. But the minute he took the first bite, his enthusiasm began to ebb, so did the color of his face.
His eyes went red and his face ashen, as he lunged for a glass of water. After having had his fill, he told me to get ready to head for a hotel.As I prepared to leave, the final insult came from none other than the geriatric orphaned dog that stood waiting at our doorway for its customary meal.
Not wanting to waste the food I had so? meticulously? prepared, I poured the contents into its bowl.But I was quite dumbfounded, when the dog merely sniffed at the contents; gave me a sympathetic glance before scampering away to its usual rest place. The slight from the dog spoke volumes about the quality of my cooking.
However, this was nearly a year ago. Today my contribution to my mother?s cooking has considerably improved. I can boast of chopping vegetables without the fear of chopping off my fingers. I have begun the slow and steady progress towards becoming a good cook!
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