Cooking had always been my weak point. I always thought of it as something I'd never learn to do. For one, I did not have any interest and second I was really awful at it. Especially when your younger sister is admired for making tasty food, you never really get a chance to pull her from her throne and rule the kitchen.
Not that I never made an attempt. I really did. I remember once I entered the kitchen with sheer enthusiasm leaving Mom with her hand on her mouth in shock. I ignored several giggles from the very encouraging family of mine.
It was a simple task to make 'Pithla'. Well you have to do the tadkafirst. I folded the sleeves of my dress in style and added cumin seeds and onion in the heated oil. As the onion started turning brown I panicked asking for further instructions. In all the havoc I added grated coconut in the tadka.
'YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO ADD COCONUT IN THE TADKA!!!' I heard Mom screech at the top of her voice. Making a swift Ninja move, she turned the gas off just in time. I was sent out of the kitchen and came out with my eyes on the ground like a defeated warrior.
That could not discourage me. Instead, it made me burn with shame and anger. Soon enough I tried making custard reading a recipe from somewhere. After reading the instructions several times, I started. It said one should stir the milk continuously while adding custard powder or it would form lumps.
I stood in the kitchen in the vindictive pleasure as I took the vessel off the gas seeing no lump had formed. After cooling I kept it in the fridge to set.
I had my fingers crossed when I opened the vessel after sometime. Smooth pink custard, I was already dreaming. All my dreams shattered when I found the lumps had finally formed somehow.
I offered the custard in a bowl garnishing it with dry fruits as if it would make it taste any better. Dad tasted it. I looked at him expectantly. He looked as if he would burst into a laugh. 'Wow nice!' He managed to say. My face fell.
'Oh no! It is really good. Don't bring more though. I have to be careful with sweets.' He stopped me as I tried to serve more.
Well no one was generous enough to taste the custard, let alone finish it off. In fact even I could not finish it. It tasted pathetic. Several days before it all went to dustbin, I had made many unsuccessful attempts to make people taste it. I noticed the guests did not stay for a long time when I offered them that overly thick custard.
Rather than embarrassing myself in front of others, I decided I should try learning cooking secretly. My next experiment was aloo paratha. Somehow I was confident that I could not mess this up. I boiled potatoes when I was home alone. I realized they were undercooked, as I could not mash them good enough to be stuffed in the dough. My super-fast brain suggested crushing it fine using the mixer.
As I opened the mixer, I was shocked to see what was inside. It formed a sticky paste that did not look like mashed potato. It was so mushy that when I tried to remove it from the mixer, it stuck to my hands. It was impossible to stuff it inside the round of dough. Before anyone could notice, I destroyed the evidences.
I bid an adieu to the kitchen. Kitchen is just not for you, I said to myself. No one even suggested me learning cooking because it could have been dangerous for the people around me.
I was the subject of ridicule in the office sometimes when I made egg-bhurjior bhindi.
'What is this thing?' someone would ask me looking at my tiffin, with the others tactlessly trying not to laugh.
'Why do you always cut the stuff so fine? I mean where is the egg in egg-bhurji??' Someone would ask from the other end of the table.
'Oh my! Is it Poha or Upma??' Someone would ask seeing my overly soaked Poha.
'Maybe we should call it 'Poma'!' and the table would roar with laughter.
I would try to laugh along with them and resent about my pathetic cooking.
'One day you would learn you see!' He would assure.
'What do you want on your birthday?' I asked him a week before his birthday.
'I want to taste the food made by you.'
I gaped at him.
'Do you want to end up in a hospital on your birthday?' I asked him.
He laughed.
On the previous day of his birthday, I decided to make paneer mutter. This was like studying for tenth standard when you are in the fifth standard.
It was different this time. This time I wasn't cooking to prove myself, this time I was cooking for someone and wished it tasted good. I didn't wish for not ending up as a subject of ridicule, I just wished I wouldn't disppoint him.
After I added all the ingredients and masala as it said in the recipe, I tasted the concoction.
'Is it I who made it?!' I had left myself stand there surprised for some minutes, with the sweet droplets on my forehead and hair gone frizzy with all the heat in the kitchen.
How I made it, I do not know. For all those years I had tried to learn cooking desperately, heard people making fun of me and all of a sudden I had made it perfect.
'Awesome!' He said when he tasted it, 'Told you would learn some day!' he grinned.
After that I knew I wouldn't go wrong at cooking. Somehow I was brimmed with a lot of confidence. I tried many recipes.
I realized you cook well when you cook for someone you love.
Now when I make Paneer bhurji, there is an unmistakable snatching of my tiffins.
'Wow! This Daal really looks tasty!' Nilesh says trying to avert his greedy eyes from the Daal on the day of his fast.
'Oh you really have learnt cooking! Why don't you teach these canteen people?' Mahesh says with an apologetic grin when I remind him how much he had teased me in the past.
I stare at Amit when he gulps down spoonfuls of Sevaya Kheer leaving a very little portion for me.
'Give me some more Poha. You make it the best!' Dad says eating greedily.
'Oh teach me how you cooked Simla Mirch in this style!' Mom requests me to teach her.
'You are Daal Tadka specialist. Mom did try making it your way. It never tastes like yours does!' my sister whispers so that Mom doesn't overhear.
I can't help smiling.
- Based on a seemingly far-fetched but true story
Not that I never made an attempt. I really did. I remember once I entered the kitchen with sheer enthusiasm leaving Mom with her hand on her mouth in shock. I ignored several giggles from the very encouraging family of mine.
It was a simple task to make 'Pithla'. Well you have to do the tadkafirst. I folded the sleeves of my dress in style and added cumin seeds and onion in the heated oil. As the onion started turning brown I panicked asking for further instructions. In all the havoc I added grated coconut in the tadka.
'YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO ADD COCONUT IN THE TADKA!!!' I heard Mom screech at the top of her voice. Making a swift Ninja move, she turned the gas off just in time. I was sent out of the kitchen and came out with my eyes on the ground like a defeated warrior.
That could not discourage me. Instead, it made me burn with shame and anger. Soon enough I tried making custard reading a recipe from somewhere. After reading the instructions several times, I started. It said one should stir the milk continuously while adding custard powder or it would form lumps.
I stood in the kitchen in the vindictive pleasure as I took the vessel off the gas seeing no lump had formed. After cooling I kept it in the fridge to set.
I had my fingers crossed when I opened the vessel after sometime. Smooth pink custard, I was already dreaming. All my dreams shattered when I found the lumps had finally formed somehow.
I offered the custard in a bowl garnishing it with dry fruits as if it would make it taste any better. Dad tasted it. I looked at him expectantly. He looked as if he would burst into a laugh. 'Wow nice!' He managed to say. My face fell.
'Oh no! It is really good. Don't bring more though. I have to be careful with sweets.' He stopped me as I tried to serve more.
Well no one was generous enough to taste the custard, let alone finish it off. In fact even I could not finish it. It tasted pathetic. Several days before it all went to dustbin, I had made many unsuccessful attempts to make people taste it. I noticed the guests did not stay for a long time when I offered them that overly thick custard.
Rather than embarrassing myself in front of others, I decided I should try learning cooking secretly. My next experiment was aloo paratha. Somehow I was confident that I could not mess this up. I boiled potatoes when I was home alone. I realized they were undercooked, as I could not mash them good enough to be stuffed in the dough. My super-fast brain suggested crushing it fine using the mixer.
As I opened the mixer, I was shocked to see what was inside. It formed a sticky paste that did not look like mashed potato. It was so mushy that when I tried to remove it from the mixer, it stuck to my hands. It was impossible to stuff it inside the round of dough. Before anyone could notice, I destroyed the evidences.
I bid an adieu to the kitchen. Kitchen is just not for you, I said to myself. No one even suggested me learning cooking because it could have been dangerous for the people around me.
I was the subject of ridicule in the office sometimes when I made egg-bhurjior bhindi.
'What is this thing?' someone would ask me looking at my tiffin, with the others tactlessly trying not to laugh.
'Why do you always cut the stuff so fine? I mean where is the egg in egg-bhurji??' Someone would ask from the other end of the table.
'Oh my! Is it Poha or Upma??' Someone would ask seeing my overly soaked Poha.
'Maybe we should call it 'Poma'!' and the table would roar with laughter.
I would try to laugh along with them and resent about my pathetic cooking.
'One day you would learn you see!' He would assure.
'What do you want on your birthday?' I asked him a week before his birthday.
'I want to taste the food made by you.'
I gaped at him.
'Do you want to end up in a hospital on your birthday?' I asked him.
He laughed.
On the previous day of his birthday, I decided to make paneer mutter. This was like studying for tenth standard when you are in the fifth standard.
It was different this time. This time I wasn't cooking to prove myself, this time I was cooking for someone and wished it tasted good. I didn't wish for not ending up as a subject of ridicule, I just wished I wouldn't disppoint him.
After I added all the ingredients and masala as it said in the recipe, I tasted the concoction.
'Is it I who made it?!' I had left myself stand there surprised for some minutes, with the sweet droplets on my forehead and hair gone frizzy with all the heat in the kitchen.
How I made it, I do not know. For all those years I had tried to learn cooking desperately, heard people making fun of me and all of a sudden I had made it perfect.
'Awesome!' He said when he tasted it, 'Told you would learn some day!' he grinned.
After that I knew I wouldn't go wrong at cooking. Somehow I was brimmed with a lot of confidence. I tried many recipes.
I realized you cook well when you cook for someone you love.
Now when I make Paneer bhurji, there is an unmistakable snatching of my tiffins.
'Wow! This Daal really looks tasty!' Nilesh says trying to avert his greedy eyes from the Daal on the day of his fast.
'Oh you really have learnt cooking! Why don't you teach these canteen people?' Mahesh says with an apologetic grin when I remind him how much he had teased me in the past.
I stare at Amit when he gulps down spoonfuls of Sevaya Kheer leaving a very little portion for me.
'Give me some more Poha. You make it the best!' Dad says eating greedily.
'Oh teach me how you cooked Simla Mirch in this style!' Mom requests me to teach her.
'You are Daal Tadka specialist. Mom did try making it your way. It never tastes like yours does!' my sister whispers so that Mom doesn't overhear.
I can't help smiling.
- Based on a seemingly far-fetched but true story
No comments:
Post a Comment