The Big Cheeze

In the aftermath of the gajrela incident, I moped. And I sulked. The husband didn’t notice. So I made a loud declaration. I would cook no more. And I switched off my hob.

There was a twitch of the eyebrow from the husband. Hope sprung. No, that was for the latest farmers’ rally video he was watching.

What I did not reveal was the ace up my sleeve. M&S had sent me a pizza offer that was too good to resist. And so I set off for the store. Please note: I do not usually shop for food at M&S. Tesco is more my style. And my wallet. But this was an offer. And I’m a sucker for those.

I joined the queue outside the store. Then the queue before the sanitiser dispenser. Then the one for the sanitising fluid for wiping down the basket. Then the one for the basket. By then I was too tired to shop. Only that firmly turned down hob spurred me on. I am a woman of my word.

That and the fact that the husband had been food shopping for the last two months. And deciding our food choices. And I was gagging on the daily lunch menu of flatbreads and hummus. The winter was decidedly one of discontent. And for more than one reason.

Back to the store. It looked strangely depleted. Till I realised they’d closed off one side of each aisle. I had to ask directions to the pizzas. And found myself there. Alongside another woman.

We sized each other up. Then looked at the pizzas on display. Far too few of them. One pepperoni only. She grabbed it. I sighed. I would have to think sideways if I wanted to win this one. And I moved crab-like, circuiting around her. She looked at me suspiciously. I looked at her, nonchalant quotient turned to full. And reached for the three-cheese pizza. Aha, got it! I’d have to stop by Tesco and pick up the pepperoni to put on it, but at least I’d got a pizza. On offer.

When I got home, the husband unpacked my offerings. He’s kind like that. The backpack was full. The ‘stop by’ Tesco had got extended by a bit, I’ll admit.

Then came a loud splutter from the husband. Accompanied by words that would not be polite to put down here. The politer version might run thus: ‘What on earth is this?’

‘A three-cheese pizza?’ I said brightly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got pepperoni to put on top.’

The husband was ominously silent. And he ominously silently showed me the label on the pizza. Which said ‘cheeze’. Which I’d been too busy to read in the store. Because I’d been too busy feinting with my co-shopper.

I’d got home a pizza all right. But a vegan pizza. The ‘cheeze’ was – I kid you not! – coconut-based cheese alternatives and cauliflower transformed into mozzarella, cheddar and what they called Italian-style cheese lookalikes. Lookalike about summed it up.

I think I’m going to cry off shopping for a while.

How Brown Is Brown Enough?

‘What are you making?’ asked the son plaintively. Maternal heartstrings were firmly tugged. I put down the spatula and replied, ‘Moong dal halwa.’

‘I also want some.’ More plaint in the voice. Maternal heartstrings pulled to max stretch. Just short of pinging. I hadn’t seen him for a full year. My poor darling, all on his own, I thought, heart bursting with love.

Interjection from the husband: ‘We’ll send you the recipe.’ Maternal love moment shattered.

Plaint also disappeared pronto. ‘Oh good. I’ll make it tomorrow.’ Just like that.

‘It’s not easy,’ I growled. And with good cause. I’d been at work all morning, first soaking the dal, then grinding it. The last two hours had been spent stirring the halwa. Arm muscles that had been wallowing in retirement had been pressed into service, raising pain awareness to hitherto unknown levels. This at a time when I was weaning myself off my paracetamol habit.

And yet the mess in my pan was not brown enough. Not Haldiram’s brown at least. It looked pasty, what a generous person might call oatmeal.

Nevertheless, the inveterate taster in my life – otherwise known as the husband – already had the spatula to his lips. ‘Ummm!’ His approval was resounding. I gave up on the stirring. Both the halwa and the muscles. And piled the halwa into a bowl instead. He was right. It tasted better than it looked.

It was the success of the appam that had inspired this culinary stretch. That and Tarla Dalal, may God rest her soul. It had looked easy enough. At least when reading the recipe. Reality had crash-landed me on my knees before the hob.

The maternal code does not permit me to call the son unless I am at death’s door. And I was not. At death’s door, that is. It just seemed that way. So I had to content myself with pacing the carpet instead. And waiting. And waiting. Till he surfaced two days later.

‘Did you make the halwa?’ I asked in great excitement. Now he would tell me what hard work it had been. How wonderful I was to even attempt it. How lucky Dad was, etc., etc.

Instead came, ‘Yes.’ Typical son-speak. Why use five words when one will do?

‘And…?’ Questions dripped off my tongue, culminating in, ‘How did it turn out?’

‘Oh, very well,’ came the response. ‘Wait, I’ll send you a photo.’

And the winner is…

Photo pinged through. Of the most marvellous halwa. Mr Haldiram would have wept tears of pride at its brown-ness. I could only feel myself glowing an unhealthy green.

‘How?’ I stuttered finally.

‘I put it in the oven,’ he said. Just like that.

I was struck dumb, but the husband chirped in sideways, ‘Wow, that’s amazing! How come ours did not….’ His voice trailed off at the look on my face.

Speech returned, albeit slowly. ‘I’m going to make gajrela,’ I said finally. For the uninitiated, gajrela is carrot halwa. Involves much grating of carrots and reducing of milk. And stirring. I could feel my muscles rise in agitation. But this was a gauntlet that had to be thrown down. Maternal love be damned.

‘Send me the recipe?’

Let me not stretch this sorry tale any further. He won again.

Instead, I Insta-ed It

Ten days ago, I made my first appam. It was beautiful – fluffy and light with a deep, firm centre. I could have had it framed. Instead, I Insta-ed it. A small step for womankind, but a giant step for me.

For it’s been a long journey. Long, long ago, in the dim and distant past, when I was still in the throes of not-yet-married-a-year domesticatedness (yes, I know that’s not a word!), I offered to help the MIL in the kitchen. Looks were exchanged between her and the FIL. Nothing about my acquaintance thus far had prepared them for this.

‘Why don’t you make the salad?’ The MIL is generous like that. Also cautious. How far can you go wrong with a tomato and a cucumber, she must have thought. She had no idea of my talents.

I eyed said tomatoes and cucumber dubiously. My offer to help had been imbued with shades of being asked to stir an already cooking pot. This was more proactive than warranted by my daydream of domesticity (there, I told you I knew the right word!).

But this was my chance. So I went to with gusto. And was still there by the time the MIL had cooked two veg, one dal and one raita. And chapatis. To feed six-and-a-half of us. She then took the cucumber from my hands.

Merrily unaware of my tryst with the knife, the husband took one look at the tomatoes and gasped, ‘Who butchered those?!’ He’s not much more tactful thirty-four years later.

What can I say? Amma and Appa were gadget freaks. I grew up amidst tomato slicers and egg separators. Amidst might be stretching the truth a bit though. I never ever ventured into the kitchen willingly. It was too hot most of the time. Besides, both Amma and the MIL were amazing cooks. Why would you tamper with perfection?

Also, I was thinking of the son. His wife would never have to hear, ‘Your boiled rice just doesn’t taste like my mother’s.’ The sacrifices a mother makes for her son’s future happiness!

Fast-forward a quarter of a century or thereabouts. When we announced our plans to move to London, there were telling silences from both Amma and the MIL. When they recovered, the MIL told her son to learn to make omelettes. Amma told her daughter unnecessarily cheerfully, ‘I suppose they’ll have ready prepared meals.’

They did, but, living on a scholarship, we were too poor to afford them. I will say this for the husband. He is patient. And kind. And hungry. When the turkey leg remained raw after six hours, he put eggs to boil instead. And ‘cooked’ toast. His word, not mine.

I’ve climbed the cooking curve considerably since the turkey. Hunger, and nostalgia, in that order, are powerful motivators. As are YouTube videos. And the Internet. Which can tell you how much a medium onion should weigh. Or the difference between one cup of water and one glass. In short, I’m impressed with myself. And that beautiful appam. Who cares about daughters-in-law?