My family members say that for one who eats so little, I have an obscene fascination with food. From sampling (pecking at) new cuisine, trying out recipes, reading food memoirs, to watching cookery shows, I love it all.
The first dish I remember making, was pure venom. All of six years, I was ‘inspired’ by our family cook, who happens to be a culinary wizard who conjures up magical dishes. Not your everyday layman food, but a special dish fit for royalty to feast upon.
Into a bowl of water I added all the masala powders available in the pantry, a spoonful of this, a fistful of that, not hemmed in by something as dreary as measurements. I ended with a dash of salt and a garnish of coriander leaves, stem stalk et al. A sort of culinary ‘coda’ if you will. The dish was aptly named Golmal Begum, the empress of chaos. My family’s unconditional love for me was sorely tested that day, as each made valiant attempts to sip the vile drink.
Every time I visit my parents’, not later than the third day, Amma makes Greek moussaka, with layers of fried potatoes and aubergines browned to perfection, minced meat with caramelised onion and tart tomato puree, sprinkled with nutty peppery spices and cooked together till it becomes a slushy sauce, bursting with flavours. These layers are then doused in a silky béchamel sauce, with hints of nutmeg and pepper and smothered in a thick layer of gritty grated parmesan. Amma bakes it till it bubbles up and forms a buttery, golden crust and the kitchen is filled with aromas you would just want to bottle up. She scoops out a slice for me, without waiting for it to cool down; not like a chef but like a mother.
If I would be given only a few hours more to live, I would like to spend some portion of that precious time devouring ‘hot-off-the-stove’ poori masala, made by our cook. Puffed up pooris, their golden crusts crisp and flaky, crumbling under the slightest touch. You poke the top and fragrant steam rushes out and it valiantly holds its shape for a few seconds, before deflating. You tear off a chunk of the still-hot-to-touch poori and dunk it in the turmeric-hued potato curry, which has chunks of coarsely mashed potato with hints of ginger, flecks of green chillies and bits of juicy cooked tomato, lending it that robust flavour. It feels like lying down on your own bed at the end of a journey, nothing fancy, but familiar, comforting and restorative.
The smell of dosas being made always takes me back to my mother’s kitchen. The way her slender hands moves in a fluid circular motion, spreading the batter on her perfectly seasoned cast iron pan, the faintly hissing sound as the batter hits the sizzling pan and the aroma of ghee, which she drizzles along the edges of the dosa.
She would fold the dosa in half, lift it up and slide it on to my plate in one deft synchronised motion and add a big blob of freshly ground coconut chutney, spiked with bits of green chillies and flavoured with a tadka of spices and fresh curry leaves in coconut oil. I would then break off a piece of the crisp and filigreed dosa, the paper roast, and smother it with coconut chutney, before popping it into my mouth. I’ve tried in vain to recreate this in my kitchen, though it is a flavour I can recall in memory.
It took me a while to realise that what I was unable to replicate was the ambience of my mother’s kitchen, that feeling of excitement and security and the presence of a loving person who made the dish, specially for me. This then is the power good food has over us. The right ones nourish not just physically.
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