Chilled and sweetened cream, cold as frost, soft as silk. It flirts with the lips, rests on the tongue-tip, begins cat-walking on its floor, brushes against the palate, lingers for a while. Then it jolts awake taste buds by its sudden foray, filling with sapid and sensory tastes filled with emotions.
The icy intruder then passes by, glissades down the throat, splurging a burst of flavours diving and bounding through the gullet, chilling the diaphragm on its way and finally getting hugged warmly by the stomach, unmindful of its tickle with the chilly onslaught.
Eyelids close gently as the brain assimilates the blissful experience, each cell in the body relishing the icy sojourn, the taste lingering. Hands, eyes and tongue take covert positions for the next spoonful.
Sundays dawned with a promise of biryani, Awadhi style. Ma had mastered it despite coming from down the peninsula, having lived in Lucknow since her marriage at the age of sixteen. But what made us kids euphoric was the dessert that followed. Ice cream it was, invariably week after week and made at home. A refrigerator was a prized possession of our middle class family in the early 1970s.
Sunday mid-morning saw Ma armed with her magic wand and magic pot... spatula, ladle, mixing bowl, saucepan and most of all, a zen-like countenance.
We hovered around her as she reduced the milk on her prized possession, a gas cooker-cum-grill oven. Well, as she stirred, added sugar and flavours, we watched with wide eyes until she called out for a volunteer to cool it to room temperature.
Sitting in Seiza style, not on the tatami though but on the dining table chair, stirring with a ladle, ceiling fan full on, inhaling the rich aroma of the ice-cream mixture, while all the while maintaining Ma's status quo. As focussed as the Japanese while making Ocha, that miniature cup of tea, well, the size matched my playtime tea-cup. When done, the mixture, by now thick and viscous, was filled into ice cube bins, minus the frame, pushed into the freezer for an hour or two. The ladle needed a finger-licking before submitting itself to the waiting sink, which I duly complied with.
A good two hours later, the bins breezed out of the freezer, and much to my anticipation, went to the waiting mixer, and the contents stoically rendered themselves to be blended into a frothy smoothie. The refilled ice bins were sent right back again. The temperature of the freezer was reduced to a minimum by turning the huge knob to its maximum. The chill tray's flap unfolded to arrest the freezer's cold from escaping. We siblings took turns to do the honours.
The blending part caused a heartbreak to the five-year-old in me. “But why Ma, isn’t the ice-cream already set? It looks hard as a rock?” Ma would show me the icicle layer on top that seeped into the ice-cream, making it brittle. The blending was to soften it, she reasoned. Though it did make sense, my patience thinned out seeing all the 'hard work' getting dismantled and reset, another couple of hours of wait. What a grind!
But for all this, the enhancing part was the pack of six ice-cream flavours —strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, custard, pista, butterscotch. Each week one flavour and I was pleased with all except for custard. It lowered my serotonin levels, leaving me a recluse. Yes, the others, in no mood to entertain my somber self, felt it sensible to quarantine me with my awful mood. On custard-Sundays, I didn’t stir anywhere near the ice-cream mixture, I would so fondly volunteer otherwise. Well, all that was eons ago!
When carrying my firstborn, it was casatta that kept company, and calories. Hubby dear saw to it that I had my fair share of casatta. After-dinner stroll would
see us taking a detour to Peters Road, a 15 minutes’ walk to the chain-shop known for its ice-creams and shakes, for my pound… slices of casatta, loaded with nuts and candied fruits. That my daughter favours Italian cuisine, had its origins here. Now it strikes me.
Partner in crime, right from the womb, has of late observed something and confronted me with testimony, on her mobile. A series of pictures, seven in number, over a couple of months. It was both embarrassing and interesting to note.
Seemed, whenever I had ice-cream in my hands, for the next two minutes the world ceased to exist. Totally disconnected, nothing came between the cup and the tip (tongue). Went into complete Zen-mode, slowly, deliberately, sinking in the blissful tastes, oblivious to the rest of the family, seated just a chair away.
As they exchanged knowing smiles and clicked me away, oblivious to it all, I sat relishing my first few spoons, eyes transfixed on the cup and its contents; manoeuvring the spoon towards the buccal cavity with great precision and only after a formal induction to my palette, I safely landed back at the table! Trying to pick up threads from where I left, only to be met with blank looks and these pictures in store. They had moved far ahead!
“One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating” (read ice-cream, here). A huge fan of his Rigoletto and Tosca, I try to echo the thoughts of Luciano Pavarotti.
gmscorpio10@gmail.com
