Food is food. Feel hungry, eat and go to sleep.
I don't feel that way. Aromas are filled with memories. Associations of laughter, togetherness- an eightieth birthday, the first meal cooked under desperation away from home, the comfort of 'home food', the warmth of a freshly baked cake in a round oven (decorated with gems), a special date or just a meal had alone while wishing for company.
One of my favourite memories is the hours that I spent watching my grandmother cook. Budia ( as all of us across generations called her) used to set up her boti and a bowl of water to dip vegetables in and a neatly folded old plastic sheet for the peels. On the right was a big aluminum plate on which vegetables were segregated and kept as per the preparations. When I was really young ( pre school days), I was given a small ball of atta to make into tiny rotis and a small cup for milky tea. I felt part of the adult world. My membership further strengthened by every perfect round roti.
So kitchen time was my time with Budia. Hours of stories of her childhood- wearing saris to school, how much she loved to climb trees and how she wished she had studied more. She would occasionally tell me to turn down the gas. It was a privilege. That was all the help she was willing to take. While the food would cook we would lie on her bed and she used to tell me stories. All of it with wafts of mustard oil flowing in.
With every season there used to be a special preparation. The first mango of the season was mixed with thickened milk and crunchy batasha, durga puja was followed by heaps of kachoris and ghugni, during basant panchami there was patishapta. In summer when I used to come back from school- there used be ghol (thin lassi like buttermilk with lemon) or water and batasha. I remember changing into a cotton chemise, dangling my legs and watching bubbles while I dipped the batasha.
Then there were Sunday breakfasts ( I still have a weakness for those). It was a luxury. No one was rushing to work/school. Baba is usually at his best with breakfasts. That needs another post.
I watched a film called 'A Touch of Spice' recently. The film is about the relationship of a young boy- Fanis, with his grandfather who owns a shop of spices. Fanis is told at a very young age that life and food both become better with a touch of spice. With the backdrop of rich sounds and smells, the film explores relationships and politics with a rare gentleness. Do watch it if you get the opportunity, it's one of the best films I've seen in recent times.
Do e mail me your stories of food associations, and cook with love. As Baba says it all the time, "Love is the most important ingredient of cooking".
I don't feel that way. Aromas are filled with memories. Associations of laughter, togetherness- an eightieth birthday, the first meal cooked under desperation away from home, the comfort of 'home food', the warmth of a freshly baked cake in a round oven (decorated with gems), a special date or just a meal had alone while wishing for company.
One of my favourite memories is the hours that I spent watching my grandmother cook. Budia ( as all of us across generations called her) used to set up her boti and a bowl of water to dip vegetables in and a neatly folded old plastic sheet for the peels. On the right was a big aluminum plate on which vegetables were segregated and kept as per the preparations. When I was really young ( pre school days), I was given a small ball of atta to make into tiny rotis and a small cup for milky tea. I felt part of the adult world. My membership further strengthened by every perfect round roti.
So kitchen time was my time with Budia. Hours of stories of her childhood- wearing saris to school, how much she loved to climb trees and how she wished she had studied more. She would occasionally tell me to turn down the gas. It was a privilege. That was all the help she was willing to take. While the food would cook we would lie on her bed and she used to tell me stories. All of it with wafts of mustard oil flowing in.
With every season there used to be a special preparation. The first mango of the season was mixed with thickened milk and crunchy batasha, durga puja was followed by heaps of kachoris and ghugni, during basant panchami there was patishapta. In summer when I used to come back from school- there used be ghol (thin lassi like buttermilk with lemon) or water and batasha. I remember changing into a cotton chemise, dangling my legs and watching bubbles while I dipped the batasha.
Then there were Sunday breakfasts ( I still have a weakness for those). It was a luxury. No one was rushing to work/school. Baba is usually at his best with breakfasts. That needs another post.
I watched a film called 'A Touch of Spice' recently. The film is about the relationship of a young boy- Fanis, with his grandfather who owns a shop of spices. Fanis is told at a very young age that life and food both become better with a touch of spice. With the backdrop of rich sounds and smells, the film explores relationships and politics with a rare gentleness. Do watch it if you get the opportunity, it's one of the best films I've seen in recent times.
Do e mail me your stories of food associations, and cook with love. As Baba says it all the time, "Love is the most important ingredient of cooking".
Aditi, I love your blog! Thought I'd share something I tried in my kitchen, that I share with 7 other students :) It was end of term and submission deadlines were hitting me left right and centre. It was raining and I was out of food! Nothing in my fridge except frozen chicken and dahi. My spice cabinet, which I am extremely proud of came to the rescue.
ReplyDeleteI added all possible masalas to the dahi- garam masala, chilli flakes, dill, chopped coriander, amchoor, little haldi, salt, dhania powder, ground black pepper, garlic and ginger paste...literally Everything! I thawed the chicken and let it marinate in this marinade overnite...all it needed the next day was 40 minutes in the grill at 200 degrees and it came out so juicy, tender and completely awesome! Most of the dahi had been soaked in by the chicken and it turned out to be curry-less but the masalas stuck onto it and had turned a golden brown...I don't have a name for the recipe yet...but it'll always remind me of a cold rainy day spent with close friends, wine and my favourite food- CHICKEN!!! But the previous night, I had to make do with Maggie, my faithful old friend :)
Try it sometime and suggest a name if you can!