My relationship with food goes a long way back, way back to my childhood days. I love to eat, I have loved to eat since I was a kid, but I can’t quite say the same thing when it comes to cooking. My mother tried to make me believe that food and cooking go hand in hand. If you like to eat you should know how to cook – that’s what she said. But I didn’t think so. Not until I flew away from the nest.
The first time I found out that having basic culinary skills was not only helpful but a bit necessary was in high school.
Since her parents were not at home, my friend D, invited me over for a movie. We were very hungry and decided to boil some eggs. After a lot of musing we decided on the appropriate pot, measured the water, put the eggs in the water and put it on the stove. After a while both of us decided that enough time had passed and the eggs should be ready by now. So we promptly turned off the stove, drained the hot water from the pot and put the eggs under running cold water in the sink. As we tried to crack open what was supposed to be a hardboiled egg by now, out came a whitish liquid. The shell still stuck to the egg and it was a total mess. All our combined efforts couldn’t even produce a proper boiled egg, not even a half-boiled one. Not knowing what else to do with the eggs we left them in their current neither-solid-nor-liquid state for my friend’s mom to come back and take care of. On her arrival at the scene she was flabbergasted that the two of us couldn’t boil an egg. “What will happen to you girls?” she said with a sigh.
That sigh travelled all the way to the US and was released by my husband one night at the dinner table.
Both of us are very fond of shrimp, so one day I decided to make chingri macher malaikari (a spicy shrimp curry with coconut milk) and rice. One major thing with shrimp is that it has to be cooked perfectly; otherwise it can be tough and rubbery. Now how to cook it perfectly? Using a pressure cooker would be ideal except I had no idea how to use one; in the sense how much water was required and when was the right time to stop cooking. So I gave up the idea.
In a pot I put the shrimp, some mustard oil and water, covered it with a lid and let it simmer. I kept checking the shrimp frequently and almost half an hour passed before the shrimp were cooked to my liking. When the shrimp were done I made gravy with onion, ginger and garlic paste and coconut milk. After the gravy was done I put the shrimp in it and let it simmer for a while. When it was dinner time my husband was very happy to find out that it was shrimp night. But his happiness did not last long as he had to literally fish out the shrimp because there was too much liquid in the pot. I had to scoop the shrimp from the bottom of the pot. Instead of a curry it turned out to be a stew. The pot was a deep one and my estimation skills weren’t quite up to the mark. (They are not perfect even now, but they have definitely improved, though there is the occasional shortage of chicken curry or abundance of khichuri (a hearty one pot dish of rice and lentils), to get rid of which we either have to eat it for three days or invite a few friends. Usually we go for the latter, especially when bachelor friends are around.) I asked my husband how it was, and while fishing for shrimp from the pot he said, “It’s good”. But he didn’t sound very good. I was a bit surprised that he said it was good, but I believed him (despite the hint of sadness and the sighing which I thought I detected). I needed to believe him to boost my confidence. It was later when I had improved that he told me how scared he was that day. In his mind he had already started looking up Indian restaurants which served home style meals while hoping that I’d improve.
And improved I have but not before my fair share of fiascos in the kitchen. And the one I am about to mention involves my in-laws.
Two years back my in-laws came to spend the summer with us. After all the great food cooked by my mom-in-law I thought I should treat them to something. So one Saturday afternoon I decided to make a tray of baked vegetables. I had made this once previously with good results. I chopped up all the veggies into big chunks, drizzled olive oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper and put them in the oven. It was to be a matter of an hour before lunch was served. After an hour when I opened the oven the vegetables looked just like the way I had put them in. maybe a bit drier. So I raised the temperature and waited for one more hour, totally confident that a steaming tray of perfectly cooked vegetables was on its way. But when I opened the oven a tray of shriveled up, dry and under cooked vegetables stared back at me. My face turned red and I can assure you that it was not due to the heat of the oven. I looked at my husband and my in-laws who smiled back and made light of the whole thing. But in my mind all those words took the shape of a collective sigh.
Luckily bread and eggs saved everyone from starving that day but it didn’t save me from embarrassment. And that was when I decided that I had to take cooking seriously. That it was essential, both for my sake as well as for the people around me.
To this day my father-in-law remembers the fiasco and asks me if he’ll be able to have some decent food the next time he comes over. And he’s visiting us this summer. I am keeping my fingers crossed.
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