Burn and learn

My first fried rice was pronounced fired rice. My second attempt resulted in something my teeth had trouble chewing and my tongue had trouble identifying. Since then I've managed to make it palatable and even introduced some variety in it.

I still mess up my sambhar. It never comes out even close to the way it was at home.

The taste of my poriyal is a wildly fluctuating random variable. Sometimes it tastes so good and similar to my Mom's that it brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes it's so terrible I have no words to describe it.

But at grad school, cooking is like research. It's do or die. And hope that in time you do it well enough that people are happy with it rather than give grudging acceptance.

So, this diwali, in an atmosphere absolutely alien in the sense that I felt empty without my Mom's sweets; or the new Tamil movies on TV; or the harmless "vengayam vedi" crackers that my brother and I would throw at each others' feet; or the non-stop 10,000 walas and colourful sky fireworks in neighbouring Jaya aunty's house, I thought I'd try to cook some Indian food to bring some cheer to the apartment.

Out comes my Mom's first cookbook. She wrote it in 1988. I was a little kid then, but I still remember vividly the cover of the first print. It looked really stupid, but being a kid I couldn't point that out. My parents never understood that I understood. They still don't. Anyway, we could not afford to do a more professional job of it at that time. But I digress. The first recipe is a gravy called Dhariwala. I've known that much for 17 years. But for the first time I actually read it with the intention of remembering it and preparing it.

I did not have many of the ingredients to make it exactly the way it was. So I recalled my Mom's general guidelines on how to make such gravies, and closed the book and tried my own hand at it. Apart from the fact that I'd underestimated the tomato puree and I'd added a little less spice than I ought to, it came out ok. Amazingly well, in fact, for a first attempt.

Of course, the gravy is meant to go with a roti or chappathi. I had bought some flour that I hoped would be close to what we use back home, and I tried to remember my Mom's instructions on how to make chappathis. I started out in earnest, but alas, the fates were not kind to me. I forgot to oil the lining of the mixing bowl. I forgot to add salt to the dough. I had a really tough job kneading the dough, and an even tougher job rolling it. Everytime I rolled it, it would compress back into a smaller circle.

Since it was taking me so long to roll it, I decided to roll first and cook them on the pan later. Big mistake. I had taken the precaution of adding some flour on the surface of each chappathi(!) to prevent them from sticking together, but it wasn't enough. After 20 minutes of rolling, I realized that they were all stuck together and I had to start over. Fortunately, reinforcements arrived. My roommate whose turn it was to cook appeared and was pleasantly surprised to see me taking such pains on, apparently, his behalf.

So, I re-rolled while he cooked them on the tawa. They came out thick and really tough to chew, and tasted like a hybrid of chappathi, roti, paratha, nan and kulcha, and I dubbed them "my nameless creations". They were edible, but just barely. It had taken me a total of 3 hours to do all the cooking, even with my friend's help towards the end. The kitchen looked like a disaster zone and my nameless creations were proof of the tragedy.

I guess I ought to have been disappointed. Cowed. Frustrated. But somehow, at the end of it all, I wore a smile and felt like I'd won a minor victory.

The proof of the pudding, perhaps, is in the attempt itself and not in the eating.

Cheers,
Prashanth.