On Living: From the Kitchen

Lessons, stories, music, shipwrecks, all in the confines of one granite-laden space.

Dearest reader,

How long has it been?

Criminally long. I last wrote to you in December. Since then, gladly, what has been stopping me from writing here is not my own inhibition, but life itself. The past few months have been a whirlwind of change, some of it bizarre and unworthy of reporting, but most of it monumental. More on that, in due time.

This month, I want to talk to you about an old yet new space where I have been harbouring my experiments (and truth be told, some accidents too)-

-drum roll please-

the kitchen!

My saved folder on Instagram, the likes of which may be compared to an NCERT history textbook, has evolved from housing essay excerpts to recipe reels over the past few years. I hope to try close to two or three recipes in a fortnight. This isn’t much, but it surely isn’t too bad a frequency for someone who has had a somewhat imbalanced relationship with food and cooking for most of her life till now. And it promises to get better. Everyday I am curious about how old and new ingredients combine, and each day I find answers to questions I wasn’t asking before.
What happens when we add corn-flour, honey, and garlic to soy sauce? (It begins to resemble packaged teriyaki sauce. Cook some boneless chicken or tofu in this, garnish with scallions and sesame seeds, pair with steamed rice, and thank me later).
What happens when we cook chopped potatoes in a rich butter and garlic puree without peeling them? (their skin turns crispy and they make for a delectable snack).
Does spinach sit well in an omelette? (Absolutely!)
Tomato puree mixed with a spiced beaten egg is waiting to simmer on a hot pan glazed with a spoon of ghee, with some grated cheese and maybe some capsicums and mushrooms to that mix, for a glorious breakfast.
Oh, and the staggering, life-giving traits of tea. This isn’t a new development in my kitchen skills at all, but I thoroughly enjoy the process of making and talking about tea (more than drinking it). Often more than once in a day. And I make a little dance of it each time, courtesy Kishor Da and Rafi Saab. New friends hop along on my tea brewing adventures. In addition to my actual friends, I am also accompanied by the predictable clove and cinnamon. Sometimes I feel rich and add some crushed cardamom. On fancier days, there is oolong and chamomile. On days of sickness of course, there’s some reliable ginger. It’s all well and good till here. But the minute the tea and spices have boiled sufficiently, it’s time for the make-or-break ingredient. The milk. This is where we get finicky, and my friends begin to dissociate from my tea-making waltz. Anything more than a teaspoon and I consider my tea “undoable,” just as anything less than a tablespoon, and they consider theirs incomplete. Well, in this matter, my friends are joined by my mother. And her mother. Back home, gallons of milk are emptied when they make their tea, or at least, that’s how it appears to me and Paa, as we look on, befuddled, sipping our dark, watery cha. Disagreements aside, simply knowing this jestful little detail about my friends and family- this sharp awareness of how someone prefers their tea- is a precious mark of affinity, a silent but solid thread.

Two cups of tea shared on a cold January morning, not made in my kitchen, but an identical one in CR Park- with the milk proportion just how we like it.

The kitchen acts as a site of nurturing. Each kitchen, like each home, is dynamic, with its temperament varying on the daily. On some days, the aroma of jeera hitting the surface of hot ghee in a kadhai colours the night like listening to a ghazal for the very first time at fourteen. On other days, the mirchi in the ema datshi gets the best of our temper. On a few, fortunate days, Rabindra Sangeet is introduced to the kitchen, as a well-cooked pasta is blended into a glimmering tomato and spinach sauce.

The kitchen space is replete with lessons too, and not all of them are imparted gently. As someone who falls sick quite, quite often (or so has been the case ever since the summer began), I turn to this space for all my remedying. And it rarely ever fails me. Much like the ‘Room of Requirement,’ I am presented with what I wish for, I need only ask (and of course, pay too, courtesy BigBasket). Whatever my woe, the answer is always in the kitchen. This space is quite the mirror too, for each time I attempt a new recipe, more of myself is revealed to me. For instance, I have known that I am a creature of habit and organisation. But in the kitchen this is solidified. I like things in their own place, I mostly take my meals at fixed hours, and I follow recipes with an almost bizarre sense of duty. I have learnt that while I am not incapable of enjoying a meal alone, food is definitely relished more deeply when shared, and cooked in the company of a reassuring guest. Cooking, like writing, is a practice in patience, and acute presence. Get distracted, and you might lose out on a crispy dosa, or great idea, or both.

This letter to you has been a dream to write. It helped me examine my relationship with numerous masaalon ki dibbiyaan, fridge mein padi sabziyaan, and people I have cooked with- in presence, and in loving memory. Needless to say, it’s made me quite hungry.
Thank you for reading, I am so grateful! Writing after so long is never just a reminder, I’d say it’s a revelation- ke “abhi bhi andar kuchh zinda hai.” It’s always delightful to learn that corporate living hasn’t butchered the best in us yet, and that our creative, weird, innocent proclivities are alive and well. Here’s to the forever bending, struggling, but trying artist within. There’s a long way to go, and perhaps I am writing in the wait of that one (imaginary) day when I quit everything to write for a living. But until then, slowly and sneakily, we continue to pursue what beckons us most.

With love,
Samreen