My Mother's Son

I rarely doubted myself on the matter. In fact, I never did. I am, as a rule, a self-effacing and modest person. (You can confirm that with everyone who wrote in my autograph book.) But on this particular matter, I have always been at my supreme confident best. Well, I had never stuck in my finger in this particular pie, so to speak. But the forces of nature often seemed to come and whisper in my ear while sleeping -- while I was sleeping, of course -- that I was the best, potentially. I just had to shed my languor and settle down to business. My olfactory and dextrous hands would take care of the rest. I seldom doubted myself on the matter that I could be a better cook than my mother. I often told my mother that she had no idea of what she was doing. She unfailingly took offense.

The other day, I tried my hand at cooking. Well, 'my hands were almost tried' would be a more apposite description. And almost hung. I took to cooking with a sense of zest and the bravura of a buccaneer who goes out into stormy seas. I set out to make rasam. One of my friends, an expert within the confines of our apartment, reeled away the list of ingredients that would make a good rasam. I decided that potato fry would be a better option for a neophyte. However talented one may be, it was still better to start slowly and handle things with aplomb later. The first potato that I dropped in the frying pan to fry -- I mean, for the potato to fry -- remained adamant on the issue of following Archimedes principle. I mean, I don't nurse any grouse against Archimedes; it is alright for the potato to displace an equal volume of oil. But to splash the oil right on me as if organising a mutiny against getting fried -- I still think of the potato as churlish and rude.

The dough for chappatis seemed to invite me for a message and a cook. I am never the one to decline an invitation. The first chappati made me think I would make a good cartographer. It was an exact replica of Australia! The second one was a little better; it came out elliptical. After replicating India, America and several other countries I was finally able to replicate the shape of the world that had them all! All the world was mine. And I was on cloud nine! My heart leapt up as I beheld. I decided to see that as well. The next chappati that came out was much in the shape of my heart -- large, light and ecstatic. I was overjoyed. Until the gluttonous dandy next to me waited diligently for it to be cooked, and broke the heart -- rending it into two -- and gobbled it in contentment. Heart-rending experiences. My nose was burnt -- I told you what I thought of the oil -- and my heart, rended. And I decided I could do with some sleep. And do a good job of it.

I seldom doubt myself; and that is, these days, when I think I can cook better than my mother.

- posted by Dileepan @ 5:08:00 pm

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