Cooking up a Storm

Betty D'Couto

“Between Bitragunta and Kavali, I had the runs of a lifetime,” my dear Daddy said on his return from work. Dad was a guard on the South-Central Railway, and like all railway men, had to go out on line at any odd hour. It was for one of those trips that I volunteered to prepare egg curry and rice for Dad’s journey. Once in his guard break, my unsuspecting Dad happily dug into my super robust red recipe that made the eggs look like they were swimming in a literal red sea! Not one to waste food, my dear Daddy ate every morsel and no sooner did he wash his hands than he had to attend to urgent calls of nature. And that was poor Dad’s plight for the next 15 minutes or so, when after many an automatic rigorous bowel wash, Daddy dearest was as good as a wash out case, waiting for the next halt where he could get himself something to halt his hyperactive bowel movement! And, Dad being Dad, told it like it was with no fuss or fury. Probably only a gentle inner resolve to gracefully decline any further culinary assistance from this darling daughter. Mummy dearest wasn’t well that fateful day, and hence I thought I could help out. How was I to know how much chilli powder was just too much! Definitely not me. And it never occurred to me to ask mummy either as I did not want to disturb her. For two boiled eggs I must have added a very liberal amount of chilli making my curry look like it was straight out of hell’s fiery hole! But to my teenage eyes and ready-to-help-heart, it looked just right – the eggs bobbing in there quite content in their rich, red gravy! That was one of my earliest forays into the kitchen.

Those were the days when every household had a maid or an ayah who did the cooking and other ancillary tasks. Our ayah was in her forties or early fifties, and mummy would encourage us to help her out when it came to pounding or grinding flour for puttu/ idli and dosa. That was also an era of no mixie, fridge, gas, or other kitchen appliances. That meant deft handling of the pounder (the long, wooden pestle, with a metal shoe at one end, that one had to hold with one or both hands, raise it up and then bring down with force to pulverize the

rice) and the grinding stone, even as one of us sat squat, pushing the dry/wet flour into the stone-holder. Most of us, our brothers included, helped out doing some household chores, but cooking was not one of them. Thanks to mummy and ayah, we always had a sumptuous spread on our very large dining table. Life went by smoothly.

I completed my studies, got a job, and was met by this amazing man, Melwin, who soon became my best friend and husband. How wonderful! I now had my own house (rented though it was) to take care of with help and support from my Melwin. From day one, I decided to do the cooking and other chores, no maid for me I remember telling my best friend. But the biggest joke was I didn’t know how to operate a Hawkins pressure cooker, for the one we had in my home, growing up, was different (not that I had anything to do with that cooker either). Melwin patiently taught me how to handle the cooker, and off I went about cooking rice (which, most times, initially, came out like payasam), and a stew that could put any lush green field to shame; so very green was my stew! When my Melwin came to the table for our dinner, he ate my preparation with relish. If the bright green curry shocked his senses, he never let it show. It was only when I sadly asked him why my stew looked very different from my mother’s, he sweetly said that I may have added a little extra amount of green coriander; not to worry! How we laughed when I told him that the little extra, he mentioned, was actually two big bunches of coriander leaves ground to a paste and plopped into my stew!

Soon I came to realize that Mummy (Melwin’s) was a Masterchef. She was an exceptional cook, confectioner, baker, and, above all, a great human being who let me learn things at my pace. I guess it is “like mother, like son”, when it comes to Melwin. Calmly and cooly my best friend taught me how to make vindaloo. He also gifted me my one and only cookbook, “The Chef: A Complete Guide to Cookery” by Isidore Coelho. My determination to excel at cooking (at least the ordinary, daily meals) found me our tiny kitchen happily making breakfast and lunch that we packed to take with us to our workplace. This went on for four years. It was only when our second child was on the way, that we decided we needed someone to help with the kitchen. And that was how our Paalkaaramma’s daughter, Mallika, joined us, working for a good quarter of a century till ill health coupled with family troubles, prompted me to let her go. But till today, we are very close to this dear family – their loyalty, sincerity and love, a binding force.

Back again on my own in the kitchen, it was like I had never forgotten anything. As a matter of fact, my love for making the ordinary taste good emboldened me to try out newer recipes and enhance others. According to my dear friend Vasanthi, I make the best dosas! Such a sweet, heart-felt compliment. But, I guess, like another dear friend, Edriana Jeyasing once said, “Love tends to exaggerate.” Nevertheless, such appreciation does warm the cockles of one’s heart, doesn’t it? Having family, friends and guests over for a meal, or to spend a short vacation with us at “Blessing” is always welcome. Cooking up a storm is my cup of tea! My Melwin, to this day, helps and supports me in everything we venture to do, and for me, that is more than enough. Loving what we do, and getting to do all that we love, is the biggest and best gift God has given us, or anyone, for that matter.