'Cause mom's food is gag worthy

My annoyance meter had been reaching its upper limit for the last two weeks. First, for the sprouts salad my 13 yr old boy made a face that said ‘yucks’. Next, tamarind poha was labeled ‘disgusting’. Finally when the lauki sabzi was called ‘gag worthy’ I lost it. He was clearly the only one having a problem with the food ‘cause the other members of the family were enjoying it. The problem with the boy is he has a problem with Indian vegetarian food. Give him chicken marinated in gobar (cow dung) and I know he’ll lick the last bits off. 

As a house rule, I don’t accept food being called bad. It is ok to not like something but you can’t call it bad. When you say you don’t like it, it’s about you. When you say it is bad, it’s about the food. I reprimanded him; told him he needs to be thankful for the food he gets. “Nah, I don’t like it, so why should I be thankful? I’d rather make my own food,” he replied. “Perfect,” I said.

I declared I wouldn’t be cooking for him till he apolagizes. He agreed. He would have to make his own lunch box and dinner. He agreed. I told him the food he cooks would have to be healthy. He agreed. I told him he had a 15 Dhs daily limit on the items he buys to make the food. He argued, but thanks to his inflated ego, agreed. 

Day 1: He woke up 15 mins early. He washed the grapes for his fruit box and then went on to make his lunch. He kept it simple with a PBJ sandwich. Not very healthy, I thought but let it be.

For dinner he made an omlette and grilled a hot dog.

He was so happy he didn’t have to eat the bhindi sabzi I made for everyone else.

Day 2: He woke up 25 mins early. Grilled 2 hot dogs, put them in buns and air fried two hash browns. Washed and packed the remaining grapes. “What’s for evening?” I inquired, “ I see no veggies yet on your menu.”

“I am going to make Brocolli chicken pasta,” he gave a confident reply.  “And I am going to make a little more of it so I can take the same for school the next day. That ways I won’t have to wake up early tomorrow.”  “That’s great,” I mused. He was planning his meals in advance. He was also learning to be ok with having left over food in the tiffin next day. Good!

In the evening I saw his elder sister sympathizing and helping him out with the white sauce for the pasta. That was against the rules but I acted like I hadnt seen it. Even if he wasn’t saying it, I could see he was tired and was already understanding the effort that goes in the kitchen. He wouldn’t say it yet though. Ego! Plus he was happy he wouldn’t have to eat the brinjal sabzi that day.

The chicken pasta turned out perfect in taste but very little in quantity, just enough for his dinner. That meant he would have to plan something for the next day tiffin now. He asked me for the recipe of my corn quesadilla and I explained it to him in detail. It was after dinner and I could see he was sleepy. My maternal instincts were killing me but I kept a bold face. He prepared the corn, capsicum filling and then went to bed, so he could get a few extra minutes of sleep in the morning.  He had learnt meal prep. Good.

Day 3: He woke up 15 mins early. Prepped the tortilla and made the quesadilla in the air fryer. He was happy it turned out great. He washed an apple and added it to his lunch bag too. “What’s the plan for dinner?” I asked. “Veg fried rice with scrambled egg, “ he said, appearing bored even just thinking about it. Before leaving for school he gave me an unexpected hug. I could have melted.

When he came home from school he announced “Naah I am too bored of cooking the rice. Ill just make an omlette. What are you guys having by the way?” Our menu was cheese chilly toast and tomato soup. This was going to be a hard one to pass for him. But he stood his ground and didn’t show like it bothered him. Then suddenly he noticed a glass jar with the mango coconut barfi that I had made that morning.

“Who made these?”

“I did.”

“No you didn’t, you bought them.” (if it was store bought, as per the rules, he could eat it)

“No I made them in the morning.”

“Hmm” he said and walked off. Within 5 minutes his weakness had gotten the better of him –

“Ok ok fine I say I am sorry. But only because I know you want me to eat it (teenage ego still intact). I know you would feel really sad if I didn’t. You know I love them.” (True, but my face didn’t show that.)

“No no don’t worry. I am fine.”

“OK OK, I won’t call your food bad and”(his hand was already in the jar)

“Any food!” I interrupted, “You shall not call ANY food ‘bad’. Go on”.

“And I will be thankful for the food I get.”

“Ok then. I am glad you..”

Even before I could finish, he had assumed I had accepted the apology, had hurriedly pulled out two barfis and walked out of the room, relieved he did not have to worry about dinner now.  Right about that time the husband walked in and seeing the truce whispered to me, “Manipulator!”

To be honest, yes. The barfi wasn’t in a see-through glass jar without purpose. The glass jar wasn’t on the table without reason. He had learnt his lesson and there was no point in stretching it. I wanted it over as much as him.

Feasting over the toast and the soup he gave a satisfactory burp and then made an interesting suggestion - “In future if I don’t like something you make, I won’t call it bad. I’ll just make Monica’s fake ‘Ummm’ sound like when she ate Rachel’s meat pudding. Sounds good?”

 

Ummmmm.. Sounds good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Indian matchmaking - has nothing changed?

20 years later, the memory is still vivid. He sat on a Neelkamal chair, rocking gently on the wobbly hind legs while I worried of what would happen if he tripped and fell. I wouldn’t be able to control my laughter then, would I? His right leg was rooted firmly in a Bata slipper while his left leg was folded in a lap resting on the other. He massaged the resting left foot, plucking the cuticles around his big toe with his fingernails. I could see him peeling some off, playing with the barked skin turning it into a tiny ball, until he got bored and flicked it to the ground. I hid my disgust and tried to distract myself. The pedicure continued. He spoke with authority like he was a Vijay Deenanath Chahuan. Question followed question, and with every passing moment I felt more uncomfortable and hid deeper into my shell, like a nervous tortoise. The next day they called to say the Kundali did not match, a common excuse when the ladke-vale were convinced the skin color didn’t match (their expectation). In their defense, I would agree, this was our fault. My mother, in the bio data, had elevated my skin tone to ‘wheatish’, when in reality I was more of dark rye. What they were hoping for their dark rye son, based on my overly retouched photo was - ‘white as maida’. 

Why the sudden recount of an incidence that occurred such a long time ago? Well, when Sima (from Mumbai), nonchalantly mentions that “slim, trim and fair” girls are always in demand, I can’t help but go back in time – a short period in my past when my qualifications, skills and ambitions were reduced to zilch, outweighed by the three important parameters that mattered most – slim, trim and fair. I have nothing against arranged marriages. Many of my friends have found their soul mates through match makers and have had successful marriages then on. But they too will agree that the process to get there was (and shockingly as seen on Indian Matchmaking still is,) regressive, and though equally uncomfortable for the boy and girl, is more patronizing for the girl.

But today, shouldn’t the Tinders, Bumbles and Shaadi.coms make it easier? Looks like the answer is ‘No’. Can’t there be an overhaul in the Indian matchmaking process like there has been in the Indian Education System? ‘Indian Matchmaking’ is today the most watched series on Netflix India and it’s because it’s somewhat like F.R.I.E.N.D.S – appealing to every generation by being relatable and believable. 

In my limited experience in the subject of Indian matchmaking (I met 4 men), there was never a moment when I felt, “Oh this person is so cool. I could live with him forever”. Maybe it meant I had not met my soul mate yet through the process and if I had enough patience and tolerance, maybe I would have. Lucky for me I took the first overseas project and flew out of the battlefield. “I’ll fight those battles again when I’m back,” I thought.

‘So I was kind of your knight in shining armor then,’ he says gloating as I narrate my thoughts to my husband for 20 years, best friend for 25. “Nah nah, as Seema aunty says , ‘It’s all about adjustment, flexibility and a lot of compromise’ “, I say with a wink 😉

  

 

 

 

Walking, in a post lockdown world..

On 23^rd April, we heard the news that the lockdown would be eased from the next day. This would mean we would finally be able to venture out a bit. That day would also be the 35^th day, since we had stepped out of the building; the farthest we had gone to, being the trash chute on the same floor - and  oh boy, was I happy every time it was my turn!

I enjoy my evening walks and for long time now, my daily 3 km walks covered walking from the bedroom to the living room, then to the balcony and back in repetition. I often felt like a lion pacing in his cage back and forth, the only unidirectional view of the world being what I saw from my east facing balcony. It would be so good to finally see the sunset. I imagined what it would be like when the day to step out would finally arrive. I saw myself dancing my way out of the building like the girl from the Cadbury's ad who ran onto the cricket field to meet her lover.

Come D Day, the Avengers assembled in full gear – finally out of the pajamas into the gym clothes, sneakers and masks.

Yeah we look like humans mutating into parrots!

Instructions were given to the children – DO NOT TOUCH, ANYWHERE! We finally stepped out of the house and walked towards the elevator. I educated the others on how to call for it by pressing the button with the second knuckle on the index finger. Once inside I demonstrated the same again, by pressing the ground floor button. We were halfway down when the door opened. Another family stood outside. I freaked out, “Would they enter? If they did, wouldn’t it be too crowded? What about social distancing?” Thankfully their mask-covered faces disclosed an equally horrified look and they signaled they would take the next one. Never before, have people in the same building been so wary of each other.

Once out of the elevator, I pushed the entrance door of the building with my forearm. I saw more people than I imagined there would be. I reminded the children that they should keep safe distance from other walkers. I reminded them again not to constantly adjust their mask. I reminded them to sanitize their hands once more. I completely forgot to dance!

We started on our regular 4 km route.  I am not a listening-to-music-while-walking kind of person. I rather enjoy chatting. But with the mask on, that became significantly harder. It was harder to breathe and hence harder to talk while walking. And the mask moved a lot.  I quickly learnt that saying “Ohhh” helped move it down and saying “Umm” with your lips pressed, helped move it up (try it next time). I realized I was talking less and making weird faces more (Jim Carey would be proud). My husband suggested we should just walk quietly. Even through the mask, his sly smile gave away his intentions. We walked the rest of the route in silence. The sunset was beautiful.

Alas, by the time we were home, I realized I hadn’t really enjoyed the whole going-out process as much as I had anticipated it. I remembered my ‘good old days in lockdown’ when I could walk worry-free in the house. So, the next evening when my husband got ready for the walk,

“But it will be hot outside, right?”, I asked

“Yeah”

“And I’ll have to change?”

“Yeah”

“And I’ll have to wear a mask?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“It’s ok. You can go alone. I’ll just walk in the house today.”

It’s been almost 2 weeks since then. I go out once in three or four days just so I can see the sun set. I know eventually I, and all of us, will have to get used to this new ‘normal’ – walking away from people, face covered and silent. But till then, since I can, I will enjoy walking in the comfort of my home and if my nose twitches a bit, I will scratch it - fearlessly, to my heart’s content.

Hairy Puttar .. a lockdown story

It lay in a small corner in the bathroom cabinet – unwanted and forgotten. A long time back when we lived in the US, and my son was a co-operating toddler (yeah mom’s of toddlers, you heard it right. Wait till your sons become teenagers) , I would use it to avoid an unnecessary quarterly expense. And here it is again, all dusted and brushed , ready to make it’s mark again – (drum roll) The family clipper!

Now as much as I looked forward to using it, I knew I would face some resistance when it came to the boy – now 12 yrs old and having a strong opinion about who would trim his long, unkempt locks. It reminded me of the sheep shearing session we witnessed on our recent trip to a farm in New Zealand. 

It would be physically impossible to handle the boy this way now. I had to find another way. I tried emotional blackmail - “How can I kiss your forehead every night with all the shabby hair in the way?” Didn’t work. Pure blackmail – “You want me to make the brownies for you, right?” Mom’s (think they) have tremendous leverage over the other members of the family over supply of food during lock-down. Didn’t work – he made them on his own.

Finally, the father came to rescue and agreed to be the guinea pig. (He later argued he was forced. Like the many mysteries of the world, no one will ever know the truth. 😊). After numerous rounds of discussions at the dinner table, it was decided that I would have to cut Dad’s hair first, while the boy would watch and if he felt I had done a good job, I would be allowed near him with the clipper.

D Day! The newspapers were laid on the floor. A stool was placed on it. An old sheet would be used to cover themselves from the falling hair. The dad sat diligently. The boy observed closely. My steady hands went about with the clipper -  buzzzz, buzzzz, buzz  - using intuition, past experiences, and the knowledge gained from a few you tube videos I had watched recently. I did what the hands said.

Dad was done. He walked away hamming; unconvincingly repeating “Vah thanks, great haircut”. I think in his heart he was just relieved he was recognizable in the next zoom meeting. The boy somehow bamboozled by dad’s over acting, came forward. He gulped and sat uncomfortably, probably still wanting to make a dash out of the room. A few reassurances later, the clipper buzzed again. Clearing out the mop on his head would mean I turn on rage mode. BUZZZZ, BUZZZ, BUZZZ. 

Then some final snips with the scissors and all done! He seemed sufficiently happy with the result. He even asked if I could style it by shaving some straight lines on one side. I obliged. He dusted the sheet and walked out happy. No tip ☹

Later in the day he thanked me and said he felt fresh and light. “You are welcome,” I said. “Can I cut your hair tomorrow, Mumma?” “Oh, no one dare touch my hair”, I responded!

April 14, 2019 is coming!

Game of Thrones (GoT) is a lot like Modi. It has a huge following, it is popular world-wide, and it’s Bhakts just can’t stand the fact that someone may not like it.  I agree there must be something to it, that it garners world-wide popularity. You don’t become a world-wide craze just like that! But why is it so hard to accept that it’s just not for everybody!

The man in the house has been a huge GoT fan for the last 4 years. 4 years back he watched the first season online. Then binged watched on the next 3 so he could catch up with the current season at the time. I could see the admiration in his eyes – like he has seen the Taj Mahal– “Vah what a masterpiece has been created!” He kept coaxing me to follow it too so he would have someone to discuss, analyze and predict with, at the end of every episode. I was, during that time, doing my 4^th rerun of FRIENDS. I passed.

Slowly everyone that I was friends with, had become a GoT fan. I sat quietly at dinners with the friends while they discussed the seven kingdoms. Finally for the fear of missing out, some time before the 5^th season, I said to my husband “OK, I will try.” The look of appreciation I got from him – to see his ardhangini finally partnering with him - priceless! He offered to watch the first season with me again, just so that I would have company. Like an art loving student who had been forced to study engineering, I sat down with him for the first episode. In the middle of it someone just jumped off the castle wall and died to death! I shrieked. “Don’t worry, you ‘ll get used to this.”, he said. “But I don’t want to get used to THIS.” I had a sleepless night that day. In just one episode I gave up.

Every year around April it was the same story. The man got more excited about “Winter is coming” than “Mango season is coming”. Shame! He would look forward to it like a little a child patiently waiting all year for his birthday gift.

It’s season 8 now and the finale (finally) and he is crazier than ever. In March sometime, as expected he told me how I had missed out on such an amazing series. “But all is not lost, you can still catch up.” For his sake I saw one more episode. A guy (pardon my ignorance cause I know not his name) was fed a special dish made of his own children by his rival - like a Haggis made of your own children. Yikessss!! I physically hit him for putting me through this mental trauma. I thought he would give up. But he is a Bhakt.

Over the last one week, the newspaper has been printing a synopsis of each season in one page. My husband has them cut out and put near my bedside. 

“Ok, you like to read, right? Maybe you can read these to catch up.” I read it. I understood nothing. “If you haven’t read the Physics book all year, the revision notes from a friend won’t help right before the exam,” I reasoned. “Hmm, so you have around 70 episodes to catch in 7 days, that shouldn’t be impossible,” he said with the same conviction that Manjrekar speaks when India needs 70 runs of the last 7 deliveries. But in his heart, he knows it was all in vain.

So, there you are GoT fans, enjoy the last season. Find out if the Starks finally come together. Find out if they all die gory deaths. But let me enjoy my mangoes watching the 3^rd re-run of “How I met your mother”, cause from where I sit, sweating in my living room chair in Dubai, all I worry about is “Summer is coming!”

Oh, masala!

I met a South African lady recently for work. The original plan was to meet in a coffee shop. A really bad sand storm meant the plan had to be changed, so I suggested “Why don’t you just come over to my place and we can discuss work over some hot masala chai.” “Perfect!”, she replied.

After the work was out of our way, while we discussed life and food, she asked me if I, like every other Indian woman, had a ‘Spice box’ in my kitchen. “Oh yeah,” I said. 

As I showed the contents of each box, she looked at me amazed.

 “So, you use all of these every day?”, she asked curiously.

“Most of them, yes.”

“That’s a lot of spices!”

“Oh, wait till you see the other Masalas that are neatly stowed in the fridge door,” I said, opening the fridge. (Thank God I had cleaned it recently 😉 )

“See, these are not used every day. But for example when I make Dosa and Sambhar..”

“Dosa – those crispy pancakes with spicy lentil soup, right?”

I smiled. “Yeah that spicy lentil soup aka Sambhar would need this Masala,” I said, pointing to the Sambhar masala.

“This is interesting.”

 “Wait, we aren’t done yet!”

I opened a kitchen drawer that that had some whole spices and some other special Maharashtrian Spices. Her eyes grew wider.

“These are local to my cuisine. If you go to South India for example, you will see a new treasure of spices there.”

“Gosh, that’s a lot of masalas!” Her face resembled the ‘Astonished Face’ emoji. 😲

"And I thought ‘curry powder’ was all you had!”

Face-palm emoji! 🤦🏽‍♀️

***

After she had left, as I sat down, finishing of the spicy Chivda that she hadn’t touched, I couldn’t help be amazed and proud of the wealth we Indians possess.

That kick we get as the Paani from the Paani Puri travels through the gullet,

The tingling sensation when we drink a glass of Rassam on a bad cold and flu day,

The comfort we experience as we take the first bite of a Kanda Bhaji on a rainy day,

The flavor that bursts in the mouth when we dig into some Spicy Misal on a cold wintery morning. I could go on.

“What a rich spice culture we have,” I said to myself ,and got up to make myself another round of 'Masala' Chai.

The chilly plant

In November last year I planted my chilly plant. In a few days it flowered, and for many more days after that nothing happened. I waited and waited some more, but it bore no fruit. I worried why? For some reason the flowers were not pollinating. I read online that chilly plants are self-pollinating, so I blew gently on them so as to displace the pollens. Two days and still nothing.  Then one site suggested I use a small coloring brush to gently move the pollen closer to the stigma.  Again, didn’t work. ☹ Then finally one evening, there was a big thunderstorm (I know, very filmy - “Toofan aya” type, right?) And lo, ‘Anther aur stigma ka milan hua!’ My chilly plant finally bore fruit. To my surprise it wasn’t the green chilly I expected. The baby chilly was plump and yellow and grew facing heaven – but it was unique and it was mine.

To think of it, gardening is so much like parenting –

• Patience is the key!
• Every plant grows at it’s own pace. Some are just late bloomers.
• You know not if you get a yellow or a red or a plump or skinny – but what you get you accept and love.
• Every plant is unique and has something to be proud of. My otherwise cute-looking yellow chilly for example, will put the Habanero to shame. Yup, I am rearing a ‘teekhi mirchi” 😉