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October was coming
to an end and I was damp and cold. It was mid-day and I was in my room, the
numbness of winter seeping through me, although I was in the vicinity of the
sun-rays, whose heat was fading away, I noticed. I was waiting for lunch. Mom
loves cooking. And not just cooking, she loves feeding people – my friends, my
sister’s friends, relatives – with her simple cooking and a twist in there. I
believe it is communicable because I too love cooking now. I mean, out of three
attempts, one was really good. I will spare you the details of the other two;
they weren’t very friendly to me. The one which was good, it was a Classic
Spaghetti Bolognese. Well, I had to substitute beef with chicken. Beef isn’t
allowed in my religion nor do I ever want to taste it. So, the dish was a first
attempt. I was really hyped about it. And mom appreciated it. So, we went
shopping together. Picked up stuff and I made it. But then I realized that mom
had gastric which might make it unable for her to eat just that. I thought that
out loud and mom waved her hand in a “don’t-be-ridiculous” kind of way and
said, “It’s my daughter cooking. I will
taste it” with a smile, that twinkled her eyes. Turned out, it was low on
spice. Well, that was the recipe’s fault, not mine. Next day at school, my
friends appreciated it. But they had eaten the edited version of what I actually
made. Mom just “Indianised” it with more stuff. Her version was better than
mine was, though. I mean, I make noodles – boil and add salt and pepper, real
dull – and if I ask mom to “edit” it, it just tastes so good, like so, so good,
I wonder why didn’t I think of it.
Well, obviously I didn’t think of it and she did because she is more experienced,
but still! Now I look at cook books and think, if I add this and that to it,
will it taste? I share with mom, she gives me her advice and I end up not
making it because I get so happy at the thought of being able to make it then I
think I should pursue a career in cooking, go to Masterchef and win it or
something. I just end up not making it.
So, as I
was saying, I was waiting for lunch. I was really, really hungry. Like, my
stomach was making dying sounds. Mom called out my name and I guess you could
hear it three houses away. I went and had my lunch. After all the food thinking
I just did, I took out the cook book we got with our microwave and read through
the International Cuisines section. I looked at “Chocolate Pudding”, I made it,
ate it, mom loved it but frankly speaking, I thought the chocolate felt bitter.
Since it was a dessert, I guess it was a ‘bittersweet’ one. Then I saw “Baked
Macaroni and Cheese” and I remembered, I, teaming with my elder sister, whose
name I shall not enclose because I don’t want to be history so soon, melted a
bowl; a microwave safe bowl, at that.
It was written at the bottom of the
darn bowl! The thing that amazed me the most was that I saw the plastic bowl melt. I was terrified and amazed, both.
Terrified of mom, who, I was damn sure, would kill the life out of me. She
didn’t, by the way. She just laughed. I was staring at her, “what happened just
now?” and amazed because I saw the bowl melt, like real action inside the
microwave. The whole atmosphere was somewhat crazy. Mom took a wooden spatula
and started removing the molten plastic from the round glass (that moves round
and round). The best role was played by my sister. She was doing the dishes in
the kitchen. So, when there was real commotion in the kitchen itself, she
ditched the dishes and came forward to look at what had happened. Hand on the
hips, she asked me, “what is that melting?” to which I replied, “The bowl?”
“No, I mean what is that
melting? The yellow thing? Is it the cheese?” she asked
“It’s the bowl! Can’t you see it or what?” I nearly shouted
“I can see the bowl but what is that dripping thing?!”
“It’s the godamn bowl, woman! The yellow thing that is
‘dripping’ is the yellow microwave safe bowl. We melted a bowl.”
“What the…hell.” She looked me at like she heard the
‘its-the-bowl-melting’ for the first time.
“Yeah. We melted a bowl. How awesome is that, eh?”
Seriously
speaking, I still wonder why mom didn’t throw us out of the house. Because as
far as I know, destroy the food, no worries. Destroy the utensils, get out of
the house. This was real amazement. Next I saw the “Chocó-chip cookies”. I made
it too but those weren’t really cookies that I ended up making. Cookies are
crisp and brittle. Even though mine weren’t that bad, tasted good and all, was
pinkish-brown in color, which wasn’t suppose to look like because those were chocolate cookies, not strawberry, they
weren’t crisp. The thing is, cookies are suppose to be awesome, the way they
are, factory-made; Chocó-chips melting in your mouth and all, real tasty. What
I made was a damp cookie. You can’t really pigeonhole it in Cookie section,
because it was neither a cookie nor a cake. Stuck in a midpoint between a cake
and a biscuit, it was.
Well that’s it. There’s none more to it than that.
Melting bowl, cookie stuck in a limbo and a bittersweet chocolate pudding. And
if ever there is more (I am promising a friend of mine that I will attempt to
make the Shepherd’s Pie, I might do some weird stuff there), there will surely
be Memory Jr. or Memory II.