Meals,mom and me (Revised HW1)

Many people believe that the only purpose that food serves is nourishment. But my opinion differs from theirs. That’s because I know something they don’t. The journey while cooking is a sort of glue that binds the ones in it. Meals that are less than perfect can be more satisfying and fulfilling than those that are prepared according to exact specifications.

We all think that tastes and mannerisms are expected to be learned at the dining table or at family functions. Mine began on a window sill. It could well have been my dining table. Eating there gave me immense joy. It was there that I learned about the kind of food I liked. Preference was always given to the food that didn’t require too much chewing. On the window sill, I came to know about my favorites and also the ones I detested. The thought itself might seem quite strange but for me eating with a brush of pleasant wind across my face and a view from the 10th floor where people looked like ants moving about doing their daily work , gave me a weird sense of power as if I was playing my very own game of being a superhero. I enjoyed that and ate there until I had no choice but to grow out of it but I still love to sit and eat on my window sill occasionally.

Hot tempered people usually indulge on sweet dishes or very spicy stuff- the extremes, frugal ones eat what’s available and easy to whip up, calm and composed people eat with a sense of peace on their face no matter what they eat, and the ones with the naughty look on their face well they play more with their food than eat it; atleast this is what I have noticed. Being hot tempered I started preferring the sweet, sour and spicy dishes nothing in between. The Indian cuisine which is well known for its spicy dishes, made it easier to expand my taste buds.

As a working mother, my mom wasn’t able to prepare the finest meals or give the most nutritious food in my lunchbox but, whenever she had the time, she more than made up for it. Being extremely attached to my mother, I noticed certain innate qualities. For example, one of the maxims she followed was “while cooking for guests cook with perfection but while cooking for family cook with care and pleasure”. Some people think that it doesn’t matter who cooks it as long as it’s cooked appropriately with the right ingredients but if love is one of those ingredients, it definitely makes itself known in the end.

During my exams, she always served my favorite dishes in colorful plates with beautiful designs despite the availability and convenience of simple metal plates. At that time, I just took this for granted and it was only later that I understood what an immense mood lifter those plates had been. It’s these simple details that actually matter and that make a difference.

During my school years, the weekends were always eagerly anticipated (not that it is any different now); mainly for the sleep but also for the elaborate dishes that my mom tried to prepare. It was a bright and sunny Friday morning (that is equivalent to Sundays in the Middle East). My mother had woken up early in the morning (being a doctor kind of puts you in the routine of getting up no later than 7). She sat in the living room sipping her morning coffee waiting for the rest of the family to wake up. It was past 9. My sisters and my father had decided to sleep in and, being the week after exams, I, too, felt no urge to get up before twelve. It was then at those lonely early hours (well at least for us) of the morning that my mom made an impromptu decision; to cook something extravagant. She went to the grocery store (open 24/7) and brought all the necessary ingredients. My mother had been talking about this dish for weeks. After tasting it in her friend’s house (Navratan korma and makkai roti), she had been dying to try it out herself. The noise of banging pots and the spicy aroma of her cooking woke us all up with the curiosity of what was being brewed in the kitchen. One by one we all checked whether it was something for lunch or just a false alarm to wake us all up! After shaking of the sleepiness and checking out what was going on, my sisters and I decided that the day was destined to be dull and eventless so the three of us decided to chip in and do our parts in the kitchen. My dad, knowing that helping in the kitchen wasn’t his forte and having failed miserably in earlier tries, decided to relax on the couch and read the paper rather than helping. I had the easy job (of course) of chopping while my sisters got the tough task of making sure that all the ingredients were kept ready in the right quantities. As the number of dishes increased exponentially with the number of helping hands, the family luncheon turned into a veritable feast.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, we laid the table and sat down to eat. Looking at each other we tried our creation.
Ugghh…..what a disaster.
Some dishes were too sour, some were too sweet and some even had a weird taste to them! Now I understand why they say too many cooks spoil the broth. But even after such a fiasco, we enjoyed the “feast” because we had spent the morning with each other cracking hilarious jokes (probably the reason why it turned out the way it did) and that was worth much more than the food itself. With my parents working into the wee hours of the morning and us being busy with school and exams, a family day seemed unrealistic but that simple morning was much better than any party or outing. It gave me the sense of being a part of a true family. If such small items can have the power to bring people closer and then it’s aptly called the source of life.