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Jasmine Idlisby Padmaja Sriram
Priya’s mother always made sure her father never left home without a plate of Idlis. Always soft, always fluffy and airy, the rice cakes were her passport to love from the kitchen—a place where non-stop noises of grinding, pounding and crushing emanated and messy cooking jostled with aromatic, spicy smells. And, when father signed off with the last bit and looked into her mother’s eyes, the streak of love light would lift away all her weariness. This happened every morning.
Boiled rice and black gram is soaking in water; and this is Priya’s twelfth attempt. The proportion is right—three is to one. This time, she has also soaked a cup of flattened rice and a teaspoon of fenugreek—to suck the gas out of black gram. She shuddered remembering how she had soaked raw rice instead of boiled rice in her first attempt. The Idlis had come out so hard, it was like concrete. What was an easy and everyday recipe was fast becoming a nightmare, eluding her with a confounding stubbornness. Every morning, most Tamil women doled out Idlis as a matter of routine. Here she was, trying out all sorts of combinations, and nothing worked.
She lay down for a while taking care not to doze off. Having worked full-time before taking to freelance in the last three months, she never took that afternoon siesta. Unlike her mother though, Priya hated cooking. She’d rather draw graphs in excel, make power point presentations and brainstorm issues than enter kitchen. In fact, dreading cooking, she sought refuge in work. But, between deep sea workplace politics and devilish cooking, she finally decided the latter was better.
The ingredients are ready for grinding. Priya filters out the water and shoves them into the grinder. Be gentle. What’s the hurry? She’s bewildered. What’s that voice? Ok, no problem. Let me follow it, she decides. Priya sprinkles a little water into the grinding vessel and switches it on. Hopefully, this time her husband may not go to his mother’s house on the next street to eat. Not that she complains, but she doesn’t really like it. To be fair, he also eats whatever Priya makes without a stray comment. But, he finds it easier to eat there. She is not able to assert as she herself is still not able to make one recipe—one basic recipe—right.
Her husband belongs to a family of foodies who had vast farmlands in ancestral villages, who vie with each other to make time-consuming, traditional dishes; who share jars of exotic pickles, sweet string hoppers and home-made fries; who discuss finer details of cooking on the phone all the way down to picking vegetables, slicing and cooking tender for hours together; and who also know which vegetable digests well, which reduces swellings, and other such home remedies for health troubles.
Priya thrusts her hand to check the batter. Has it mixed well? Is the batter smooth? Slow down. Don’t rub so hastily. It is not a chore. The voice says, again. Actually, it commands. Fine. She switches off the grinder, dips her fingers gently and checks. It is smooth. There are no rice crumbs sticking out.
In the beginning, she managed making Idlis with batter bought off stores. But, the preservatives hurt their stomachs. She piled on to her mother-in-law’s cooking in the hope that she’d stop inviting her son once she knew Priya would tag along too. The trick failed. Next, she tried to get batter from her, but her mother-in-law was not too forthcoming. Priya tried sharing Payasam, a sweet porridge (made for special occasions) with her once but that only added to her mother-in-law’s fault-finding list. Then, she circumvented the cooking exercise by making western recipes like cakes or panna cotta. It worked to keep their mouths shut, at least till the time she trained herself well.
The batter mocks her as she tries pouring it slowly into an earthen vessel. As she wipes the last of it, it dawns on Priya that there is a rhythm to cooking. She needs to be involved in the whole process, in a loving sort of way. She needs to like it. She needs to like the feel and touch of rice, pulses or vegetables. So, was that what her mother did? It is beyond ingredients, proportion or careful cooking. It is love. A love for cooking, a love for serving, a love for tending to her husband.
The batter cascades into it, filling up the mud vessel. White as the full moon, it smiles at her as she tucks it with a plate and lulls it to sleep. Through the window, the December breeze caresses the green curry leaves which flutter to the tune of old, romantic Tamil songs from a small radio sitting on the kitchen table beyond the gas stove. The crimson evening sun sets.
Well-fermented, overflowing batter—a good sign—greets her in the morning. Holding two cups of filter coffee, Priya nudges her husband out of bed. It is a quiet Sunday and he is relaxed. She is not going to announce it yet; she is not sure herself.
He’s taking a shower. This is the right time to fill the batter into the Idly plates and steam them. The Idly cooker whistles. Ten minutes of whistling and it is through. Husband hears the whistle, but she keeps off any conversation. She just wants her Idlis to come out right this time. She doesn’t even mind him going to his mother’s place to eat, afterwards.
As she places the Idlis—soft and white as jasmine—on two plates, she sees her husband taste a piece. A streak of love light fills his eyes. The morning mist leaves her eyes moist. A sudden puff of air lifts away all her woes and worries. The voice in her head—her mother—smiles with triumph and pride.
- Published with Annapurna magazine
Priya’s mother always made sure her father never left home without a plate of Idlis. Always soft, always fluffy and airy, the rice cakes were her passport to love from the kitchen—a place where non-stop noises of grinding, pounding and crushing emanated and messy cooking jostled with aromatic, spicy smells. And, when father signed off with the last bit and looked into her mother’s eyes, the streak of love light would lift away all her weariness. This happened every morning.
Boiled rice and black gram is soaking in water; and this is Priya’s twelfth attempt. The proportion is right—three is to one. This time, she has also soaked a cup of flattened rice and a teaspoon of fenugreek—to suck the gas out of black gram. She shuddered remembering how she had soaked raw rice instead of boiled rice in her first attempt. The Idlis had come out so hard, it was like concrete. What was an easy and everyday recipe was fast becoming a nightmare, eluding her with a confounding stubbornness. Every morning, most Tamil women doled out Idlis as a matter of routine. Here she was, trying out all sorts of combinations, and nothing worked.
She lay down for a while taking care not to doze off. Having worked full-time before taking to freelance in the last three months, she never took that afternoon siesta. Unlike her mother though, Priya hated cooking. She’d rather draw graphs in excel, make power point presentations and brainstorm issues than enter kitchen. In fact, dreading cooking, she sought refuge in work. But, between deep sea workplace politics and devilish cooking, she finally decided the latter was better.
The ingredients are ready for grinding. Priya filters out the water and shoves them into the grinder. Be gentle. What’s the hurry? She’s bewildered. What’s that voice? Ok, no problem. Let me follow it, she decides. Priya sprinkles a little water into the grinding vessel and switches it on. Hopefully, this time her husband may not go to his mother’s house on the next street to eat. Not that she complains, but she doesn’t really like it. To be fair, he also eats whatever Priya makes without a stray comment. But, he finds it easier to eat there. She is not able to assert as she herself is still not able to make one recipe—one basic recipe—right.
Her husband belongs to a family of foodies who had vast farmlands in ancestral villages, who vie with each other to make time-consuming, traditional dishes; who share jars of exotic pickles, sweet string hoppers and home-made fries; who discuss finer details of cooking on the phone all the way down to picking vegetables, slicing and cooking tender for hours together; and who also know which vegetable digests well, which reduces swellings, and other such home remedies for health troubles.
Priya thrusts her hand to check the batter. Has it mixed well? Is the batter smooth? Slow down. Don’t rub so hastily. It is not a chore. The voice says, again. Actually, it commands. Fine. She switches off the grinder, dips her fingers gently and checks. It is smooth. There are no rice crumbs sticking out.
In the beginning, she managed making Idlis with batter bought off stores. But, the preservatives hurt their stomachs. She piled on to her mother-in-law’s cooking in the hope that she’d stop inviting her son once she knew Priya would tag along too. The trick failed. Next, she tried to get batter from her, but her mother-in-law was not too forthcoming. Priya tried sharing Payasam, a sweet porridge (made for special occasions) with her once but that only added to her mother-in-law’s fault-finding list. Then, she circumvented the cooking exercise by making western recipes like cakes or panna cotta. It worked to keep their mouths shut, at least till the time she trained herself well.
The batter mocks her as she tries pouring it slowly into an earthen vessel. As she wipes the last of it, it dawns on Priya that there is a rhythm to cooking. She needs to be involved in the whole process, in a loving sort of way. She needs to like it. She needs to like the feel and touch of rice, pulses or vegetables. So, was that what her mother did? It is beyond ingredients, proportion or careful cooking. It is love. A love for cooking, a love for serving, a love for tending to her husband.
The batter cascades into it, filling up the mud vessel. White as the full moon, it smiles at her as she tucks it with a plate and lulls it to sleep. Through the window, the December breeze caresses the green curry leaves which flutter to the tune of old, romantic Tamil songs from a small radio sitting on the kitchen table beyond the gas stove. The crimson evening sun sets.
Well-fermented, overflowing batter—a good sign—greets her in the morning. Holding two cups of filter coffee, Priya nudges her husband out of bed. It is a quiet Sunday and he is relaxed. She is not going to announce it yet; she is not sure herself.
He’s taking a shower. This is the right time to fill the batter into the Idly plates and steam them. The Idly cooker whistles. Ten minutes of whistling and it is through. Husband hears the whistle, but she keeps off any conversation. She just wants her Idlis to come out right this time. She doesn’t even mind him going to his mother’s place to eat, afterwards.
As she places the Idlis—soft and white as jasmine—on two plates, she sees her husband taste a piece. A streak of love light fills his eyes. The morning mist leaves her eyes moist. A sudden puff of air lifts away all her woes and worries. The voice in her head—her mother—smiles with triumph and pride.
- Published with Annapurna magazine
