In the words of my sister.."You can write well. And you can cook well." Hmmm.."So what could your job options possibly be?"..Hmm.."Maybe write a cookbook." She broke out into spasms of giggles and here I am recording her words in my blog..she really did provide some food for thought.
Ok, the amount of cooking I know can barely fill a postcard, let alone a cookbook. But I am convinced that Americans have completely bulldozed and romanticized the concept of kitchen, food, cooking and grocery shopping. Think about it- don't all the romances have the horrendous, icky diner and the utterly delectable man wrapped up into the same scenario? She spills wine on his expensive shirt. He finds the trace of mustard above her lips incredibly cute. She meets the man of dreams in the dog and cat aisle of the neighbourhood grocery store. And don't be surprised if the man of her dreams is the pizza delivery guy. Yes, pizza and sex-- buy one get one free. Something is screaming capitalism to me right there, but you know what-- lets get back to the food.
You see..if you are a desi woman like me..brought up in a Bengali bhadralok household, chances are that all you have ever done in your life are poda-shuna (aka reading, writing and mugging- the necessary pursuits that will make you conquer the world), and maybe singing, dancing and painting (one, two, three or all of the above) and if you have a super liberal family like mine- karate could be one of your traits too.
So needless to say, you would have little regard for the khana, pakana and bartan-dhona. You would be able to recite Yeats, lambast Baudrillard (yes, apparently hyper-reality is passe now..hmmm) and have a poster of Edward Said in your room (America has little regard for him, but let's just remain in kitchen politics for sometime)- you will probably not be able to tell those dals apart (and no, rajma and chanas don't count).
This is the slightly strange thing about desi men, though. The few that I have encountered have turned out to be excellent cooks- one of them claimed to know how to make kale soup and yams (now this is getting fancy) and the other one actually made the perfect paranthas and looked at me with complete disdain when I managed make scrambled eggs look like they had been in the range of some intense crossfire. No sanskaar women of this generation have, I heard him smirk. Well, if you have played cricket with eggs at the age of four, you will have little reverence for produce and other natural products. I probably shouldnot be writing this. When the economy runs dry, the number of eligible men shrinks too. Paisa, makaan- all dabaoed beneath the ground. Oh well..the feminist in me is kicking in..
So what does a desi woman do when hunger strikes for desi khana. And if the only vegetable that you have ever liked is the bhindi- do the foreign shores offer you the nostalgic gastronomic delight? Yes, there is little that the foreign shores don't offer you-- but I think it is looped within a political conduit. See...the first thing that you have to do is look for bhindis. Goto the grocery store and ask for okras (not ladyfingers..we desis love to call baingan brinjals and bhindis ladyfingers. If you ever say these words, the cute guy in the aisle will at best think you are an exotic beauty from some long lost island, give you a polite smile and walk away..so..watch what you say). Ok..the okras will be frozen and chopped. See ..this is what I sometimes like about America. Very no-nonsense and straightforward- allowing for little public intervention.
Else imagine the scene in your neighbourhood- next door neighbour Chintu's mummy hollering after the sabziwallah in her pink Lajpat Nagar housecoat, the flimsy fabric seamlessly curved against her dimpled thighs and her boobs sneakily hidden by the voil dupatta. She huffs out of the house and yells at the poor fellow for ignoring her. And once the poor fellow makes the mistake of stopping, she haggles with him to reduce the price from three rupees to two rupees. And very soon Raju, Bablu and Pinky's respective mummies will also join in. And perhaps the discussion will turn from price of chillies to price of saris to Ratna Didi's daughter who is marrying an MBA from god-knows-what-college in Karnataka. (Yes, they can get snooty and picky. But god lives in the microeconomic details here).
Oh no..no such drama here in America. We have little time for drama. Haggling is despicable and so are mass uprisings. And believe me, there is little drama in the cooking of this version of bhindi.
Dunk the cut okras in a microwavable bowl. Add two teaspoons of olive oil. Fry some cumin and drop into the bhindi. Add chopped onions, garlic, tomatoes and garam masala. Mix all the ingredients and cover the bowl and pop it into the microwave for 15 minutes on high. Your bhindi masala is ready..sadly without drama.
You see..I am all for some action on the streets- where Chintu's mummy is wagging her fingers at an old sabziwallah- as shriveled up as his sabzis and fighting in her nasal voice. I like that the Lajpat Nagar House of Fashion housecoat is fighting for attention with Levis Jeans. And I like that the Indian woman is claiming her public space.
Well..you will hardly find such excitement over cut okras. See America. You hardly give me anything to write about. For the last five years it was the Bush -Laden ka adbhut kissa and for the next five years it will be Obama uhauling stories of unemployment and oil spills across the country. So those gappi ladies standing at the crossing of the fish market, chatting nineteen to dozen are probably worth more than your politically correct narratives.
And as much as I am a sap and love to watch American romcoms, I never met any potential father of my children in the aisle of a grocery store. Why? Because I asked for ladyfingers. Not okras. The linguistic vagaries that my English teacher never taught me. And I wasn't even called an exotic beauty (that was the best case scenario but the worst happened to me). The guy looked at me as if I was growing horns and ran for his life.
Till next time readers..keep inventing some drama in your cooking. Who needs recipes anyway?
Cheerio..
Travel Bee
LOVE IT.
ReplyDeleteSo true, and hilarious!