When I was about nine years of age, my grandparents picked me up on the eve of my mother’s birthday for a sleepover. It was all hush hush, and I wondered what the fuss was about as I packed my pajamas and a toothbrush. I was home for winter break from boarding school. On the drive over, my grandmother informed me that we were baking a surprise birthday cake for my mother. Once we were in her kitchen she wasted no time. She helped me up onto a stepstool and taught me to cream the sugar and butter with a wooden spoon until it thickened and turned pale, to whisk in the eggs one at a time and to fold in the flour, turning the bowl at intervals. No gadgets no gimmicks. Just patience and technique. I got to lick the bowl once the cake was in the oven. Granulated sugar did not exist in our universe back then and I remember the buttery crunch of the batter in my mouth as the rickety oven came to life warming the kitchen and the smell of vanilla wafted through their little cottage. We returned home to my parents the next day with the cake and the looks of surprise and delight on their faces was the stuff of Oscars. It became a ritual every February and that is how I learnt to bake.
I learnt a lot more than the art of baking from my grandmother. Just over four feet tall, she marched around the kitchen with military precision and exotic dishes flew onto the table in record time. Stuffed Roast Chickens, Nargisi Kebabs, Kashmiri Meatballs, Tea and Rose wine, puff pastry and a plethora of recipes she had acquired on her travels to Europe. Late in the night I slept cocooned between my grandparents, each with a book in our hands; my grandfather was partial to Louis L’amour, my grandmother to Denise Robbins and I, to Enid Blyton. One night I asked her how she learnt to cook. She set aside her book and declared to me that she learnt to cook thanks to a neighbor.
“Sometimes people help you inadvertently.” She said.
My grandmother was married at age thirteen and even though her own mother was a published cookbook writer, could barely boil an egg herself. Her neighbor at the time invited the newly-weds to dinner and prepared a particularly memorable dish. My grandmother was intrigued and asked for the recipe. Several weeks passed by before the realization struck that the neighbor had no intention of sharing it. She decided then that she would recreate it from memory. It took several attempts to perfect it but when she was satisfied with her endeavors, the neighbor was invited over for dinner of course. In a couple of decades, she went on to publish her own regional cookbook.
If my grandmother taught me the art of baking and fortitude, my mother taught me that having passion hones skills and makes work effortless. My father’s mantra was “Eat what’s in season.” He went to the local bazaar every week and bought home the freshest seasonal vegetables, farm eggs and fish directly off the boats. The next stop was at the local Club where he proceeded to invite his cronies to dinner over several dry Gins. My mother received the news with composure, tucked her sari end into her waistband and chopped and stirred steadily until she was satisfied with her menu. Sometimes she had to work with whatever was in the pantry while combining unlikely ingredients with extraordinary results. I learnt from her to taste with my brain, a skill that proved to be very useful as a young adult on a stringent budget.
I have been fortunate to travel extensively and while others collect souvenirs, I am likely to gravitate towards a mortar and pestle, local spices and regional cookbooks. This love was kindled by my grandmother and my mother so I thought it fitting to dedicate my first blog to these remarkable women who taught me valuable life lessons while I thought I was learning to cook.