While the Boy and I were dating, I cooked for him exactly once. Dumped a packet of readymade Parampara masala into a pressure cooker with some mutton, and dished it up with rice when he returned from a business trip. “Parsi women don’t cook,” I said in an off-hand way, and we moved on to other topics of conversation.
I wasn’t lying. I grew up in a home with family cooks since my great-grandfather’s time, where both Nana and Mum made the sourest of faces when said cook took a day off, and have cousins who engage a caterer to supply their meals on a daily basis. And, worried that his beloved daughter would have to enter the kitchen, my grandfather sent along a cook with my mother after marriage. That’s right. Other people give their daughters furniture and jewelry. My mother brought along her very own cook. “Slaving in the kitchen,” I was informed by the women in my father’s family, “is not for us.”And so it stood, not questioned or even considered.
The first time I cooked a meal, I was 23 and fresh off the boat in America. Painstakingly referring to my mother’s handwritten recipe notebook, I curried eggplant for my flatmates. It didn’t taste bad. It just didn’t taste of anything at all. “This is shit,” laughed a new flatmate, as I struggled to keep my face composed. I shut the book firmly and put it back in the suitcase that had traveled across the oceans with me. It was the last time I referred to it.
I was clueless. I didn’t know how ingredients blended together, what spice played off what herb on the palate, and which vegetables took longer to cook. Breathing deeply and refusing to be disheartened, I tossed out all written rules and lunged at cooking with my gut. I got creative, I improvised. Rarely measured, and went with what felt right. In a month, my flatmates were marveling at my rapid improvement, and the woman who’d called my food shit was eating second helpings, along with her words. Some months later, I was hosting a lunch for 20 hungry students (who, agreed, will eat anything), whipping up batches of freshly fried fish for 4 non-stop hours, all by myself, and reveling in my newfound skill.
No deaths were reported that day, and from then on, there was no looking back. I fed myself and my friends many hearty meals in the years that I lived in America. When I moved back to Bombay, my kitchen activity churned to a grinding halt. Home claimed other parts of me, and I didn’t care about mucking around in the kitchen when my childhood cook was at the ready, serving up all my old favorites. It was no wonder then, that the Boy realized with delighted surprise only after we moved to California, that his spouse could throw a meal together and he didn’t have to pretend to love it.
The last year and nine months have been a journey of elaborate, made-from-scratch home-cooked dinners to throw-something-together-after-12-mindnumbing-hours-at-work meals. I have ground and peeled and grated and stirred, pureed and sautéed and infused and simmered. Concocted my own potions, and experimented with the tried and tested. Alongside my steadfast mission of honoring my roots, I have expanded my repertoire of recipes, scouring cookbooks and aunts’ memories, discovering food bloggers, and calling my mother at odd hours to ensure that exact taste of home. I have delighted in the heady scents of spices, the delicate notes of lavender and lemon, the more temperate palate of soups and bakes, and the kick of fiery Thai curries. The Boy devours it all like he was born to it, wants dhandar and fish every Sunday, recommends my dhansak to anyone within earshot, and is wowed by all the things Parsis can do with the humble eedu.
I cook for friends. I create for family. I conjure with all my senses and rejoice in feeding people. And today, I take a moment to acknowledge the amazing lady from whom this love of food and its preparation is inherited. Born on November 5th, 94 years before this one, my Granny left us many years ago, but in so many ways lives on. A sorceress in the kitchen and puppeteer of an intricate ingredient minuet, her food—comforting, flavorful, hearty, deceptively simple, nutritious, and madly scrumptious—was the stuff of my childhood dreams, and I am so, so glad her love of the culinary arts skipped a generation and was bestowed on me. (Also inherited were the chubby genes and the ability to be a human pillow that annoyingly skipped a generation too, but never mind that. 🙄 )
I do not aim to match my grandmother’s skill, for that is the stuff of family legend, with relatives traveling miles out of their route for a taste of her good stuff. I only wish to be the flag bearer of her passion for the things that nourish our body and spirit. George Bernard Shaw was bang on when he said “There is no love sincerer than the love of food.” And I know he and my mum’s mum are having an agreeable chin wag about that wherever in the firmament they are.
Happy birthday, Granny. In these delicious ways, may I continue to honor you.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Ohh I soo know that feeling – create for your family 🙂 ur post puts into words all the emotions I feel in so many different ways when I cook/create 🙂
An inspirational entry indeed. Cooking from the heart instead of from some tedious recipe: why doesn’t everyone position the concept that way?
dammit. why is that your posts leave me feeling either hungry or thirsty? Perhaps if what you had was contagious, I could camp out on your couch till it catches. (You bet I just invited myself after tasting your words alone).
Till my genes kick in, I’ll burn those Tarla Dalals, Sriracha my maggi and raise a glass to your granny who must be all sorts of awesome.
My Parsi best friend loves to cook. When ever I visit her home, she cooks amazing dhansak , farcha and ras chawal for me. Of course I always stay the night so that i can eat her famous charvelu eedas and poros in the morning 🙂
Parsi food is to die for.
And I totally agree with the words written on the Britannia restaurant’s napkin – ‘There is no love greater than the love of eating’.
Are Nana and Granny the same people? Or is she the paternal grandmother? Sorry, got a little confused there!
Lovely post. Madly scrumptious – that phrase conjures up such a beautiful picture!
Aaaaww…..You know your Gramma’s B’day? That is so awesome. Mine didn’t know their dates 😦 Both of them !!
Many years ago something I read, or someone said something about wishing the family a nutritious meal, great health and positive thoughts about food that’s being cooked basically, transfer good energy into the meal. I follow it always, its a habit now.
“……….I cook for friends. I create for family. I conjure with all my senses and rejoice in feeding people…” I said something similar to a colleague years ago and with a straight face, he goes, “would you pay to watch people eat?” LOL!
“May the find naught but joy and peace……therein”
Is part of a poem hung in my kitchen
All the comments too have echoed
The many blessings they’re bestowed
Love you all the more, my darling, for the title’s passion!
Loving it.
Ooops! Please add a ‘y’ to the second word, OJ. Ta. Love and hugs:-)
Aunty G., ‘y’ with or without a space? May the ‘y’ find naught or May they find naught? There is a purposeless joy in seeking whys in nothingness.
(sorry for butting in – who can resist your limericks?)
Divi: 😀
Phiroozeh: Fear is a powerful barrier, I think.
Null Pointer: Come on over!
Childwoman: Oh yum! I miss Britannia. 😦 And yes, they’ve appropriately appropriated Shaw’s quote.
R: No, hon. Nana = Dad’s mum, whom we lived with. Granny = Mum’s mum, who lived a 10 minute walk away. 🙂 Coincidentally, today is Nana’s birthday.
MomWithaDot: Of course I know my grandparents’ birthdays. 😕 And yes, keeping the cook happy reaps many benefits. 😉
Aunty G: I added the ‘y’ in my head
Long before it was said
Though our mind be a sieve
Proper spelling shall live
Long after we are all dead.
CrazyDiamond: Glad to see you here. 🙂 All is well in Crazyville?
>>Null Pointer:
Butting in is always welcome
Punning considered wholesome
Purposeless joy is the best kind
I revel too, when i so find
And OJ has shown that ‘y”s uppancecome!
Your eeda is what I’m going to be making for breakfast this weekend. And me being such a noob at cooking I hope it comes out well!
and for the food heritage she gave you i am so glad…
because the words are all yours and
together,
I get a delicious read
Aunty G: You know I love cross-talk
That I never ever balk
Whatever the weather
It brings people together
Who’re as different as cheese and chalk
Zarine Mohideen: Yay! 🙂 Let me know how the eeda turned out!
maidinmalaysia: Nothing is all mine, darling girl. 🙂 The words I get from my Mamma.
It always feels great when the food one cooks is liked by others. The love of eating is one thing. The love of feeding is quite another 🙂 Congrats on your being a true grandchild to your Granny!
Anjali: Thank you. 🙂 Now that you mention it, you’re right–I am her one true grandchild of the four she had.
I was missing from the blog world for most of November- finally catching up with your posts, including this delectable one! Happy cooking, OJ, and happy eating too, to both of you!
dipali: Thanks, Dipali! 😀 Maybe someday we’ll catch up over a great meal.