Cooking Up A Storm

I came back home from college after a hard days work to a packet of cold samosas crawling with red ants and my mum too sick to get me some nourishment. That was inspiration enough for me to forsake the pen and wield the ladle for a change.

After forcing half a bottle of Limca down the throat of a grown-up version of my obstinate self, I
began scavenging the refridgerator for some wholesome (read: pre-cooked or instant) ingredients. The maggi saucemakers and tomato soup powders prooved worthy candidates. Another advantage of being the unorganised daughter of an extremely organised mother--- julliened vegetables waiting to be put into chowmein. Or as in this case, into a mish-mash of vegetables whose name would depend on its state of matter (solid, liquid or heaven forbid, gaseous) when it comes out of the cooking pot.

They say a good beginning means that the job is half done. I began pretty well by upsetting the entire bowl of finely chopped vegetables on the floor.It wasnt really as bad as looking for a needle in a haystack. For starters, the multicoloured "needles" were right in front of my eyes lying in a beautifully artistic state of dishevelledness all over our not so beautiful and
definitely not germ-free floor. Slow and steady elbowgrease finally got them off the floor and the tap water got rid of whatever actual grease they had accumulated in this detour between the fridge and the frying pan.

Second near mishap almost occured when I tried frying the vegetables in a utensil which was not even remotely suited for the purpose. No idea even now regarding what it is called, but it definitely wasnt a frying pan.

Two minutes and a change of ammunitions later, I thought I was on top of my job. The vegetables had turned beautifully soft without being mushy in the warm cajole of melting butter. All that remained now was to add a little water and saucemaker to get a lovely gravy. Babycorn and vegetables in Schezewan sauce --- the christening of my simmering baby seemed imminent.

It would be incorrect to say that I put in a little too much water and hence flooded my dish. It
wasnt any local flood, but a biblical deluge. My first reaction was to drain the water off, but realised that that would drain the taste off as well. My second reaction was to try and think up an exotic soup name as a cover-up.

Just one last addition to my cooking pot and burden of shame came in the form of an egg. The
intention was to thicken the shame of a gravy or the sham of a soup, whichever way you look at it. The result was something that looked straight out of the tales From
The Crypt.

I must admit that it didnt taste THAT bad. But then again, when you're cooking only for yourself, you cant really fire the cook. At worst, you have to throw it down the drain and like a good Christian pray that the rats dont die of indigestion. But cooking for other people is a whole different ballgame alltogether. I seriously dont think I can live with the guilt of poisoning someone gullible enough to be my guniea-pig.


So moral of the story-----either make Maggi your best friend or a five-star hotel chef your
boyfriend. Though managing a saucepan of Maggi is much less of an assault on the senses than managing a BF.