In the fashion of sitcoms of late, I am going to have to rewind a little for you to understand my anguish. (sqeaky rewinding sound) This morning's meal was an unmitigated disaster. It started off rather unceremoniously as I placed the stainless steel plate (part of every Brahmin girl's dowry, lovingly provided for by her parents) on the up-turned pressure cooker cover (also part of every Indian woman's prized possessions - mine was Prestige, I am traditional that way). The 'ever-silver' plate fit snugly into the up-turned cooker cover and no amount of shaking would budge it. I decided to make it a science lesson for my kids and tried several ways of heating the cover, for the metal to expand, and then dumping ice cubes on the plate inside, willing it to contract. To no avail. The two clung to each other like a rich girl- poor boy Bollywood love pair daring society to pry them apart. The spirited science lesson soon soured as better part of the hour was spent in this hot and cold experiment. Finally, in desperation I banged the cooker cover against the floor in the service area, reasoning that a cracked tile or two in that area of the apartment would be palatable. Voila - a good knock on the head was was what was required as the plate slid from the clasp of the cooker cover.
While relieved that the cooker cover was now available, I was flustered. I had been proud earlier in the morning. You will know of course, as I back up in super speed, a-la sitcoms, (to be read super speed without stopping for breath if possible) that my helper has been away for her vacation and while the first few days I almost tore my hair out trying to manage the housework as well as cooking - and by manage I mean excel really because you know, I want my mother to know that even if I employ someone to do everything around the house and by everything I mean EVERYTHING really, it's not because I cannot do it but because I choose not to do it- so even if it was difficult at first, after the 5th-6th day it turned out to be do-able and I was beginning to commend myself on my household skills as I was beginning to settle into a rhythm. (and breathe!)
The 'ever-silver' plate busted my rhythm.
Cooking seemed to start well actually. Paruppu usili (crumbled lentils) was my menu for the day. Not for the faint hearted - but given my re-introduction to cooking for about 10 days now, I thought I could handle it. And in fact the paruppu usili had turned out quite well, crumbly the way it is supposed to be and not clumpy. I was beginning to gloat a little. I can cook - really it's a matter of confidence and practice, I said to myself. People make it seem to be something big just to make themselves feel important. I can cook AND I had a reasonably successful career. Take that, Maami-dom! This hubris was to be my downfall. I soon discovered the paruppu (lentils) for the sambar were not cooked well. Then I discovered the cluster beans (Kotavarangai) for the usili was not well cooked - this after I added the beans to the usili, ruining the nice crumbly texture somewhat. Then an endless cycle of pressure cooking both items, in desperate attempt to get them cooked, began. Never mind how they tasted. The lentils remained firm no matter how many times I pressure cooked them, my crumbly usili was now clumpy although the cluster beans were more palatable. In the midst of this mayhem, my daugther whose long locks needed to be washed today had to have her hair untangled and brushed. She had to be prepared for school and lunch and a snack was to be be provided for her. I managed to do this while I did a mad medley of pouring the sambar into different containers trying to get the recalcitrant paruppu separated so that I could try cooking it again. Don't think about about how much more this is adding to the dishes to be washed up, I said to myself. Deal with one crisis at a time. In desperation, I took some of the cooked paruppu, which resolutely clung to its pre-cooked shape, and I stuck it into the blender and turned the blender on. On cue, sambar bits splattered on the wall. I was surprisingly calm. I had subdued the paruppu to my will and once I had dumped them into the waiting pot, I cleaned the mess up.
It is then that it struck me. I had used chana dal instead of toor dal for the sambar.
It is then that it struck me. I had used chana dal instead of toor dal for the sambar.
Chana Dal is a b**** to cook. Typically it is recommended that one soaks it before pressure cooking it. It is hard to digest and hence not recommended in dishes like sambar. But in smaller doses, in your adais and masala vadais as well as to temper your stir fry vegetables, it is a delight. I had used the wrong dal and ruined my morning.
It got me thinking. Every dal has it's role as does every gal. I had spent most of the past few days proving to myself that I can be as good at housework as is expected of any woman (Oh come on, we have all heard the disparaging "She cannot even boil water" comments made to describe women who are less than adept at cooking). But perhaps, I am the chana dal of womankind. I could stand in and cook and tend to the house as well as anyone else. I just need a little soaking. What I really enjoy doing is writing - the past 20 minutes that I have been hammering the keyboard writing this mail have done wonders to relieve the tensions of the day. Maybe I should accept the fact that I am incredibly blessed that life has accorded me the wherewithal to hire someone else to delegate these duties to. I do not denigrate them by doing so and I am no less committed to my family because I do so. But I have been given this incredible opportunity to look for options to do things I love doing. So far I have frittered away those opportunities somewhat by not actively pursuing my passions and languished a little in the fear that I am less than whole because I do not cook regularly for my family. I do show concern in other ways, like tutoring my daughter in English because she does not want external tuition, even if it means I have to go through great effort to teach myself to teach her. I may not be the toor dal in your daily sambar, but I am the crunchy chana dal in your masala vadai with your filter coffee on a rainy day. If I can accept that fully myself, then perhaps it will release me to discover other wonderful things in life.
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