the Orange Tupperware

I cut the packet open, and emptied the contents in a microwaveable container. An orange Tupperware. I heated it for one minute, as the packet instructed me, and then took the first bite. I had contrasting feelings, at a dichotomy with each other.

Surprise, & awe, at what one minute could do to uncooked food. Disappointment, & a lack of satisfaction, at what one minute could not do to uncooked food. 

It was lunch on the fifteenth of May, two thousand and seventeen, my 20th birthday. It was the third day of my internship in Taiwan, and also the first motivation to learn how to cook Dal Makhani.

          

                                            

                                       

I was back home, to Pune, in July, two months after that day, determined to change my predicament. I initially tried to learn from my mother, but being good at cooking does not immediately translate to being good at teaching how to cook. The addition of spices, Swaad Anusaar (according to your taste), is not viable advise, not for me at-least.

It was in this moment that we came across the concept of cooking classes (Pallavi’s Cooking Classes) . A four day stint under the expertise of another mother who had had the foresight of turning this problem into a business model. Swaad Anusaar was replaced with ratio and proportion. If you put X of dhanya (coriander) powder, you must put 3X of laal mirch (red-chilli), 3.5X namak (salt), and Voilà, there was Swaad in my Anusaar.

                                                 

I took baby steps in the days that followed, and tried my hand at rice, dal, a vegetable or two. Just as confidence was seeping in, I found myself in a four bedroom house in Vancouver, Canada, as part of an exchange semester. I was accompanied by a friend of mine from India. There was a local in the third room. In the space that remained, on the other side of the wall, was a German.

Freshly cooked Paneer, with some store bought rotis, was what my friend and I made on the first day we arrived there. It was a joint effort, and one that took us two hours, as we fought our jetlag. Just as we sat down to eat, our German flatmate entered the house, and my friend offered him some food. I was a little hesitant, and uncomfortable, something my friend noticed immediately. He had to pester me a little, but I finally gave in and told him that I found it unfair that we put in all the effort, only to end up sharing our food with someone we had just met. He calmed me down, making me understand where I was wrong in my thinking.

Days turned into weeks, and months, and camaraderie grew between the four of us. While the Indian friend, and me became experts at making dosa, the German taught me the proper way to use a fork while eating the very pasta he cooked for us. There was a fine balance between the times we ate out, and the things we made at home, but somehow I still didn't feel I had graduated with a cooking degree, to my liking. 

I knew what was missing, and what it would take to get on the other side. While traveling from India, I had brought with me, kaali daal from a place in Punjab. After all I was going to Canada. 

It was four in the evening when I sent out a message on our house group that everyone should cancel any dinner plans they may have already made. I set aside the daal and let it boil in a cooker. Fresh garlic, onions, and tomatoes were chopped in a large quantity, larger than usual — it had to serve four people after all. It took a while. I let the onions turn brown, and more. The dal was added, and stirred. I topped it off with butter. Dal Makhani.

It was the seventh of November, two thousand and seventeen. It was two months since I was uncomfortable sharing food that I had cooked with someone else. It was four months since I had had dal makhani out of a packet, in an orange Tupperware. 

That day, everyone licked their bowls clean. I finally felt I had graduated in cooking, at-least as per my Swaad Anusaar