T his is my last Meals Ready column and I must take the opportunity to thank all those who have responded to me and shared their stories with me. I always knew there are hundreds of food stories out there, just waiting to be told.
By the time this column appears, I would have (hopefully) had a lively discussion at The Hindu Lit For Life Festival with Mark Kurlansky and his daughter, who have written a cook book called International Night: A father and daughter cook their way around the world.
In the meanwhile, an Israeli friend WhatsApped after the terror attack there, “If food is our way to build bridges between people and overcome hatred, then so be it.” Food is perfect that way. It knows no boundaries — no language, no caste, community or nationality.
I can’t help remember the time I watched from the sidelines as Tarla Dalal and Mallika Badrinath had a most enlightening and entertaining conversation in a mix of English, Hindi and Tamil and Mrs Dalal closely cross-examined Mrs Badrinath on the finer nuances of getting the idli extra soft! I couldn’t stop grinning for a long time after that. Food is like that. It makes you laugh out loud sometimes.
Way back in the 70s, every day, five-year-old Kumar, who lived next door, showed up with a small bowl which he would hold aloft to my mom, so that she could put our homemade curd into it. He loved the unsweetened Madrasi doi and thought nothing of popping in to get some for himself, which he then carried back home to have with his chorchori or maach or whatever! Of course, we also got generous offerings of cholar dal and alu posto among other things, from them. Why is it that I can’t remember when last I knocked on my neighbour’s door and gave them something I cooked? The older generation I know, still does. My mother’s neighbour, Mala, gives her freshly harvested beans from her farm. Mrs Sampigethaya, who lives downstairs, brings sweets she makes at home. And Sita lands up like an angel with her incomparable idlis. My 81-year-old mom sometimes sends out her rasam or offers them always-there coffee decoction if they have unexpected guests. A cousin always says how she can count on my mother to have extra dosa batter in her fridge to feed an army. That is what food is all about — bailing friends out of panic situations, lightening a heavy heart, celebrating success or just quite simply expressing love.
I read somewhere how neighbours in a community decided they would trade left-overs, so that each family had something unexpected to look forward to rather than the same stuff they ate in the previous meal. What a great idea. Imagine how much more interesting life would be, and not to mention how much less food we would throw away, only because we were tired of it. I often smell bajjis being fried in the corridor, and never stop hoping some of it will find its way into my home! Sometimes it does.
