Culinary short comings

I am all for doing things in the kitchen, and more so for doing them the traditional way. While I completely agree with the convenience that the miracles of technology and design that are ‘mixies’ and garlic squishers afford me and my cooking habit, I am unexpectedly – especially since I am a child of the modern age - pleased by the old-style ‘gadgetry’ that involves time, hard labour and much sweat. It is for some reason far more satisfying to create a masala paste using a seasoned stone ammi than a whirring blender. Making a pesto in a Moulinex (which is synonymous with ‘grinder’ in some parts of the world) is all very well, but pulverising the basil, pine nuts, olive oil, parmesan and garlic in a pestle and mortar worm smooth with the pastes of time is far more edifying. And slowly emulsifying the ingredients for a fresh batch of mayonnaise using a whisk or an egg-beater is a great deal more creative than it is to pour it all into a goblet and flick a switch.

The best part of the process is the sensation that each step produces. The peeling of the garlic, the shelling of the pine nuts, the grating of the parmesan added as the final stage…it is all part of the mood created, which lingers until the last lick of the sauce has been swallowed. There is the first sharp tang of the garlic as it releases its essential oils; then the stiff crackle of the nuts as they crumble under the pressure of the pestle; then the leafy scent of the basil, changing from an almost-citric wave to a more gentle waft of herbal freshness - the entire blend speaks of sunshine and warmth, old stone kitchens, huge pots simmering on a fire and the passionate gossip of Italian women.

The only time I ever hand ground idli batter was when my father and I convinced my mother that it would be nicer, more effective and far more interesting to do it the hard way. So we set up the enormous and startlingly heavy attukal, cleaned of the accumulated dust of the decades of its disuse, and assembled to try and figure out what to do. My mother, though she had never really been in a kitchen before she got married and went nuclear with Papa and me, had a clue. So we struggled through the fug of incomprehension and started the grinding. Standing and moving the heavy grinding stone around the way it was prescribed did nothing for either our backs and shoulders or the mixture of rice and dal that needed to become a smooth blend. Finally, after many rude words and inarticulate huffing, we clambered up onto the large kitchen counter and managed better that way. I broke a couple of nicely manicured nails, my mother bruised a finger, my father got combinedly bellowed at for his ‘useful’ suggestions…but we got the job done. Though the idlis didn’t taste very different from the usual hi-tech grind, we felt the satisfaction – and the wounds – of a job well done under rather adverse and totally unfamiliar circumstances.

This may not be the shortest, easiest, most hassle-free way to work in a kitchen. But it makes you feel that you are actually being creative, making the effort to produce something with all the love and labour that it entails. And, finally, that you really do deserve all the credit and kudos you garner at the end of dinner…or lunch.