Turn on the bulb

My friend Nina and I have a deep and abiding bond that no one can break, or so I believe. It hinges on one small aspect of our relationship, one that has successfully added to our friendship a facet that only good friends can and will share without reservation. It is a fact that not many can withstand this kind of pressure and few people stay close with it in their combined lives. But the humble common garden onion is something that can break deep and abiding ties without too much difficulty, just with one gentle whiff of its unmistakeable and often irresistible aroma.

I met Nina many years ago through a mutual family friend. And since then, she has ranked among those compatible enough to be part of my family, to meet my parents (when I still had both) and to be included in expeditions that features Father and me. We have giggled, chatted and seriously discussed our way through numerous adventures, from getting our driving licenses in Delhi to looking for the perfect set of gold tissue cushion covers on a very rainy morning, we did a lot more than the average pair of madcaps would do. She held my hand when I cried to mourn first the death of my cat and then my mother, and I soothed her over the phone as she panicked about neighbour problems and unwanted health issues. And, as we looked out for each other, we ate our way through a lot of rather interesting food.

But a recurring motif, one that we laughed about even the last time we met a few days ago has always been onions. We once sat for hours in Geoffrey’s in Ansal Plaza in Delhi eating chicken tikkas and slathering each bite in a melange of onions and green chutney and sipping strange brews (beer for her, cranberry juice for me), giggling about everything from the state of the nation to the shirt the man at the next table was wearing to the spice in the chutney to the onions that both of us were eating. That was perhaps when we concluded that the best bond between friends was the generosity with which we could consume pyaaz and not object. The bonding continued over the years as we ate more kebabs, among other foods, with the accompanying onions. Now we reach for them in a restaurant as a matter of form, but only when it is just the two of us, or if Father is with us. Anyone else not yet initiated into the onion club has us on our best behaviour…food-wise.

My passion for the pickled onion has always been expressed, especially with Father. When I was much younger, we would have contests as to who could eat more of the highly aromatic bulbs, while Mum glowered across the table and nibbled on an onion in sheer self defence. More recently, I started making them at home using my own concoction of the virulent brew in which the whites of spring onions could soak for a few weeks before they were deemed ready to be eaten, and it all worked quite well, though I did find to my alarm that the liquid in the bottle was superbly efficient at cleaning the deeply ingrained grease and grunge from the corners of an old and unused cooking pot. What did it do to our insides, I wondered, as I shook up another batch of the marinade, combining garlic powder and mustard, vinegar and salt, pepper and rosemary, with a generous serving of chilli flakes, bay leaves and some oregano thrown in for luck. The pickled onions are pungent, juicy and totally wonderful with everything from omelettes to sausages, succulent ham to sharp cheese. And they are best eaten with a little bit of mustard, a little bit of laughter and a whole lot of love. Nina would agree.