He went at the herbs with a vengeance. The three inch blade would swing
to the right as he gathered the greens with his left, their crunchy hits
pinging on the tumid kitchen air.
Meha’s husband called it her default setting; this habit of biting off
more than she could chew. A full-fledged, three course Spanish dinner was under
production with the solo assistance of google and an Indian cook who was having
trouble keeping his hands off ginger.
“Madam, are you sure about the adrak?”
his swarthy confidence had begun to crumble. “We are cooking Paella, not
Biryani Biju and use only olive oil please; very little at a time!”
The cook house would have put NASA control room during take-off to
shame. Meha was scrolling down the recipes online, cross checking the images
and calling out the ingredients in a tight voice. “Biijuuu! Just sauté lightly….no
browning the onion….this is tortilla not tadka.”
Biju had begun to sweat with the effort of tuning out his long, Indian
culinary experience. “Stop, stop, what are you doing? The parsley is for
garnishing, you are mincing it with that knife of yours!” Biju dropped the
knife as though stung, turning fearfully to the asparagus in slow motion, going
pale at their lightened skin, they had overcooked! “Don’t tell me you used up
both the green peppers in the gazpacho! We needed one for the Ensalada de
pollo,” Meha fought down the panic, an eye on the clock. The ceremonial dinner
table had to be laid and the guest bathroom given a once over. She ran down her
check list mentally, chafing at having to rein in Bijju’s automatic kitchen
reflexes that came from years of training.
“Slice the peaches down the middle Biju and use just a dab of butter for
the pine nuts…I can’t give you too many breaks today; this is taking longer
than expected.”
Biju shifted his weight in a deliberate manner to the right leg, “Er..umm…I
think the meat balls have gone too soft, I will need some corn flour?!” Meha
fixed him with that look, irritated at this affirmation of what she called
‘corrective cooking’. “Why are these cooks always patching up with corn flour
and potatoes” she talked to herself just as her phone came to life with a
message tone. It was her mother, wanting to discuss a forthcoming family event.
“Mum, am busy, will call later” she typed out quickly before turning to the
guacamole. Biju had scooped the avocado pits and was beginning to dunk the
onions in the grinder. “Why? I told you to grate them; we want a grainy
texture. Peel another one please.”
Polishing, dusting, watering, painting….the minions were hard at it
outside the galley. Having mentally checked off the snack items, the serving
bowls, the garden lights and the music, Meha finally shifted a gear down. She
had planned her outfit and it hung neatly in her wardrobe, ironed and crinkle
free. “A quick shower and I will light the candles” Meha called out some more
instructions over her shoulder before closing the door to the master bedroom.
The evening progressed rather well over the well planned and creatively laid
out snacks and beverages. Ricky Martin’s “Lo major de mi vida eres tu” kept the
esprit de corps humming. Dear husband played the dutiful host, egged on by the
memory of how fatigued his wife had looked when he returned home from work.
“You have explained it all to Biju, now just relax and let him handle it, he is
a veteran cook” he had reassured the hostess.
It must have been that urging combined with the sangria, Meha would tell
herself later. She had no memory of how the food came to be laid on the table.
What remained seared in her mind was the garnishing. There were slivers, and
whorls, even nano-cubes! Flecks and quarters and strips of crisp fresh ginger,
generously sprinkled over every single dish at her Spanish red theme, dining
table.
Horribles jengibre!
No comments:
Post a Comment