If you can read this, make me a sandwich
We had our office Christmas potluck party yesterday. They'd assigned a little something for everyone to bring and my job was to make a side dish, something to go along with the main course which was catered from a local Indian place. For weeks I'd been worrying about what to take, fretting over options, especially since I can't cook and there's no one around to cajole/bully into doing it for me. Finally though, on the morning of the party, I came back from the hospital at nine, changed back into my pyjamas (so that the spices didn't seep into my work clothes) and made a quick alu ki bhaaji. (Potatoes, Shaan masala, tomato paste, water and a frantic call to Ammi for damage control.) The garam masala was a little on the strong side and the potatoes cut erratically as if the hand that held the knife were having a seizure but the dish turned out well. My boss complimented me on it, the medical students wolfed it down and I walked back home with the pot half-empty. When asked about the secret of my success, I told them the truth.
"I called my mom."
"Are you serious?" my boss asked me.
"Yes, ma'am," I told her, feeling slightly stupid at being so inept.
"Good job!" she said. "My husband learnt to cook the same way. His family used to make fun of him but it paid off. He's a pretty good cook now. Keep at it!"
Well, maybe not so stupid . . .
