I have never been a great cook, neither did I ever wish to be that way. Until I got married it was easy to avoid cooking since I was constantly surrounded by individuals who would be happy to prepare meals for me. Expectations get a little bit different when you are the only daughter-in-law in a joint family.
Nevertheless, I was lucky to be married in a family where my mother-in-law (whom I will refer as ma) not only excelled in the kitchen but also loved doing it. She was regarded by our family as the go-to person for all cooking tips and recipes. For someone like myself who despises to cook, it was a fantasy come true. I was always content to help her chop and cut veggies rather than taking on the laborious chore of cooking.
One fine week it just so happened that ma had to travel out of town for a couple of days. That left only me and my father-in-law (whom I will refer as pa) at home. Everyone assumed that since I had been ma’s assistant for more than a year, I should be able to take care of pa and my culinary needs.
The first morning after she left, pa kindly requested a besan ka chilla (vegetarian omelette) for breakfast. I placed besan (gramflour) in a bowl and started off on my errand. I measured the amount of besan I was adding for some reason, even though it doesn’t make sense in retrospect because I didn’t know the precise amount required. I cut the vegetables, heated the fire underneath the greased pan, then added the besan and vegetable paste on hot pan.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan until I decided to flip the chilla over to the other side. To my terrible dismay, I was unable to turn it around until the pan’s surface had been scratched. By adding flour and/or water, I attempted to change the paste’s consistency. Unfortunately my next few attempts were not any better. Every time I had to scratch off the surface incessantly to wipe off the unfinished business. So much for a nonstick pan!
By that time, pa sensed something wrong and barged into kitchen without a warning. At the sight of everything I was doing, he roared into a mad laughter while tears were trickling down my cheeks. He advised me to relax and take a seat. A few moments later, I was startled to find a perfect chilla served on the table in front of me as I was still reeling from the tragedy. He made it from the same paste whose appropriate viscosity is still a mystery to me.
For lunch, we decided to make ladyfinger (bhindi). Pa playfully remarked, “I’ll prepare it, let’s not take any more chances with your cooking.”