March 2017
Cups, teaspoons and tablespoons are the bane of my life. Who needs measurements anyway? As I try to write down exact measurements and directions for my recipes, I find I don’t like it one bit. For this I blame my mother. Every little cook learns by observing. It seemed to me that my mother would throw random spices in random amounts into a pot to create a tasty dish. Her recipes for family favorites were safely tucked away in her head. Nothing was ever recorded or written down. Cooking was an art form for my mother but that doesn’t help me now as I try to re-create childhood favorites. I have to rely on my memory and my palate.
So what would have happened if I had insisted that my mother share a recipe? I imagined her poetic and cryptic answer to my question.
What Recipe?
Where is the recipe, I ask my mother
What recipe, she replies?
Just take a small onion
A pinch of hing
A hint of turmeric
A splash of golden ghee
Some diced onion and mustard seeds
A few okra
A couple of tomatoes
A handful of shredded coconut
Just a little coriander powder
A bit of cooked lentils
Two fiery peppers
Salt, pepper and tamarind
Mix, cook, and serve
The tangy smoky sauce perfect with steaming rice
How did she do it?
Give me a recipe, I plead.
What recipe, she asks?
Just add a handful…
You get the idea.
THE END
