Deep Ties

                                                                                                        Unsplash     ‘Celebrating the Introspective and Reflective Aspects of Writing.’ To write or not to write has never been the question. From an early age, I grew up with books strewn around me at home. Everyone I knew was a reader or a writer. When people asked me if I wanted to be a writer, my answer was always a resounding ‘Yes!’ In fact, I wrote my first poem at the age of ten. However, that first poem of mine did not get written for altruistic reasons or because I wanted people to read and savour my writing. Instead, I was bitten by the green-eyed monster of envy. A young friend of mine would come with her poems to my mother, herself a lover of the English language, and spend hours showing off her prowess. There were evenings when she would attach herself to my mother, and leave only three or four hours later. What was worse was that mom would wax eloquent about her talent, her f

  Don’t we all have those days once in a while when we want to sit back, watch a movie, read a book and just chill? Maybe this feeling comes over us after a heavy day at work, or a festival break when every day has been an eating marathon, and the sight of food makes us want to run away. It was probably on one of these occasions that I walked into a book shop and looked pointedly away from the recipe section. There was a great ‘3 for 2’ offer where one could pick up three books and pay for the two more expensive ones. I have always been a sucker for these book bargains and have often come across some treasures. In fact, it is difficult to prise me away at such times, as people around me have realised to their consternation. To cut a long story short, I had picked up two amazing books by my favourite author and was scouring around for a third, when my eyes fell upon an intriguing title… NO COOK COOK BOOK! For one, it rhymed, and it began with the words ‘NO COOK'. Of course, I wa

  Unsplash There is no doubt that even after a sumptuous meal, people still think that the best is yet to come. Their mouths water when they think of the dessert to follow, be it ice cream, kheers/payasams, mousses and cheesecakes, or a gift box replete with Indian sweets. Once I got the hang of cooking, and had tried my hand at many a dessert, there was one that seemed perfect, given its consistency and taste… sago fruit custard. Every time I made it, people seemed to savour it. If you enjoy the softness of sago and the tartness of cut fruits, the sweetness of condensed milk (who doesn’t love licking the last spoon?) and the crispness of nuts fried in ghee, this dessert is for you.   Ingredients (All good!) Sabudana / sago – ½ cup Water: 3.5 cups Milk: 500 ml Sugar or condensed milk: 1 cup (add more if you want it sweeter) Custard powder: 2 tablespoons, mixed in 1/3 cup milk till no lumps remain Ghee: 2 tablespoons Cashew nuts and raisins: 2 tablespoons each Pomegr

  For all those who have read my two earlier posts in the #BlogchatterFoodFest, cooking was not something that came easily to me when I was first married. Hence, I have wonderful memories of friends who taught me the rudiments and helped me out with easy recipes that I diligently put down in a little brown diary that turned into my Bible whenever I needed to prove my culinary prowess later in life. I recall being very excited when an aunt of mine gave me some stickers which actually smelt of food… for example, a pizza sticker that gave off the aroma of a pizza and a sticker of a peppermint that smelt divine. I stuck them down in my brown diary along with my collection of ‘easy peasy’ recipes that grew over the decades. Today, my diary is dog-eared and unmanageable with over 240 recipes, and I can say without hesitation, that they are all time-tested and dear. One of the earliest recipes that I picked up at a friend’s house was peas pulao. When I went over, she was in the process of mak

  Unsplash All through childhood, I loved bhindi, the ubiquitous lady's finger, a vegetable that rose to the occasion every time it was fried with onion, chillies and spices. It went beautifully with chapatis and parathas, blended well with rice and curd and, in general, warmed the cockles of my heart. When I tied the knot at the age of 22, I knew nothing about the rudiments of cooking. At home, delicacies appeared magically on the table and vanished in a jiffy. I could not even boil an egg! Later, w hen I got married to an Army officer, he assumed that I would be a culinary wizard, judging by the food he had eaten at our home. Those illusions were dispelled very soon. Immediately after marriage, as is the custom, I was welcomed into my husband's regiment as a brand new bride. The Indian Army is an extremely hospitable organization and since there were three other brides apart from me, all of us were given royal treatment by the senior ladies and gentlemen. We were out for brea

  Unsplash “Oh, we have been friends forever!” Mansi said airily to the gathering of new friends she had made in college in the first week. “Samar and I grew up together and we can read each other’s thoughts.” The girls tittered as they glanced at her enviously. Samar was the best-looking boy around and many of them had gazed at him from beneath their long eyelashes. Yet, he seemed impervious to their glances, and now they knew the reason why. Mansi smiled at their glum expressions. She was used to girls throwing themselves at Samar, but then, he and she had always had a special relationship, right from when their parents had been best friends, which made it easier. They had moved on from childish delights to teenage ones, and now that they were almost adults, their parents had also begun making plans to bring them together in wedlock. Nothing could go wrong, or so it seemed. Till the fateful missive arrived, one that cast a pall of suspicion around. It was addressed to both sets

                                                                                 Our beautiful Parvathy Amma When I was around six months old, a miracle took place at home. A young lady walked into my parents' Army home and knocked at the door. When my mother opened it, the lady smiled toothily and said, “Do you need a cook?” My mother’s first reaction was a sigh of relief as she ushered Parvathy Amma in. Stuck with a six-month old baby, Mom, who had always been a whirlwind rushing around with a million things to do, had been feeling the dire need to hand the said baby to someone and just put her feet up. That is how Parvathy Amma came into our lives. She was a diligent worker, a home manager and above all, a MasterChef in those days when the programme was not even a twinkle in someone’s eye. She had magic in her fingers and over the years, she not only honed her culinary skills, but also perfected the art of knowing exactly what everyone in the house enjoyed. By then, my two