Kitchen misdemeanours

As the chill set in on a lazy weekend, my thoughts raced to the warmth of my kitchen. “I’ll make some akki rotti today!” I shouted out to my husband.

The preparation started with my husband lending an ever-willing helping hand. He loved these rottis. The onions, the grated coconut, the chillies, the jeera, the salt and the fresh green mischief mongers went into the soft dough.

One after the other, tiny dough balls were popped into our watering mouths on the pretext of checking the taste and the consistency of the dough to be laid onto the hot waiting tawa. Once satisfied, I poured some oil and spread the dough on the tawa. Hmm, the aroma of the cooking rottis brought an appreciative smile to my husband’s lips.

Then began the ordeal. The rotti refused to leave the warmth of the tawa and smoke started to rise. I turned off flame, but to no avail! I lifted the tawa off the stove and dug in hard to try and raise the obstinate rotti from its place of seemingly permanent residence. Beads of sweat started to drip down my confused brow. No, this was not working out! I must change my strategy and fast, I told myself.

It occurred to me then to first spread the dough onto a non-stick tawa and then roast the rotti on an iron tawa. Slow cooking was the trick, the latent heat of the iron tawa would come to my rescue. I lifted the non-stick tawa and placed it on the plastic mat on the dining table. The iron tawa then did the rest and the rotti came out in fine shape. Whew, thank God for small mercies!

The next ball of dough ready in my hand, I cheerily spread it on the non-stick tawa and placed it on the burner. Threads of blue-hued flames began licking the tawa. What a beautiful work of art, I thought, when my husband came in at the opportune moment. “Shut out the gas!” he exclaimed. “The table mat is stuck to the tawa and is catching fire,” he said, in his usually calm manner. “Good god! Thank you for noticing on time,” I mumbled. Then, smart as I am, I turned over the tawa to see if the burning had stopped. Hot oil started dripping onto the floor, creating what seemed like a work of modern art. Make what you want of the design!

Later, once I had managed to scrape the pieces of rotti off the tawa, I spread them on the iron tawa for the finishing touches. “Scrambled rottis for breakfast,” hubby dear said in good humour. I pulled out a chair and sat down, feeling tired and confused. “I had rather undertake an expedition to the Himalayas next time. No more akki rottis till they promise to behave themselves!” I told myself, as I happily ran out of the kitchen that errant wintry morning.