Death by cinnamon

I was killed on a beautiful Sunday morning across the dining table by none other than my best friend with a cinnamon stick, if you please, stuck in my face like a gun. The astra left me gasping for breath. Fortunately it was a metaphorical death, not a mortal one. And here I am to tell the tale.

It was our lunch date, and my cook had prepared pilau with basmati rice, peas, pieces of carrot and cauliflower with oodles of ghee. 'First of all, the seasoning,' my cook would say, tossing slivers of cinnamon, cloves, and wild cardamom into the sizzling ghee. Next would come garlic and ginger paste with pudina, all of which would be topped with rice, and last of all the veggies with half a glass of water. When the aroma hit the air, the cook would remove the lid of the cooker and peep in. ‘Just done. Enjoy with your friend.’With satisfied grunts, she would pack off. 

‘Appu, lunch is served,’ I said with a hand flourish of welcome. I opened the lid amid small curls of steam swirling up. I served Appu and then sat down with my own plate. 

She ate with her fingers, saying food tasted best this way. The next moment, she retrieved a piece of dark bark and held it up to my face. 'What is this doing here?' she snapped. 

‘I might have swallowed it and choked and died,’ she spluttered, her face flushed red.

‘Cinnamon stick’, I retorted, ‘which the cook says gives pilau its heavenly aroma. Come on, Appu, enjoy the taste of all the spices that have the world’s approval for pilau, pilaf, biryani, or whatever.’ 

‘Garbage,’ shouted NRI Appu, ‘Never. The stick sticks in your throat, and you may die of choking. The curry leaf in sambar sticks in your throat. I never use these. For years, my kitchen has had bottles of cinnamon and ginger powder. I’m sure they are available in India too.’ 

She didn’t stop at that and went on with a litany of all my misdeeds ever since we were college mates. ‘Change -- you always shunned it, Malti. Stuck to your one plait, big bindi and cotton saris! And now cinnamon sticks. OMG!’

She aimed the cinnamon powder like gunpowder at me. Death by cinnamon? What had started as a reunion lunch had turned into a royal battle. Traditional cooking vs modern cooking.

Enough was enough. Cinnamon powder in a shaker had turned her head. I was choking not with a stick or leaf but with anger. I got up abruptly, lunch unfinished, and dashed off to the balcony. What a pain. Born and brought up in Bengaluru and now a resident of New Jersey, she had changed indeed. The very next day she sent me the powder, which sits on my shelf, while my cook continues to favour the stick.

It was a whole year before my best friend Appu and I could laugh over the infamous cinnamon fight.