Recipes for disaster, served with love

My earliest disasters came from not knowing the difference between dals.

Right from my childhood, cooking was not something I liked. However, circumstances required me to cook for my family before marriage. My mother was liberal-minded, but social expectations pushed her to believe that a girl should learn cooking to manage after marriage. As the elder daughter, I was gently coaxed into the kitchen.

One of my earliest disasters came from not knowing the difference between tur and chana dals. My mother asked me to prepare rasam, assuming it was simple. Confident in my limited knowledge, I soaked and cooked chana dal instead of tur dal. In those days, we used a special lead vessel for rasam. While seeking clarification from my mother, I left the vessel on the stove. When I returned, it had vanished! Alarmed, I told my mother, who calmly asked me to check under the stove. To my shock, the vessel had melted into a blob beneath it. Undeterred, I tried again using a steel vessel—but added garam masala instead of rasam powder. My first rasam attempt was a complete disaster.

After marriage, my struggles continued due to both inexperience and lack of interest. Survival, however, pushed me to experiment. My husband became the unwilling guinea pig and chief taster. Believing in my abilities, he once invited his boss for masala dosa. Unfortunately, I had not mastered dosas. My sister and I bravely attempted them. The potato filling turned out well, giving us hope. However, when we poured and spread the batter, things fell apart—literally. The dosas crumbled while being lifted. With guests already seated, we cleverly plated the broken pieces, hiding them under better-looking portions. Surprisingly, the boss liked them, and all subsequent dosas went through the same 'operation'. 

On another occasion, my husband invited colleagues for dinner. We had hired two experienced Maharashtrian cooks. Still, I insisted on making gulab jamuns. Using a ready mix, I followed instructions—until I decided to add what I thought was vanilla essence. Instead, I poured in food colouring, turning the sugar syrup purple! To make matters worse, the jamuns broke apart and bounced in the oil as if in a game of tennis. The cooks watched helplessly. Eventually, I served the purple jamuns, and the guests politely ate them without comment.

Years later, I attempted rasagullas using a ready mix. Not wearing my glasses, I misread the water quantity, ending up with a gooey dough. I added maida to fix it, making it firm. The balls expanded beautifully in syrup, and I was thrilled. I called children from the neighbourhood and my son to taste them. However, the rasagullas had turned rock hard. The boys spat them out, and my son joked, “Mom, you can punish me any way you like, but not with this food!” 

I still cook, though thankfully, the disasters have reduced considerably.