Every Tuesday and Friday a tornado hits our kitchen. Her name is Sangeeta, or, as Jasper pronounces it Galagalagala De-De. I hired her initially for a few hours a day, to do laundry, cleaning and helping with the washing up after Jasper’s lunch and snacks, but she was very quick to let me know that really, she is a cook. It’s a good thing she volunteered this information, not only because we were in the market for a cook, but also because her laundry and cleaning skills do leave some things to be desired. For example, she takes the toss and slam approach to putting neatly ironed and folded clothes back in the wardrobe. She doesn’t bother to stack clearly stackable, matching-set kitchen utensils in drawers and cupboards, instead choosing to wedge them all, side by side into an impossible space. She seems to have a thing against storing tea towels, because I have never once found them anywhere other than on the spare bed next to where she does their ironing. And then there’s her selective amnesia as far as replenishing the toilet roll in our bathroom is concerned, despite my having suggested she might like to take on that responsibility. As soon as she has done her official duties, and let’s be honest, sometimes even before she’s done those, she takes up a position in the kitchen where she clearly feels very much at home. I should take this moment to explain why, when it comes to housekeeping, our standards are so very high. Back in Yangon, Dylan and I’s first cleaner, whom we stole from Tony, was called Marina and to the best of our knowledge, she was a witch. When we first moved in together, I unpacked my clothes to the best of my ability into a wardrobe that had come with Dylan. I got about half way through my boxes and suitcases before I declared myself defeated and scheduled a wardrobe shopping trip for the next available weekend. When Marina showed up to work the next day, it was the first time I had met her, as she also came with Dylan. She was tiny, with arms and legs like twigs, a husky voice and a gentle face. She took one look at the way I had stuffed my clothes into the wardrobe, and shook her head. And her wand, I imagine. Within a day, she had ironed, folded and fit everything from all my boxes and bags into my wardrobe with space to spare. Dylan’s wardrobe was essentially ‘managed’ by Marina. Never once did I see him unpack a suitcase after a trip, on the basis that Marina would simply re-do whatever he attempted. And with far better results. Our undies were ironed, our socks were ironed, our PJs were ironed, and all of this was done by Marina sitting on an old duvet on the floor, as she flatly refused to use an ironing board. When we moved into our second home together, it was sadly too far for Marina to travel every day, so she came in to train her replacement and we continued to enjoy a similar style of organisational wizardry until we left Myanmar. Here in India, I have neither found anyone quite like Marina with her passion and talent for pressing full-sized clothing items into little more than the size of a hanky, nor have I been able to train anyone up to do the same. I have resigned myself to accepting that the wardrobe’s limits are a direct reflection of my own limitations as a teacher.
Sangeeta more than redeems her cleaning shortcomings with her cooking. That she only cooks on Tuesdays and Fridays is down to my wanting access to my own kitchen every now and again, and down to my still somewhat limited tolerance for Indian flavours every day of the week. Don’t get me wrong, everything we have been served by Sangeeta has been amazing. She currently has a 5 from 5 hit ratio, and Dylan and Jasper would fight to be first in line if she ever opened a roti shop. So far, we have had chicken tikka biryani, butter chicken, paneer palak (which is spinach and paneer cheese), pav bhaji (which is a thick vegetable curry, almost like a soup, served with a toasted bread roll), and a mutton biryani. I decided early on that any equipment or ingredient she asked me to buy would be worth it, especially if we are planning to be here for 5 years or so. To date, we have added a roti pan, a roti roller and a roti board, a mixer-grinder, which she apparently uses to make purees and what they call chutneys, and more powdered masala mixes than I can count to our kitchen. Our fridge is full of unidentifiable yellowish goos and pastes, and half my tupperware is stained with turmeric. But the smells that fill our apartment for hours after she has finished cooking and thankfully, has cleaned up the carpet of vegetable peel and wiped down every available surface on which she has chopped, ground, washed, mixed or cooled some food item or other, are nothing short of incredible. And perhaps even more awe-inspiring now I know how much effort goes into creating them. Dylan and I used to comment on how amazing other peoples’ dinners smelled when we caught a waft as we walked past their apartments. Now I know what it’s like to have the whole house smell like that, although I am happy to say the aromas don’t stick around overnight. I am not a savoury breakfast person. And no matter how many times Sangeeta tries to suggest I might like her to rustle up some kedgeree one morning, from someone else’s kitchen, I should add, I am holding her off.
There are two issues I foresee with Sangeeta and her wonderful cooking skills. The first is her sense of portion control. We are only two and a half people, and try as we might, we cannot consume an entire Le Creuset casserole of chicken tikka biryani in a day, or a weekend even. Jasper also doesn’t need 8 rotis for the mid-morning snack she makes for him every week to meet his school’s snack guidelines of ‘home-cooked hot food’ on Thursdays. The second is her enthusiasm to cook for Jasper every day of the week. I don’t want to reduce Jasper’s very varied diet to one cuisine, especially after hearing many of the other mums talking about how, after almost a year of serving kedgeree for every meal, as is apparently custom while weaning, they are surprised that their children don’t want to try ‘fancy foods’ like pizza. I also don’t want to be saddled with a baby who will only eat Indian food, because I don’t see myself ever having the impetus to make a one hundred ingredient curry for a toddler. No. Jasper must continue to eat all things. Except lettuce. He still won’t put lettuce in his mouth. Leaves from the garden? Yes. Lettuce? No.
Photo: Jasper commandeered the serving spoon for his first experience of biryani.
I am only sad that Indian food isn’t slightly more photogenic, and that there is no way for me to transmit smells through the internet. Maybe if you go and stick your head in a bag of turmeric while chewing on a clove of roasted garlic and with a star anise up one nostril while you look at the photos, you will start to feel like you’re in India. Or, you could just come and visit us, and experience some rich, flavoursome, authentic Indian home cooking for yourselves. I promise to replenish the toilet paper.
Photo: Clockwise from the top - Pav Bhaji // my visible excitement at the smell of the biryani // a very cheeky Jasper, so proud of his spoon choice // one sitting of mutton biryani // the pav bhaji 'gravy'.
Comments