There are some for
whom convenience food is a lifesaver. Preparing a meal isn’t something they do
naturally. Plucking it out of the freezer, reading instructions, removing the
outer packaging, piercing the transparent film and bunging it into the
microwave requires no effort at all. A ready meal in two to three minutes,
garnished with an exotic name.
Others take to
cooking like fish to water, taking every care even when it comes to preparing a
simple dish. Mum belongs to the latter group. She was completely in her zone as
soon as she placed a pot on the burner. This wasn’t just routine. To her this
was an art. A science. She was creating something- something beautiful,
tantalising and even unbelievable. She resembled the fervour of a conductor
orchestrating a symphony, the grace and dexterity of a ballet choreographer and
the incisive intuition of a surgeon- she was the master chef if you get my
drift; especially if it was on a special occasion like Eid celebrations.
To this day I remain
puzzled by the fact that nothing was weighed or measured. They say you can
always tell a novice in the kitchen because they’ll obsess with getting it
perfect by weighing and measuring every ingredient- ounce-by-ounce,
millilitre-by-millilitre. But virtuosos like my mum weigh with their hands and measure
with their eyes. They’ll know instinctively if it’s too much or too little.
Solomon’s wisdom, I call it- an acquired judgement that would put politicians
to shame. I’m tempted to ask and put my curiosity to rest- but I won’t. There’s
a magic about it, an enigma is only as enigmatic as the curiosity behind it.
Occasionally she’d
look up at you. I always got confused about what she expected me to do or say,
because she just looked and never spoke, before then, as if in a trance,
returning to what she was engrossed in. This weird flash of concentration was
accompanied by a mild intake of breath; it was probably her way of energising,
regrouping and mustering together her concentration and focus. This wide-eyed
stare wasn’t an angry or searching look; it wasn’t even a look as if to say,
‘What the hell are you doing in my domain?’ It was a warm, yet assured look.
No, I wasn’t an intruder or trespasser. It was safe to pass by.
From amongst the
clutter of spoons, knives, pots and pans, one object stood out. It was unique.
It was the flat round metallic tin. This was no ordinary metal box. It was the
container holding probably the most identifiable Indian ingredient. Ghee! As my
mum prized open the airtight lid, it made a sound I can only describe as the reverse
action of a vacuum cleaner.
Anyway, into the pot
went spoonfuls of semi-solidified Ghee- the mother of all ingredients. Golden
rivulets, like syrupy treacle, would emerge from the sides of these golden Ghee
mountains, merge into rivers and gush out from the estuaries into a molten
liquid lake. The brass volcanic lava would then soak into mounds of
masala-fluorescent turmeric, piquant red chilli, khaki green coriander,
barky-brown cinnamon and aromatic cardamom pods. A bubbling paint pot of colour
all mingling into one
My favourite bit was
watching her skin the onions. The layers would come unshelled- and then with
her delicate fingertips she would capture the membrane-sheathed heart and
reveal it like a jewel.
Once again, like a
true connoisseur, she crafts the cuisine to her time-honoured recipes. She
knows if it’s too hot or not sweet enough by instinct. It was her sixth sense.
It was all a bit like
beholding some kind of performance. You’d never known how much time and effort
and passion she had put into the rehearsal. All you would get to see is the
actual performance which was always delivered with effortless ease and grace.
It was ironic, because she’d never make a song and dance about anything. I can
truly say that watching her cook for a family gathering was like theatre. You
can bet for certain though that she would never be around to take the final
bow, even if there was an encore.
* * * * * * * * * *
I like celebrations
and parties; they are a good excuse to enjoy good company and let yourself go.
However, as I have grown older, my perspective on celebrations has changed.
When you are young, it seems as if the celebrations revolve around you; the
adults smother you with their doting and shower you with presents only because
they see you as an innocent little tot. You have no idea about the significance
of the day. You just enjoy the attention.
As you grow older,
you gain more knowledge and understanding about the significance of the
practices and festivals. You enjoy everything but with a sense of
responsibility and knowing.
Waking up early,
really early, is my biggest bugbear. With all the excitement, anticipation and
preparation the night before, an early rise is not always that easy.
It’s all worth it
though when you put on your newest clothes- the best outfit you have been
saving for this day. You feel special. You look special. However, it is not
just about dressing up and feeling good. You have to fulfil your religious
duties too. So early morning prayers, giving charity and remembering the
deceased are an integral part of the celebrations.
Occasions bring
people together. There are some you look forward to sharing the day with and
some colourful characters that you have to call ‘family’. Gifts exchange hands.
Handshakes and hugs come thick and fast.
Reminding myself to
steer clear of one of my aunties, I head for the back room. I dread being
hugged out of breath by her. From a distance she could be mistaken for Pat
Butcher from Eastenders. Rotund and robust, she stands formidable with arms
wide open and a huge comic strip smile, ready and waiting to give you that huge
hug. Occasionally, there’s a little lift if she’s feeling a tad hearty. And
yet, despite my best efforts, there’s just no escaping the ‘great squeeze’.
This time it’s with a pat on the head as well! She probably still sees me as a
ten year old just because I’m shorter than her grandson. Why does she always
wind me up? I grin and grit my teeth. Stay calm. Remember it is Eid. It’ll be
over soon…
The family meal is
the best part. Food is a good congregator, especially when there is plenty of
it. The decorations add to the ambience of the occasion. Everyone waits in
nervous anticipation. The atmosphere is buzzing. Let the feast begin!
I try to grab a seat
near one of my uncles. He’s hilarious! You’re guaranteed a bundle of laughs
when he’s around. A wicked combination of Del Boy and David Brent, he’s a
crafty salesman who just hasn’t made the big time yet. He’s got that glint of
tragic stardom about him. I bet he thinks he could have been big in Bollywood,
which is probably why he’s always got that ‘If only…’ look in his eyes. I
remember him this time last year telling us about a dodgy job-lot of
‘authentic’ Indian woodcarvings made in some back street workshop in Birmingham
he had managed to flog! It’s like listening to a heroic traveller narrating the
chronicles of his epic adventure to his people who themselves just don’t have
the bottle to take risks.
At the end of the
meal, there’s lots of getting up and moving around, as everyone begins to clump
together in groups. There are the kiddies who randomly run around screaming.
Then there are the boys standing around acting cool and casual desperately
trying to attract the girls’ attention but they are far too busy gasping at
each other’s latest hairstyles and henna hand designs. Over there is the ‘30’s
to 40’s’ club who like to relax and have a laugh, measuring up their career
progress against each other, or canvassing ideas for the name of their next
baby. Finally there’s the over-50s crowd who sit and mull over the latest news
headlines and muse over the politics of the day, occasionally glancing at the
younger generation in silent disapproval as if to say, ‘You pretty little
things haven’t got a clue about life. We do. We’ve lived it!’ Celebrations are
great. They bring people together- the weird and the wonderful. It’s what
celebrations are all about I suppose, bringing people together.
It all ends with
compliments and farewells. Everyone takes away with them the memories of the
day that they will probably reminisce over until the same time next year.
Commentary
This
is highly sophisticated work. A wide range of well-selected and ambitious
vocabulary is employed to great effect in a reflective piece that never fails
to hold the interest of the reader. Detail is carefully chosen and well
described and the sentences are thoughtfully shaped. It is clear that the
student has consciously shaped language for the reader’s entertainment. The
characters are described in an interesting and engaging way as the student
draws us into his family situation with assured wit and honesty in this
excellent reflective piece. The SSPS aspect is flawless. This is Band 4 work
and deserves full marks.
