IDLI AND SAMBAR
A few years back, a friend asked me "What would you not give up? Mom's food or ....?" I've no idea what was the second option. But the question went deep through, and I froze. Somehow I diverted the conversation.
The thing about taste is, it's distinct. It has an identity, very much like the person who made it. And that taste registers itself within you, having unique coordinate and address. Our body demands us to find them often.
I've been always a Sambar person, and that love doesn't need a partner. Just Sambar alone would do just fine. But with a bit of Rice or an Idli, it was magical. I've always rated people's culinary skills by their ability to pull of a good Sambar and that's still the gold standard.
And when that question hanged itself in front of me like a pendulam, I froze not because I had to pick the answer. But I had forgotten how my mom's food tasted like. It might have been some years since she cooked for us. And that place in me, which I had visited the most was deserted for years now.
I remembered that morning, she was in the kitchen already, one fine day where she was feeling okay. She had made Idli and Sambar for breakfast. Many years after now I look back at that day, little did I know then, that was the last time she made something for us.
I've now grown accustomed to the Sambar Shantha Aunty (our maid) makes. That's the ABC of Sambar I know. And then lockdown fell upon us, I have a new coordinate in my head. Dad!
I might taste many Sambars in the coming years, but it will always fail to entice that one taste bud. Let that familiar house remain unmanned. And that's just fine with me.
The thing about taste is, it's distinct. It has an identity, very much like the person who made it. And that taste registers itself within you, having unique coordinate and address. Our body demands us to find them often.
I've been always a Sambar person, and that love doesn't need a partner. Just Sambar alone would do just fine. But with a bit of Rice or an Idli, it was magical. I've always rated people's culinary skills by their ability to pull of a good Sambar and that's still the gold standard.
And when that question hanged itself in front of me like a pendulam, I froze not because I had to pick the answer. But I had forgotten how my mom's food tasted like. It might have been some years since she cooked for us. And that place in me, which I had visited the most was deserted for years now.
I remembered that morning, she was in the kitchen already, one fine day where she was feeling okay. She had made Idli and Sambar for breakfast. Many years after now I look back at that day, little did I know then, that was the last time she made something for us.
I've now grown accustomed to the Sambar Shantha Aunty (our maid) makes. That's the ABC of Sambar I know. And then lockdown fell upon us, I have a new coordinate in my head. Dad!
I might taste many Sambars in the coming years, but it will always fail to entice that one taste bud. Let that familiar house remain unmanned. And that's just fine with me.
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