So, this happened. I was feeling a bit down and wanted to give my tummy some rest. The lovely Misbah decided to surprise me with a ‘paaya‘ (trotters) soup and freshly baked soft paav. She could buy the paav (which she did), but she decided to cook the soup herself. There was one hitch though: she’d never made it before. Anyway, Aunty G and YouTube came to the rescue. The soup was ready and packed, the paav procured, and everything bagged and ready and brought over to my house by 1700h today. Yum yum, my mind went; I was in for a feast.
However, as you’d expect (else why would I be writing this?), fate intervened, and I had to do several things before I returned home to the soup. Unfortunately, it looked rather unappetising and watery. There was no colour to it and no pieces of meat as one would’ve expected. I tried some. No salt, no spice, no taste whatsoever. Or maybe, a faint hint of something I couldn’t quite place. Anyway, I heated it and finished one large mug full of it by adding dollops of Tabasco, salt, pepper, and dipping the paav into it. I also told myself that all the claims of her being an excellent cook by her own admission need to be taken with, well, a pinch of salt, if not more.
I ruefully looked at the watery soup before me and thought about the future. I could see us ordering in every day (because I am an even worse cook) or taking classes for the both of us to learn (that sounded exciting). So much for all the fantasies of enjoying a different cuisine than the one my palate is used to (I was assured that the Indian Maharashtrian Muslim way of cooking would blow my mind, but I guess that dream would remain unfulfilled). You can’t have everything, can you?
Dejected, I wrote to her (I believe bad news must travel fast, and that honest communication is the bedrock of a long-lasting relationship, though I’m the last person you should take any relationship advice from) that the soup was terrible, and it was watery, tasteless, and I had to throw away most of it. I apologised profusely and assured her that it didn’t matter, and told her I love to eat out anyway. Or we could learn together. And, of course, that I love her a lot.
Time to sleep now, I headed for the bedroom, still feeling hungry, when I heard Maa call out my name from the kitchen.
‘Yes, Maa?’
‘Kedar, you remember the fennel-cinnamon tea I make every evening to drink just before I sleep? I can’t seem to find it.’
‘Ummm’
‘What happened? Everything all right? Why haven’t you had your soup yet?’
‘Oh fuck!’
‘What?’ ‘Maa, you’re not going to believe this…’
Long story short, the soup was deli-wait-for-it-cious, and I finished half of it, keeping the rest for tomorrow morning after my run. It was had piping hot with the paav dunked in it, as I watched some crap on Netflix, and all was well with the world.
I don’t know what you gained from this narrative or by wasting 10 minutes of your precious time on this long-winded ramble of a tale, but it’ll tell you one thing: It’ll make a hell of a story for our grandkids.
Good night, folks. That’s all from the interesting life & times of Kedar Gadgil.
