Summary

The author reflects on how daily routines and cooking have become a source of joy and confidence, echoing the lessons and joy in doing from their late mother.

Abstract

In a heartfelt letter to her mother, the author recounts her journey from being terrified of cooking to embracing it as a source of happiness and fulfillment. She recalls past mistakes in the kitchen, such as adding too much dry mango powder to okra, and contrasts them with her current proficiency and enthusiasm for trying new recipes. The author acknowledges her mother's wisdom in enjoying household tasks and finds chopping vegetables therapeutic. She now plans meals, writes them down, and preps ahead, just as her mother advised. The act of cooking has become a way to honor her mother's memory and the home remedies she grew up with, as she prepares special dishes like karuvepilai kuzhambu. The author cherishes the time spent with her son, who is home for the summer, and has even adopted her mother's habit of enjoying a small cup of coffee, signifying her own evolution and the shrinking of the confidence gap through practice.

Opinions

The author initially feared cooking but now finds it rewarding, a testament to her mother's influence.
She values the importance of planning ahead in the kitchen, a lesson learned from her mother.
The author has come to appreciate the therapeutic nature of meal preparation and cooking.
She finds joy in the routine of household chores, much like her mother did.
The act of cooking is a way for the author to connect with her mother's traditions and pass down home remedies.
The author has noticed changes in her own habits, such as reducing her coffee intake, reflecting a deeper understanding of her mother's lifestyle choices.
She expresses gratitude for her mother's guidance and the legacy of enjoying everyday tasks.

MEMOIR | THIS HAPPENED TO ME

All It Took Was Rinsing Veggies Under the Tap

My daily routine reinforces everything I learned from my mom — especially the joy of doing

Dear Mom,

With every passing day, I have to acknowledge that you were almost always right. Yes, I had to say almost because, ya know, ego rearing its teeny weeny head.

The truth is, you were always right. This morning, I pulled out the bag of okra, or ladies’ finger as we call it here, and was rinsing it under the tap in a brand new fancy bowl, part of which is a sieve. I imagine you smiling at the indulgence.

Then I set about chopping it. I placed the wok on the stove to prepare the seasoning and after I added the masala, then the chopped okra, tossed it around for a minute and then, sprinkled it with water, turned the flame down to low, and covered the wok, I had to laugh.

Not so long ago — or so it seems — I used to be terrified of the thought that one day, I would have to be in charge of the cooking at home. For someone who has tackled all kinds of crazy situations, this little thing, or not-so-little, as the folks at home will attest, would freak me out.

Just after you passed away, I remember, when Uncle was also here, I had decided on a menu of okra subzi (cooked vegetable), sambar (lentil-based stew), and rice, with papad and pickle. We had to leave for the hospital at 10 and I figured making and keeping lunch ready would be a good idea.

As it turned out I had added extra dry mango powder to keep the okra from being sticky and felt like an idiot later, because the dry mango powder made the dish too sour. Yes, I chopped up some onions and sauteed them before adding them to the okra to tone it down, but I felt very meh about myself.

As I kneaded the dough for the roti to go with the okra today, yet again, I recalled, longingly, how often you enjoyed telling me that I am a great cook and would be laughing over my insecurity soon enough.

Soon after you passed, waking up to a house without you would freak me out. I would dread tackling that morning routine on my own–getting everything done from making coffee, to cooking, packing lunches, and getting breakfast together for everyone then finally dropping V off at school. On days when Sury and V had different menus for lunch, I’d almost be in tears. Not that I showed it.

I am fortunate that V was wise enough to make a timetable for his lunch for each day of the week. Sury’s was simple enough–roti and sabzi (Indian flatbread and cooked vegetable) with a fruit.

Subzi (okra), roti (Indian flatbread) and sliced apples

So I would usually prep ahead and that would go like clockwork. V’s was easy too, but handling it all in the limited time between 6 and 7:30 am would stress me out. Every single day. I started waking earlier, just so I could have extra time to stress!

Fast forward to today, and I am super-blase about meal prepping and cooking. I now understand why you were always so cool in the kitchen, doing everything with a flourish and a smile. I never thought I would get to this stage, you know.

And yet, I have.

What surprises me, even more, is the eagerness I feel to try new recipes. I am a kitchen queen when it comes to planning and whipping things up. I now also get your constant advice about always planning ahead. It applies to all aspects of my life, really.

You will be amused to see that as soon as I finish the grocery and veggie shopping, I make a list of all the veggies and plan the menu. Of course, I write it all down, day-wise with the plan for each meal. When possible, I chop the veggies ahead. You know I have always found veggie-chopping quite therapeutic.

You always encouraged me, telling me I did everything well but unlike you, who always did things joyously, I did not. I did it because it had to be done. Just a routine chore.

Now I realize what fun it is to enjoy doing these things. Yes, I love housework and I won’t get tired of saying it. Who would have imagined?

These days, since I follow a specific diet regimen to keep diabetes in check, I pretty much have a formula for my own meals. The food fest is only when V is home during summer–and I am thrilled he is here, right now.

After packing Sury’s lunchbox this morning, I cleaned out three massive bunches of curry leaves and as I discarded the wilted leaves, I was thinking of you. Later today, I plan to make karuvepilai kuzhambu–a special recipe with curry leaves that is delicious and medicinal. We all love it and well, so do our neighbors because I’ll be taking them some too. Super-healthy for a variety of ailments. Sury uses it like gold, guarding it preciously. And that always makes me smile. How lucky I was to grow up with delicious home remedies for everyday ailments!

I wanted to make it today so that V could also enjoy it while here. I realize with shock that one week has already whizzed by since he arrived. No💕💕💕💕 matter how much time we have with him, it is never enough.

Even though I have more time than I used to, years ago, I enjoy waking up early and being busy in the kitchen, planning special things. It grounds me and makes me happy.

I also plan to bake bread today. I wish you were here to gush over it. Never imagined I’d be doing these things, then I remember how you enjoyed telling me–confidence is that gap that shrinks each time we practice doing something.

As I smile to myself again, I will nudge V awake, enjoy the cuddles, chat–and when he’s up, I will make myself a half-cup of coffee. Yes, shockingly I have cut down on my coffee. I don’t seem to enjoy it as much as I used to. Life changes, and we change, don’t we? I always wondered how you relished your tiny half cup, after being a coffee addict. I now know.

I miss you and always will. When I chop the onions a little later today, my tears will mingle with the involuntary watering of my eyes. They will be tears of gratitude to you for raising me to enjoy everything I do.