Summary

The author recounts a memorable family gathering where they helped prepare a feast, particularly a special chicken dish with poppy seeds and cashew paste, creating lasting memories and bonding with relatives.

Abstract

The article reflects on a family reunion at an old family house, where the author and relatives, including an aunt from the UK, collaborated to cook a large meal. The preparation of a chicken dish with poppy seeds and cashew paste is highlighted as a bonding experience, with the author recalling the joy of cooking together, the sharing of stories, and the value of in-person interactions. Despite the author's initial apprehension about cooking for such a large group, the experience became a cherished memory, especially poignant as some family members have since passed away.

Opinions

The author values the joy of in-person gatherings over digital communication, emphasizing the satisfaction of face-to-face conversations.
Cooking together is seen as a way to create and preserve memories, with the process being more significant than the end result.
The author initially doubted their cooking abilities but came to appreciate the experience as an opportunity for family bonding.
The aunt is portrayed as cherishing the opportunity to spend time with family and create shared memories through cooking, which she intended to revisit in her solitude.
The author expresses gratitude for the experience and the memories that have been preserved, despite the passage of time and the loss of some family members.

That Day in the Kitchen, We Didn’t Just Cook.

We Created Memories To Last Us This Lifetime

The house sits quietly now. There are a handful of aging people occupying some of the fifteen odd rooms.

But once upon a time, it was bustling with action, filled with lives young and old. And peals of laughter.

I have fond memories of some summers spent in this house. A particular trip stands out. It was the year after I got married.

There are more than twenty cousins on my mother’s side. Some had not seen each other in more than a decade! One winter, many of them, some of whom were settled abroad, decided to gather with their families and catch up. We were not less than 30–35 of us. The house was vibrating with people chatting nineteen to the dozen.

So much to catch up on in person. No amount of digital communication can stand up to the joy and satisfaction of making eye contact while having a heart-to-heart talk sitting across from each other on a sofa, bed, or the floor. And there was an endless supply of cups of Darjeeling and Assam tea.

All of us would have meals together in the big dining hall that could seat at least twenty of us at the same time. Since we were on vacation, it meant the dining hall had a steady flow of family members at all times with breakfast, lunch, and dinner served by the cooks as per demand.

A massive buffet was planned for one evening. We had invited a few more distant relatives residing nearby. It was no mean feat to cook a multi-course meal for so many people. One of my aunts who had immigrated to the UK decades ago was known for her culinary skills. She decided to be in charge of the feast.

The planning started two days in advance. I was never good at cooking (even for three people) and would rather volunteer to do the dishes. I was curious as to how my aunt planned to manage the kitchen and cook gargantuan quantities of food. I was meeting her after years, so I walked up and said, “Let me help you but you must tell me at each step what you want me to do.” She was happy to have me as an assistant. There were four others with me on the team.

On the morning of the appointed day, I see twenty kilograms of dressed chicken brought in for cooking. And I am looking at it and thinking how are we going to cook all that. In walks my aunt all calm and in charge with her 5’9”+ frame draped elegantly in a pastel-colored saree. One look at me and she reads my mind. “Don’t worry. At the end of all this, whether you ever cook such a meal or not you will remember the experience.”

“One of the dishes that we are going to make is chicken with poppy seeds and cashew paste.”

She beckoned me to a room adjacent to the kitchen. It was filled with huge pots and pans. These were probably used when the house was bustling with people. We pulled out a large pot that resembled a witch’s cauldron. The spatula would have easily helped row a canoe. I was rethinking my enthusiasm for the adventure but it was too late. The game was afoot.

Dragging the cauldron and the rowing paddle into the kitchen, I see the stage set. There is quite a few pouffe spread across the large area. Does it mean this whole thing is going to take a lot of time?

I put the cauldron on a massive cement brick wood stove. This stove has been there since the house was built way back in the 40s. Though now we use modern gas stoves for regular cooking, this feast could only be handled on the decades-old wood stove set on the floor. That day, the only use of the modern stove was to make copious amounts of tea. It was winter. The day was cold and chilly.

Aunty sat on a pouffe and taught me how to cut the chicken into reasonable portions, and marinate it with oil, salt, bay leaves, and spices. She simultaneously monitored how another cousin turned the poppy seeds into a rich thick paste. A family cook made the cashew paste in a grinder the modern way. She was frowning at my inexperience and did not seem to like the idea that so many cooks were meandering about her domain but no one paid any heed.

We started heating the oil in the cauldron and began the process. As the spices, chopped onion, and ginger garlic paste mingled with the oil, the kitchen was enveloped in a riot of exquisite aroma. The pieces of chicken sizzled in the oil and I was tasked with regularly stirring the pot in a good sense. When the pieces of chicken were slightly golden brown, they were lavished with the poppy seed and cashew paste.

Aunty sat on a pouffe sipping her steaming mug of tea and observed our actions. Relatives came and went with an occasional peek at the cooking expedition. Old childhood memories and stories would be revived. The elders sat and raked up their cooking mishaps in this kitchen when they were younger. And a ripple of laughter and happiness surrounded the place.

“This recipe needs too much time for preparation and cooking. I am not sure I would be inclined to try this again without help”, I quipped. Aunty looked at me and divulged, “I picked this for a selfish reason. I wanted to spend time with everyone here and carry away these memories for when I am back in England, alone in my kitchen. It will help me through this lifetime.”

I have no memories of how the other dishes were prepared and cooked. My undivided attention was on the chicken and my aunt’s words. It tasted divine. Soft, succulent, and each piece melted in my mouth. We had built a bonfire in the courtyard and everyone gorged on the food exchanging stories of joy and heartbreaks. I had never eaten chicken with poppy seeds till then and ever after that day.

As I write this, the scenes from that trip float in front of my eyes and the myriad conversations that I will treasure forever. The screen looks blurry. That day in the kitchen, every memory is fresh and piercing. Today, quite a few of those elders and cousins are no more. But the reminiscences of that trip are preserved.

Thank you Aunty for that priceless memory that I have wistfully wrapped and tucked neatly in the sacred recesses of my mind. Hopefully, I will be able to retrieve it even when I am on the way out.

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I write about small businesses, health, and life as I see it on Medium, LinkedIn, and my website.