Cutting onions, Culinary skills, Bindulu

So, what gives?

I am in Chennai, living from one power cut to another, sweating my sweet life out and generally philosophising over a heavy dinner which invariably includes fried fish. Deep-fried fish that was well marinated before it was deep fried. Marinated in a marinade made of secret ingredients thought up by yours lovingly. Piqued the interest there? I know. Let us just say that guavas are not a part of the marinade. Yes, coffee is a part of the secret ingredient marinade.

The upgradation phase of my culinary skills had to be put on hold. Two months at home and I thought I would get all the recipes KTed from mom. Fat chance indeed. Kitchens are conflict zones. When two great cooks have to work in the same confined space, the resulting ego clashes put to shame the fires of the gas-fired stoves and the pressure will be much more than a Prestige pressure cooker can handle. Women are intensely possessive of their space and kitchen (feminists may disagree) is definitely one of their spaces. And my penchant for breaking glass bottles and knocking over vessels and sprinkling salt and coffee powder all over the kitchen floor did not necessarily help my cause either. Let it be said then that instead of rustling up dishes of authentic Andhra cuisine on his own, yours truly has been largely relegated to the very minor and slightly insulting role of (an auxiliary) kitchen helper or, in other words, an onion cutter. Men being like onions (or are ogres like onions?), the incredibly layered, nuanced and textured psyche finds solace in slicing and dicing and cutting and chopping. But there are only so many ways an onion can be cut and the whole ignominy of decreased station is silently suffered, the poignant, tragic tale unraveling before one's eyes, which in turn are filled up by pearls of tears. A bit like crying in the rain, I guess. The heavenly aroma of onions fried till they are golden brown makes up for the tears shed and the perceived slights suffered.

Whatever happened to the kattipeethas of old? Nowadays I see all chopping boards and food processors and Japanese steel knives only. Whatever happened, even, to the bindes? Bindes, not to be confused with the dots of different colours worn on womens' foreheads, of old that are used to store water. Bindes made of different metals. Bindes which when filled with water drawn from the village pond or from the well and well balanced on the heads of women are the very essence of Teluguthanam. Or the accumulated wealth of wisdom that found a way to plug leaks in metal bindulu by applying a lump of wet chinthapandu. Times indeed have changed.