life

Like everything else in life, I don’t place too much emphasis on owning every kitchen tool that ever was. I still think back on that grinding stone in my grandfather’s house that made the best curries. Basic and beautiful, with a sound that I miss.

The kitchen is one place where I spend a lot of time trying to save the world and some dinner. I shy away from electrical appliances only because we have a mid-level manager’s office-sized kitchen and I wouldn’t know where to put them. I’m happy we have an oven (that’s sucking at life right now but at least it exists) because I try to bake everything I see these days (including my knuckles). I ignore the dishwasher. The crock pot is my soup BFF. The coffee pot keeps me sane and the toaster is overworked but oh so generous. The ice-cream maker and I have conversations about how it’s just him, Snickers and me against the world.

It really is.

I’m a lucky girl. I live with a man who came with a stocked kitchen. Fancy knives, a crock pot, baking supplies, a coffee pot and very nice tableware — it’s a little impressive. You wouldn’t think of that as a prerequisite but trust me, it is. You can tell his dinner is not a spoonful of peanut butter and he uses plates for plate purposes. The rest of the house be damned. I’m a borderline food snob. I like knowing where my food comes from. The “borderline” comes into the picture when I allow myself certain liberties of the deep-fried, french variety.

With fancy dip. Classy.

Two ramekins joined the family recently. Thank you Goodwill or I’d never pick them up without have a 10-minute debate with my inner Uncle Scrooge. I even got two for Gayle as a “be my slave” bribe. Every time I see a ramekin I think of buying them for her. She makes the best creme brulee and acts like it’s no big deal. I’m no dessert expert, but I can make some stress-free baked eggs. Yay me.

Thanks to cheap ramekins and an oven that’s currently testing my patience, awesomepantsface is one step closer to losing me to the kitchen and I am right here, singing a lullaby to a small ceramic bowl.

Eggs in a ramekin

I first put some bacon on the stove and cooked it to an almost crisp. I buttered the inside of the ramekin while it was cooking and started the layering process. I chopped a few leaves of spinach and half a tomato and put it in the ramekin. I then crumbled the bacon and put some of it on the top. I added a tablespoon of half and half (you can add cream or milk) and seasoned this with pepper. I broke two eggs on the veggies and bacon and put the remaining bacon on top. The ramekin was placed on a baking tray and baked for 20 minutes at 350 degrees F.

YUM.

The egg yolks are a bit runny so if you want the yolk to cook firmer, leave it in for 25 minutes instead. Season with pepper, salt and fresh cilantro. After this, you’re on your own because I have no recollection of what happened next.

I must’ve died.

It’s sometimes difficult for me to understand my sister Jane. I purposely forgot how old she is but yes, she is the eldest of us 3. We lived together in Bombay for 3 years, just us, in a two-room flat. (That’s two rooms not two bedrooms). I would be lying if I said it was perfect. We fought a lot and I think it was mostly always my fault (Yes Pain, I’m taking the blame).

As the eldest, I think it has always been her instinct to protect us. As the middle child, it was my instinct to pretend that I didn’t know what that sound was. She cooked for me, forced me to eat, made me taste the vegetable dishes she made for salt, and kept me in line. I know I was a terrible roommate. Most days I’d work 10 or 12 hours, six days a week and when I came home, I just wanted to be asleep or a vegetable. The one day I got off work, I preferred being the same way. I thought that was my free pass to get out of doing stuff. Right now, I can’t believe I was like that.

This is not an apology. Our family has a hidden way of saying sorry and I know she knows what I know. This is about our Sundays in Bombay.

I worked on Sunday, oh yes I did. Almost every one of those Sunday mornings, I woke up to a room filled with people on every surface. They were common friends but closer to her because she was the best host. She’d wake up and the rest of them would follow like sloths after a hard night of foraging. Except foraging means drinking in this case. I like to think that her breakfasts were what they came over for. Complete with chai, toast and eggs, she fed the masses on our limited collection of melamine (and one ceramic) plates and mugs with most of their handles broken. Everything was laid over the previous day’s Hindustan Times, which was spread over the tangled bedsheets that kept everyone warm.

Jane HAD to have something to eat and tea the moment she woke up (here’s proof). So as soon as she rose, she’d put her toothbrush in her mouth and a pan on the stove. She scrambled whatever was “scamble-able” and leftover from last night’s binge-eating. Chicken manchurian from Mama Mia was her bestseller. I never tried it (I did not like Mama Mia’s Chinese food) but I was a big fan of the sorpotel and xacuti version.

I am a big fan of hers. For taking so many risks, for taking care of me and for introducing me to a world of wonderful messy eggs that fit so well in our wonderful and messy lives.

Jane-style eggs and toast

This is the easiest thing in the world to make. I just scrambled two eggs and at the very end, I added some of the guacamole I made last week, some leftover mince and rajma (red beans). Oh yes, and just a dollop of sour cream on the top for fun.

Jane the pain, this breakfast was for you.