Musings of a meaty kind

Bloggiversary??………mmm…..a new term. Well, here goes:

Such a hardcore non-vegetarian born of a pure vegetarian mother!! This was the oft-heard exclamation when people discovered the carnivore in me. I grew up on liberal doses of well-meant advice on how non-vegetarian food wasn’t good, how we should exercise restraint in its consumption, for fear of obesity, high cholesterol and what-have-you but the die-hard fan of these exotic goodies that I was, I remained undaunted.
If anything, the love for this genre of food increased over the years

My college friends, with a wicked glint in their eyes, were often heard wishing that it would serve me right if I got married into a purist family, where even onion-garlic was taboo, as that would really teach me a lesson! I would vainly-and perhaps a little immaturely- quip that I would never say ‘aye’ to such a proposal, so there was no question of such an eventuality.

Well, life was kind and I got married into a family which metaphorically and literally ‘lived to eat’ and where the favourite topic of conversation, once a meal was over, was what would be prepared for the next one. Ad infinitum. Existence seemed to revolve around what the next nutrient would be. (This absorbing pastime exists to date.)As non-vegetarian delights featured high on the list, I was introduced to a wide variety of foodstuff, hitherto unknown to the palate.

Adjusting into such an environment was a chicken (sorry!) cakewalk. The mornings dawned bright and sunny, with wholesome mughlai paranthas dripping pure ghee, luncheon menu evolved luxuriously-as the mid-day sun matured and reached its zenith-and succulent, mouth-watering, kebabs or simmering stews made their appearance on the table. And the evening snack-more often than not-brought in its wake ‘simple’ fare like French toast or egg-rolls. In short, life was a variety of victuals and no non-vegetarian aficionado could’ve asked for more. (It’s another matter altogether that an ardent weight-watcher like me ended up gaining ten kilos in the short span of a month-a feat in itself. But, I reasoned naively, it was small price to pay for the gastronomic delights I savoured day after day.)


However, like every story worth its name, there was a flip side to this rosy picture. A greenhorn in the realm of cooking, I had begun making tentative, tremulous forays into this fascinating world, only to be ticked off that that was not my cup of tea. I couldn’t ever hope to attain the heights of expertise that were required for churning out such exquisite cuisine. No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. There was always a flaw that was unceremoniously pointed out: an unerring comment on what was wanting, rather than encouragement for what could’ve been dubbed a good attempt. Being steeped in the rich tradition of flavours and aromas, tastes and colours, the spouse and his family were pastmasters at passing judgement on food: self-acclaimed food-critics-nonpareil!.

The years turned into decades and a lot of things changed but what remained constant as the Northern star was the preoccupation with food and the fault-finding exercise that inevitably followed. Gradually, my sensitivities hardened and I would no longer be upset at “well meant” remarks that invariably informed me how the recipe-so painstakingly prepared by me-would’ve been so much better if it had a little more of this ingredient or a tad less of that or had been stir-fried for two more minutes………. all this with an aura of smug superiority clearly suggesting that only a privileged few were privy to such fine sensibilities! I developed an in-built defense mechanism and learnt to filter out such “constructive” criticism with élan.

Till the other day, all my disappointments-accumulated over years of negative feedback- were amply vindicated. No, it wasn’t as if I staged a culinary coup of sorts, completely winning over the self-appointed critics or that they suddenly turned appreciative of my prowess. It was something completely unexpected, dramatically different. But it was still a great victory-a record no less than India’s first individual gold at the Olympics- seen from my viewpoint.

On Friday, all of us converged at the dinner table, pretty much as usual, after the customary queries on what was for dinner and whatever it was could be vastly improved upon etc etc. But, as it turned out, the actual meal was met with approval as the cover of the steaming hot, main dish was lifted and an appetizing aroma wafted through the air. The sight of peas and mincemeat was welcomed enthusiastically and the better half and mom-in-law attacked the food with gusto worthy of a nobler cause. My daughter, who rarely condescends to make an appearance at the dinner table (and whose appetite magically changes in direct proportion to what’s there on it) was roped in for the event. She joined the merry twosome, relishing her favourite keema mutter as much as the others. I ate alongside, observing three generations of the clan heartily gulping morsel after morsel. In between the selfsame mouthfuls, I was reminded how I should’ve taken tips from m-i-l for a better version and how possibly, the next time, it could be improved, with help from the same, hallowed quarters. These suggestions, though, didn’t affect the quantities being consumed and any casual observer could’ve been forgiven for thinking that they were enjoying the preparation, as the quantum of intake was a definite index. The entire serving bowl was polished off in a jiffy and was empty in no time!

It was only the next morning that I decided to enlighten the ‘discerning’ twosome that what had been eaten with such unconcealed relish, such uninhibited glee was the humble nutrela (from the Soya clan)-peas curry and bore not the remotest connection to the exalted, pedigreed mutton/mince family. Connoisseurs indeed!!

Did I hear someone say one who laughs last laughs loudest??