Love, Masala

I always envisioned myself coming home from college and stepping into the rich aroma of cardamom, cloves, coriander, and curry leaves. Now, I have to somehow recreate that.  

Knowing the recipe by heart, I decide to make my mom’s twist on baingan bharta- Indian comfort food made with eggplants, cashew and coconut sauce, and lots and lots of masala. It is usually eaten with chapati or flatbread, and I know that only my mom can make the perfectly round chapatis. It doesn’t help that she’s coming over after the pandemic- the meal has to be just that much more perfect. 

My hand trembles as I lift the heavy curry skillet from the cupboard. Pain starts to shoot through my arm. I drop the skillet, and it ends with a loud clang on the wooden floor. Some of the polish has chipped. I take a deep breath, sit down at a barstool in front of my kitchen island, and look at my culinary space. Much of the counter space is occupied by dirty dishes, textbooks, and groceries that are yet to be unpacked and put away. My Mac sits on the island, fingerprints littering its screen. 

I’m not sure when it all happened. Maybe it was when my best friend and lifelong soulmate decided to disappear one day and never speak to me again. Maybe it was when I dropped out of Berkeley so I wouldn’t lose my wage on education. Sometimes stress and anxiety just envelope my life like a tornado, and I’m in the eye of the storm. It seems calm at first, but around me, everything is whirling around at 200 miles per hour. 

Before I pick up the skillet on the ground, I try to clear out the counters. I put the dirty dishes in the sink and see them tower higher and higher, on the verge of collapse. I dump all of the groceries in the pantry, making no effort to actually organize them. I put away all the textbooks as tears start falling from my eyes, one by one. I had to give up my passion to make sure I could have a life. But was it really worth it? To just cook a decent meal takes all my willpower and strength. Maybe life would’ve been better if I had just gotten a dorm instead. 

After stashing everything away, I glance over everything once more. It seems better, but it’s all going to come back in the next two days anyways. I pick up the curry skillet from the ground and rinse it. The water droplets seize together and create a huge puddle in the middle of the pan. As soon as I tilt it, everything spills out and goes down the drain. The water swirls around in my sink. It’s honestly very therapeutic. 

I bring out my chopping board which hasn’t been used in a month. Last time I used it was probably to cut my frozen pizzas in half. The beautiful intricate wood detail makes me wonder why I don’t use it more. I grab frozen green chillies from the freezer. As soon as I open the bag, a spicy aroma takes up the kitchen. It takes me to different place. Within moments, I find myself finished chopping the onions, eggplants, garlic, and ginger. 

The clicks of the burner turning on remind me of my grandma’s house in India. She would use a lighter to turn on the flame. The repeating clicks give me deja vu. I pour way too much oil in the skillet. My mom always says that oil is like love- the more you have, the happier. Regardless of what anyone in the family said about it being fat, she would make the rest of the ingredients healthy but never reduce the amount of oil or ghee that she fried everything in. 

I toss in the curry leaves, chillies, and garlic, stepping back as the oil starts to splatter in small pops out of the skillet. The air is immediately scented with oil and spices. This is where my mom excelled. I grab cardamom, cloves, bay leaves, cinnamon, and some kasoori methi and add them to the oil. The smell of all the masalas wafts into the kitchen. Somehow, the aroma calms me down by multitudes. All of my worries are forgotten, and I only remember running into the kitchen when I was a kid, excited to dip a finger in the hot curry and give it a taste. 

I add the onions and eggplants to the skillet and add cashews, coconut, white poppy seeds, and some milk to a blender to make the masala sauce, the best part of a baingan bharta. As everything is creaming together, my mind starts wandering. It goes back to Jamie, and how we used to spend nights under the stars eating chinese takeout while worrying about college. It goes back to Radha, my best friend in high school, and how she was taken away from me because of cancer. Suddenly, the blender starts shakind furiously and some of the sauce spills out of the lid. 

I yank the plug out of its socket, saving most of the sauce. Just when everything was going to well, I had to think of Jamie and Radha again. I think about them every day, even when I’m not supposed to. I pour in the sauce, add the red chilli powder, my mom’s masala mix, salt, and green onions. I put the lid back on to let the curry simmer so the oil will float to the top, making the curry even richer. I would love my mom’s help right about now. I’m never sure when to take indian food off the stove. 

I decide to wait fifteen minutes and bring out the whole wheat atta and measure out enough for my parents and me. The one thing that I am good at is making and kneading the dough for chapatis. It’s muscle memory to me- using my fingers until the dough is shaggy, then slowly adding water until the dough forms a ball. After that, it’s just kneading until it becomes smooth. I punch the dough, letting all of my anger out on it. 

I divide the dough into seven balls, sprinkle some flour onto my countertop, and start to roll the chapati as the doorbell rings. 

“Amma! Come in,” I say, wholly relieved that I won’t be alone in making the chapatis. Once again, I am transported to my childhood when I used to help my mom in the kitchen. It’s just us again, with my dad standing by and talking to us as we all used to be, way back when. Love and Masala.