“That rooster died for your dinner! Won’t you even taste it?”
Maggi—Juggernaut’s Experiment
Finding the house to us and to none other always does things to my father and I. Either we find ourselves possessed by the holy soul of the dedicated housekeeper or hexed by the obstreperous spirit of roguish freedom. So, when mummy and sister return, the house is just about as perfectly sorted out as any expensive hotel lobby, or the house has acquired the same descriptions as that of a seaside snack bar shack.
Most of the times, when the two of them are out, we try to arrange for dinner by ourselves. Of course, on most occasions, we give the local dial-for-food a reason to smile. On other, more noteworthy occasions, we give nobody any scope to do anything. We make dinner ourselves. Mummy doesn’t mind it in spite of the fact that our kitchens resemble prison laundry rooms after we’re through. After all, it’s our most sincere attempt to thank her for the heavenly meals she prepares for us everyday.
Maggi, we conjectured on such an occasion, is a fairly simple preparation to try out by ourselves. We were albeit paranoid when we entered the kitchen—the last time we’d tried preparing dinner, we’d ended up having to re-paint the kitchen. This time, the two of us took a vow—if the pressure cooker blows out again, we will NOT borrow our neighbor’s. He’s lent us four of his already. This time, we’ll try grandma’s pressure howler (grandpa once used it, see?).
Indeed, when we read the recipe, we had our fears laid to rest. All you had to do was:
1: Open the wrapper (Jesus Christ!).
2: Confirm complete arthropodic absence (Evangelical Budgerigar!).
3: Boil the Maggi cakes till soggy. Add a little oil to the water that they’re boiling in. (Bob Hope?)
4: Pour out the water, retain most of the noodles, transfer remnants to a cooking vessel. (We want Sybil!)
5: Add only a little oil and the spice provided (to taste) and cook. (Lost in translation, indeed).
6: Have faith in God. (Are you listening?)
My father was all set for Step 1 and Step 6. I got the easy part.
It took us several moments to open the wrapper. Our usual style of opening wrappers has been designed craftily enough so that if the situation demands, the same style could be employed on unwanted individuals to check further instances of burglary at our home. My father had the painter’s bill in mind, and I had the look of our cooker-lending neighbor’s wife in mind, so we were careful. We didn’t use scissors because we didn’t find them in time (I did find them four days later when I was raking the leaves). We opened the packet with our bare hands. The results weren’t as substantially gratifying as we had desired. But everything was fine, because we could collect most of the noodles with a sterile broom.
That was when we added a Step 7 to the process that was more of an advisory. When in serious emergency: abdicate.
Step 2 was taken care of in the process of Step 1 itself, I assure you. Of course, we still did take a good look at what was boiling. Anything that would move would get picked up and thrown. Fortunately, nothing did. Step 3 took us a little time to understand. My father insisted that the instructions stated that the noodles were to be boiled till soggy. Now that the packet lay in shreds, it would take evangelical attempts to retrieve the cooking instructions. Having my father prepared for a very strong execution of Step 6, I waited till things were soggy. Just to make sure the soggy part isn’t halfhearted, I added a good three extra glasses of water to the boiling mixture.
Step 4 was difficult. Retaining most of the noodles while draining the boiled water took some effort. But effort is my forte. I retained almost every little shred of noodle, and even some water, through the sieve. Now isn’t that absolutely great?
Just then, the tadka that I had set in a small frying pan felt too curious to know how I managed Step 4 so well. Not only did it send small drops up to my hand, it did something absolutely crazy when it learned I had been successful so far. It caught fire. Before my father could lose his senses and call the firemen, I managed to put the fire out. But I’m afraid the noodles cooled down a bit till then. No problems, I thought. Four glasses of water and a little boiling ought to do the trick!
And it did!
Having had to execute Step 4 once more—that I did with even greater dollops of water in the super-soggy noodles (I never cease to impress myself!)—I decided to allow my father with the tadka in the meantime. Finally, we arrived to Step 5. It was nightmarish. There was this question first: how little is little? Then, we dealt with another question: How much spice is spice to taste? And what is “cook”?
Having interpreted those answers and arrived at results that hinted that our interpretation was accurate, we collected our hot dinner in a large gravy-pan and placed it gingerly at the center of the table.
In fifteen minutes, my father and I endeavored to set the kitchen to order. I had to remind him often of how evangelical a spirit mummy has when she clears the mess I make at my study desk to inspire him to clear the gas stove off the mess. Holding on to the encouragement we had for each other, laboring on the other hand with all our intellect concentrated to the purpose, we finally managed to restore the kitchen to livable standards.
Just as I put the last cup in the place that I thought it belonged to, mummy entered through the front door.
“Hmm…” she said taking in a deep breath. “What have you two been up to?”
“You must be starved, ” I said.
“You made dinner?”
Papa and I exchanged victorious smiles, pointed towards the pan on the table and sang—“TADA!!”
She lifted the lid of the pan, stared at it, sniffed at it and said:
“What kind of noodle soup is this? Looks interesting…”
It all boils down to one thing: Hell is paved with good intentions.