On a fine evening as I scouted through the layers of groceries in my ‘stuffed to the seams’ pantry looking for a spare packet of pasta, an unopened stack of Ambika appalams in its familiar blue packaging fell off of the shelf. Ella Fitzgerald’s tunes filled my home with an intoxicating energy, as a saucepan bubbled violently with water, waiting to receive whatever I gave it. Just the visual of the goddess seated on a lotus emblazoned on the packet was enough to take me back in time to the aromas of my maternal grandmother’s kitchen – where she would patiently toast spices to make a fresh batch of sambar powder; or stir through a large kadhai of ghee-laden kesari – waiting to melt the moment it touched our tongues. Call it my mixed Tam-Brahm and Mangalorean roots or even a higher exposure to world cuisines in the last decade, what surprised me most about my own stock of ingredients was how it included a little bit of everything that held sentimental value and also what I managed to absorb by virtue of being enthusiastic about trying new foods as years passed.
Having grown up in a predominantly vegetarian household that saw Sunday breakfasts wage a tug of war between spongy, fermented dosas and lacy thin neer dosas to mop up the garlic-laced coconut chutney, it felt nostalgic in a way to still have an attachment to ingredients like buttermilk chillies or moru milagai, sun dried vadams and also a simple bag of dry chickpeas which my mother transformed into the most aromatic chhole for weekend lunches. As I continue to decipher the secret recipe for my father’s masala omelettes for breakfast on most days, I also miss the steam from the pressure cooker as piping hot pongal made our tummies rumble with anticipation each time. Moving out of the family home at the early age of 15 was when my world view towards food really began to evolve – since my teenage years hardly left an opportunity for me to enter a kitchen to fix a meal. I would eat out most days and for when pocket money ran short, comforting meals of rajma-chawal or kadhi-chawal at the hostel mess is where I found solace.
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I continued to push my own boundaries of interest with food by learning more about ethical farming practices and pesticide-free produce, which meant that paying a pretty penny for kidney beans flown all the way from Himachal was nothing short of creating an important life moment. Eventually, as I moved back home and the family flew the nest for work and education, I found myself with a free playground in the form of my kitchen. What really shaped my outlook towards throwing together meals really started off as a way to put something on the plate that was filling and delicious – further moving into a space that also took nutrition into account. The downside of living in a polluted city like Mumbai meant that health conditions that one would otherwise find themselves riddled with in their late 40’s or 50’s arrived sooner than usual – emphasising the need for organic sugar and salt to replace the bright white seasonings we used in all our food. As my intestines began to give way in 2018, ingredients that were gut-friendly made their presence felt on my pantry shelves. Think – a jar of kimchi, cartons of coconut milk (which, in hindsight would make my grandmother shudder due to not being freshly pressed) and even the odd bottle of kombucha paid a visit from time to time.
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Summers – a time of the year I most associated with sinking my teeth into ripe mangoes – kickstarted with boxes of the fruit fresh from my paternal grandparents’ farm located in a little taluk from Udupi. Now, long after my parents separated, I wait to get my hands on farm fresh mangoes grown only a few kilometres outside the city, in Palghar, to slice and enjoy with the softest ricotta pancakes for breakfast. The joy – sweet but different – offers a sense of comfort on days of solitude. My freezer, which I consider to be an extension of the pantry I keep stocked now, holds a box of heavy cream, bags of frozen corn and peas, as well as a surplus stock of homemade dosa batters that my mother would make using her trusty stone grinder during her brief visits to Mumbai. Tubes of tomato paste, stock cubes, a couple of different pasta or noodle varieties huddle amongst tiny jars of puliyogare paste and chilli oil, while a loaf of sourdough always finds its place to be converted into an afternoon snack, when smeared with avocado or an artisanal chocolate-hazelnut spread. In my pantry, modesty is far from the intention or organisation; great care is taken to ensure that there’s always a few things which could be spruced up for a meal.
For my attention to detail, a trait I inherit from my father’s chops in the kitchen, the pantry is also a spot where a struggle to establish authority comes through. While I prefer to stock enough to suffice for a week, my mother opts to indulge her value-for-money instincts. Her visits diminish the presence of my sushi rice and tiny jar of curry powder, only to let whole green moong and an extra bottle of ‘original’ asafoetida bask in the spotlight. The incessant pull of having just enough to justify this luxurious slice of space in a Mumbai apartment and storing for a storm continues to persist – a reminder that some things must tread the fine line.