I was on a visit to the old homeland. After the fond welcomes, and affectionate enquiries about all our friends, I was tasked with boiling the milk packets. I took to the task with enthusiasm and surprised myself.
How many of you have boiled milk? I realize that this bit of cooking is something that I do not miss living in the United States. The vessels are always a nightmare to scrub afterwards, and the milk itself has a cruel sense of humor. It would sizzle, and nuggle and miggle without actually boiling over, for ages. The entire time you are there alone pondering on the n-different things you could be spending your time on, nothing happens. Images from the poignant movie, The Great Indian Kitchen juggle with the forced quiet and calm of the post-dinner boiling milk time. The house is finally quiet. The milk is quiet too. Like a volcano. Dormant and slumbering. Rumbles from time-to-time, but slumbers all the same.
Then, the moment you decided to flick an eyelash out of your eye, the whole thing would come pouring out, making a mess. It is also curious that it seems every adult in the vicinity is peculiarly attuned to the sound of the hissing milk gushing out of the vessel. No sooner than this happens that the hitherto empty kitchen gathers distinguished guests.
- The old grandmother, who minutes ago complained of knee aches and the inability to stand for a few minutes, comes prancing into the kitchen to offer advice.
- The older grandfather hears this sound when one has to otherwise yell into his hearing aid to eat his tablets. He hobbles out of bed to see what the fuss is about.
- The children – oh the children. You can spend entire evenings calling their names to come and finish their tasks, but this. They jaunt in to get in on the action with no invitations!
- The man of the house looks amused at all the fuss, and wonders why the woman of the house looks petulant. It is just a packet of milk!
The boiler of milk, in the meanwhile, has nowhere to go – the results of her ineptitude spooling out helpfully for all to see and revel in.
Just a packet of milk.
Really, adulthood is very trying!
Still, it just goes to prove that time is a great healer and all that. All milk-related trauma seemed laughable just then, and I headed into the kitchen to boil a packet, looking like an angel in a night-suit. Patience oozing from my every pore, I smiled back as if to tell everyone present that I have it handled. My guardian angel or gatekeeper os whoever else keeps score, had better be jotting this down, I thought to myself as I stepped into the kitchen.
I had no idea it was a task of such a technical nature.
India launched Chandrayaan-3 and managed to safely land the space vehicle on the less explored side of the moon with less instructions.
- Don’t use the aluminum vessel. No, no, not that one. We need that to boil milk in the morning.
- Take the packets to the left of the tomatoes in the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Not the tomatoes in the middle shelf.
- Keep the flame between sim and high. Not that low. No no…not that high. It could have been instructions for my blood pressure.
- Don’t use that ladle – use the milk ladle
- Why do you need a ladle?
- No need to stir – are you making theratti-paal (milk peda)
- Better to stir it every now and then, so you know what to expect.
I took a deep breath, and shot back that I knew how to boil milk – thank you very much, and would everybody turn away from the kitchen please?
I felt my guardian angel scowl.
I stood there, meditatively stirring every now and then, watching the bubbles form and gather as the milk began to boil. Just as I stood watching, and switched off the gas, the milk hissed over anyway.
“Forgot to tell you that this is a thick copper bottomed vessel that conducts heat. You need to switch off a few seconds prior to it actually boiling over.” said a gleeful voice. “I was going to tell you but you seemed to be so impatient for no reason.”
Nourish-n-Cherish 
