SLOW SUNDAYS

 

 

I want Sundays to be slow and comforting. Like how your blanket makes you feel on a cold day or a cool breeze on a hot day. If not that, then a fan at maximum speed on a sweaty, sultry day. And it does feel different in a space we are trying to make a home. What it should be and should not be is the sum of the places we have stayed, the books we have read, and the people we meet; the aesthetics from the pages of magazines we've folded and the screenshots from the scenes of movies which we revisit just to make a note of the colour theme or the props that were used. Like the yellow walls, the teal cushions, the block-printed white curtains, and even the fridge magnets you decide to collect from each place you visit.  

Treading the same path is the idea of cooking. We can wish for the aesthetics, but the messy ordeal is satisfying, given that you are making your favourite. My friend, an expat in Dubai, made sure that his weekend lunch had fish curry made from scratch, moderately thick and red, with tiny islands of oil on top, which always made me frown upon the meager skills I had in that area.  

  

The image of the Sunday in my mind is filled with subtle aesthetics. I am reading on my bed, leaning on the closest window, with one hand holding the book while the other moves through the hair of the head resting on my lap, with their hands tied on the phone. I do not find it strange that the situations are tied with a cup of tea sooner or later. So, I head to the kitchen for chai and decide to make aethakka appam, globally known as pazhampori. No hustle, no overthinking, slowly deskinning the bananas, making sure it is not cut in halves but in three portions, again sliced length-wise— one portion giving three slices in total. Still unsure of the proportions, I use a mix of rice flour, wheat flour, and the detested maida. I grate the jaggery block, not because it is healthier, but because I like the beige batter. I don't forget to whisk in the egg white, the secret ingredient of my mother's appams. Hoping the consistency is just right, I dip in the slices one by one and fry them in hot oil under a high flame, slowly reducing the flame after a while, remembering to increase it while flipping sides. I do not add turmeric because golden yellow is not what I expect, but a decent shade of brown—far from being burnt. The forgotten cardamom is crushed for the rest of the batter, and the skin is conveniently thrown into the tea in the making.  

It is all good on paper, but a fear when you first head out of reaching the benchmark set by what you grew up on. You try to recreate a slice of your life gone by, trying to keep it closer from slipping away. To be frank, you do not care if it does not taste as good. You are glad you could save something from being only a memory.