Home Cooked Phood

Bhavna called up yesterday, saying that she'd baked a cake, and it had turned out very well.
That's a problem because Bhavna is in Delhi, and I'm in Bangalore. Worse, Ameeta is in Bombay. Worser, Mom is in Pune.
If you don't know who these people are, it don't matter. What matters is that I'm not in the city in which those people are. Sigh. Which is what today's blog is about. Not moaning and griping about how living in a new city sucks (it doesn't. So long as the city has shops that sell beer, we're doing ok), but about home cooked phood.
It doesn't matter if you're over at a friend's place, or at your own home. Mom, or Aunty, as the case may be (and ain't that a wonderful thing... the automatic Auntification of buddies' moms? Makes you less embarassed about wolfing down everything on the table. Not, of course, that it would have been a problem otherwise) is already in the kitchen, figuring out ways to stuff the bottomless pits that are sitting in her living room right now.
I don't know what else they taught brides to be back in the late 70's and early 80's, and I don't know if its a common lesson imparted over the ages, but one lesson that seems to have been drummed in with renewed vigour is "Feed the young buggers every inch of the way".
And we ain't complaining, thank you very much.
Mom's chicken curry, Ameeta's tiramisu (sigh!), Anju Mavshi's mutton curry, Shashi Mavshi's anything and everything, Aunty's (Binoy) biryani, Aunty's (Dennis) Beef Fry, and Kaku's (Anish) fish feasts. These aren't listed in any particular order... all of them are culinary marvels, designed to make you salivate, go goggle eyed, wistful and highly envious of anybody who might be revelling in these gastronomical delights while you can't.
At the moment, all others on the list are technically feasible, but one particular church is closed until further notice. Anish's parents head over to the States on a three month trip, and I can't make it to Bombay before that. Double sigh.
Because you see, Kaku is a magician. She takes fish into her kitchen, does I don't know what in there, and comes out with works of art that would have made the combined forces of Michaelangelo, Da Vinci, and Van Gogh seem positively pedestrian in comparison. Pomfret fry, prawns pickle, Bombay Duck Gravy, prawns rice, and that champagne of the Konkan... sol kadhi.
Sweet revenge for Anish. I and Dennis have been torturing him for two years now, with detailed reports of meals had at his place, while he does abstruse stuff in OR out in the American wilderness... but guess who's gonna have the last laugh after all.
Bugger.
Ah well, here's to the day we're able to sit in that living room, watching Sachin maul some bowling attack on the telly, waiting for a plateful of home cooked food to land in our laps.
Oh, and here's to refills as well.