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As trouble brews...
LIKE ANY trouble, the beginning was innocuous. A burnt dosa now and then, occasionally clocking in a couple of hours late. These do not amount to warning bells, I told myself. For, like any working woman — with kids who were hungry only when there is a minor chaos on the work front — I thought I had the perfect formula to handle any number of errant cooks.
Be firm, be systematic and don't lose your cool... . these three lines grinned at me each day from the fridge. I knew all the excuses cooks usually make — "Bus varalai", "Mappillai vanthirundar". Any amount of leave can be given, provided there is enough notice and food in the fridge, I told the lady.
I failed to see the yorker when she said, "You are so systematic, must be your journalist brain." Only later did I find out from the kids that she had merely toasted bread for them, since one wanted idli and the other dosa.
Next day, the day's menu was tacked on to the cooking area — now she cannot fool me, I told myself. Reaching home after a day of centrifuge, my son said, "Mom, catch... " and a piece of paneer pakoda as hard as a cricket ball came flying at me. The lady's explanation: "Naturally mami. Since you did not tell me where the rice floor and besan were, I used corn floor."
Came the weekend, and my husband said, "Can we talk? Look, we are both professionals, we ought to be able to handle the maid." I remember the cook in my mother's house who was quite a character. But my mother had tackled her smoothly. Like when the huge vengala vilakku was missing, she calmly told me in her presence, "Maami's daughter will be at home now, go and collect our vilakku1"
Likewise, whenever the cook burnt anything, it would be promptly thrown out, and my mother would pull down all the dabbas from the shelf, telling maami that no one can match her when it comes to cleanliness. The cook never burnt anything for another six months.
My cook? Cleaning kitchen cabinets? "Oh, these are jobs for the maids, we are different," she declared. With my teeth on edge, I told her to make idli, sambar and other podis. And she looked at me with pity. Did I not know that this was passé. "Nobody makes tonnes of these at home these days. A nice 50 gm pack should do for you.
" I temporised, gave her two days off, thinking everyone needs to get their batteries recharged.
When guests arrived for brunch one Sunday morning, it was a disaster. How could I have asked the cook to bring some more vadaas to the table? That was not her job.
Summer holidays began and the cook took off on vacation declaring that everybody needs rest. Taking a break from work, I entered the kitchen.
The first day was spent in sorting out the spices box, separating the various ingredients and the second in scouring those non stickpans that could still be saved. Then I got down to simple roti, sabji, rasam, koottu fare.
At the end of the first day the kids awarded me the Oscar for cooking. My acceptance speech? I quit my job.
BHAMA DEVI RAVI
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