step one: call mum

step two: get the niceties in. it’s important to not let her feel like you only called so she can coach you through what to make for dinner and how.

step three: take her through what you have at hand in the kitchen shelves and the fridge.

step four: whine. it’s important for her to feel like you cannot manage without her. (which is entirely true of course, but bastardly hard to admit post puberty.)

step five: repeat instructions. the rules of the game expressly state that no instructions can be written down. it’s no fun that way.

step six: gather wits and materials.

step seven: think through your plan of action. the rules of the game also state that every step henceforth must come together with the exquisitely crafted elegance and timing of a symphony orchestra.

step eight: obsess. cook like you’re on hell’s kitchen. it’s more fun that way. (except that sadly, gordon ramsey isn’t breathing down your neck and turning you on.)

step nine: call mum.

step ten: walk her through how you got to the point where the sublime feast you set out to prepare now depressingly rests in a congealed mess at the bottom of the pan. she won't mind you skipping the niceties this time because the highpoint of her day has finally arrived...i told you it won't work if you don’t pay attention, didn’t i? - she'll gleefully tsk at you and gloat.



step eleven: swallow your pride, remind yourself that its biological for you to love her despite the fact that you have no choice at this point but to say, yes mum.

step twelve: come clean. confess to the instruction you ignored, the ingredient you forgot to get her to sign off on, the little detail you cheated with, the short cuts that short circuited... because the one thing you'd better be good at in the kitchen, is flushing the charred remnants of your ego down the pot.

step thirteen: be a good loser. grovel. this is her moment not yours.

the finishing touch: give it your gazillionth and best shot...and take it again from the top.

*note* over ten dogged years of mauling food in my kitchen and molesting the digestive tracts and palates of involuntary lab specimens (viz, hapless family members, friends, lovers and surprisingly many unfortunate others who are handicapped by the inability to just throw up on my proffered plate and RUN), i have managed to distill my learnings to one all important observation. it is, that neither google nor any recipe book ever written mentioned my mother's sacred touch.

this is completely understandable in retrospect, given the debilitating standard it sets. being confronted with it at the very outset could very well castrate the most cast iron culinary ambition in the bud. but eventually, what every aspiring kitchen god/goddess must learn, is they will inevitably compare themselves to the humbling hand served by mum.

'maa ka haath', as every indian will reverently swear, is the most prolific and most secret condiment ever known to man. it is the holy grail of the kitchen, the one that every culinary acolyte wittingly or unwittingly reaches for. it's been unquestioningly agreed upon at every table worth its salt i'm sure, that a mother's touch is what categorically demarcates the world famous chefs from the greatest cooks in the world.

so while it's true that it's possible to put food on the table without it, it's also entirely besides the point. you see, my mother's living proof that if you've got it, you will never, ever dish out anything less than a peerless bellyful of original love.