Once upon a time, I decided that I must learn to make malpuwas like my mother. They are soft, a little chewy, but with a crunch on the edges, pillowy and oozing with sugar syrup. Sometimes, when some special guests are expected, she garnishes them with a creamy layer of rabri and pistachios. My mother’s malpuwas have acquired legendary status in our family and in the neighbourhood.
So, one day when I had an irresistible urge to eat mapluwas, I picked up the phone and asked my mother for the recipe. In more than 50 years of cooking, my mother has not written down a single recipe. “Andaaz” (‘rough estimate’) is the operational word here. Just by looking at the color or texture of the batter, she can assess its chemical composition, (i.e. whether it requires more sugar or more milk), as well as its generational accuracy, (i.e. whether it is looking like my grandmother and great grandmother’s batter). But ask her to convey this information on the phone, and the conversation is enough for me to want to relinquish cooking forever and head off to the Hindukush mountains for leading a quiet and monastic life.
Let me explain what I mean:
Me: Ma, should I add suji to the malpua batter?
Ma: Sometimes I add, sometimes I don’t. Bulu mashi always adds, but sometimes I don’t.
Me: What does that mean? So are you saying, should I add suji or not?
Ma: You can try both ways. (Meanwhile shouting to Sushila, her help to switch off the gas, and completely forgetting that I am on the phone for 2 minutes). After she comes back:
Me: How much sugar should I add?
Ma: Around 4-8 tablespoons.
Me: Ma, that’s a very wide range. 8 is double of 4.
Ma: Yes that’s right. Taste the batter and adjust. How is Rishu’s cough? Did you give him Chayawanprash?
Me: Ma, yes he’s better. Wait let me finish. How much milk should I add?
Ma: Pour it with a tablespoon bit by bit and keep pouring until the texture is slightly more liquidy than cake batter but slightly less thick than dosa batter.
Do you see what the hurdles I am up against? What is a novice cook supposed to do in these circumstances? I hung up the phone, dejected that my desire to eat malpuwa will remain a distant dream.
After 2 minutes, one Whatsapp message beeped on my phone. It was Ma, “I forgot to tell you to add ½ tsp of baking powder.” Then after another 5 minutes, another message beeped, “Did I tell you to add fennel seeds?” I told you my life is not easy.
However, my conversation sparked off a series of phone calls between my mother and her 5 sisters, who talk nearly everyday to each other. They each discussed their special tips on making the perfect malpuwa, who adds which ingredient and which sister has been able to replicate malpuwas like my grandmother. Isn’t it strange how we keep looking for our moms in the food we eat, no matter how old we become?
Whenever I cook something that Ma used to cook when we were kids, I send a picture to my brother, who is an enthusiastic cook himself. The question he always asks me is, “Is it like Ma’s?” My answer usually is, “Not yet.” I think food is the one tangible thing by which we try to keep our mommies close to us even when they are physically apart.
Anyway, what I got out of this tete-e-tete between my mother and her sisters was added pressure. Bulu Mashi texted me to say, “We are so proud of you. Girls of your generation only make pizza pasta. You are carrying our family’s tradition forward.” Wait, what? First, only my mashis are capable of feeling pride in me merely because I asked for the recipe, even before I attempted first batch of malpuwas. Second, now I not only have to carry the family tradition forward, but I also have to reinstate the reputation my entire generation of girls, who have been falsely accused of being pizza-pasta chefs. I had all this added pressure and still no concrete recipe.
So on my next trip home, I set an entire afternoon aside to watch my mother making malpuwas. I have eaten malpuwas all my life, but this was the first time, with pen and notebook in hand, I paid rapt attention. Watching her was like watching an artist in slow motion. I can never stop looking at my mother’s hands when she cooks—so firm, so sure, moving from the spice boxes to the pan as an artist would from paintbox to easel. Does it hurt your heart too when you see those hands you love are now a little bit wrinkled?
Ma poured and stirred and checked texture over and over again. And she added suji 3 times, a little at a time—so I had to keep editing the recipe as I wrote. By the end of it, my recipe looked a bit insane (2+1+1/4 Tablespoons sugar, 1+1/4+1/2tsp suji etc.), but at least I had translated that enigmatic thing called ‘Andaaz’ into some sort of a measurable entity.
I am happy to report that for the next Holi, I was able to recreate Ma’s malpuas. They were nearly like Ma’s. Very proudly, I uploaded a photo on Facebook before I allowed anyone to eat. My mother said what she always says when I cook something nice, “You never cooked all your life, but whenever you cook something its perfect,” transferring the entire credit to me, as though I were the one who came up with the recipe. My sweet mother.
My mashis were nearly delirious with joy. Bulu mashi showed my malpua photo to all her friends in her apartment complex. She sent me a message, “I think the color looks slightly darker than it should be. Try reducing the heat a bit the next time. And Basu Aunty said Congratulations.” (Basu aunty is her next door neighbour whom I have met exactly once for 10 minutes in my entire life.) Even Basu aunty was proud of me. Unwittingly, I had upheld my family’s tradition and the pride of generations of women in my family , though all I had started off with was a simple desire to eat malpuwas.
In the evening, I received a message from my brother. “How was it?” No words were required to decipher the cryptic message. I texted back, “Nearly there.” He replied, “Send me the recipe,” and a smiley face.
On Mother’s Day, dedicated to all our mothers-We owe you our lives and our appetites. Now kindly, for heaven’s sake, please start writing down your recipes.
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