Someone said that the food I cook tastes nice because I cook with love. I started wondering about that comment ant this is what I imagined myself doing:
It was a hot, sultry afternoon and the sweat trickled down my skin in thin rivulets as I stood in front of the stove and watched as the oil in the pressure cooker heated. In slow gracious movements, I reached out and grabbed the packet of jeera. The plastic cover felt tingly in my sweaty palms, like a frail body waiting to be loved delicately. I added a bit of the seeds into the hot oil, just a bit, and watched as they turned brown and started sizzling, giving out the most heavenly aroma, wafting up slowly up to my nostrils and tickling my most sensitive senses.
I grabbed a pair of onions, one with each hand, and ran my fingers all over them, caressing and squeezing the soft mounds, and kissed them softly at first, and the nibbled hard at the ends, biting them off. I slowly peeled away the thin outer covering of skin and ran them both under a stream of warm water. The steam rising off the onions and my hands as I washed them was a feeling so sensual that it brought tears to my eyes. I picked up a clean, sharp knife and sliced the first onion cleanly in half. It was like cutting butter with a hot knife, as I made the gentle motions of dicing the onions, with some of its juice oozing out with each cut, in and out, in and out, in… and out…
I added the sliced onions to the oil in the cooker, and immediately, they started sizzling, moaning in pleasure as their cold bodies touched the hot oil, jumping in ecstasy and turning brown with pleasure. I gently poked at them with a ladle and began stirring them, softly, thoroughly, ensuring that no stray piece of onion sticks to the side, clockwise first and then, counter, feeling them sautee in the warmth of the fiery stove.They soaked up the oil and were dripping wet after a few minutes, completely fried and waiting to explode all our senses as they touched our wet, hungry lips.
I spiced up the whole affair with a bit of MTR Pulao Masala, gently sprinkling the powdered essence onto the wet, oily core of heaven, and watched as the onions hungrily ate it up, soaking in the taste and the color and spewing out the amazing aroma of the spicy mixture. The smell gushed out in torrents and filled me up, filled up the whole room, the whole house, and it seemed, the whole world stopped and wafted in the fragrance. I continued my gentle stirring motions and after what seemed an eternity compressed into two minutes, I added a bowl of fresh, green peas.
The little balls of green flavor ran and hid amidst the forest of hot wetness and sizzled where they stood, adding their own little sensuality to the fragrance. The onions, the spices and the green peas danced together in a carnal dance, a threesome made to last, enticing my every sense and oozing with fragrant pleasure and moans of sizzling heat, fulfilling their destiny, filling each other up, completing each other…
After a few minutes of watching them play out their desires and the moans and sizzles settled down, I added two cups of wet rice, washed and cleaned. The Basmati, angry at being left out of the party, took over the gastronomic orgy with a vengeance, and orchestrated the most breathtaking display of fragrance and it seemed to show the other three lovers just how it is done. The onions, the spices and the peas gave in to Basmati’s superiority and embraced the millions of tiny specks of lust and didn’t want to let go.
Four cups of water, three table spoons of salt, three whistles on the cooker, and one of the best man-made slices of pleasurable heaven was complete. Completely sated and thoroughly exhausted after the incredible display of kama, I had peas pulao for lunch.