There’s something so satisfying about frying onions. The just perfectly caramelising onions, each strand separating from a perfectly fan-like slice and slightly twisting, glistening with the oil around it gives off the whiff that gives your soul the kind of comfort not even a bowl of chicken soup on a cold Saturday afternoon, with blackout curtains drawn and heaters blazing, can bring.
It most certainly has something to do with what you’ve been brought up with. For some it might be the smell of fresh cut grass, for others, bacon on a Sunday morning.
Both my grandmothers were amazing cooks when it came to South East Asian (or Indo – Pak) cooking.
The smell of perfectly brown onions makes my soul sing because I grew up with this steaming promise from the kitchen of an undoubtedly delicious meal to follow. Along with that come rushing my متاعِ حیات, my life’s inventory, its “final goods” so to speak. The memories that intertwine in my Nani’s dupatta surrounded by the smell of Kewra, Ilaichi and a faint whiff of Paan.
In my Daadi’s perfectly manicured fingers nimbly shaping a besan ka laddoo, where her red painted nails do a دھوپ چھاؤں (now you see me now you don’t) as she spins that laddoo while softly giving it the form it was destined for.
As Shaw very rightly said, there is no sincerer love than that of food.
What makes your soul happy?