AROMATHERAPY- OF A DIFFERENT KIND

At a family gathering recently, we were discussing about first impressions that can be culled out from the looks on our faces. Some whacky minds worked mischief and soon, everybody present was a part of the game. When it was my turn, it was unanimously agreed that I gave the impression of a well fed pampered cat with nose high up in the air..never mind that the nose was a pug! Talking of being well-fed and pampered, my earliest memories of childhood are of sitting bleary eyed in our balcony after the afternoon nap with a huge glass of milk( with that yucky abhorrent Horlicks dunked into it in generous measure) and two fat slices of homemade cakes. Like all children, I used to hate my glass (which actually resembled a bottomless pail) of milk and the torture of gulping all of that twice a day was a huge chore. That is when my mother, all of 23, learnt to make cakes for her little one..so that the milk ordeal passes through easily. Plus all the added pep talk of how the combination of milk and Horlicks would turn a predominantly shy, quiet me into some mythical conqueror of sorts! I don’t really remember how much I believed in all that but yes, my mother’s regular baking sessions twice a week which ensured consistent cake supply made my milk drinking sessions a whole lot easier..actually a cakewalk!  And thus started my infatuation with the world of cakes and baking.

Having been solely dependent on my mum’s culinary skills all the while to satiate my taste buds, I ventured into that alien, scary laboratory commonly called kitchen after my Std 10 exams. Two left hands at cooking, clumsiness and a general lack of aptitude ensured that my family was getting more than its regular quota of guffaws at my expense on a daily basis. Not to give up but thoroughly fed up with the task of distinguishing between one spice and another, I decided that it would be much more fun and easy to do what I have loved seeing my mother do all those years…baking! The time-trusted oven was brought out and I began my foray into the world of baking….and I haven’t looked back since.

When I was in school and college, coming back home to the smell of cakes and cookies used to be very comforting. It made home feel more homey, warm and a wonderful cocoon to be in. And of course, nothing could beat the ecstasy of gorging on them and especially coaxing mum to give you a slice more than what your sibling got. Once I learnt how to manage my flour, sugar, oil and the works, I baked sporadically through my college years. It always felt nice to look up in magazines or beg my mum for recipes and try out cakes and cookies and patties with different ingredients. I recall that once I had tried out a vegetable patty with a strawberry flavoured wrap (which was basically a recipe gone wrong) and had fooled my family into believing it was some speciality dish….and also polishing all of it. It is another story that I had dutifully sacrificed my own share…for my own and greater good.

After some years away from home, baking again stole my heart away when I set up my own home, hearth and oven. Internet and blogging had taken the world by storm and cookery blogs were a blessing to all novices like me. After grueling hours at work, it was a flight to a different world: reading blogs, copying recipes, adapting them to your own kitchen et al. Not that I have turned into a consummate cook or an expert baker but it is difficult to put in words what the aroma of my batter baking in the oven does to me. It takes away all the fatigue of the mind and body, makes me take a trip down the memory lane, fills me up with a sense of purpose and simply, exhilarates my being. The task of sieving the raw flour with the baking powder; blending the sugar, oil, flour and all other concoctions in the right measure  and manner takes my mind off the mundane and concentrate on creating something. And when things and emotions have taken a severe beating, it is time to bring in the exotica. The dark brown sugar, melted chocolate, cranberry juice and Old Monk rum( ok..i am a teetotaller but when it comes to my cakes, I am shameless..have also managed to convert family on the same lines) which go into the batter along with cinnamon, nutmeg apricots, walnuts and almonds make heaven seem just a step away. Considering that I have lived in some of the remote parts of the country after taking up the job, fancy ingredients are not easy to get. So whenever I am out into civilization, it is time to horde up. Predictably, in all my return trips my luggage resembles more of a desperate grocer’s than that of a normal, working lady. Till date I have tried my hand in everything..red velvet cake, shortbread cookies, orange cinnamon cake, chocolate rum cake, raisin cake ,peppermint cupcakes to name a few. And, it is a wonder standing in front of the oven watching the batter rise up, firm and turn a lovely shade of golden brown. While all the time your nose is filled with a delectable aroma..almost akin to old world romance, timeless passion. Baking has now become my last resort and therapy in lifting my spirits and filling me up with the much needed joie de vivre. So much so that when the year 2013 announced itself with a whole lot of professional complexities, I began teaching myself to bake breads with vengeance. Waiting for the yeast to rise up and foam was like waiting for my exam results to be out and hanging by the oven door to check the texture of the bread was like..umm..waiting for your college crush to turn up. And now, family and friends swear by my baking….it is indeed a pleasure to be appreciated for doing things well for which you never really had a knack in the first place. Blossom Kocchar brought aromatherapy to Indian ladies but I must say that I never believed much in it..till I began baking..till I became addicted to the aroma wafting from the oven..till I realized how much it calms my senses and balms my sagging spirits. It is my own aromatherapy..my little joy.

However, I must admit that though I do bring out wonders from the oven, what makes me grin like a pet cat bred only on cream is when my mum takes charge and churns out her simple sponge cake. That is the stuff love and affection and gluttony is made up of. Now, I am waiting for my baby to grow up and say similar things about me.