What’s cooking?
By: Ganesh, Deepa
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Material type: 
BookPublisher: Seminar: Cradle of Diversity Description: 736, Dec, 2020: p.16-19.
In:
Seminar: Cradle of DiversitySummary: MY grandmother suffered a brain hemorrhage. Just that afternoon she had enjoyed her favourite pista flavoured ‘cup ice-cream’ with her two-year-old great grandchild. They shared a private joke, giggled non-stop, and the ‘cup ice cream’ ceremony had gone on for over thirty minutes; she had scraped even micro drops of ice cream with the wooden spoon. As she walked to wash her hands with creamy happiness all over her mouth, she said: ‘Nothing like the home-made bucket ice cream.’ It was a reference to the ice cream my mother used to make with the wooden bucket ice-cream maker.
It was indeed a ceremonious affair: my father and I cycled to the ice factory, brought back a huge block of ice wrapped in layers of gunny sack, it would then be pounded and layered into the wooden bucket along with rock salt. My mother would by then be ready to toss in the thickened milk, sugar and fruit pulp into the metallic container, and neighbours would begin to arrive. Uncles, cousins, and friends followed. As my mother churned and churned, we took turns to fill the bucket with more ice and salt and salt and ice. ‘Can we see?’ my grandmother would ask every now and then, peeping excitedly into the metallic container to see how far the ice cream was from finish point. It took hours to make, but once the creamy, soft mixture got transferred into multiple cups, it was polished off in no time. My grandmother loved ice cream, she would sit in the middle of everyone, lost in its melting textures, once in a while she looked up to catch other similar heavenly expressions. Her contact with kitchens outside her own was so few that her recognition of them was amazingly accurate. - Reproduced
| Item type | Current location | Call number | Vol info | Status | Date due | Barcode |
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Articles
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Indian Institute of Public Administration | 736, Dec, 2020: p.16-19 | Available | AR124875 |
MY grandmother suffered a brain hemorrhage. Just that afternoon she had enjoyed her favourite pista flavoured ‘cup ice-cream’ with her two-year-old great grandchild. They shared a private joke, giggled non-stop, and the ‘cup ice cream’ ceremony had gone on for over thirty minutes; she had scraped even micro drops of ice cream with the wooden spoon. As she walked to wash her hands with creamy happiness all over her mouth, she said: ‘Nothing like the home-made bucket ice cream.’ It was a reference to the ice cream my mother used to make with the wooden bucket ice-cream maker.
It was indeed a ceremonious affair: my father and I cycled to the ice factory, brought back a huge block of ice wrapped in layers of gunny sack, it would then be pounded and layered into the wooden bucket along with rock salt. My mother would by then be ready to toss in the thickened milk, sugar and fruit pulp into the metallic container, and neighbours would begin to arrive. Uncles, cousins, and friends followed. As my mother churned and churned, we took turns to fill the bucket with more ice and salt and salt and ice. ‘Can we see?’ my grandmother would ask every now and then, peeping excitedly into the metallic container to see how far the ice cream was from finish point. It took hours to make, but once the creamy, soft mixture got transferred into multiple cups, it was polished off in no time. My grandmother loved ice cream, she would sit in the middle of everyone, lost in its melting textures, once in a while she looked up to catch other similar heavenly expressions. Her contact with kitchens outside her own was so few that her recognition of them was amazingly accurate. - Reproduced
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