One of the first pieces of kitchenware I invested in when I moved to Elsewhere three years ago, was a pressure cooker. I’d heard it would help lower my electricity bill because it cooks so fast. But I didn’t know the first thing about feeding myself in those early days and the pressure cooker was soon shrouded in cobwebs.
That changed after Bins came to live here. He’s not a fussy eater and neither am I. It may be the one area in which we are highly compatible: so long as a meal is reasonably fresh, non-toxic and fully cooked, we’ll eat it. Growing up in India, he knew all about the mysterious magic of pressure cooking. He taught me how to use mine overnight. The American models don’t produce the loud shrieking whistle that so terrifies me. Instead the knob on the lid just rocks very gently with a faint puttering sound. So it’s altogether a happier experience.
My favourite thing to make these days is a beef curry. It’s based on a biryani recipe given to me by one of my nieces. It’s a set of written instructions, worded rather like a construction kit, with numbered steps and precise quantities. I often make just the meat curry without the rice. At the risk of sounding like an advertisement for pressure cookers, the meat gets cooked to perfection. So I’m in my tiny kitchen, contentedly watching the counterweight rocking on my cooker when I hear the sound of Bins’ approaching footsteps outside the front door.
“Oi,” he says. “You know how you’re always complaining that we never meet anyone here?” I tell him that he’s the one who complains, not me. “Well, never mind who complains,” says Bins, “because today I have met someone! A very nice man. I’ve invited him for lunch.” Oh noooo, I wail. Please give me plenty of advance warning! “Of course,” says Bins. “He’s parking his car right now.” Then there’s a knock on the door and in walks Jiggs.
“Hi!” he says, coming straight into my kitchen. “Call me Jiggs — it’s not my real name you know? Haha.” He’s Indian and speaks with a strong, nasal, American accent. “So nice to meet you, Mrs____?” “My name’s MANJULA,” I say, in a voice like the next Ice Age. “Ha! Mrs Manjula. Very nice. You must be a Bengali, of course?” He is of medium height, the colour of milky tea, clean shaven, with a full head of black, shiny hair. Wearing a black tee-shirt with an Om sign on it and blue jeans. “It’s very kind of your husband to invite me for lunch? We Indians are so hospitable, you know? Whatever you’re making, it smells WONDERFUL!” “It’s a beef curry,” I say. Whereupon Jiggs leaps back as if he’s been stung, shaking his head vigorously. “No, no. I’m a strict vegetarian!” “Dearie me,” I say, “how sad. Goodbye!” Bins sees him out. “You scared him off!” he says when he returns. “You are not a kind person!” “No, I’m not,” I agree, grinning wickedly as I turn off the heat.
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