What do you feed a character in the limitless world of fiction?

Pretty much what you feed your own family. At least, that’s what I’m realising, to my everlasting disgust. For the imaginary Maya Anand — who could well be supping on tortilla soup and lamb yakhni ; fruit pavlova and vanilla panna cotta — determinedly veers towards aloo paratha, pizza and walnut brownies. Which tells you a lot about teenagers and their neglected taste buds.

Okay, time to stop blathering and start explaining. I’m a mother of three girls, and spend much of the day tackling their classes, food funks and emotional upheavals. Other than that I write columns for newspapers, and books for children. At the moment I’m writing my fifth book, and working feverishly to complete the last two chapters. So all the extra space in my head is filled with Maya Anand, a 14-year-old, self-professed geek who lives in a 2BHK near Colaba Post Office. She has an ambitious mum, a lousy wardrobe and a burning desire to be “cool”.

Then Maya is invited to a swish Mumbai college for summer school. There she finds all the gorgeous hunks and catwalk queens that her heart desires — but discovers that many of them have a terrible secret. They are sinister beings who inhabit a grey world between life and death, and it’s Maya’s unenviable task to battle and outwit them. Between tackling assignments on local history, learning lessons for life and, of course, eating her meals.

My flesh-and-blood daughters are pretty grumpy about their meals. They protest if there’s a shred of yellow bell pepper in the salad (What is this disgusting thing?). If there’s an almond topping on the pasta (I like my nuts by themselves, if you don’t mind. Not with my food.) And play around with their biryani, separating the onions and masala and looking woebegone. I can’t do much about that, but I had planned that my creations of paper and ink would be different. Adventurous eaters who allowed me to rustle up glorious meals of the imagination.

Except, of course, that fictional characters come with their own stubborn streak. Just like children.

Imagine my horror then, when Maya revealed herself as a lover of burnt toast and cranberry juice. Although her mother is always eager to whip up pancakes — which could then be served with lashings of melting butter and blueberry compote — the silly girl gobbles bowls of Chocos and then gets down to the business of battling Shadows and mooning over a mysterious Sri Lankan.

She and her BFF Lola are always too busy to succumb to the aromas of sausages and bacon at Café Mondegar. And the one time they visit Theobroma — and actually settle down with almond croissants, vanilla milkshakes, cheesy quiches and red velvet brownies — they have an ugly encounter with a glamorous villain. And that’s that. The food turns to ash in their mouths, and I’m left to bemoan the waste of a perfectly good almond croissant.

For the rest, Maya, Lola and gang spend an inordinate amount of money on expensive coffee. And between adventures they wolf down pav bhaji, mac-and-cheeses and vada pavs. Or nip into the college canteen and tank up on those abominations of our age — Manchurian sandwich and Schezwan dosa.

All of which reveals essential truths about teenagers and food. These formulae held sway all those years ago when we were sighing over Careless Whisper and neon shoelaces, and they clearly hold sway today, both in fiction and the real world.

Teenagers like food that comes in plastic or cardboard boxes. In fact, they quite like food that tastes like plastic or cardboard boxes. The greater the quantities of synthetic cheese and fake orange masala the better. The less their food resembles anything that grows on a tree or in a field the better. And the more their friends are eating it, the more they will too.

Little wonder, then, that all the fictional teenagers that I’ve created over the years cling to the safe and the recognisable. Just like my daughters’ friends when they come over for play dates and sleepovers. It’s only “No mushroom in my spaghetti, please” and “No dip with my chips” and “Nothing green on my pizza, please”.

Which is getting a bit weary and tedious for a foodie-writer who would like nothing better than to spread the red-checked tablecloth and set it with plates of orange sesame chicken salad, salmon, pear and avocado sandwich, and rum babas topped with cherries and plums. But I have a horrid feeling that all my ungrateful teenagers would hurry off to phone Domino’s.

Which would be a real waste of effort and imagination. So, for the moment, I’m leaving Maya and her pals to their own bland, boring devices. With a slice of sticky fluorescent cheese on top.

The ultimate teenage treat :

Chocolate marshmallow pizza

3 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus a little

more for sprinkling

7 gm yeast

1 tsp of salt

2 tsp sugar

1 2/3 cups lukewarm water

2 tbsp olive oil

2 tbsp butter, melted

1 cup chunks of milk chocolate

1/2 cup chunks of white chocolate

2 cups mini marshmallows

Method

1 Preheat oven to 400°C.

2 In a large bowl combine flour, yeast, salt, sugar, water and olive oil. Knead until glossy and smooth. Rest the dough in the fridge for an hour.

3 Pat cold dough out into a round shape. Dust a pan with flour and allow dough to rise for an hour.

4 Slide it onto a baking sheet and bake for about three to five minutes. When the pizza seems dry and getting done, slide it off the baking sheet onto the wire rack. Bake for another three to five minutes till the dough is a light golden brown. Spread melted butter, then top with milk and white chocolate chunks and mini marshmallows.

5 Increase the temperature to 450°C and toast pizza until marshmallows are golden. Remove and serve.

Shabnam Minwallais a journalist and the author of The Strange Haunting of Model High School

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