Mom’s Recipes Part 2
Photo by Zen Chung
What’s on my mind?
Mom packed her recipes in the air shipment destined for Pakistan. She’d been told the food situation was very different from what she was used to in America. I can still remember those well-worn recipe cards for staples like mayonnaise, yogurt, and chocolate sauce. She even brought a recipe for old-fashioned root beer, which she swore was as close to A&W as you could get, and a refrigerator ice cream recipe from Sunset magazine. Mom was determined to be prepared for anything.
In Pakistan, our lives changed overnight; we suddenly had a cook and a gardener living in the one-room apartment attached to our bungalow. The cook, Mohammed, and the gardener, Sadik, were fixtures at Tarbela, where everyone employed servants. But Mom grew to dislike their presence, grumbling, “I hate the fact that I can’t walk around my own house in my underwear, if I wanted to!”
Mohammed cooked British-style dishes, like runny scrambled eggs that horrified me. Patiently, Mom taught him her recipes and how to cook for my brother and me. Everything was made from scratch, a shock to me after growing up on ultra-processed foods. Even the fried chicken was fresher than I wanted, butchered outside the back door. But the peanut butter cookies he baked were delicious, waiting for me when I got home from school.
Before we lived in Pakistan, Mom had no problem feeding me raw hamburger. She’d slap patties between her palms, then pinch off a bit for me and call it Steak Tartar. I hadn’t connected cows with ground beef yet, so to me, it was fun and delicious. But in Pakistan, ground beef was water buffalo, and Mom wouldn’t let me to eat it raw. All vegetables and fruit had to be washed in pink disinfectant to kill bacteria, and water had to be boiled before drinking or cooking.
Despite the adjustments, I adapted. Breakfast was often peanut butter toast and cinnamon-sugar toast with fresh-squeezed blood orange juice. Lunches were peanut butter and apple jelly on commissary bread, those damn carrot sticks, and homemade oatmeal cookies. For dinner, two places were set for my brother and me at the enormous dining room table. Mohammed cooked water buffalo patties, but instead of Tater Tots, real potatoes, sliced and baked, along with fresh peas and powdered milk with chocolate sauce to mask the taste.
After dinner, once the kitchen was spotless, Mohammed retreated to his quarters to cook his own dinner of curry and rice. I always liked the way it smelled. My brother and I retreated to our air-conditioned bedrooms for the night to read, since there was no TV and little family interaction in our very compartmentalized household. Dad got off work late, and that’s when Mom took over the kitchen and used her recipes to cook for the two of them. They dined in their air-conditioned bedroom suite, where they had a picnic table. They talked about their day and listened to classical music on their record player.
When my brother and I left for boarding school in Murree, there was less for the servants to do at home. Mom took the opportunity to reclaim her household and privacy. She locked them out and went rogue, except for laundry and ironing, which she still disliked. The gardener continued to keep the yard immaculate. At boarding school, the food was fresh and sometimes strange, but I adapted quickly. Everyone stayed skinny.
Years later, when my girls were little, I wasn’t much of a cook. I never claimed to be. Juggling a husband, a house, a business, and two children under five felt apocalyptic at times. Processed convenience and fast food filled the gaps, yet somehow we survived. In hindsight, I realized I followed in Mom’s footsteps, doing whatever was quick and easy for picky eaters. Now, with just David and me at home, we dine as my parents once did. Life and food always seem to come full circle, echoing the past.
