Chai

“This quarantine is making me do crazy things.” It’s a phrase I’ve heard repeatedly over the last 2 months. One that, though I understood, never felt in my body. This quarantine is making me do different things, sure. Things I thought were silly and strange or forgettable. Things that previously, I didn’t understand - but now, feel called to do them. Things like finishing a bottle of salsa and having the true thought - I should save this, I can store ghee in it later. 

I never thought this quarantine would make me understand my mother better, but with each passing day, I learn something else that pulls me closer to her. I’ve spent more time in the kitchen than ever before - suddenly understanding the mental gymnastics of planning meals, the quiet ritual of 2:00 chai time, how distraught a smelly dishwasher can make you. 

I have always brushed off these things that felt monumental to my mother. As a homemaker, this was her whole world. Her ability to create in the kitchen has prepped her well for a quarantine that is making my entitled generation, “crazy.” 

On the other end of the spectrum are those of us who are so proud to showcase what we’ve made. Quick to photograph, in Portrait Mode, the fruits of our newly-found-labors at a perfect angle with a perfect filter. I’m no stranger to this impulse. As much as I’d like to deny it, there is a strange sense of fulfillment in seeing, not just the food, but the pretty photo - a sense of beauty that makes the ugliness that lies in the pile of dishes seem worth it. My mom never got such quick rewards.

Her trophy at the end of a cooking marathon rested in her family’s hands - and we didn’t even know it. I remember days that she would present food on the table after hours of cooking, and within seconds of taking my first bite she’d jump - “How is it?” I would get irritated at the question, feeling robbed of the ability to enjoy the bite long enough to form an unbiased opinion. “It’s fine” - I’d respond. Or sometimes, just a nod.

These memories haunt me, each afternoon, when I walk over to my stove - the pavlovian desire for chai kicking in like clockwork. I’ve made chai so many times it has become muscle memory. Grate the ginger as you wait for the water to boil. Add fresh mint, let it simmer. Add the milk - 2%, always 2%, add the chai. Lower the heat, and watch closely. Take your eyes away for a second and you will be cursed as it boils over. I hear her voice in my ears, low heat, Avanoo, always low heat. Yeah yeah, I’d think. Whatever, Ma.

Recently, I tried a different brand of chai to support a local NYC business. The blend smelled promising, but the instructions - questionable. They tell you to add the chai to the water first, and let it boil. The milk comes last, another boil. Nowhere in the guide did it tell you to lower the heat. I mechanically followed the steps, feeling strange and a touch disloyal. I wondered - in horror - if there was a different way to make chai that might taste better than my mother’s. I wondered if maybe “low heat” was another hoax - like getting bad luck from cutting your nails at night or washing your hair on Sundays. 

I won’t lie - the chai was delicious. But when I went to put the pot in the sink, I noticed a dark brown residue clinging to the bottom. I scrubbed it with a sponge, but it was stubborn (like me, right Ma?) - and required a long soak to loosen.

As I sipped on my contraband blend, I took out the once-Nescafe-bottle of chai Ma left me when she came to visit. I smiled at the label she thought was necessary - that I would not immediately recognize the aroma of her essence, that she thought I might mistake it for black peppercorn.

I am learning, above all, to take in new, but savor the old - to look back with fresh eyes, even when the sight is unsettling. 

There are so many things I wish I could say to you, in person, but for now I’ll just say thank you, I’m sorry, I love you, Chef Uri. 

And when we’re home, on the couch, dunking biscuits in your chai - I promise to admire the ground ginger, the low boil, the plucked mint. 

No filter or caption required.