She took a sip and then finished the cup without comment. Heart singing, I waited for her approval, however begrudging.
Credit: Reuters Photo
There are some battles in life you don’t expect to fight, and certainly not in your own kitchen. But from the day I hired Y as my domestic help, it became clear that my kitchen was destined to be a conflict zone, and an everyday beverage would be the cause of many a skirmish.
Now, I consider myself a decent teamaker. Not an expert, but certainly not incompetent. Good enough to offer guests a nice, hot cup without worrying about being shunned by them in the future. But with Y, the simple process of tea-making became a chore I seemed to fail at repeatedly.
Like many hostilities, it started small enough. On her first day, I handed her a cup of tea along with idlis from breakfast. She ate the idlis wordlessly, took one sip of the tea, and made a face. “Too sweet,” she pronounced.
I laughed it off and remembered to adjust the sugar the next time. Surely I could get this right? But no—on the second day, after I’d dialled down the sweetness, she grimaced again. “Too strong.”
Strong? I’d put in the same amount of powder as the previous day! Still, I mentally noted the need to weaken the brew the next time.
But the critiques kept coming. If it wasn’t too sugary, it was too weak. If it wasn’t the strength, it was the colour. Or it wasn’t hot enough. There were days she drained it with a mere grunt, but those joyous occasions were rare.
As Y’s teatime neared, I sweated like a cooking show contestant awaiting the celebrity chef’s rebuke. How had I gone through life thinking I knew how to make tea? Did I know anything about myself at all?
One day, while she waited for the tea, I entered the kitchen, armed with a solution. I looked to my husband, who nodded nervously.
“You make it today,” I told her, placing the ingredients by the stove.
She stared at me and blinked. And then, without missing a beat, she said, “Give me coffee, then.”
Was it ceasefire at last? I avoided her gaze and set to work. Warming the milk and sugaring it just the way she liked it, I poured the decoction from the filter and blended it all carefully so the coffee was topped off by the right amount of froth.
She took a sip and then finished the cup without comment. Heart singing, I waited for her approval, however begrudging. But she merely threw a suspicious glance in my husband’s direction and said, “Was it Anna who made the decoction?”