Cookies and Vegetable Gardens

When I was younger and more naive,I had dreamt of 5 years in the Corporate rat race and then an early retirement, a house in the hills, a vegetable patch, plenty of time to call my own - knit, bake or do absolutely nothing.

Post marriage in Delhi, life got hectic with the babies, my job and relatives on both sides. I began to believe that dreams need not come true.

Dreams do come true however, sometimes in bits and pieces. So what if the 5 years have stretched to 23 and retirement looks a good 17 years away.

I did bake a few burnt cakes in Delhi before I began to rely on the plum cakes my colleague Subi got from Faridabad. Once in New Jersey , however, baking seemed to be the simplest thing. All you had to do was buy a mix off the shelf, mix it and stick it in the oven. And viola, your cake/cookie/fudge/pie/tart was ready. I even had a summer day camp at my place in the hope that the parents would be inspired to keep the tradition and my kids for the rest of the summer. The kids had a field day with the icing on the cakes and muffins. This was proudly presented to some dismayed looking moms in the evening. Needless to say only a couple of parents came forward to keep my kids -without the hassle of any event of course- for the summer.

In Mississauga I had to go a step further. My daughter Ishani brought in a recipe for Johnny Cake which the First Nations used to bake. And she insisted we bake it. Some weekends went by with her giving me " What an utter failure as a mom you are " looks until I felt obliged to get the ingredients for the cake. Isha insisted on following the recipe to the word and we soon had the most delicious aroma floating around the house by a cake thoroughly poisoned by baking soda.

My son, drawn by the delicious aroma and thoroughly disgusted by the taste declared the cake fit to be eaten by Mr. Lee Isha's class teacher and the one who sent the recipe home.

Stung by the disappointment on my daughter's face, I proceeded to bake the next weekend with a lot of help from Isha. We produced what she called the " Mother and Daughter" cake certified by many approving nods from father and son and an empty tray.

The baker's ambition grew as ripe bananas found their way into banana bread and Isha and I spent many mild spring afternoons in this pleasant fattening exercise.

Gardening was something I agve up after I moved from Kota and my lush house plants died in transit. My parents maintained my balcony gardens for me. When they were visiting New Jersey too they planted some roses and other flowers. These died as soon as they left.

I never had a vegetable garden anyways - save for the sole chili plant I grew on my balcony in Kota. A full scale vegatable garden was a forgotten dream. I remembered fondly my father's garden at 9 Housing Board Colony. I spent many mysterious and delightful afternoons there. There were tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, watermelons even sugar cane and corn! And papayas and drumsticks.

Among the few happy thoughts and memories I had of Bellary this was one. I tried to recreate the magic unsucessfully for my kids'; in the apartment homes we lived in.

When we moved to a townhome in Mississauga opportunity presented itself again. But I let one year go by. By now, I was practicing 'dreams dont die' with a vengeances. So I grew tomatoes and cucumber and green chillies and had the satisfaction of my dad picking them out.

It is in Bloomburg though that my garden blossomed. I took bare patches and grew grass. I understood the meaning of perenial and grew a rose garden, hostas, heucheras. It is a never ending task through spring and summer..my garden. As soon as I pretty it, there is rain or scorching heat and I must redo things all over again.

But the satisfaction of seeing my babies grow into beautiful strong flowering shrubs and the fresh green smell of cut grass takes away the pain of bruised palms and dirty finger nails. Corporate woman? Naah.. A farmer this one.