Page 68 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

While the grains cooked, we set the table. She instructed, and I followed. She even located a masala dabba in the back of a cabinet.

“I like Durgaben. She’s meticulous.” Tara gestured toward the stainless steel container. “Look at this.”

Stocked with dry masalas and turmeric and suspicious-looking tiny grains that Tara said were broken methi seeds, the masala dabba was a kaleidoscopic delight of potent flavors. Accompanying it was a small bottle of the pungent asafetida.

“I didn’t see any fresh vegetables in the fridge. Do you have any frozen fries?”

“I might.” I pulled open the freezer drawer and produced a bag.

“How about masala fries?”

“You’re a wizard in the kitchen, Tara. Master of color, mistress of spices?” I said, and a warm smile appeared on her face.

When the oven was hot, she slid a tray of frozen fries into it. Then she fluffed the rice and tempered the dal with such grace and expertise that not a splatter ruined her pristine, white dress. When the fries were golden and crisp, she tossed them with mustard seeds, chili powder, and turmeric.

I stood by her at the stove, and she instructed me like a TV chef. “It’s best to check for seasoning at this stage.”

I nodded, but my heart ached as I watched her move with familiarity and comfort in my kitchen. This could’ve been my life—the two of us cooking, cleaning, and feeding little ones. Tired but wrapped in her arms at the end of an exhausting day.

She looked at me tenderly and said, “What are you thinking, Rehani?” Then shook her head.

Don’t go there.

By the time we sat down to a very late lunch, she was herself again, happy, bossy, and impetuous. We reminisced about old days and old friends as we ate. The food was spot-on. There was only one other person I knew who could create such perfect flavors from the limited ingredients I had.

“This is absolutely wonderful. It reminds me of—”

“Don’t say it,” she cut me off, spooning dal over a small portion of rice on her plate.

“What?”

“Don’t say it reminds you of your mother.” She looked at me pointedly. “Apart from being a terrible cliché, it’s creepy.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” It was exactly what I was going to say.

“What, then?”

“I was just going to say, it reminded me of…Durgaben’s cooking.” I scrambled.

“Ah, nice save.”

“No, she’s a really good cook.”

“Drop it,” she ordered with a faux stern expression. “I know what you were going to say.”

“Okay, but you made it sound so weird.”

“It is weird to look for your mother’s qualities in your girlfriend. No one wants to hear that,” she said without realizing she had forgotten to add the “ex” in that sentence. Freudian slip? I smiled and ate another mouthful of the soul-soothing food.

Quietly, we put the leftovers in the fridge, cleaned up the kitchen, and loaded the dishwasher.

“This is the first time my dishwasher is getting a full load,” I said. “Coffee?”

“Sure, I love whatever expensive beans you have. I’m sure they cost more than what I make in a month.”

I tuned out the sarcasm and turned on the coffee machine.

She leaned against the counter while the coffee brewed. “Thank you for today.”

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