Mustard rituals

Open the spice cabinet of any Bengali household and sitting their pompously is the mustard jar right at the front among other spices like cumin, coriander and nigella seeds. Bengalis love their mustard or sorse and are also punctilious about its preparation with elders keeping a vigil over how the mustard paste is made. As my mother in law says, if the paste is not made to perfection, the dish will lose its taste. Back when I was in India I never made the paste myself, it was either my mother or some helpers who would prepare it for me. I only had to cook. So when I came to UK and used my grinder to make mustard paste, it always turned bitter. Of course, back in India, even now in most households, the shil and nora, a kind of motor and pestle, still has a pride of place in the kitchen, and is a kind of family heirloom. The shil or the flat stone and grinding stone or nora was always pockmarked. In some parts of the flat stone beautiful intricate designs were craved, the penmanship of the artist holding me in awe. Once a year a skeletal man came in his rickety cycle,carrying a rag satchel, knocking at our doors to bang with ferocity on the sheel and nora with his hammer and wedge. As the clanging noise filed the air, we would cover our ears, at times with pillow, to shut out the headache-inducing noise. But once it was done, as promised by the man, the grinding process was easier. Making a mustard paste is an elaborate process and a tiresome one, no wonder helpers are hired by many households just to make different types of paste. I remember my mother in law standing tall supervising the preparation, specially when she had guests coming. Our maid after vigorously washing the sheel, squats on the floor all set to bulldoze the yellow seeds who lie pitifully on the stone, their fate about to be sealed. With all her strength she pushes the nora up and down, her jaws clenched, face taut. I can see beads of glistening sweat coming down her face which she wipes with a rag cloth. After several of turns, the mustard seeds are crushed beyond recognition. They capitulate. Is this okay?, the helper asks my mother in law meekly. No, she would say with a hint of authority in her voice, it is still grainy, it needs to be creamy. You let go, I will give it a good grind, how many times have I taught you how to make mustard paste, she admonished her. And she squats down herself and with bull prowess drags the nora up and down until she is satisfied herself. This is how it should be, she tells the maid. Even now when she has a electric grinder she can’t part with the sheel and Nora. If we try to harangue her on how easy it would be to use the electric one, she shuts up saying, it would be, of course, but it tastes better when ground on stone. Technology has fallen flat on its face on this count. Coming to my story, I found out my mustard tasted bitter because it was essential to add a few green chillis in it when you make mustard paste. I never knew that. With that dose of valuable advice from my mother in law, I prepare the mustard paste again, this time with some plum green chillis, and to my delight it tastes just like home. Not perfect as my mother in law, but then I succumbed to technology, she did not.