My mom and My(sore) Pak!

Disclaimer: Dear Ms. C, I have yet to try your recipe for MysorePak. After my expereince with another mentioned at the end of this article, I am still wary of trying Mysore Pak. The incidences mentioned here took place long before I became an IL member. No offence meant to the good cooks in IL.
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This story is of a love-hate relationship!

My mom loved Mysore Pak!
Mysore Pak hated my mom!

My mother a reasonably good cook would make special sweets for festivals and other occasions.

While most sweets behaved well with her the disobedient one was always Mysore Pak!
Mysore Pak gave her so much trouble she made it her life’s mission to conquer and win (or is it “win and conquer”?)

Two or three months before Deepavali mom would start scouting for a volunteer aunt who could make good Mysore Paks.

Some days when I came home she would have saved a small piece given by one of our colony folks. I knew that that aunty was to be my mom’s guru that year.

One afternoon the aunt would come home and make the good Mysore Paks. My mother was a good apprentice no doubt - meticulously noting the proportions, the method, the exact consistency of the syrup, and the trickiest – when to remove from the stove.

For the next few days enjoy very good Mysore Paks we did, made by this aunt.

A few days before Deepavali my uncle’s family would come home. The day’s cooking would be relegated to me. Donning a long face (of course-what did you expect) I'd reluctantly take care of the meal! It was the same year after year because I only knew how to make rasam and roast potatoes… and fry papads.

Pretty soon I would forget to sulk as the drama unfolded in the corner of the kitchen with my mom the lead cook and my aunt her apprentice for that day.

After some time aroma would waft through the house! The lovely golden concoction would be bubbling away which to my fevered mind always looked like it was heckling:mrgreen: wickedly at my poor mom.

Aunt: do you really need all this ghee?
Mom: Margatham maami used that much.
Aunt: I think it is too much…
Mom: ….you think so…?

Now my mom is confused: should she please my aunt or should she please the Mysore Pak?
After much oscillation of the ladle between the ghee pan and the besan mixture my mother would opt for the latter.

She can always convince my aunt, but can she convince the Mysore Pak?

The second round of doubt would soon follow:

Mom: I think I should take it off now.
Aunt: give a few more seconds. I don’t see the combs yet...
Mom: When Maragatham maami took it out this was the consistency.

However because she didn’t listen to my aunt about the ghee, my mom would feel obliged to listen to her this time.

Suddenly “oh oh it is turning dark..!” and jumping up she would hastily remove the pan from the fire.

On to the greased plate the golden mass would go! My mom, an optimist, always declared that this was the “best Mysore Pak ever..”! (somewhat like the Olympics chairman’s words at every closing ceremony, “…the best games ever” …)

Like a school girl eagerly awaiting her exam results (mmmm?... yeah, bad example, because I never looked forward “eagerly” to my exam results) my mom would first score the lovely looking concoction in the plate!

Then she would try to press the knife in...nope. The knife was too light and it would bend.

Another knife stronger than the one before would be brought to the rescue along with my uncle and dad.
The men eager to prove they were strong would try with all their might to cut through. Nothing worked! Amidst all the “umphs” and “grrrrs” this lovely looking Mysore Pak would sit unmoved! Eventually all would give up realizing that even an axe cannot get through the Mysore Pak!

The next few days we would all have Mysore Pak milk- pour hot milk on the plate and then slowly scrape the Mysore Pak, each of taking turns to scrape, just as slow and laborious as making sandal wood paste rubbing the wood against the stone.

Deepavali would come and go but our Mysore Pak stayed stuck to the plate. Fed up with the milk now my mom would pour hot water every morning and night to let it soak little by little and scrape it off! Depending on the time Deepavali fell, some years it was even December when we could finally see the plate completely devoid of traces of Mysore Pak.

After I got married my mother gave up on Mysore Pak as “Mission Impossible”!:rant

Epilogue

Some who already read my earlier post “what can I say” know that I have this strong belief that cooking skill is hereditary. So fearing that Mysore Pak will treat the daughter the same way it did the mother I never tried it.

A few years ago when housewives all around the world were blessed with this magic contraption called “microwave oven” I stumbled up a MW Mysore Pak recipe and prepared it.

It looked like Mysore Pak; smelled like Mysore Pak!

I ran the knife through…it cut… good, good!

I lifted it off the pan…it came out perfectly without breaking…very good, very good!

I tasted it…it was good...no, very good…very very good!:thumbsup

I gave it to my husband and waited for the verdict!

“What is this?”
“Sweet”
“What is it called?”
“...Mysore Pa…k!”
“Call it sweet, call it burfi…but never call this Mysore Pak! You won’t get moksha for three janmas”!:hide:

So what’s a girl to do in times of shame…?

“Krishnaaaa:bowdown (sweets)…“!