I was obsessed with making the perfect roti — flat round of bread made from whole wheat flour.
Back home we have shops in every locality, where you can have them warm, freshly made in clay tandoors. Here the store brought, sealed as four to a packet, are mostly made from white flour (maida). The flour used is of inferior quality and doesn’t taste good.
I have a different machine back home for kneading dough. I had to learn how to get the dough right on the Kenwood here. Through trial, and error method I found out the right ratio of whole wheat flour, yeast, and water. I felt happy at watching the ball of flour getting bigger leaving the sides of bowl clean.
I burned my arm in getting the roti cooked in the oven. And I would forget to watch the roti beneath the grill. Once I forgot it altogether. There was a smell of something burning. My ever vigilant nose was working. I looked at the gas rings seeing nothing that was burning. I had totally forgotten the last roti in the oven. Then I realized what was really burning.
There was joy in watching my grandson H in munching his leftover last piece of roti while going up the stairs. Normally the left over was thrown in the disposal container. That meant it was perfectly made. Whoa! I did it.
Practice Makes Perfect?
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