From Beginner to Chef Simply Creative Cooking

My daughters were in their early teens when I went on strike. Not
a hunger strike for some moral cause but a labour strike - in our
own home! Zany...? Not quite....
It happened this way. The girls were going through a difficult
adolescence in a single-parent household with me struggling to
establish myself as a journalist while battling on several family
fronts. Living with us was not easy. Three maids quit within
weeks. While the third one was packing up I overheard the girls
celebrating 'Yeay! Now we'll get Mummy ka hath ka khaana'.
"Did I hear right?" I asked, aghast that they'd been plotting to
get rid of the maid. As if I didn't have my hands full enough!
They nodded gleefully, expecting me to be flattered. "Make
yummy Ham and Rice tomorrow, Mamma."
"Pl-ea-ease."
"I am not entering the kitchen," said I firmly.
"You have an assignment....? We can get food from outside."
"Make your delicious Chicken Casserole over the weekend."
They'd missed the glare in my eyes.
"Girls," I said, gritting my teeth. "I am not entering the kitchen
from tomorrow onwards. Not tomorrow, not the weekend, not
next week."
Something was beginning to register. "Then...then who'll cook?",
stammered Nishat.
"You!"
"Me?!!!!"
"Yes, you and Naheed."
"But...but we can't..."
"We don't know how to cook, Mamma."
"You'll have to learn or we're all going to starve. From now I will
not enter the kitchen till you two can serve up a decent meal."
Thus began the culinary lessons with me doing nothing more
than giving verbal instructions. The first few days we survived on
puch-puch chawal and kali (burnt) dal. I remained unrelenting. No outside food.
When stocks ran out I bought vegetables, rice, dal, fish. No quick
bites. Not even biscuits, chivda or cheese. By the fourth day the
rice and dal were beginning to look like rice and dal, though the
dal still had no tadka.
Then Naheed tentatively asked "Can I try chips? We have ketchup
in the fridge."
"Okay," said I, slightly apprehensive, for lowering wet potatoes
into hot oil can be tricky for a beginner.
"Will you cut potatoes for me?"
"The peeler and knife are in the drawer."
"If I cut my hand....?"
"There's a first time for everyone. Be careful."
Some potato wedges were thick, some were thin. Naheed panfried
instead of deep-frying. But the chips tasted good after the
gooey stuff we'd survived on. One week into my labour strike we
had not-brilliantly-cooked-but-edible French fries. That was the
beginning.
The repertoire increased. Chips were accompanied by fried fish.
Eggs were boiled, fried, scrambled. Dal and rice combined into
a khichdi. I had graduated from 'cook' to 'teacher'. It was time
to re-enter the kitchen.
Nishat took longer than Naheed to get over her fear of getting
burnt. When it was her turn to cook, she'd get Naheed to light
the gas stove and stretch over the degchi from two feet away with
a long-handled spoon! Since she wears loose kaftans there was
a risk of her clothes catching fire unless she did things properly.
I...