There’s a kind of electricity that runs through your body when you realize no one’s watching you in the kitchen — and you’re allowed to stay. Not just to fetch something. Not to stir once and leave. But to cook. Alone. The first snack I ever made without supervision wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even particularly good. But it tasted like freedom, and I remember every detail. Because that was the day the kitchen, once off-limits and slightly intimidating, became mine.
It was a rainy Saturday afternoon. The kind where the house smells like damp concrete and old newspapers, and you’ve already rewatched all the cartoons worth rewatching. My parents were napping. My sister was at tuition. I was maybe 10 — curious, restless, and hungry. The kind of hunger that craved something warm, crunchy, and salty. Something instant, but homey.
The Setup (and the Stealth)
I tiptoed into the kitchen like a spy. I didn’t want to wake anyone — partly because I didn’t want to be stopped, and partly because I didn’t want an audience. My first mission? Bread. I knew we had some. Slightly stale, perfect for frying. Then, inspiration struck: bread pakora. Not the stuffed, spiced kind my mom made, but a hacked version — just slices, dipped in besan, deep-fried, with whatever I could manage to mix together.
I found the besan tin. Measured nothing. Added water “by feel.” A little haldi. A lot of salt. A generous shake of red chilli powder, because I wanted it to taste grown-up. I dipped the bread pieces — triangles, because that felt more official — and set a pan on the stove. I had watched my mom pour oil so many times, I mimicked the motion with unnecessary confidence.
The Moment the Oil Sizzled
The first splash of batter hit the oil and puffed up like magic. The sizzle was loud, slightly scary, and incredibly satisfying. I stood there, wide-eyed, watching triangles turn golden in front of me, flipping them with the steel slotted spoon I had never been allowed to use before. I didn’t burn anything. I didn’t undercook anything. My shirt smelled like oil and my hands like turmeric. I felt like I had made fire.
The Taste of Trying
I plated them — all five pieces — on an old steel plate and added ketchup like a hotel chef. I took them to the balcony, sat on the wet floor with my legs stretched out, and took a bite. Were they crispy? A little. Spicy? Too much. Salty? Absolutely. But they were mine. They didn’t taste like my mother’s pakoras, but they tasted like a beginning. The first time I fed myself from scratch. The first time I didn’t need to ask anyone to make me a snack. The first time I felt, in some small, crunchy way, like an adult.
The Aftermath and the Quiet Approval
Later, my mom found the oily counter and the open spice tins. She didn’t scold me. Just raised an eyebrow and said, “Next time, add ajwain. Helps digestion.” That was it. No “good job.” No “be careful.” Just a single sentence that said, “I see what you did. You’re part of this kitchen now.”
From then on, I made that same snack whenever the mood hit — slightly different each time, always with too much chilli, and eventually with ajwain. It was never about impressing anyone. It was about the joy of being able to create something hot and delicious from nothing but scraps and instinct. About discovering that the kitchen wasn’t just a place where food came from — it was a space where I could become someone new.
Now, Years Later
I’ve cooked more complicated things since then. Paneer bhurji, dal makhani, chana chaat with the right crunch level. But no dish has ever matched the thrill of that first solo experiment — of oil popping, batter dripping, and bread crisping up under my nervous, excited hands.
The first snack I ever made without supervision wasn’t a recipe. It was a rite of passage. A way of saying, “I can feed myself. I can try. I can fail. And I can always fry something better tomorrow.”
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
