How to cook Maggie without LPG. Review on Tips on Cooking food

Have you ever felt a desperation for something so silly and piffling, that your unwanted desperation ultimately ended up being a disaster? Honestly, I did - In circa 2006. It was that memorable Sunday that gave me a prospect to glorify myself, absolutely free of cost.

On Sundays, I generally do not wake up until the rodents in my stomach wake me up for a breakfast or brunch. ‘Rats’ are such an understatement to describe men’s hunger.(dissenting men are Liars. Fabricators. Gays).

That sunday, my anatomical virtual rodents woke me up at 9 a.m. I crawled out of the mattress marching towards the bathroom for a hunger-induced hasty teeth-brushing. I gave a short glance at my roomie in the other room who was still snoring away, lying there half-naked.

“Induced Deficiency In Alertness And Activity” is my Sunday motto. Although, there was a good tiffin-centre right around the corner, my self-invented motto was an obstacle, plus, I was not mentally and physically prepared to go through the herculean series of tasks just to satiate my hunger – Stand in queue at the tiffin-centre with other starving bachelors from neighbourhood, order breakfast, wait for 30 mins before the food arrives, eat the food, feel insufficient, re-order food, wait for 30 mins again, accumulate 100000 PSi of gas in stomach, upset the gastroduodenal rodents and finally regret “why the hell had I been there?”

Maggie - The Official Indian Bachelors Staple Food - came to my rescue before the aforesaid nightmare turned into a reality. I initiated the proceedings by taking out the stain-rich, non-copper-bottom pan from the kitchen cabinet. Filled roughly half of it with water and dumped two packs of regular maggie into it. Exactly after two minutes, the water stopped boiling(And my patience started withering). The blueflame had already died. Lying there was my semi-cooked maggi like an interrogated victim in jail. After a minute, while I was sincerely resenting at my situation, my roomie slowly tottered into the kitchen.

(Releasing a disgusting yawn) “Good morning dude, is the maggie ready?

I glare at him.

“I mean, can I brush my teeth?” he grins and the tone was sarcastic

I pointed my sight at the half-cooked maggie in the pan.

“Ha Ha Ha Ha” –(devil-like) -He continued. “Nice nice. I knew this would happen Ha Ha Ha Ha. Yesterday itself….Ha Ha Ha Ha ….the gas was over….Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha…Sorry…I forgot to tell you…Ha Ha Ha Ha.” and he slowly disappeared.

BASTD!

Back here, my self-respecting disposition felt like a rape victim. “Insaaf chaahiye mujhe” my self-respect was screaming within. “Khaana chahiye mujhe” the rodents screamed on the other hand.

As it usually happens with me in all moments of uncertainity, I experienced a powercut in my mind - a full system shutdown. I started looking around confusedly, searching for nothing in particular. Then something caught my eye – a heap of Economic Times papers lying at the corner. Fresh. Hardly ever read. A bulb glows. Dawn befalls. In my mind. Eureka!.

Immediately, I stole a grand total of three bricks inconspicuously, which our neighbour Mishra uncle laid near the elevator couple of days ago(some upcoming cement work in his apt may be). Then, I strategically placed them on the kitchen’s granite platform so that it comfortably held the pan, while giving ample space for the Economic Times rolls underneath. A full 10-mins of high-flame cooking ensued. 5 editions of Economic Times fully burnt. My maggie, whether over-cooked or evaporated, only God knew at that moment. The room was filled with offensive smoke. Incredible amount of ash flew all around the kitchen due to wind sweeping in from the window.

The roomie hurried into the kitchen hearing a muffled scream from me. I was sitting there on a chair, with my legs spread out awkwardly. Roughly an inch of my finger became tandoori. I was restlessly blowing air at it. My eyes red and bloodshot, while face with myriad patches of burnt Economic Times remains all over – In a nutshell, I looked like a destiny-saved tsunami victim. He then leaned over to take a careful look at the noodles. It was overcooked and had incredible flakes of burnt paper neatly scattered all over its surface. It resembled an exotic Italian pasta.