From my understanding of pop culture, cinema and television, death row inmates are asked what they would like for their last meal.
“Blueberry pancakes”, is my favourite answer from a TV show and they aired another trailer for it this week. Fair warning, that the quote was from memory so, please don’t take up swords against me if I got it wrong.
Working away from your hometown and going back for a weekend brings a mildly similar scenario to mind, one that is starkly pleasant compared to death row.
“What would you like for lunch?”, my mom asks me over the phone a couple of days before I’m due to arrive. The answers will always be the same and I don’t frown and she doesn’t fuss because it’s what I really like to eat. My dad voices over from the background saying, “Why do you keep making the same things every time he comes?”.
That, is the deal with lunch. Breakfast and dinner are a more routine affair.
Dosa. Now, this is where it’s at, and this is where the title will begin to make sense.
There are six meals over the course of two days for my weekend and four of those, invariably end up being dosa. Not out of habit, not because anybody is lazy and definitely not because that is the only food available. It’s because, I absolutely adore it.
There have been times when we’ve cleaned up a weeks worth of batter in 3 days. Good times.
The train that takes me back leaves in on Monday morning (hail the graveyard shift that I don’t have to show up on Monday morning to work) and the bonus meal, the last meal for the weekend is also dosa.
Morning arrived and I sat at the table; dad opens up the hotbox and there are four golden and wonderful dosas waiting for me; munching my way through the delicacy with care and craftsmanship, I look up at the clock and realise that it’s getting late. The last dosa stays in the box and I dart out, get in the car and onward to the train station.
As I sit back in the platform, waiting for the train to arrive, the announcement booms across the speakers, “Train number <I think this one is mine> is delayed by fifteen minutes”
Disappointment grabs my face as the ghost of the last dosa gives an all knowing smile at me.
Now, don’t even get me started on molagapodi.