Page 145 of Cakes for the Grump

Noor simply brushes her arm against mine in support.

That night—like all the ones before it—I sleep poorly. My alarm goes off at five in the morning and I get dressed for my first day at work. I pair black dress pants with a light gray collared shirt that fits a bit too snugly under my armpits. My hair is braided and gathered into a tight bun. Keeping my makeup simple, I stick to concealer for my under-eyes, mascara for my lashes, and a touch of unscented balm for my lips. Shoes are ballet flats in a dark navy, which matches the stocky, if a bit stiff, messenger bag I bought to transport any paperwork around in the office.

Uncle is still asleep when I step out of my room.

I’ve got a bit of time before I have to head out, but I simply stand there instead of making chai. Not only because I’ve stopped drinking tea specifically in the mornings, but because I’m staring at my kitchen.

There’s a lot of gluten-free dishes already in Punjabi cuisine. And some dairy-free. But what about both? You can blend cashew nuts as a cream substitute…but what’s the twist if I only swap that out?

Worry about the twist after.The memory of his voice teases me.

“Easier said than done, coming from a plebeian who knows nothing in the kitchen,” I whisper.

This isn’t about me, darling. It’s about you. Why aren’t you betting on yourself?

“Rich, coming from a multi-millionaire.”

Nice, deflection. Back to you. Stop getting in your head. Don’t doubt yourself, not when you’ve spent all night knocking around ideas in your head.

“Because I can’t sleep. Because of you!”

Are you talking to yourself? Yikes, that’s not a good sign. Do you miss me?

“Don’t.”

Pineapple fried rice fused with biryani.That’s my own voice again. Would I start the base with lamb meat?

I drop my bag and go back into my room. My shirt is restricting my movements as I rifle through my drawers, so I pop open a few buttons, and then untuck it fully when I have to drop down to my knees so I can pull out a container from under my cot. Heaving the lid off, I’m clawing at the contents until I find it. It’s a thick wedge in my hand. I bring it back out into the living room where there is more light.

My notebook. Pen in hand, I get to scribbling down ingredients, and then the possible orders of ingredients, and then which ones would need to be cooked separately, and then the cost of the approximate dish and whether it could be made in large batch portions.

By the time I’ve got my first concrete dish down, it’s lunchtime.

Uncle doesn’t say anything about me still being home when he wakes up. If anything, he’s got this strangely peaceful expression.

“I’m going to try,” I whisper to myself. “Let’s give it a go.”

Two weeks later,Prabjot calls me.

I got the contract.

And when the corporate catering event for TM Legal Services arrives, it is a hazy tumult of sweat, panic, almost-spilled-but-rescued-last-minute-salad, biryani-huge-hit, broad smiles, this-is-happening-finally, and I-can’t-believe-it elated drags of euphoria and exhaustion. In one event, my soul ismonopolized by chaos and fed relief by every lawyer who tells me this is the best food their office has ever supplied them. The HR manager and Prabjot tell my team (a fancy term for the temporary grouping of me, Noor, Kiren and an assistant I’ve hired for the day) that they have ten other events they want me to do. Though at that time there was a lettuce on my forehead, I’ve never shone so brightly over their confidence in me.

Of course, there are lessons this day has taught me. Prep is king, queen and every prince and princess out there. I need to do even more of it the night before. Portion control is another. We have far too many cups of chutney leftover that are going to be wasted. And the first thing I am spending my profits on is another bratt pan. The large cooking receptacle designed for producing large-scale meals is my new Messiah.

“This was good,” whispers Noor, cleaning up the last of the pans. “Really good!”

Kiren grins at our hired assistant, Tina. “We did it.”

Prabjot comes over again, brimming with smugness. “My boss hasn’t complimented my choices this much since I landed our biggest criminal case last year. Thank you, Rita!” She swipes the last gluten-free gulab jamun turnover from the plate. “Any chance you’ll give me the recipe to this one?”

“We’ll subscribe you to Rita’s newsletter,” yells Kiren from the background. “The recipe is going to come up in her next issue!”

“Of course!”

Noor leaps forward. “If you want to ask the other lawyers for their emails too, I’ll pass around a piece of paper?”

“Great idea!”