Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Sunday Mutton Curry

Sunday  was mutton curry day for us when we were young.
It was a ritual of sorts.
Kamla , the help, would chop onions and grind garlic and ginger in rhytmic motions as she squatted  and sweated over the stone pestle and mortar.
The potatoes were peeled and sitting on the sink ledge, some bits of skin still clinging bravely on.

Mother would call out to my father to hurry up.
Father would amble out of the shower, hair neatly combed back, the plastic shopping bag in hand and car keys in the other.

He would walk past the garden and the chicken coop , shouting out gentle instructions to the gardener , before we heard the familiar start up rumble of the Amby.

Around one in the afternoon, the screaming pressure cooker and the accompanying stream of aroma would announce that afternoon lunch would be shortly ready.

That was a ritual that not only we, but most of the families we knew followed.

It was not the mutton that made it special.
It was the family meal.
Unlike other days, father was there at home for lunch.
There was no rush, we could savour every bite and more importantly, conversation.
Mother would be relaxed and happy.
We would be playing.
The radio would be belting out our favourite songs.

That's the difference between consumption and purchase.
The more ritualistic our consumption is, the more special the occasion becomes.

Brands that have capitalised uopn this  have had a much stronger bonding with consumers.
Like the mutton curry, these brands remain in our hearts  longer.