Thoughts from dosa-making

Making dosas should be straightforward enough, especially for a Tamilian. No?

Four thoughts from this morning’s dosa-making experience that mirrors my every dosa-making experience.

1. The last dosa is the best dosa.

Because by then you’ve gone through at least two failed dosas, scraped their remnants off the tawa, attempted to achieve the right temperature of the tawa by heating and cooling it in turns, made dosas big and small, before the ideal dosa emerges.

And so as you settle down to eat, you begin with the last dosa – crispy, golden, hot, and light – a work of art. And then you eat the soft one, then the soggy one, the misshapen one, and finally the last tiny ‘test’ dosa.

2. Anyone can make dosas on a non-stick tawa.

I resisted a non-stick tawa for years, with misplaced belief in my ability to ‘season’ a regular tawa for dosas. I don’t even make dosas that often (for reasons mentioned in #1) – and breakfast is usually VK’s responsibility. So when I finally succumbed to the temptation of a non-stick tawa, I wondered why I’d been foolish enough to avoid its convenience. The dosa neatly glides off the pan!

3. Dosa batter smells.

I hate dosa and idli maavu. I hate its smell when it’s fresh and when it’s sour. I get furious if someone leaves the batter in the fridge even a millimetre uncovered, as it floods the fridge with its smell. I detest the white streaks the batter leaves wherever it goes – and oh, it’s a sneaky one, capable of dripping anywhere and everywhere. The kitchen after dosa-making is like a scene of crime, with white streaks on one’s arm, the kitchen counter, the fridge shelf, the stove knob.

4. Few pleasures in life match up to getting hot dosas off the tawa.

Making dosas for someone is an act of love, given that it’s time-consuming and is a frustratingly delicate dance of temperature-batter-technique. It’s not often that I get to eat hot dosas; at best they’re casserole-hot, which is as good as useless when it comes to dosas (as they get soggy). I’m truly grateful to the family and friends who have made dosas for me. I admire their patience as I eat a dosa faster than the time it takes to make one.

Given my dosa-making skills and attitude, I don’t do it often, either, but quietly relish the few times I do; I walk from the kitchen to the hall, folded dosa proudly balanced on the spatula, to serve them.