Punjabi Changey Chholey, or some such complicatedly spelt name

It started like this. Usually, on their way home, in the late late train, Medusa's colleagues discuss about stuff that they've cooked the previous weeks (interesting bit however, they're all men. Perhaps that's what contributes to the eagerness in their voices, not having to make the daily dal, chawal, and being able to dabble in the occasional delicacies). Usually, they can be divided in two groups, the Haves and the Have-nots. Those who have a microwave, and those who don't. Medusa falls in the second category, and being the one who's started cooking the last, she also listens reverentially to the wonders that can be accomplished with the magic box and the right marinade.

There is one among her fellow-travelers who has distinguished himself by the prodigious amount he can devour, and his willingness to cook even in the worst of weathers (actually cooking in the winter or maybe during heavy rains will be pleasant, a nice warmth creeping in from the fingertips and warming one, but its the heat that medusa dreads, and the cook in question doesn't seem to mind). So when this cook heard that Medusa planned to cook chick peas the next day, he launched into a lengthy diatribe meticulously describing what all spices needed to be blended together and then added in what order for it to taste good.

while the rest of the group took notes, medusa was somewhat miffed. she remembered one winter afternoon when a dear friend was likely to miss lunch, and medusa had slaved over a borrowed rice cooker and with one spice blend cooked chick peas, something that the friend had loved.

So medusa started. soaking the chick peas over night and then boiling them

chopping and mincing the vegetables

putting it all on the stove with oil, salt and some of this:
And then stirring and stirring
And finally, breakfast:


Family loved it. Medusa loved it even more 'coz it reminded her of an experience that can never be repeated.