I never thought I’d be doing cooking posts beyond heartfelt odes to maggi. The very idea of preparing a real meal fires a panic attack. Being extremely accident-prone as a kid, I was never really allowed to fiddle in the kitchen too much – especially with that elusive pressure cooker.

I’d always stared at the pressure cooker in awe and fear, dashing out of the kitchen just before the whistle blew (sufficiently freaked out by all those stories of daughter-in-laws myseteriously dying due to bursting pressure cookers). So I’m rather surprised that I’ve finally succumed to its powers. I’ve been struggling with homemade food for Nibbles, and I’m competing with tasteless, commercial goo. I didn’t bother investing in a blender, and decided that chunkiness would make for interesting texture and easier transitioning into “real” food. Nibbles decided to disagree.

I rummaged through the bottles of homogenous veggies – carrots, winter squash, peas – when the pressure cooker nudged me, with its shiny grin. One whistle and 30 minutes later, I was totally smitten when I saw that it had converted a stubborn organic yam into the perfect pulp that was eagerly gobbled down by Nibbles.

Forget sliced bread. I can’t imagine life without this spiffy device!

I can’t believing I’m feeding Nibbles’ bottled baby food. Seems hypocritical after all the fuss I made to breastfeed. I know it’s rare that babies gulp down bottled baby food. The fact that it’s completely organic, with no added salt or sugar, ought to make me feel good. Still, I feel like those are just excuses for my laziness.

One good reason to cook baby food at home is to select the best produce and preserve maximum nutritional value (Guilt fodder). It doesn’t necessarily work out cheaper, considering nobody else wants the pulp of organic veggies left over (too lazy to freeze).

However, I feel like the root of my disappointment lies elsewhere. I’d love for Nibbles to join in on our meals, especially when he stares longingly at our plates, drooling. I feel like such a selfish hog, but considering the spicy, greasy crap Big Byte and I gobble down everyday, I know it’s best Nibbles watched from a distance. And no, I’ve already given up alcohol, so switching to a baby-friendly diet can certainly wait or I’ll bring the house down.

The darker side to all this is the indian mommy reflex (I don’t think american cooking is as involved, so I’m leaving it out. Ok, fine, I’m a bigot). I want to cook for my child, and I want him to enjoy the food and place it on an altar – incomparable to any edible scrap on the planet. Lofty ideals? Sure. And I hate it. I hate the fact that I’ve become like those aunties I detested. “My son lost so much weight in college because he likes my food only”, they’d gush proudly, stuffing another desi ghee soaked parantha/dosa/burfi into the pathetic son’s face. Then there are those MILs that believe their sons lead lesser lives because the wives can’t cook for like they can…bechaare. Now I’m chanting the same bloody slogans. What’s worse is that I know I wouldn’t have hated these instincts so much if I had a daughter.

Maybe there’s a better explanation for all this. After being his sole source of nutrition for 9 months in utero + 6 months outside (sneaking in some formula on work days), I feel left out of the whole process. What process? His growth? There are several other ways to stimulate it, like playing, talking and laughing with him. My obsession is silly. My baby enjoys balanced meals everyday and I’m not dancing around with glee. I better get crackin’ on my letting-go skills. I’ll certainly need to summon them several times in the years to come.

Breakfast is overrated. And I need chocolate now.

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So much for not turning this into a whine-space *sigh*

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with increasing  my milk supply, thanks to half empty pumped bottles I bring home for a starving Nibbles. Naturally preferring remedies of the edible kind, I decided to try my hand at some galactogogues. I enjoyed pigging out on fenugreek (methi) paranthas and sipped cups of yogi tea, but I must admit, my surprise favorite is Oatmeal. Yes, oatmeal, in all its soggy gooeyness, with random bites of raisins and granola and a swirl of brown sugar to punctuate the yumminess. I’ve always had a weakness for goo, and I’m so glad it has such a healthy form. Let’s hope this miracle food has some advice for the ol’ mammary glands. Can’t wait to share this with Nibbles once he gets started on solids *slurp!*