The melted chocolate was poured in the batter. The batter mostly included of well kneaded flour with butter and baking soda. She used the hand-blender to mix the two together. The two adapted the dark color of the chocolate.

My mouth watered. My hands trembled.

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Khichdi! I think that was my first favorite food. One of the staple diets of an average Indian family, it is given mostly when a person is unwell. It consists of nothing much more than rice, pulses, turmeric powder, bit of chilies and of course, the mother of all ingredients, salt. You take all of them, boil them together and the healthiest fast food is ready.

And then my as I grew older the range widened. From south Indian dosas to Italian pastas, to American style pizzas to Chinese noodles; I gobbled them up with utmost delight. And not just from my plate, but from plates of people who couldn’t finish their meal.

I took special liking to anything with meat and cheese. I ate these with almost anything. Bread, rice, chapatti or sometimes even if there was no main dish.

And just when, my friends began to come to the conclusion that there can be no bigger food lover than me, I met her.

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She buttered the sides of the baking tray before pouring the batter into it. That is done to avoid the cake to stick to the sides of the tray. Very neatly she laid out the dark brown colored batter. Then very carefully, she placed the tray into the pre-heated oven.

Following this, she took some of the cooking chocolate and kept in a bowl over a pot of boiling water. Even from my amateurish culinary skills, I assumed that you needed to apply indirect heat to the cooking chocolate.

I played a quiet spectator to all of this. My hands shook as if the temperatures were very low.

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I don’t think I ever heard her say no to food. Anything you give her she eats with up great pleasure. In fact, when she is eating, nothing much can distract her. So much so, that once her baby sister went missing, while she was busy munching on French fries and sipping hot chocolate on the snow clad peaks of the Alps.

Over the years her love for food has spread over across to other aspects of her life as well. Nothing proves this statement more than the fact that she actually worked on a thesis on THE PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT OF FOOD.

I took a liking to her at once. Besides food, we did share interests in other fields like books and films. But whenever we have met, we have had quite interesting food items. Kati rolls, tiger prawns, pork, beef steak, carrot cake and many other delicacies.

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She couldn’t reach out to the smaller baking tray perched on top of the cabinet. With a slight stretch of my arms, I fetched it down, glad that my height came to some use.

She took the tray and kept it aside, not acknowledging my heroic deed. She checked on the pressure cooker placed on the second flame of the stove.

Then she took the smaller tray and laid out the remaining batter into the small tray. I took a step towards her, my hands trembling ever so slightly.

By now I was inches away from her. She laid out straightened the batter in the second tray. No one was there in her house. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my breathing and she patting on the batter to smoothen it out.

My hands continued to tremble.

With great concentration she straightened out the batter. I asked her to look at me, with a slight twinkle in her eyes. She glanced upwards.

I waited only for a moment before moving. But the moment seemed longer than a lifetime. All the past memories came flooding back into my head. The first time I saw her. The first time I touched her. The first time she hugged me. The trembling hands. The sweaty palms. Within that one moment it all flashed in front of my eyes.

I took in a breath. I bent down. She stopped her work. The batter in the oven bloated up . The cooking chocolate in the pan began to melt. The whistle blew on the pressure cooker. Our lips met.

My hands stopped trembling.