Christmas, or Borodin as it is known in Bangla, in Calcutta in the 80s was all about picnics and family outings to the Maidan or to the Victoria Memorial. Or to the Botanical Garden to see a very old banyan tree or to the Chiriyakhana to see a very old tortoise.
Or perhaps a test at the Eden. White clothes cricket. Not ball.
Two things were constant with these outings.
And I am not talking about the monkey cap or plum cake.
Deem sheddo. Boiled egg sandwiches. Made with commercial white bread … Modern, Priya, Farini, precious and often rationed Amul butter. Salt, pepper and sliced boiled egg… assembled by the matriarch of the family in the morning.
Packed along with komola lebu. Oranges. For your dose of vitamin c. A more hardy dessert to carry than cake. Be it from Flurys or Bapuji. The latter was kept for evening tea at home. Often bought from the corner paan bidir dokan.
That’s the only reason I can think of for my boiling eggs today, just as the workers came in to break and repair our kitchen walls, instead of ordering breakfast in after scampering behind Nimki to give him his meds and attempting to make Loaf eat wet food. I kept a bread knife put to slice sourdough. Added a cheese slice in to feel festive. Plugged the sandwich griller where the router in the hall is. Greased it with olive oil first.
Breakfast was LIT if I may say so and I inhaled it and then bounced to crank out an espresso and sat to write this story.
Of course back in the day, sour meant the bread is spoilt. Electric grillers or Nespresso machines were rarely heard of, if not invented, and the use of electrical equipment were subject to the whim of the government’s and daily power cuts. I don’t think cheese slices were around then. Forget looking down on ‘processed cheese.’
Free range eggs? Lions were mean to be Born Free (Google that), not eggs.
Olive oil was meant to be applied on bonny babies. Not for greasing sandwich toasters.
Wonder what Christmas 2061 will be like. Any bets?
