Pressure cookers are so simple. You put in some water at the bottom, put in whatever you need to cook, put the lid on, put on the pressure stopper, and then apply heat. That’s it. Then, after usually about 15 to 20 minutes, you release the pressure by removing the stopper, open the lid, and voila, you’ve got cooked dal, or rice, or potatoes, or whatever. It’s like modern day magic. Do any step in the wrong order, though, and you’ve got a recipe for kitchen disaster, lifetime injury, and perhaps even death. Am I being dramatic? No. People throughout history have been seriously injured by these simple creations. And last week, I could have been one of these people.

The evening began with an ask. Amma was swamped with work, so she asked Prakash and I to make dinner for the evening. She expected we’d make something easy, like a minestrone soup or pasta. You know, bachelor food. Instead, I thought it would be a great time to demonstrate to her my newfound South Indian cooking skills. During covid-19 quarantine, I’ve had the pleasure of learning how to make several traditional, home cooked South Indian meals from the best chef I know, Amma. While other millennials were baking sourdough bread and making pizza, I was learning the sorcery behind the flavors of my childhood – food packed with mustard seeds, curry leaves, spices, lentils, and vegetables. I had come close to perfecting a few dishes – specifically, sambar, which you can think of as a much more delicious lentil soup served over rice, and koss curry, a dry cabbage curry chock full of spices and warmth – and I was looking forward to showing off. Plus, Amma had always been in the kitchen with me while I was making those dishes prior, and this would be a chance to make her a meal without her watching. I proclaimed out loud for my brother and my father to hear: “This is my final test,” which in retrospect fits squarely into the “famous last words” category of my life.

The first step to making any sambar is to cook the lentils. Typically, we use a pressure cooker to do this. I considered cooking them simply over the stove, but I wanted to give my mother the authentic experience. Pressure cooker or bust, I told myself. So I got the pressure cooker, I put in some water, put in the lentils with a little turmeric, put the lid on, applied heat, put the pressure stopper on, and let the pressure cooker do its work. Meanwhile, I readied the vegetables and spices to make the other half of the sambar - where it gets all its flavor. That went excellently. The vegetables were simmering in a water and spice mixture, and developing a color that I knew Amma would be proud of. Look at me, I thought. A real South Indian. I was excited, not just because I was cooking for my mom, but because this felt more monumental: I can not only cook these delicious foods for myself, but also for my friends, for my future wife, and for my future kids, thereby not letting the storied food history of South India end with first-generation American me. I was doing my part to make sure, in a small way, that my culture didn’t die.

Finally, the sambar was ready for the final step: add the lentils, salt to taste, add the garnish, and voila. The meal is ready. My excitement was palpable. I readied the pot with the sambar, turned the handle on the pressure cooker, and then, POP! Everything stopped. I watched almost in slow motion as my turmeric lentils exploded all over the kitchen, extending as high as our fifteen foot ceiling and as far back as the dining table, a full 20 feet away. I had forgotten to remove the pressure stopper, thus releasing all of it in one instant. Appa came rushing in from the other room. “What’s happened?! Is everything okay?!” He was met with a squishy, yellow mess, everywhere. Turmeric dal strewn across the entire kitchen, their locations almost deliberate, as if Jackson Pollack himself had decided to turn our kitchen into a piece of art using only cooked lentils. My dad came close to me. I was expecting anger, maybe even some disappointment. But he just hugged me. He said “I’m so glad you’re okay. These things are really dangerous. You have to be really careful next time.” I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. Appa, notorious for his short fuse, was showing me a deep empathy that I never came to expect. He saw me, in that moment, not a budding 25-year old adult ready to take on the world, but a scared kid, his scared son, terrified about what could have just happened. He then said, “Come on, we’ve gotta clean this up. We’ll do such a good job that Amma won’t even know the difference.” He inspected the lentils. “At least they were cooked perfectly,” he joked. He cleaned with a smile on his face, maybe taking solace in the fact that his adult boy was maybe not so big after all.

Amma came downstairs 30 minutes later, after we had cleaned up the mess and made some new lentils for the sambar. I couldn’t let my mother not know what had occurred not 30-minutes prior. I spilled the beans, or should I say, lentils? “Amma, I blew up the pressure cooker. It made a huge mess. I’m so embarrassed and I’m so sorry.” She stopped for a moment to process what I told her. She looked at me, and then, like my father, pulled me in for a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay. These things are really dangerous. You have to be really careful next time.” I didn’t cry then either, but I wanted to. She continued, “I should just quit my job, so I can cook for you two. I’m so sorry you had to go through this. Were you scared?” I didn’t cry, but again, I wanted to. We sat down for dinner. I ate my meal in silence, then went upstairs to my room and spent the evening alone.

My parents came into my room around 10pm that night. They sat at my bed, comforting me that these mistakes happen and how relieved they were that no one was hurt. My dad then proclaimed to my mother: “Deepak’s sambar was really good today, right?” My mom smiled. “It really was”, she returned. She looked me in my eyes, and softly stated “I’m proud of you.” She kissed me on the forehead, and they left me alone in my room. That time, I cried. “I love you guys”, I thought, and drifted off to sleep.