INDIAN AUTHOR SHORT STORY: Love and Other Culinary Drugs

Lalita Iyer, Author of I'm Pregnant, Not Terminally Ill, You Idiot!, pens a love story for Cosmo




​ Matt had me at vadapav. He was as American as it gets, and Jewish to top that. I had gatecrashed one of his random parties where he was making vadapavs for expats and they were all gushing about him. I had the audacity to point out the difference between using whole coriander seeds and dhania-jeera powder off the shelf. He was hooked. And then he never stopped cooking for me. Tsatsiki with dill, rasbhari salad with feta and arugula, his special sautéed spinach with lemon and garlic, tabouleh with dalia, watermelon and tomato salad with red wine vinegar or pumpkin quiche. And of course, sangria. I now know it was never the food. It was what Matt did to them. He always believed couscous was overrated, as was any produce that didn't give enough ROI. He had this weird philosophy of assigning values to every food item and grading them by their ability to satiate with minimal effort. He had to. He cooked for a whole bunch of random people and screened movies for them on his terrace. He forgot my birthday. But that's not why I broke up with him. It was hard to know whether I was in love with him or what he fed me. I knew I wouldn't meet someone who had such a repertoire and love for cooking. I didn't.