Gastronomic Nightmares

It happened when I was in std 8th. Mom had been transferred to a far off place, and couldnt impress upon her superiors to move her back to Bangalore. Dad had, therefore, inherited the kitchen. Food would mostly be alright, but there were times when Dad would outdo himself, and cook a fantasy dinner that we thought should stay only in fantasies. But since brother and I were kids with a paltry pocket money of Rs.50 per month, which would mostly be spent on the first weekend after receiving it, we had to force ourselves to like everything that Dad cooked. It was only later that I realised that going hungry is a lot less harmful than eating bad food.

One fateful evening, Dad decided to cook something exotic. I dont remember what it was, but it smelled like volcanic ash. And it tasted just as hot. Since we dont hail from Andhra, and we dont even have any remote ancestral links with Andhra Pradesh, the gene for digesing spicy food was never inherited. Not even the recessive variety. But Dad believed in the "All humans are evolved from the same ancestors" theory, and insisted we eat the spicy volcanic ash that he had conveniently branded as food.

Armed with a bucket full of water, sweetened by a generous helping of sugar, Bro and I went through the ordeal. We had to eat till the entire ash was consumed, since my Dad was strictly against wasting food. Brother suggested that we save some of it for later, hoping that would give us sufficient time to dig a big pit in the neighbour's backyard and dump the food so that nobody could find it. However, Dad was quick to see through his plan, and warned us that the food would get hotter when it turns cold. Some oxymoron that. So we cursed and ranted and cried and ate the entire lava , while all the time emptying bucket loads of sweetened water and draining our watery noses with turkey towels (since all our hand kerchiefs were dripping wet).

The next morning, I had to excuse myself atleast thrice during class, to relieve myself in the loo. As luck would have it, it was a Tuesday. And Tuesdays were dry days in Bangalore since there would be no water running in the taps. I dare not explain how I came clean out of my predicament. But I have faint memories of all my fellow students reaching for scented kerchiefs the moment I came back to the class. Someone later told me it was chemistry class, and they were discussing Hydrogen Sulphide.
But I know better than to believe it.