“Do you know what homemade butter tastes like?”, I ask, not with a hint of condescension but with a glint of affirmative hope that you will.
Not the melon yellow store-bought cubes devoid of character that we call butter.
They are brilliant at heroism; of redemption on the day you are running late; swish and go, that simple.
But I am talking about homemade butter. Homemade butter from cowmade milk.
First you need to be a cunning matchmaker and acquaint working class hero, buttermilk, with classist maiden, milk. Just an intro will make her day. When they fall in love she will curdle into that cotton cushion clouds are made of. At this point marry them off using a mixer and out of her beautiful consistency will be born little islands of butter.
So coming back to the butter at hand, it’s slightly sweet and slightly sour, pale and light, looks textured but is fluid in your mouth.
I had a slice of sugar-kissed buttered bread today. Its been ages. Those hurried tea-times before freedom are long gone. Freedom spelled with friends, cricket, cycle and sun.
But I remembered the minute details. Like how the butter, in all her silkiness, had slipped over the pot-holed bread and sugar in all his bravado had kissed her scraped knee to make her feel better. A bite could taste like a smile if you bit the crystals of sugar, like peace if you got the butter and like an argument if you hit plain bread thanks to my inferior buttering skills.
This is the taste of my 3.45 pm.