My tribute to canned food

My parents had gone back to India for two months and I had to resort to that elixir of life- canned food. And out here in Singapore, there’s no dearth of that: Mutton rendang, beef and chicken curry, steak, pineapple, litchi, Indian vegetarian, beans and what not. They have kept me alive for the last two months: tasting good (with lots of helping from MSG), filling up my stomach, and coming out the next day with dignity. So everyday, as my hi-tech kitchen awaited me, dressed up with its grills, exhausts and 4 ovens, I would just heat up the canned food in the microwave which sent out a proud hum to belittle the other kitchen accessories.

Not only does canned food taste good, they also give you a feeling that you have cooked your stuff, a feeling of maturity and metro-sexuality. And the loads of preservatives and oil work wonders; sometimes I wished if I could have just the preservatives as starters. O my canned food; you are the saviors for us bachelors, showing that in a world where we are always the first to be picked for onerous company tours and late working hours, there is still someone who cares for us. And you are so much more humane and compassionate than those rude instant noodles which come with an insulting pack of six counted pieces of dried vegetables. No wonder, Andy Warhol was so fascinated with you (see picture).

And soon, as I embarked on my epic journey of devouring one can after another, I noted that giant conspiracy. Just as the North Indians have stealthily dominated mass culture in India through its Hindi cinema and television; it is now stealthily creeping in to dominate what we eat through desi canned food. After all, doesn’t all canned Indian food taste of Daal Makhani? What would my man Periyar have to say to that?

So I ended up with having Mutton Rendang every day, cause it tasted so much like Bengali mutton, and satiated my daily craving for meat. And guess what, each can come with a slice of potato too. So wonderful, isn’t it?