“Thoda bhuno aur… abhi masale ka rang nahi nikla!”
If that line sounds familiar, congratulations—you’ve been trained in the ancient art of cooking-by-ear from a true master: your mom.
In our home, there were no measuring cups. Just intuition, sniff tests, and an encyclopaedia of food words that only Mom seemed to understand. These weren’t just instructions; they were inherited rituals.
So here’s my humble attempt to decode and honour some of those beautifully desi words that made Mom’s kitchen magical. If you grew up with these words echoing in your home, prepare for a trip down memory lane.
Baghaar / Tadka (Temper)
“Abhi tadka nahi lagaya toh sab bekaar hai.”
Tadka wasn’t just about heating ghee and tossing in jeera—it was theatre. The sizzle, the aroma, and that moment when the kitchen smelled just right. Mom believed a tadka-less dal was a sin. I agree.
Dhungar (Smoke Infusion)
On special days, Mom would take a burning coal, pour a drop of ghee, and trap the smoky magic inside a handi of baingan bharta or kebabs. No tandoor needed. Just old-school flair.
Mom’s tip: Use it to revive boring leftovers. Instant makeover!
Bhuno (Sauté till it's emotionally ready)
“Masala tab tak bhuno jab tak tel alag na ho jaye.”
This wasn’t just cooking—it was therapy. Stirring slowly, watching the spices change colour, waiting for that oil to peek out… Cooking was a mood. And Mom always had the patience.
Kachcha / Pakka
Used for everything—from vegetables to relationships.
“Yeh sabzi abhi kachchi hai” meant ‘Don’t touch the lid again!’
And “abhi pak gaya hai” meant ‘Ready to serve, beta!’
Somehow, she always knew—without even tasting.
Galna (To melt into submission)
Dal or lauki, sab kuch gal jaana chahiye. Soft, comforting, no resistance. Mom would always say, “Pet ko bhi toh aaram chahiye.” It wasn’t just food. It was care.
Namak Haram (Missing salt, not morals)
“Ismein toh namak hi bhool gayi!”
Not an insult—just the most sassy mom way of saying: “Go fix it!”
In our home, forgetting namak was the ultimate rookie move.
Dum Dena (Cook with silence)
When biryani went on the dum, everyone knew: no peeking! The lid was sealed with dough, the heat was low, and the room was filled with anticipation. That slow steam cooked more than food—it cooked excitement.
Rassa / Tari / Kat / Jhol
Call it what you want, this was the curry base dreams are made of.
Mom had her own lingo: “Thoda aur paani daal, rassa ban jaaye.”
She knew exactly how much to make for that last roti dip.
💌 Why Mom’s Words Matter
They weren’t just culinary terms. They were acts of nurturing, wisdom, rhythm, and often—love without words. Every dish carried a phrase, a lesson, a story. In decoding these words, we decode care.
Let’s preserve these gems. Not in cookbooks, but in memory. In blogs. In whispered kitchen conversations with our children.
🫶 What Were Your Mom’s Kitchen Words?
Did your mom use words like chauka, katran, or phodni?
Drop them in the comments or DM me your version of Mom’s Glossary. Let’s build a little memory bank of kitchen wisdom, one word at a time.
Neerja Bhatnagar
Neerja Bhatnagar
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Most of these are strange words for me and you'll understand why. There's an entirely different cuisine here in this part of India.
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