Pregnancy Journey: My exquisite culinary delicacies (Part 3)

When life throws you a curveball – or in my case, a relentless onslaught of morning sickness – there's only one thing to do: turn to the experts. And by experts, I mean mothers. After all, who better to dispense wisdom and advice than the seasoned veterans of motherhood themselves?

So, armed with my trusty phone and a stomach churning with nausea, I reached out to every woman in my life who had ever experienced the joy (read: torture) of pregnancy. Between bouts of vomiting and gagging, I listened intently as they reassured me that this too shall pass – that the hellish cycle of morning sickness would eventually come to an end, even if it felt like an eternity away.

But here's the kicker: their words of wisdom offered little solace to a weary soul just six weeks into pregnancy. Three months of nausea may sound like a drop in the bucket to some, but when you're in the thick of it, each day feels like an eternity of misery.

Unable to bear the thought of spending another moment hunched over the toilet or watching my poor husband eat his sandwich in solitude on the cold balcony (lest the mere scent of his lunch send me into another vomiting fit), we made a drastic decision. Packing our bags after just 15 days in Sweden, we boarded a plane bound for India – specifically, Kerala, where my mother promised that her homemade rice water would work miracles.

Ah, the glamorous life of a pregnant woman – where even a simple plane ride becomes a high-stakes game of "Will I vomit or won't I?"

Facing the grim reality that I couldn't possibly endure a commercial flight without my own personal puke bucket, my husband and I were left with two options: either rent out the entire plane (a tad extravagant, don't you think?) or splurge my husband's entire month's salary on a business class ticket. And so, with a heavy heart and an even heavier wallet, we opted for the latter – because who needs financial stability when you can have legroom and plush seats, am I right?

Coming from a modest middle-class background, booking a business class ticket felt like a splurge reserved for the likes of movie stars and CEOs. But hey, if I couldn't enjoy a Ferrari and a posh bungalow just yet, I was damn well going to enjoy the luxury of business class.

And so, with a mix of excitement and trepidation, we boarded the plane, my stomach churning with nerves and nausea. As my fellow passengers settled in for a comfortable journey, blissfully unaware of the impending storm brewing in my stomach, I resigned myself to a flight devoid of inflight meals and filled instead with the symphony of my own retching.

Water? Vomited. Pretzels? Vomited. Meal service? Vomited – you get the idea. And let's not forget about my poor husband, who spent the entire flight on high alert, poised to spring into action at the first sign of impending vomit.

So there you have it – the not-so-glamorous reality of flying business class while pregnant. But hey, at least I got to stretch out in style as I emptied the contents of my stomach at 30,000 feet. Here's to hoping the return journey is a little less turbulent – both for my sake and for the sake of my long-suffering husband. 🤢✈️🍽️

As the months crept by, I clung to the hope that my days of relentless morning sickness were numbered. Two months passed, then three, then four – and finally, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon. I could drink water without fear of immediate expulsion, and plain rice and South Indian delicacies like dosa with a sprinkle of chili powder became my lifelines. It was a small victory, but oh, how sweet it tasted!

Yet, much to my dismay, the promise of a return to normalcy remained elusive. Despite reassurances from well-meaning friends and family that my ordeal would soon be over, nothing seemed to change. It was as if my stomach had developed a permanent aversion to anything and everything – a cruel twist of fate that left me feeling utterly defeated.

In a desperate bid to coax my appetite back to life, my parents and aunts resorted to a rather unconventional tactic: hiding garlic and onion in my food. "It's all in her head," they would say, "if she doesn't know, she'll be fine." But alas, my body saw right through their ruse, rejecting even the smallest traces of these offending ingredients with ruthless efficiency.

And so, in a bid to appease my rebellious stomach, our household underwent a radical transformation. Gone were the pungent aromas of garlic and onion, banished from our kitchen in favor of milder, more "Saatvik" fare. It was a small sacrifice to make for the sake of my sanity – and a testament to the lengths my family would go to in order to support me through this challenging time.

So here's to embracing the quirks and idiosyncrasies of pregnancy, even when they turn your world upside down – and here's to the unwavering love and support of family, who will stop at nothing to ensure your comfort and well-being, even if it means bidding farewell to beloved culinary staples. 🌶️🍚