Given a document, generate a short title of the document. The title should convey the main idea/event/topic about which the document is being written. Note that URLs in the text have been replaced with [Link].

[EX Q]: A former host of  'E! News ' Catt Sadler   says she left the network after learning of a 'massive disparity in pay' compared to a male co-host. (Photo: Brandon Hickman/E! Entertainment)
Former E!  News host Catt Sadler  is responding to E!'s defense of  her  salary  which  she  claims was nearly half that of  her  male co-host Jason Kennedy.
E! chief Frances Berwick confirmed a difference in salaries between  Sadler  and Kennedy during a Television Critics Association panel Tuesday  but attributed the pay gap to a difference in roles.
“ Catt Sadler  and Jason Kennedy had different roles and therefore different salaries ” he said. “Catt was focused on daytime. Jason Kennedy is on primetime evening news  plus red carpet. Our employees’ salaries are based on their roles and their expertise  regardless of gender. We wish Catt well  but I hope that sets the record straight on that.”
The defense echoes a statement the company provided to USA TODAY at the time of  Sadler 's pay gap claims in December.
“E! compensates employees fairly and appropriately based on their roles  regardless of gender " the statement reads. "We appreciate  Catt Sadler ’s many contributions at E! News and wish her all the best following her decision to leave the network.”
In an interview with The Hollywood Reporter published Wednesday   Sadler  disagreed with the network's statement  saying it wasn't about being underpaid but "about the gross disparity between two similarly situated equals at the network."
"Time is up. We want diversity and we want intersectional gender parity. We want equal pay. You know  I was so shocked to hear that E! doesn’t believe in paying their female co-hosts the same as their male co-hosts " she told E!'s Giuliana Rancic. "I miss Catt Sadler  and we stand with her. And that's something that can change tomorrow."
"We support gender equity and equal pay  and we hope that E! follows that lead with  Catt  as well " she said. "We stand with you  Catt ."
[EX A]: Catt Sadler responds to E! defending paying her less than male co

[EX Q]: Football: South Africa coach Santana rues Iraq negativity
 South Africa coach Joel Santana accused Iraq of deploying negative tactics which paralysed the game after watching the Asian champions grab a point in the Confederations Cup opener here on Sunday.
 Santana expressed his surprise at what he considered Iraq coach Bora Milutinovic's spoiling tactics.
 Santana assured his side's expectant fans  48 837 of whom turned up at this venue which hosted the 1995 Rugby World Cup final won by South Africa  that his team would improve.
[EX A]: Football: South Africa coach Santana rues Iraq negativity

[EX Q]: On Diwali evenings  my mom let me eat as many sweets as I wanted. Sheâd buy jalebees  even though sheâd complain that they werenât as good as the ones she used to get in India. These were too cold  too sticky. But Diwali  the Hindu festival of lights and good conquering evil  is and was a day for eating  so sheâd also make a big vegetarian feast and sweet puris piled high in a metal bowl as a religious offering. After dinner  she and I would sit in front of her makeshift temple and sheâd mutter something about Lakshmi in Hindi. In a clay diya  sheâd make a candle from a cotton ball and ghee  pull smoke from it with her hands  and wrap it around my face  mithai crumbs on my lips. Food is a big part of any Indian holiday  but in my parentsâ home  hearty homemade Indian food was a fixture every day. Nightly  we had mounds of basmati rice  baby eggplants stewed in spices that Iâd hold up to my face like bejeweled earrings  collard greens and turnips (gross  until I grew up). Best of all were the nights where she made Kashmiri rogan josh  a lamb dish sheâd whip together in a pressure cooker that was perennially broken  the whistle propped up with a wooden spoon and screaming every five minutes on a Saturday afternoon.  Mom  cooked   Mom  piled food on your plate and made chutneys from scratch. When you scooped the last of your rice up with a fork   she âd instinctively know and pop up next to  you  with âMore?â holding another cup of steaming rice aloft. (Usually   she âd dump it onto your plate without waiting for an answer.) My brother and my dad and I were all spoiled  but I was the youngest  which means I was the most spoiled. I moved out at 17  but it took a few years before I craved my momâs Kashmiri food. Restaurant Indian food is too oily  too bland  with too much cream and too few of my  mom âs recognizable cooking quirks. I miss things that hardly matter  like how  her  potatoes always ended up crescent-moon shaped  or the way  her  parathas were always triangular and puckered. Instead  as Iâve gotten older Iâve been trying to learn my momâs recipes  myself .  She  got hers from  her  mother  who died more than a decade ago in India  and who used to make the most delicate little pats of paneer. (We called it tsamen  a word I learned is used only in our little corner of North India.) My mom has been cooking for maybe 40 years  probably longer  but  unfortunately  in the five years Iâve been cooking  Iâve learned I have no instincts in the kitchen. I panic if more than one burner is on at a time  and if there isnât a concrete recipe  I canât wing it. Iâve burned through the bottoms of so many pots that my old roommate put a moratorium on me attempting to cook any grains. This past Sunday was another Diwali spent away from my family  sorting through that inexplicable loss you feel when a holiday is happening and thereâs no one to celebrate it with you â not really your cousins who are a trek away  no siblings nearby  no aunties you want to call. I decided Iâd do it myself  and invited two of my favorite (white) people  hoping to not poison them. Diwali isnât our familyâs most exciting holiday  but celebrating it felt important  the same way I try to avoid meat on Shivaratri (when my mom calls to remind me)  or the same reason I send my brother a red thread on Rakhi even though we otherwise never talk. On Diwali  like most days that remind me of Hinduism and India  I miss my mom. Iâve been living away from my parents for nine years  long enough to make a new life in another city  to have friends and a live-in partner. Two of my cousins live a half hour away. But Mom  regardless  refers to me as âalone  out there â like I could starve any minute. When I do come home a few times a year  Mom asks me what I want for dinner and plans meals for my entire stay. She loads food on my plate and freezes the extra so I can take it on a plane with me and defrost it when Iâm homesick. Iâm homesick a lot these days  seemingly the same way my mom was homesick for her parents after she left India. When my mom moved  she took all of her motherâs little secrets with her. My mom had watched my grandmother cook for years  knew her languages  knew how to pleat a sari or mutter a Kashmiri insult (âThratâ) or throw a wedding for her son  25 years after she moved away. I donât have any of these secrets  because I was born in North America and raised around white people in a family that wanted to integrate. So it felt important to at least try to remember how my own mom did things.
Late last week  I called my mom to get a refresher on a few of her recipes. I wanted to make rogan josh  aloo gobi (potatoes and cauliflower)  chicken biryani (chicken and rice)  and paneer with palak (spinach). But my mom  like so many Indian mothers I know  has always avoided giving me complete recipes. Even when I visit home and watch her  she somehow manages to divert my attention by  say  dangling in front of my face a gol gappa  a globe of fried wheat flour filled with chickpeas and potatoes and yogurt. Iâm always missing a spice  a cook time  a stove temperature. Iâm never clear if when she says âgingerâ she means âfresh ginger  about a pinky-size  cut into stripsâ or âginger powder  a teaspoon or two.â Or  if sheâs feeling really casual about a recipe  sheâll say  âAdd the usual spices â a mix of 5 or maybe 10 different spices that might be usual to her but are patently unclear to me. Salt? Does she just mean salt? Worse  her measurements are not based on any contemporary or commonly used metric. A teaspoon  to her  is the size of the white plastic spoon with the snapped-off handle that she uses in all of the containers in her spice drawer that originally came from Dairy Queen when I was 6 or 7 and abandoned a half-eaten Oreo Blizzard. A tablespoon  conversely  is anywhere between two or three of the âteaspoons.â A cup is the cup she uses to scoop basmati rice out of the five-gallon plastic tub in the pantry on the bottom shelf. It is unclear where the cup came from  but it is cloudy and cracked and significantly smaller than an actual cup. Every other measurement she has  then  is specific to her grocery store  to her homemade spice mixtures  to her butcher who hands her a hunk of lamb the size of a small toddler  leaving her to break it down into digestible and cookable pieces. âHow much frozen spinach do I need?â I might ask her  and she will answer  âOne.â One block  she says  as if I can go to a grocery store and say  âONE BLOCK OF YOUR FINEST FROZEN SPINACH  SIR.â I suspect some of this is intentional. Indian women â mothers  in particular â hoard some of their recipes  refusing to give them in full. So long as they are the eldest women in their families  they are the gatekeepers for these particular culinary incarnations that exist only in their kitchens. (A cursory Google search for a good chicken biryani recipe yielded ingredients like chicken stock â my mom literally screamed when I suggested this â or curry paste  something that has never once been in her kitchen.) Iâve started to do this too  refusing to give my boyfriend a complete ingredient list  even when I need help cooking  because I refuse to let him in on a secret I have been scratching at for years. Maybe itâs about making herself needed as a mother  or forcing me into coming home and beg for my favorite lotus root  a recipe specific to Kashmir that Iâve never found at a restaurant. Regional differences are lost  the little things my motherâs motherâs mother did in the kitchen get muddied â unless I ask. And I have been asking  for years  for as long as Iâve been away from home and have been trying to find my mom at the bottom of a 20-quart pot. All of this reduces my cooking to a kind of trial and error. Once  when I tried to make her rogan josh  I ended up adding three times the right amount of cinnamon; my lamb tasted like an angry ginger snap. Two years after that  she casually mentioned that youâre only supposed to use flat cinnamon sticks  and not the rolled up ones  which apparently makes a fucking difference. When I last visited  she sent me back to my home with frozen rogan josh in my suitcase. Later  when I defrosted and ate it  I picked through it  pulling out any identifiable spices I could find. At the bottom of my bowl was a dark ball the texture of soft wood. I cleaned it off and texted it to my mom with my trademark calm: â?!?!?!?!â She gave me the Hindi word for it  leaving me to creative googling to figure out what it was. (I wonât tell you; Iâve invested too much to give it up that easy.) Mom swears that sheâs not actively keeping ingredients from me  that she just forgets because cooking is so second-nature to her. This doesnât explain why sometimes sheâll add an ingredient to her list for me â a year ago  the rogan josh recipe had coriander powder in it â later saying something like  âWhy would I ever tell you to put coriander powder in it? Nothing has coriander powder in it.â Now she says itâs actually garam masala  but not the kind you buy in the store (she says this with her particular brand of derision usually reserved for âwhiteâ grocery stores) but the kind that she makes at home  fistfuls of unidentifiable brown spices hand-ground with a mortar and pestle. âI will give you some when you come home â she always says  but she is a liar  because she never actually has. Food has always been my momâs domain  so maybe it makes sense that she doesnât want to give me her trade secrets just yet.
Is there a point when you stop needing your mom? I want to know if it will happen before she dies  or if sheâll go and Iâll be left figuring out how to contend without her. My dad talks about dying with typically alarming frequency â a few weeks ago  he answered the phone and said  âMy body will never be what it once was â and then passed the handset over to  my mom â  but itâs my mom whose death Iâm more concerned about. In terms of being needed  my mom will never get a break. My dad sometimes wonât eat unless my mom is home to prepare food for him; even something as simple as a sandwich requires supervision. My brother and sister-in-law and their daughter come over every Sunday and my mom piles Kashmiri food on their plates like she does for anyone who comes to dinner. Sheâll sit next to my niece and watch her eat  her half-white  blue-eyed granddaughter licking daal off a teaspoon. I started cooking this past Sunday around 3:30 p.m.  peeling the potatoes and cutting the cauliflower into florets and quietly muttered âson of a bitchâ when I realized I had forgotten to buy rosewater. I called my mom first at 4 p.m.  to confirm that cumin seeds and fennel seeds are different (DONâT @ ME). Once she finished laughing at me  I put the aloo gobi in the oven and marinated the chicken in star anise and âthe spices from that box.â I called her again when my palak looked electric-green and tasted canned (âWell  obviously you forgot to add the haldi â she said  as if I had called to ask a question as simple as âWhy canât I breathe when I place a brick on my own throat?â) While I pan-fried the rogan josh  she called me back and asked  âHowâs it going?â I could hear her smiling  and it almost felt like a taunt. I told her I was sure something was missing  a spice that she considers too routine to even mention  or one that sheâs actively hiding from me. But by then my kitchen smelled like my momâs  a clash of turmeric and paprika and chili powder and cumin (whole and ground) and the scent that comes from fresh meat when itâs being slowly cooked in different pots at the same time. I loaded serving bowls with the food I made  called everyone into the kitchen. The chicken tasted right  the rogan josh looked reddish-brown  the paneer had turned yellow and was easily cut with the side of a fork. It had the markings of my momâs food  but of course it wasnât as good as hers. It wasnât as good because my food  as surprisingly palatable as it was  didnât include my mom hovering over me with a wooden spoon. (Was she going to give me more rice? Was she going to hit me a little bit for eating too fast? Itâs a journey.) It wasnât as good  because it couldnât be. I canât replicate the things my mom does; I can only build on top of them. But still  I made sure everyone had seconds  preferably thirds.
I didnât poison anyone on Saturday. I made six  maybe seven times the amount of food intended  but Iâm content with that being my biggest mistake. (I did use a pressure cooker for the first time and screamed every time it screamed  and I forgot to add the almonds to the biryani but  you know what  fuck nuts.) After my guests left my house  I sent a photo of my spread to  Mom   and  she  called me later that night. âThe color was right â  she  said  paying me the highest compliment  she  could give me from 1 500 miles away. âSo  I guess you can do it yourself.â More frequently than I think is normal  I imagine what weâre all going to do when my mom dies. My dad will be completely incapable of taking care of himself (he once asked me to put his jalapeÃ±o potato chips in the oven to âcrisp them up some moreâ). My brother and I only call each other now and then  because  Mom  begs us to  so who knows how far we can drift. Iâll lose  her  as a tether.  Mom  doesnât talk about death; itâs too macabre for our pleasant chats. But I canât help thinking about it  an anxiety that started to ramp up in my early twenties when I noticed how little I am capable of doing on my own. I still call  her  to consult on how to appropriately wash a lace bra  and  she  still buys me leggings if theyâre on sale  and  she  gets this rare herb shipped in from India that I have no idea where else to get outside of  her  pantry. These gaps in my knowledge are terrifying enough  but what about all the things I donât know that I donât know? Sheer chai  for example  is the most disgusting product  her  home country has ever produced â but will I one day wish I knew how to make it? When you emigrate  you end up the last person to touch a lot of your family history. Somewhere along the line  weâll forget my momâs maiden name. Weâll forget what her actual name was before she changed it when she moved. Weâll lose language and the way to make a candle from ghee and a cotton ball. I canât pull all of this information out of her  and I canât carry all of it after sheâs gone  and I panic when I think about how impossible it feels to one day not need her. But at least I can try to cook. My momâs own mother died in India  seemingly suddenly  from a combination of declining health and crummy care.  Mom  was with  her  when it happened  but near the end my grandmother was confused and didnât seem to register that  her  daughter had flown all that way just to see her off. When I imagine my momâs death  I picture her perched on her proverbial deathbed  lucid but weak  about to die. Sheâll raise one arthritic finger toward me  motioning for me to come closer to her. âYes  mother â I will say  and kneel down so her face is close to mine  glistening with tears. âCloser â she will say  and I will press forward  taking her hand. âWhat is it?â I will ask. And with one final rasp  the death rattle of a long life winding down  my mom will wheeze out her final words  releasing me from a lifetime of trying to keep her as close to me as possible: âIt was just salt.â â
[EX A]:
Thereâs No Recipe For Growing Up