Chef Who?

I am never one to panic in the face of adversity. Through the years of New Year resolutions and determined decisions to ‘turn over a new leaf’, the one trait that has stuck with me is that I am generally calm and unruffled, placid even. Everything I thought I knew about myself went out the window when, as a starry-eyed newlywed, I stepped into the kitchen in my brand-new home, recipe-free and alone.

A revelation hit me, even before the results of my maiden attempt at cooking could materialize: the kitchen is not a place for the innocent.

Doubt. Hesitation. Panic. Frustration. Despair. My woes in the kitchen piled up faster than the stack of unwashed dishes. Having been brought up in a household where I was taught the importance of appreciating good food rather than to cook, my respect for the hands that make the Vethakuzhambu, Rasam, Sambhar and Kootu has always been immense. The act of cooking, however, was never expected to be on my list of ‘things to do’. In the run-up to my wedding, it was only natural that I would obsess more about what I would wear and how I would look, rather than the magnitude with which my ineptitude in the kitchen would manifest itself. Ah, those were the days.

Mustard seeds that stubbornly refused to splutter, Maida that disguised itself as rice flour, filter coffee that tasted nothing like filter coffee, eggs that were extremely secretive about being fully boiled, and Chappathis that cheekily turned out in every shape other than a perfect round – my husband looked on in amusement, and my domestic help with horror, at the apparent torture I was inflicting upon myself and said husband.

I trudged my way through my rigorous cooking sessions, the journey being marked by desperate Google searches (How much water to add to rava upma), frantic calls to my mother at ungodly hours (Amma! How many whistles for the parruppu to be cooked?) and last-ditch fervent prayers (Please, please let the salt be right at least this time). I agonized over dinner while at work, and attempted to read the newspaper while cooking (the milk promptly boiled over, of course). My husband (fortunately another one of those calm-in-the-face-of-adversity people) ever so often suggested hiring a cook. The exasperatingly proud woman in me flatly refused. His second and more favourite option was to order pizza. I usually succumbed.

Today, a few months into the marriage, I sense a subtle improvement. I’m slightly more confident in adding salt, and slightly less hesitant in being inventive with ingredients. There are still episodes of burnt food, unappetizing appetizers and shapeless rotis. However, now and then, there’s also a glimmer of hope – my Capsicum Sambhar, for instance, tastes absolutely wonderful, and my Paneer Pulao is particularly reminiscent of my mother’s.

Nowadays, my calm and unruffled self surfaces in the kitchen, and the frantic phone calls are a little less frantic. The pizza home-delivery menu is missing without a trace – it’s been weeks since it was consulted. I may not transform into a ‘masterchef’ overnight, but hey, I’m getting there.

The clock suggests it’s almost dinnertime, signalling the beginning of yet another cooking session. Maybe it will be Onion Vethakuzhambu and Potato curry this time.