Cooking rhapsody

It is no hidden secret in my household that I do not like cooking. In all fairness, it should have been my most major preoccupation, considering I spend my every waking and sleeping moment with foodies. But Alas! It’s just one of those things that refused to take a hold on me. 

To call my family food obsessed would be a bit of an understatement. It might seem like an exaggeration but in my house, all key discussions, arguments, disagreements and quarrels, gallivant around this sole topic. On the flip side, all celebrations, revelry, merrymaking and festivities also hinge on this very same theme. Our dining table has witnessed both in equal measure: scenes of instant or protracted warfare, and reluctant or cajoling reconciliation. Sometimes on the same day!

Even while having one meal, we have been known to get into an enthusiastic debate about the next one. It is difficult for strangers, if they ever eavesdrop on our conversation, to make head or tail out of this. In fact, mostly it does not make sense to us also. Why is it that we cannot enjoy one meal before planning a subsequent one? We can, and we should, but meticulous details about a future dish makes its presence felt. And we go right back to squabbling over the imaginary imagery. 

The moodiness of the domestic staff that I have hired over the years, has assured that I do not lose touch completely with matters pertaining to cooking. More often than not, the maids are indisposed, and I find myself tying the kitchen apron strings around my own waist. 

Hence I know all the intricacies associated with an individual cuisine. Which particular condiment spices up a bland offering, and what to add to reduce the sharpness of an extra hot curry; I have it all down to a pat. 

But it is a good idea to stay away from me when I am wielding the kitchen knife. I don’t know how people say cooking relaxes them, because this specific activity tenses me up big time. Till all the ingredients are added, and the dish resembles the mental picture that I have of the final product, I am completely stressed. 

My spouse gets totally taken in by the television shows where, in a culinary demonstration, the chefs smile serenely into the camera. He thinks cooking is as easy as a walk in the park, and cannot understand why I make such a fuss over something so simple. 

Last week, the moment our cook called in sick, he offered to rustle up dinner. I was horrified at the suggestion because in over two decades of married life, I had never seen him boil an egg also. 

“You don’t have to do a thing; just show me where everything is,” my husband assured me at the very outset. 

“Two onions, three tomatoes, ginger and garlic,” he announced.

“And coriander leaves,” I added.t

“Can you please grind them while I cut up the cheese,” he instructed me politely. 

“Finished, now can I go?” I asked.

“Fry them till golden brown, will you?” he requested.

“I thought you were cooking,” I protested

“I am slicing the cheese, see,” he said without lifting his head.

“I think it is done,” I said ready to escape.

“Just add the salt, pepper and the rest of the garnishing also,” he guided 

“But you?” I began.

“Are chopping the cheese,” we said in unison!

Ah well!