TALE OF THE RELUCTANT COOK
Abandoned by her cook, found salvation in the very thing that she feared
What?! You are pregnant?” Hardly the congratulatory message that I expected myself to blurt out when my cook announced that she was about to embrace motherhood and quit her job. To understand my reaction, let’s consider the facts. My cook, despite her limited culinary repertoire, was basically running the kitchen at home, right down to planning the day’s menu. My participation was fairly limited: She would announce that we had run out of vegetables and I would direct her to my husband, who in turn, would run out to get them.
So while the cook delightedly explained to the unlikeliest of audiences (my husband) why she hoped to have a daughter this time, I bid her farewell and got down to emptying the tissue box. The husband, on the other hand, thought we might be better off looking at our cook’s sudden departure as the beginning of something good. “Maybe we can get a Malayali cook,” he said. “Steaming puttu and kadala every morning. Yum!” The only Malayali cook that we liked demanded to be paid Rs12,000 per month. And so, while we continued our search for the perfect cook, we ate Maggi noodles. Thrice a day.
One day, while I was furtively Googling ‘What overeating noodles can do to you’, I realised that it was time to address the big elephant in the room. Clearly we were not making any headway in hiring a cook, so who should step up to the task at hand and save the two of us from overdosing on maida? This being the century of women power and all, my most obvious answer was my husband. He, on the other hand, resorted to dropping banking terms into the conversation. His way of saying, “I am too busy with work.”
So one day, after watching Julie and Julia for inspiration, I stepped into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and did a quick scan of the vegetables at hand. Which didn’t take too long, for there was one lone, sorry looking cauliflower holding the fort. I went about making a cauliflower curry, which if you overlook the burnt cauliflower pieces, turned out to be almost edible. My husband was just glad that the house was still standing straight. He even used the word ‘miracle’.
While he agreed to take care of breakfast, I was responsible for lunch which could double up as dinner. I would wake up insanely early (and by that I mean 7:30am. What can I say, except that I am a journalist?), switch on the radio and make tomato rice, paneer, spaghetti or whatever my mind fancied.
What started out as a much hated chore quickly became something interesting, a hobby and later, a stress buster. I took great glee in downloading recipes from the internet and couldn’t wait to get home to try them out. Once, I woke up at 6am to make cutlets for my cousin’s weekly get-together with his friends and loved feeling how warm the cutlets were through the aluminum foil that I used to pack them. I enjoyed smelling garam masala powder first thing in the morning and looking at my turmeric yellow fingernails. I loved watching mustard seeds splutter in oil and then frantically jump on to a curry leaf floating in the oil, like a lifeboat. Cooking stains on my apron to me were what wounds were to a victorious soldier.
I soon began to realise that if you really warm up to cooking, it has the potential to change most aspects of your life. My mother and I started calling up each other more often — she, to exchange a recipe that has been in the family for generations, and me, to discuss my newfangled cooking ideas. I started inviting people home more often, insisted on cooking, and even managed to make some very good friends in the bargain. And most importantly, I now have an attractive backup plan post retirement: a catering business.
Recently, a cook who wanted a salary that was well within our budget and seemed to uphold high standards of hygiene, landed up on our doorstep. I calmly declined her offer and promised to get in touch with her if we do want a cook.
My husband was left amused. He even used the word ‘miracle’
Abandoned by her cook, found salvation in the very thing that she feared
What?! You are pregnant?” Hardly the congratulatory message that I expected myself to blurt out when my cook announced that she was about to embrace motherhood and quit her job. To understand my reaction, let’s consider the facts. My cook, despite her limited culinary repertoire, was basically running the kitchen at home, right down to planning the day’s menu. My participation was fairly limited: She would announce that we had run out of vegetables and I would direct her to my husband, who in turn, would run out to get them.
So while the cook delightedly explained to the unlikeliest of audiences (my husband) why she hoped to have a daughter this time, I bid her farewell and got down to emptying the tissue box. The husband, on the other hand, thought we might be better off looking at our cook’s sudden departure as the beginning of something good. “Maybe we can get a Malayali cook,” he said. “Steaming puttu and kadala every morning. Yum!” The only Malayali cook that we liked demanded to be paid Rs12,000 per month. And so, while we continued our search for the perfect cook, we ate Maggi noodles. Thrice a day.
One day, while I was furtively Googling ‘What overeating noodles can do to you’, I realised that it was time to address the big elephant in the room. Clearly we were not making any headway in hiring a cook, so who should step up to the task at hand and save the two of us from overdosing on maida? This being the century of women power and all, my most obvious answer was my husband. He, on the other hand, resorted to dropping banking terms into the conversation. His way of saying, “I am too busy with work.”
So one day, after watching Julie and Julia for inspiration, I stepped into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and did a quick scan of the vegetables at hand. Which didn’t take too long, for there was one lone, sorry looking cauliflower holding the fort. I went about making a cauliflower curry, which if you overlook the burnt cauliflower pieces, turned out to be almost edible. My husband was just glad that the house was still standing straight. He even used the word ‘miracle’.
While he agreed to take care of breakfast, I was responsible for lunch which could double up as dinner. I would wake up insanely early (and by that I mean 7:30am. What can I say, except that I am a journalist?), switch on the radio and make tomato rice, paneer, spaghetti or whatever my mind fancied.
What started out as a much hated chore quickly became something interesting, a hobby and later, a stress buster. I took great glee in downloading recipes from the internet and couldn’t wait to get home to try them out. Once, I woke up at 6am to make cutlets for my cousin’s weekly get-together with his friends and loved feeling how warm the cutlets were through the aluminum foil that I used to pack them. I enjoyed smelling garam masala powder first thing in the morning and looking at my turmeric yellow fingernails. I loved watching mustard seeds splutter in oil and then frantically jump on to a curry leaf floating in the oil, like a lifeboat. Cooking stains on my apron to me were what wounds were to a victorious soldier.
I soon began to realise that if you really warm up to cooking, it has the potential to change most aspects of your life. My mother and I started calling up each other more often — she, to exchange a recipe that has been in the family for generations, and me, to discuss my newfangled cooking ideas. I started inviting people home more often, insisted on cooking, and even managed to make some very good friends in the bargain. And most importantly, I now have an attractive backup plan post retirement: a catering business.
Recently, a cook who wanted a salary that was well within our budget and seemed to uphold high standards of hygiene, landed up on our doorstep. I calmly declined her offer and promised to get in touch with her if we do want a cook.
My husband was left amused. He even used the word ‘miracle’
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