What does cooking mean to me? I do not have an answer to this question that could be captured in a single sentence. It’s a story rather. So come with me as I take you through my culinary journey.
Growing up in Kolkata, I was a free bird where the idea of cooking was limited to making the two-minute Maggi or chai (tea) for myself in the morning or at times to serve guests who came to visit my Nani’s (maternal grandmother) house. I got married fairly young and was engaged for two years before my actual wedding took place. You may call it a kind of courtship, a period during which my confessions of culinary “in-expertise” to my fiancé was brushed aside by him, making it clear that cooking ranked low in his list of marital life priorities.
It wasn’t as if I was averse to cooking, disliked it or abstained from it. My situation was such that I never had the “need” to cook. There was always a cook who took care of all our meals. Moreover, I was too engrossed with studies that entering the kitchen to cook something, never quite crossed my mind. In fact, my head was full of Bryophytes and Boron, than Brinjal and Baking! However, just a fortnight before my wedding, I reserved some thought for this practical aspect of life, cooking skills. Something which I was aware of theoretically but the practicals were never embarked upon. Despite my fiance’s reassurances that cooking skills never quite mattered, I knew I was stepping inside a family where every conversation began and ended with food; where everyone was a foodie. I decided, a little bit of culinary knowledge would hold me in good stead.
The kitchen became my laboratory. Spices, vegetables and meat were my books but I was without a teacher. All my sisters-in-law were married and no one lived with us. Whenever one of them would visit, I would promptly appear with my diary and pen, jotting down recipes and also mastering the art of round rotis (flatbread). Then there was the late Tarla Dalal, a household name in the nineties. Chef, food-writer, TV show host, Tarla Dalal, I’m sure helped motivate and inspire so many women across the country to take up the ladle and cook. I was one of them.
Those were not the days of YouTube, Facebook, Pinterest, Cookpad or Instagram. In fact, no one knew that someday our world would be inhabited by social-media. So getting recipes meant looking up magazines and Women’s Era became my culinary companion. Bit by bit, step by step, I graduated from one level to another. At times, while visiting some relatives’ house, I’d jot down a recipe of a dish which my husband particularly liked and try and replicate it in my kitchen. His compliments became a constant source of motivation for me.
My diary was my search engine of recipes which contained magazine and newspaper cut-outs, recipes by friends and family. I used to guard my diary with all my might often inviting jokes about it too that someday it may disappear. And I’d retort that if the diary went missing, then the meals would go missing too! Today, despite computers, files, folders and hard-drives, I still, at times, pen some recipes in my diary.
My journey was not always fun. My husband was always pampered with delicious food prepared by his indulgent sisters. It was quite a challenge for me to take up that responsibility, albeit all out of my own volition. Later, as my family grew, my masala box of recipes became diverse due the demands of my children. But then came criticisms too. If the dal became a bit thin in terms of consistency, pat came the comment, “oh it’s the sixth ocean!” If the salt was less, they’d say if it was still in the sea! I must admit that it wasn’t something I liked. I would often call them the Gordon Ramsays of my life. Many a times, I’d watch for expressions on my husband’s face when he took the first bite. Any unfavourable expression and I’d take it to heart.
It was much later, upon deep reflections and introspection I realised, it was me who made my own life difficult. Not all days are the same. If some days my dishes were finger-licking good, there were days it wasn’t. And it was alright. I had to tell myself that. I realised that while compliments are a big morale booster, honest opinions also matter and ought to be taken in the right spirit. Somewhere, however, I felt that cooking was my responsibility in my household and them eating without any criticism was my “due pay!” The day I changed that thought, I regained my love for cooking.
When I read Chitra Jha’s post on cooking, I understood that cooking is not just about measurements and ingredients. It was about love and faith. While earlier it was all about what others liked, today it’s also about what I like. I cook for myself too which is my form of self-care. We have often heard that “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Well, that is for everybody.
In these twenty-six years of hustling in the kitchen, I’ve been witness to many shades of cooking. From challenge to change; from despair to devotion; from the unknown to the known; from longing to love. I am Rumana and this is my culinary journey. Alhamdulliah!