The world’s worst kept secret is that I am the world’s worst cook. Let me change that. I was the world’s worst cook. But things have changed now. Rather drastically. Much to the horror of the folks around me, and the kind residents of the house who sit down, trembling, at every meal wondering what horror awaits their tastebuds. Now, as the affirmation goes and I repeat loudly, everyday in everyway, I am getting better and better.
Now to some history as to why I hated cooking. For one, I would rather be the one doing the eating than the cooking. Cooking to me, implied a total waste of time which could be more fruitfully spent doing other, more vital and exciting things, such as cut my corns and navel gaze, for one. For another, the mother is a fabulous cook and spent every Sunday and festival cooped in the kitchen, cooking for the hordes of stray relatives, friends and acquaintances who would inevitably descend to partake of good food and alcohol courtesy the generous and sociable pater, and I do remember when the pater passed away the same people immendiately made us social pariahs for whatever their reason. Nonetheless, to get back on track, I swore then and there never to be a good cook so no one would expect me to get into the kitchen and slave for them.
The child has changed my decision. He looks at me wistfully and asks if I can rustle up some random dish. I say no firmly. He looks mournfully into the distance and then calls the mater, “Nana, can you make this for me.” The heart wrings. The small still voice of conscience calls me a cruel, uncaring mother. The hand goes to the optical mouse to google up said recipe and the ingredients assembled. The cook looks at me with shock. “Bhabhi bana rahe hai?” she asks, her eyes round with wonder. I suspect she contemplates selling ringside tickets to this miraculous phenomenon. I watch cookery shows in order to pick up the little tips they might dish out in order to make a dish edible. I trawl through the internet to pick up recipes for the day, and reach home going through the refrigerator to decide what ingredients I have and what I could conjure up.
So far, touchwood, no one has keeled over with a stomach ache, or had to douse their tongue with a fire hydrant. I could kind of get used to this. Cook one dish a day. How difficult can that be? Especially since I have someone to clean and chop and do the basics. It actually means I have to put that recipe book down, and raise my rather sizeable butt and get into the kitchen. And then it means figuring out how much salt I should not chuck into a meal in order to keep it edible. It also means knowing when to put the flame on simmer unless I want to play tribals and place burnt offerings before the lord and master.
So anyway, this my new year’s resolution, a little in advance of the new year. To learn how to be an average cook who can rustle up an edible meal and occasionally whip up a surprise dish to knock everyone’s socks off. Wish me luck and send in easy peasy recipes. Remember my boredom threshold when it comes to cooking is approximately 20 minutes. If a dish isnt cooked by then, it should be abandoned to its fate.