It all began with the current determination to cook at least one dish a day. A resolution, I must confess, which was broken yesterday due to sheer laziness and sudden social commitments which involved visiting a friend to ooh and aah over her newborn baby girl (of course, new borns win curled up wrinkly red hands down over getting into the kitchen and burning assorted body parts in the process). Some weeks ago, realising that I donot know either the theory or the practice of cooking, I began watching cookery shows in order to pick up tips on cooking which went beyond the recipes. And amongst the shows I watched, Masterchef India and Australia became particular favourites, because it involved people like me (with admittedly more cooking expertise) dishing out culinary delights to the cruel ticking of a clock. I, as you might have surmised by now, am among those who work the best when they have a deadline looming over their head. And the Masterchef programmes both Indian and Australian, dont really bore the socks off one by elaborating the steps to cook a dish, which in my mind is the most boring part of cooking. The process. Ah well. Now you know why I will never ever be a good cook. I seem to believe the raw ingredients will congeal on their own through the power of thought and emerge as the finished dish within microseconds without one having to ruin one’s manicure. And they have cruel chefs to yell at them constantly. I like it.
Therefore, there I was, sitting blissfully, having switched on Masterchef India on Saturday night. And was waiting for my fix of handsome man who can cook when, gaaaarhhhhh, Akshay Kumar comes on screen wearing a ladies top. With a low round neck and many sequins down the front. I had to take a paper bag to collate my barf. I mourned a bit about the loss of eyecandy on the show. I thought long and hard and thought it rather unfair that the men could salivate on Nigella making orgasmic noises whenever anything edible touched her lips while we had to be content with fat, fugly chef types on cookery shows (except of course for Anthony Bourdain). (Donot count Aditya Bal’s Chak De India in this, he is a thin chef, and I have an innate distrust of chefs who are too thin, you know!). And then, a kind soul recommended I watch Take Home Chef on TLC. For which I am much grateful, will salaam in gratitude etc.
Curtis Stone, says the website I checked out. One show I saw had a fugly guy trying to mollify his fiance by having this creature dropped from the heavens cook a meal for her. Did he not know that said fiance would instantly drop him like the undercooked spud he was, when she saw the gorgeousness in her kitchen, rustling up a meal with great care? I mean, which woman in her right senses would be able to resist that vision. I would have my knees buckling under and would need to be revived with old socks and smelly onions and such like.
And he says things like a good homecooked meal takes less time than waiting for a take in pizza. I like. I approve of the thinking wholeheartedly, as long as it is not me who needs to be doing the cooking. Would I like to have Curtis come home and cook for me? Nah. For one, my kitchen, being the kitchen of a non cooker is poorly equipped with gadgets and such like that professional chefs would need to make their magic. For another, I dont think anyone in my home would appreciate the deviation from traditional Indian food, the dal, chawal, sabji roti that is the standard staple in our home 365 days a year. The spouse needs peeli dal at every meal. Regardless.
For another, I dont think I would be able to guarantee not collapsing into a puddle of puppy dog adoration in the presence of such a divine looking male creature who, bless him, cooks.
For now, I will content myself by watching the show, and ermm, trying to pick up interesting cooking tips from him. Akshay. Go learn from him. About how a man who cooks should dress. And please, fire that stylist. ASAP.