I close my eyes to focus more on the situation. I am in the kitchen, not more than three feet tall, watching my father take over the entire space. I watch as he dices the onions and the tomatoes on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, washes the rice, soaks them gently in lukewarm water, and freshly grinds all the coarse spices. I can see from his face that he is really enjoying himself. The house is filled with a familiar scent — a delicate mix of spices and herbs. These are the traces of the start of the inspiration for cooking.
This was the smell that emanated from the house every Sunday afternoon, the smell of pure happiness, the sweet scent of childhood. Even though I was little, I used to love to see my father cook. Every Sunday, he would make an authentic Assamese chicken or mutton curry, along with some amazing pulao, with cashew nuts, raisins, and clarified butter.
My mother, on the other hand, used to be done with the rest of the cooking quite early in the morning. I liked my father more because he would start late and take all his time to prepare the much anticipated weekend lunch, a source of tremendous inspiration to me. As simple as his preparation would be, it would never fail to be absolutely delectable. Even though those times weren’t so abusively divided between weekdays and weekends, I used to look forward to Sundays because of my father’s meals. Almost as much as me and my brother used to look forward to the sweets that our father used to get us whenever he would be home after a business trip (In those days, flying used to be a big deal and airlines used to be very generous with free stuff).
As the cooking process would start, so would my curiosity of witnessing the assimilation of spices. I would be too curious to understand how he is tossing up the vegetables in the kadhai or how long it actually takes for the fried onions to change its color. Since I was too short, I recall my father solving this problem of my unending inquisitiveness by lifting me up and making me stand on murha (a stool made of woven cane, found in north-east India), so that I could observe it LIVE. And I used to take everything in, while he explained the process to me, step by step. I used to do this every Sunday with him, almost like a ritual and for the longest time, till I didn’t need the murha anymore.
A lot of people might argue here as to why am I not saying the same for my mother. Society had made even the seven-year-old me believe that mothers are meant to be in the kitchen. As a child, I would never look forward to the meals cooked by my mother, as they were too ordinary (only now do I realize how delicious and healthy her cooking is, and the reason why I am still alive and have a functional immune system).
I also think it was unique to see my father cook and spend so much time in the kitchen, as it is supposed to be a woman’s job otherwise, something we take for granted. None of my friends ever boasted about their father’s recipes, so it was different for me, a nice different. Most people would laugh about how their fathers don’t even possess the skill to boil an egg or make a cup of tea. I felt proud that my father was self-sufficient that way, even as a child. I was my father’s biggest fan when it came to recipes. And this rage continues till today. Only that now we learn from one another.
Childhood experiences like these have made me realize that I am a simpleton at heart. As much as we might try and assimilate into the city and our work life madness, some of us still enjoy the simplest of things, like a steaming cup of gingered tea on a rainy afternoon, or the simple need of listening to a song with a loved one, or just being comfortably silent and enjoying the moment. I believe when it comes to innovating, simplicity is the hardest to crack. I am trying to do this with my recipes as well. And I want to keep focusing on producing simple recipes using seasonal ingredients, which are as equally relished and craved for, as would a five-star meal.
I am known amongst my friend and family circle as a “domestic” being, someone who would keep her husband very happy. I know it all comes down to being able to feed the husband. Though most of them aren’t serious, it definitely comes across as a big quality to have from an “arranged marriage” perspective. But the fact remains that I love to cook, and I also prefer cooking healthy. Not that I do not have the qualities of a modern woman. In fact, I think I am very empowered in a country like India as I get to decide a lot of things for myself. Having lived alone in a city for so many years, I have now mastered a lot of my own recipes, pampered my friends with food from time to time, and also cooked for myself on days I have felt low. Too bad I don’t have pictures of the weekends in the 90’s. But frankly, I don’t need a physical photograph, as the mental images are still quite clear.
It is from my own roots that I have learned the value of homegrown and seasonal produce. Whenever I go home, I see how our previous generations are so well versed in what to eat, how to prepare traditional meals, and stay healthy as a result. Being able to grow your own organic produce and consume it on a daily basis is perhaps one of the biggest joys and blessings of life. As I am growing older, I am understanding this more and more. It has also made me question the availability of spinach in monsoons, or why people do not eat seasonally but prefer what the West seems to be loving, such as the recent avocado craze. Do we really need it in India?
Food and culture are so entwined. I am trying to start from my own roots, and I have realized how little I know of my own Assamese food. I make it a point to visit home as often as I can, talk to my aunts and uncles who grow their own food. And who do you think accompanies me during such trips? My father of course! 🙂
Cooking for people gives me joy beyond words. It is in fact, my meditative therapy.
I connect the most with people who like to cook and understand food like I do. My best friends are people who love to cook for themselves and their loved ones. I respect people who can fix themselves and their friends with a snack or a meal. Whenever people eat my food, they comment on how lovely it is and how they couldn’t stop themselves from gobbling it all up, feeling almost guilty. Another source of monumental inspiration! And I can’t help but smile.
So I have started. Started my own tiny space in this big web of information, sharing what I know and learning from the community.
The internet does give a lot of motivation to do something on your own, and so do a lot of people around you. I am not quitting my job or taking any rash decision here, but I am just trying to balance my love for cooking with my daily, mundane life, which I also enjoy. It is a simple thing and a not-so-simple effort. But since I am loving it so much, I shall continue. To me, this is just the beginning.
What’s your story of self-discovery?
