Whenever I visit home, meet an old friend, talk to a distant relative or if anyone - by chance - spares some time to browse through my Orkut profile, they unfailingly ask with genuine exclamation viz. What! You cook? Before I can put my point, the questioner pads another query. Usually, the query is either of 'Really?', 'Can't afford? (with umpteen exclamations, following it)', 'Are you lying / bragging / faking / (or some other similar not-to-be-used-in-progressive-tense type gerund)?', 'I can't believe it. Do you do, Tommy? (Tommy is - usually and understandbly- the pet)' or ilk. To put an end to such - rather discomforting, if not disheartening - quips, I am confessing, why I cook.
Prior to September 2, I was of the school of thought that cooking is blasphemous. A proletarian deed one should never indulge in. The thought of staining my fingers with the gluey wheat flour dough-making (sounds like dove-making, isn't it?) process, always sunk my heartbeat. The musings about the labour of chopping vegetables made my muscles sprain. The dreaded dreams of boiling and reboiling of the (darned) milk had made me wakeup, scoffing. I had felt awful. Honestly.
But then one fine day, I was struck with enlightenment. I searched around for the Banyan Tree, instinctively. I could only manage a to see a baniyaan dangling across the rope. Anyway, I had got the bulb lit. What I had realised was a very mundane fact, that if I can solve horrendous mathematical equations, make preposterous Engineering Drawings, learn disoriented Object Orientation, write forgettable piece of code that (surprisingly) function just well, give spellbinding motivational lectures to colleagues, watch Hindi films (it requires huge patience and efforts to keep oneself sane throughout), et al, then why not cooking? I should. And, thence I put the foot forward on the journey of becoming a chef.
Post lighting of The Bulb, I realised that to be able to cook is a great boon. I can straight-forwardly avoid ICH. I can avoid Rajma, Paneer and similar dishes that my stomach welcomes with horror. I can cook anything, any time and any combination as per my whims and fancies. Mumma appreciates for at least one thing since my birth. Father feels relieved that if ever my prospect wife says quits (of course, temporarily, for Maharashtriyaan ladies never kill the goose who lays golden eggs), I shall not be at His (or again, ICH's) mercy. Sister feels damn agog for I have forestalled the need of her learning cooking. Friends (male) get a more severe heartburn. And the best of all, damsels (do a google on 'define: damsel', please) find it like a godsend ! So many benefits, just one deed, cooking. Hah! I'm Loving it.
And, in(tro)spection let me know that I am a good one at cooking. In fact, now I say that it was, like, in my genes, to cook well.
You are welcome. Have a dine.
___________________________
* Migrated from the erstwhile My Experiments as a Cook.
_______________________________
Addendum
I found this interesting blog post. And, yes, I most certainly approve of it.
Prior to September 2, I was of the school of thought that cooking is blasphemous. A proletarian deed one should never indulge in. The thought of staining my fingers with the gluey wheat flour dough-making (sounds like dove-making, isn't it?) process, always sunk my heartbeat. The musings about the labour of chopping vegetables made my muscles sprain. The dreaded dreams of boiling and reboiling of the (darned) milk had made me wakeup, scoffing. I had felt awful. Honestly.
But then one fine day, I was struck with enlightenment. I searched around for the Banyan Tree, instinctively. I could only manage a to see a baniyaan dangling across the rope. Anyway, I had got the bulb lit. What I had realised was a very mundane fact, that if I can solve horrendous mathematical equations, make preposterous Engineering Drawings, learn disoriented Object Orientation, write forgettable piece of code that (surprisingly) function just well, give spellbinding motivational lectures to colleagues, watch Hindi films (it requires huge patience and efforts to keep oneself sane throughout), et al, then why not cooking? I should. And, thence I put the foot forward on the journey of becoming a chef.
Post lighting of The Bulb, I realised that to be able to cook is a great boon. I can straight-forwardly avoid ICH. I can avoid Rajma, Paneer and similar dishes that my stomach welcomes with horror. I can cook anything, any time and any combination as per my whims and fancies. Mumma appreciates for at least one thing since my birth. Father feels relieved that if ever my prospect wife says quits (of course, temporarily, for Maharashtriyaan ladies never kill the goose who lays golden eggs), I shall not be at His (or again, ICH's) mercy. Sister feels damn agog for I have forestalled the need of her learning cooking. Friends (male) get a more severe heartburn. And the best of all, damsels (do a google on 'define: damsel', please) find it like a godsend ! So many benefits, just one deed, cooking. Hah! I'm Loving it.
And, in(tro)spection let me know that I am a good one at cooking. In fact, now I say that it was, like, in my genes, to cook well.
You are welcome. Have a dine.
___________________________
* Migrated from the erstwhile My Experiments as a Cook.
_______________________________
Addendum
I found this interesting blog post. And, yes, I most certainly approve of it.
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