My first entry into the kitchen was when I was in 8th grade. I was called upon to mind any given dish that is coming to a boil — like switching off the stove when the cooker had given the required number of whistles, or the sambar had come to a boil, or the veggies were just done right and needed grated coconut for dressing the dish.
Once I had finished my secondary public exam, mother left all the afternoon chai-making to me, since I would be back from school by 3 pm and chai was taken at 4 pm every day without fail.
The first time I made chai, I wondered if it was good enough. But within those two years, I had perfected the chai, and whenever Chittappa used to visit, I would be happy to make chai for the visitor too.
Around this time on Sundays, Amma would relinquish making breakfast and dinner. If it were Maggi, then she would not move a muscle to make the noodles. She would walk out of the kitchen and catch up on her rest and relaxation.
So, having hardly any experience in the kitchen, I could use the stove safely and make chai, Maggi, upmas and how to keep a rice cooker.
Using the rice cooker safely was the only thing my mother taught both my sister and me. While the upmas she quick referenced the required basic seasoning — onions sautéed — and add semolina, bread, or pounded boiled rice. These needed no great cooking skills and were easy to make according to my mother.
Beyond the small tasks like keeping rice in cooker, breakfast dishes, chai, and Maggi, I was clueless until I reached the wrong half of my 20s. Later in my married life, I would understand that I should have at least learned a few basic lessons for lunch and dinner preparation.
Well, I forgot to describe that I also knew how to knead chapati/phulka/roti dough, though I was not adept at rolling it. Until my marriage, I had been a helper or assistant to the main cook of the moment. I knew how to flip and toast a leavened Indian bread.
The fact is, I never worked in a kitchen on my own unless my mother was visiting my brother. One time she did leave me and my father alone, and I was in charge of the household. I learned to make simple dal tadkas, Appa’s favourite sabzi, and raitas.
Appa didn’t mind the same rotis/parathas/phulkas every day. He would also help me out in the kitchen by rolling the dough which I would have prepared. The challenge of my cooking life was doing things on my own without guidance.
I had no need to worry about measures because Amma would guide me on those things. The entire taste of a dish hinges on the proportions used. And the golden scale of balancing all the seasoning and cooking temperature.
After marriage, I went to Singapore armed with Meenakshi Ammal’s Cook and See — but in Tamil. I was not a fast reader of my mother tongue. The vessels were all from the past, and modern kitchen utensils were not mentioned. I found myself quietly panicking at every cooking session with the book.
I regretted having my mother pack that cookbook. Because we had one in Tamil and one in English. The English version got left behind, and the Tamil one travelled with me to Singapore.
I remember the entire battalion of my ex’s friends landed up, and I, not knowing how to read labels, got the Maggi which didn’t have a non-vegetarian ingredient listed — but I didn’t know anchovies were fish. I served them and made Maggi for the entire group.
When I looked up the ingredient in the dictionary, I was mortified to have given that dish to a group of vegetarian people. Though no one complained, after that, no one came home ever. I had never cooked for more than two people, so it was quite a challenge — and to cook on the spot with all eyes on me was terrifying.
I was not warned, and it felt like a sudden test of being hospitable. Later, once when I was informed of a lunch meet at the apartment, I prepared Indian vegetable pulao with onion raita and salad — but no one came. I didn’t have a chance to see any of them after that one surprise meeting.
Cooking in Singapore was totally a disaster since I couldn’t figure out the cooking time properly, and the toor dal needed processing before it could be cooked in the pressure cooker. I was on pins every time I began cooking.
Amma would visit and take over the kitchen but never teach me how to cook. So, one of the reasons for the discord in my married life was the cooking and the poor meals that I made.
But these days, I cook for myself, and I know how to adjust things in the recipe if things go wrong midway. I still struggle with portion control since I am not a hearty eater. I tend to nibble my food.
Some days, it is just last Monday’s food till Thursday. These days, I can stabilize my intake and find joy in cooking, because I cook on low flame with a timer. It takes me two hours to cook just basic dishes — sambar, poriyal, rice/phulka. Some days, breakfast doubles as lunch.
Unlike my brother, who can cook just for that mealtime and well, I tend to cook more portions which last for four or five days. But I don’t mind reheating and having them, and sometimes I remake them — like old rotis into roti upma. Though I am not as skilled as my mother at remaking one dish into another, I can make a mean upma any time.
One of the saddest things about modern men coming from traditional roles for women and men alike is the assignment of kitchen work to women as their responsibility. I often felt that if you wish to understand another person, you should spend time with your spouse in the kitchen.
This is my theory because I have experienced it with my father, my mother, and my close family — even though my brother abhors my kitchen, since my tea-making vessel has many times boiled until the outer steel turned red hot. Because I forgot to set the timer, or I was writing something interesting, forgetting the boiling water on the stove.
I often like to cook with music on, and these days it isn’t Devi Rathanamala Stotrams, but peppy Bollywood numbers which have a nice beat. But I always pray that the made food would heal. This started from the time I made my first upma after observing my mother making it.
So yesterday, I was watching Julie & Julia (2009), where Meryl Streep and Amy Adams gave an incredible portrayal of characters whose passion for cooking started from boredom and bloomed into something else.
The joy of French cuisine and the equal passion in eating it was such a pleasure to watch. I have still not completed the movie, though I am seeing it for the second time. The joy of cooking is an actual experience, and I never perform before an audience — especially my brother, who is an excellent Le Cordon Bleu-level Indian bawarchi (most affectionately).
But when I am alone and cooking just for me, I touch this sublime feeling of elation that is such a contrast to my Singapore days of cooking. After every cooking session back then, I would be exhausted; that does not happen now.
I feel this wonderful smell of cooking, warmth, and grace flow all over me, and I am elated beyond imagination. I am more relaxed and never turn up the flame unless it is timed with a phone timer.
My happy balance is the food that I cook for myself and enjoy for more than a few days. That experience of finding my balance after many attempts and slow cooking makes me wonder that I can self-learn — but the recipes must be in English only.
These days, I try diabetic cooking and plan vegetable cutting using the Anjali cutter. I love finely chopped veggies and haven’t tried julienne yet. But I find my happiness in cooking that had once been a grievance for me when I was learning one dish at a time.
For the past few months, I have been getting cut veggies from Praggy Food, and I enjoy making dishes with them and exploring the dishes in Tarla Dalal’s cookbook in English.
There is still a need to explore more dishes and gain mastery over them, but the little that I have self-taught through books has been an incredible journey filled with experiments and failures. I fear charcoaling a dish, so I often set a timer for turning the dishes and not letting them burn on the pan.
The real happiness comes when you add a sprig of coriander leaves to the dish and call it ready. There is also one more difficulty: while cooking slowly, the smells and aroma of the dish fill your tummy, and eating immediately after cooking is sometimes impossible. But after an hour or so, I relish my cooking — cooked in my style.
Credit: Polished with care by Koi Kai (DeepSeek AI)
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