Choosing a chef.
She came from a society where women served two purposes – producing the next generation and preparing the next meal. Her great-grandmother did it, her nana did it and her mum did it. As a child, Anita had decided that she was not going to follow either of these traditions.
And she was proud of the fact that she had reached the ripe old age of twenty-five without creating one single dish. Apart from making coffee and heating up pre-packaged food, her only other skill in the kitchen was making toast. In an age when everything was easily available in the supermarket, it was not hard to fulfill her promise.
When she got her dream job as a book reviewer, she wrote and maintained the ‘Books 2 Read’ section of city’s fortnightly woman’s magazine. She reviewed books from different genres, carefully selecting them from the thousands released each week, knowing that her articles guaranteed them a place on the best-sellers list. This power also placed an immense responsibility on her to give an honest and accurate review.
With the new trend in the entertainment industry of reality shows, it was but natural that these shows would have an impact on the publishing industry. People were either writing memoirs or taking out books in their line of expertise. Gardening, renovations and cookbooks were the most popular lifestyle books. Answering a need, Anita found herself seated at the live recording of a reality cooking show.
Yes! A cooking show! She was only there to interview the guest chef as he had recently released an interactive cookbook. It was a novel concept and her editor was determined that they get that first interview. In preparation for the article, Anita had read up on a couple of cookbooks and even learnt a few basic cooking terms. She learnt that there were dictionaries that specialised in cookery terms. There were retailers solely dedicated to the sale of cooking utensils and equipment. There were diplomas and degrees available to students wanting to take cooking courses. Anita could not believe that people enjoyed cooking so much, that they took it as a subject.
In the years between her childhood and now, ‘they’ had turned cooking into an art where everything had to be scientifically explained and precisely measured. Anita thought back to her mother’s methods. It was a handful of this and a pinch of that. The food had to taste good. That was the gauge a cook was measured by. These cookbooks spoke of calories and cholesterol. They categorised foods by the goodness in them, an alien thought for one who judged food on how it looked to the eye and tasted to the palate.
Anita even watched some televised cooking shows but found herself switching off the television in frustration. How could anyone go so crazy over the freshness of fish, or the availability of a variety of mushroom or the smell of a spice? She wanted to scream back - ‘Get a life’
She saw these shows as part of a lucrative business. A billion dollar industry that had been created around man’s natural need for nourishment! Everyone benefitted, from the grocery stores to the sellers of the produce but most of all, the sponsors. Their products were the first to be bought off the shelves.
Anita had to chuckle when she read how the chef believed that the emotional state of the person cooking greatly affected the outcome of the dish. She had tried so hard to convince her grandmother that this belief was mere superstition, created and spread by men, so that the women of the house felt it was their moral obligation to cook and maintain the mental wellbeing of the family. Here, decades later, a man was propagating the same philosophy and the 21st century woman was buying it all over again.
Now seated in the studio, Anita watched with amusement as people rushed around ensuring that all was in working order. The ovens were tested, the ingredients checked and kept ready for the chef to use. Prepared samples of the dish, at various stages of cooking was kept ready under the counter just in case the original did not work out. The contestants were given last minute briefings while the hosts walked through the studio, familiarising themselves with everything.
The recording started on time. The hosts introduced the remaining contestants and then welcomed the guest chef, Nick Sharlie. While everyone watched Nick enter, Anita watched the contestants. They were awed. The sheer joy of meeting this chef was clearly visible on their faces. He was like a God to them. ‘You have to be kidding’, Anita thought to herself. ‘For heaven’s sake, he is a mere cook!’
When she turned to finally face the chef, it became her turn to take a deep breath. She had seen his photo on the book cover but now standing in front of her was a very good looking man in his thirties. Dressed in dark jeans and a white T-shirt, he spoke in an articulate manner. Anita could not dismiss his looks, but what got her interest, was the love he had for a task that she so abhorred. He was truly enjoying deboning a fish, dicing onions and crushing garlic. He was like a man in love. So totally in love with his cooking, that it showed in his eyes. She had seen that same look in a nun’s eyes as she spoke of her calling, during one of her previous interviews.
Anita smiled to herself. What a waste, to show all that emotion for a mere culinary skill. At that very moment, Nick looked up and straight at her. His eyes showed that he had read her thought. The next moment, he turned his attention to the dish in front of him and was once again lost to his art.
Once his recording was over, his manager brought him over for the interview, which she conducted at the café nearby. She learned that he had always loved cooking. His grandma has been his inspiration. His prized possession was a family journal with his grandma’s recipes. He had been bullied for opting to take cooking as an elective in school. That he did not believe the kitchen was either a man’s or woman’s domain, rather it was a shrine for the one who recognised its worth. That every dish he prepared could be made by anyone and that experience gives the confidence to create variations. And that it was this view that inspired his latest project- an online interactive website. Every day, he would put up a basic recipe and his subscribers are requested to try variations and post them if they are successful. He picks the best one each day and these are compiled into a monthly cookbook. And he guaranteed that he could bring out the cook in her.
It was here that Rita had asked her last question ‘What if one honestly and truly does not like to cook. What if one, really does not want to be a chef?”
And he had replied “I can’t speak for others, but if ‘you’ don’t want to be a chef, the answer is very simple” Then a moment later added “You must marry one’.
Eight months later, at their wedding, she had to laugh when she overheard the conversation between her grandmother and Nick. She was taking down his grandmother’s prized recipe.
I envy you,your moment
I was at a restaurant. The proprietor had seated me at my favourite table; a two-seater, in the far corner of the room. Our dishes had been served and I looked at our plates. Mine was already half eaten; my wife’s was still untouched. Ah, these blissful moments were priceless, intercepted by the rustle of my wife’s sari or by the clanging of her bangles.
I followed my wife’s gaze as she looked at the couple seated at the next table. The wife was upset about the order. She had wanted their usual selection and her husband had wanted them to try some new dishes. She had given in to his wish, but from the moment that was done; she had spent every minute regretting her decision. Others too listened in to their conversation, for it was loud enough.
Another lady who was with a group at the table next to me was blaming her husband for their delay. A man at that same table was making fun of his wife’s choice in music. Two tables away yet another couple were arguing about the man’s wandering eyes. Four tables away, a loud father yelled at his child and accused his wife for failing to discipline their child. Some couples joked about each other’s failings, and some attributed faults where none existed.
I looked across at my table and smiled at our blissful silence.
Indira and I met in college. I was her senior by two years. It was customary for newcomers to be ‘ragged’ by their seniors. It was not the kind of vi
olent, abusive bullying that now exists, rather the playful kind where we asked them to do jobs for us, such as go into town and bring us a snack or stand in the middle of the courtyard and sing a song. Though now, it would be considered bullying. It was my lot to rag her. My first task for her was to iron my shirts. They came perfectly ironed on a hanger, but to my dismay fell apart on me in the middle of a class presentation, for she had very cleverly and strategically unpicked the seams. That act, was not only defiance on her part but a challenge to me as well. The next day I asked her to wash all my clothes. She did these but returned them all dyed to varying degrees of pink, for she claimed she had accidently washed a red petticoat with my clothes. Now being made to look a fool, I decided to make her carry a placard saying ‘I was wrong to make a fool of Arvi and I apologise for it’ and walk around the campus. I felt bad about my decision and felt worse when I heard people laughing at her. Or that was until I saw the placard. My message was clearly printed on the front but on the reverse side she had added “but he makes it so hard, when he is so easy to make a fool of.’ From then on the battle lines were drawn, but no matter what I threw at her she counter-acted and won. We spent the next few months playing these games, and then suddenly the games stopped. And we both realised things were getting serious.
Then one day, Indira suddenly disappeared from college. All we were told was that she was unwell and had returned home for treatment. She had not said goodbye. She had not even contacted her close friends.
The two weeks that followed were my loneliest. Everywhere I looked, I saw Indira, every word uttered, reminded me of hers. Finally I managed to get her phone number but when I rang, her mother informed me that Indira was still in hospital and that she would pass on my message. Two weeks in hospital by anyone’s standard meant that something was serious. I left on the next train and arrived unannounced at her home. I could see her family was surprised but were gracious in their welcome. Her brother took me the hospital. Even before I entered her room, I knew I loved her. As I entered, I knew one day she would be my bride but I was unprepared for the sight I was to see. Indira lying prostrate still connected to tubes and a drip. She looked thinner and weaker but her smile was the same. And those eyes still held the twinkle in them.
“How did you get through, I thought it was ‘family only” she smiled.
“Yes, so I was told, before I was allowed in.” I replied. I had conveyed my message and I knew from her teary eyes, that she had understood its meaning. I was now family and I was here to stay.
“No one was to tell you anything?” she remarked. That explained why her friends had maintained their silence. It had surprised me that none of them had been in contact with their supposedly dear friend. I would learn later, that they took turns to visit Indira always promising to keep their silence.
My weekend stay turned to a fortnight. From her father I learnt that she had a heart condition that was now ‘ticking bomb’, a bomb that would never let her be a mother. And for that reason Indira had decided that she would never be a wife. And this was one battle; I would not and did not let her win. I married her the day she came out of hospital, ensuring that she did not have the chance to escape. That ticking bomb was gracious in giving us eighteen wonderful years together. My parents initial disappointment at our circumstances was soon overcome by their feelings for Indira. I had a brother who would give them their grandchildren, but I had brought them the daughter they never had. We completed our college. I got a job and we moved to several countries in the world. No country could fix her health condition but each was awed by her inner strength and courage.
Most couples look for friends and social groups outside of their marriage. I had my best friend by my side. Most marriages have arguments and fights. Ours never saw one. Maybe we were done with all the fighting in college. People look for external entertainment, we were just happy to be in each other’s company. On so many occasions we would get ready for a party and then decide that we would rather stay at home and just talk.
The time bomb finally exploded and took everything from my life, but not the memories and not her presence. Even now, I see her seated across me at our table. Even now I hear the rustle of her sari and the clang of her bangles. Even now she smiles at me from across the room and I hear my Indira say ‘I wish we had their time’
I looked around. The conversations were still loud, the arguments still raging and the comments still insulting, but it no longer bothered me. As I got up to leave, the gentleman at the table with the group remarked “I hope we were not too loud?”
I patted his shoulder as I walked passed “Not at all, in fact, I envy you, your moment.”