Cooking: An Act Of Love

My relationship with cooking cannot be described. Because it does not exist. (yes, please take a second to giggle)

Did it only for the camera

Firstly, I never had to do it. I thank my stars, my parents, and my hostel roommates.

Secondly, I am not patient enough. I can't wait till the onion slices become brown.

Thirdly, I am not a foodie. Many live to eat, I eat to live. So, no experimenting with food.

And most importantly, I detest routine. After all, cooking is mostly a set of repetitive tasks, isn't it?

But, I have always known this about myself: I'll definitely cook (note to friends: stop laughing okay). I mean I know I'll do it someday. Not because I'll have to, because I would want to. The only reason is, when I look at the food served on my plate, I see a different definition of cooking. The one that acts as a daily reminder of someone who cares about me. Someone who loves me. And the romantic in me will never let go of this excellent opportunity.

Think about it. What is cooking really? You take a couple of hours from your life to perfect something which will be devoured in 15 minutes. Yet you patiently stand, stir, until it is ready to be served! In the process, you constantly think about the people your food will be served to - what will they like, how much of that ingredient will they like, what would they like it with. And on some days, you spice it up by spending extra hours learning a whole new recipe!

I can only imagine making these efforts for someone I truly love.

Like my South Indian mother who makes the best pav bhaji in the world. Just for her children, born and brought up in Mumbai.

Who also easily makes tea for 20 people without any hesitation in spite of having made it thrice already during the day. Just so that the society meeting isn’t completely boring.

Like my dad who prepares five dishes for a single meal. So that our plates slightly resemble his heart. Full of love for us.

Like my roommate who cooked something hot for me. Because I was suffering from a severe cold. And she knew, if she left it to me, I would have been in bed for extra five days.

Like my sister who takes charge of the kitchen every time she’s home. So for those few days, we forget basic normal food. Instead, have a food fest!

I like to believe, someday, I’ll have collected so much love that I’ll take a few hours from my day to cook. To remind someone that I love them. Especially when I fall short of words. Because I know - they won't be able to bear the weight of my love always.

P.S.

Of course, I had to first write about cooking rather than cooking. Almost feels like my love letter to cooking. A desperate attempt to make it fall in love with me. But it is also a note of gratitude to those who met it before me and kept me alive.

It's beautiful. And one day, through it, I'll say the same to someone else.

Till then, I'll trust my words to do the cooking. ;)