All cooked out

Humour

Unfortunately, I don’t fall into this category. I will tell you why. I remember when I just got married and cooked for my “sweeter half” his first meal, I served the sumptuous feast with a flourish. I wanted to show him that I was quite a good cook. The very next day, he went and got himself insured for a higher sum. I realise that I have no such luck of a second chance with first impressions.

I am no epicurean, but you could label me as a bon viveur or a gastronomer. I love food and that is evident if you see me. I “live to eat” and don’t “eat to live”. Opposites attract? My hubby is not very particular about his food. Now, don’t ask me if that’s a good thing or bad. Whether I make rice, daal and a vegetable side dish or try something as exotic as a raspberry cheesecake or riz a l’imperatrice, I would get the same reaction.

When I enquire how the meal or dish was, it’s always the same comment — “nice” — and the expression, deadpan. He doesn’t even crack a smile. I did hear him once mutter something like, “This is a formula for a laxative”. He probably thinks that by participating in the repast, it will be his last supper.

During dinner, my daughter is the only one that compliments me on my cooking. As for my son, I have to glare at him to get a comment. Chip off the old block. His reaction or lack therof may be connected to an incident where I tested out a chikki recipe on him, and he broke a tooth.  Till date, he cannot bring himself to forgive me.

Every now and then, my family has to cope with burnt offerings. Breakfast, lunch and dinner is very often cremated. I do recall baking birthday cakes for my children every year, but with the same result. Disaster. Sigh! I do love cooking and trying out new recipes, but I can say with all humility that it’s not my strong point. What a pity that a dinner takes so long to prepare and is devoured in a few minutes.

On other days, I love entertaining guests and having them over for
dinner, but I hate the aftermath of the party. Dirty dinner crockery and cutlery though, are a real bore.

When I’m very tired, I have a devious way of making my husband wash the dishes. I put a bandage on my finger and tell him that I had cut myself while chopping the vegetables. Poor soul, he never suspects a thing.

I must make a mention that it was my hubby dearest who taught me to make chapatis. Once, he questioned me on why they were thicker than usual. I had to remind him of the fight we had had the night before. Talk about crime and punishment.

I often wonder why my family never complains about my cooking. Maybe it has something to do with this poster on my kitchen door which goes, “Complaints about the cook can be hazardous to your health!” My family knows that they won’t hear a gong when dinner is ready.

They just watch out for the smoke from the kitchen. I would like to permanently close my culinary department due to illness. Yes, I am ‘sick’ of cooking. Now and then, I get a severe case of voluntary inertia.

All said and done, sometimes I cook a nice meal for my family and then we all go out to a restaurant and eat. That is, maybe, because I cannot stomach my own cooking.