The making of an accidental cook

The notion held by my grandmother that a man couldn’t “manage” the kitchen as effectively as a woman – a belief she often reinforced with gentle teasing aimed at my grandfather’s comical attempts at even the simplest tasks, like brewing a decent filter coffee. 

This belief, a familiar refrain during my early childhood, persists within my family even now. My world of culinary understanding, however, began to expand when my adolescence saw a move to my parents’ place, where I discovered my mother’s talent for multi-cuisine dishes, a talent that perhaps blossomed in our diverse neighbourhood. 

One evening it might be a flavourful biryani, the next perhaps a delicious homemade pizza, showcasing a culinary versatility I hadn’t experienced before. Breakfast past 8 o’clock in the morning was either rotis, puris, or the occasional South Indian delight. Lunch for my father at quarter past twelve meant my mother’s cooking was complete by 11.30 am. Dinner was a later affair, at 10 o’clock in the evening, with bedtime at 11.30 pm. 

My career’s frequent postings exposed me to the diverse world of street food, where the speed, ingenuity, and incredible flavours born from simple preparations consistently captivated me. Though I never envisioned recreating them, this fascination found its opportunity during the unexpected pause of the Covid-19 lockdown. 

This new hobby soon led to enthusiastic taste tests with my daughters. My initial forays also involved preparing my own batter and achieving those perfectly golden brown masala dosas, served with sambar and coconut chutney, a testament to my growing confidence in the kitchen, which eventually led them to jokingly declare me their “street food chef”, a title that stuck. 

My sons-in-law regularly visited us to enjoy my masala dosas, upma, and idlis. 

One Sunday, my usually reserved elder son-in-law exclaimed, after a generous serving of upma, “This tastes great, even better than what we get in that famous South Indian restaurant!” The nutty aroma of the roasted semolina mingling with the fresh curry leaves in the upma was particularly satisfying to create.

That seemingly simple compliment was a testament to how far I had progressed in perfecting my hobby. 

My wife now jovially remarks that I’ve surpassed her cooking skills. 

Nonetheless, my only regret is that my grandmother isn’t here to witness this journey, perhaps even to sample my upma. I often recall her gentle teasing of my grandfather’s kitchen attempts, a reflection of the traditional view of cooking as a woman’s domain. 

It would have been a powerful moment to show her that those roles aren’t so rigid and that I, the once-observing grandson, have found my
own place in the kitchen, rather as an “accidental cook”.