Random Ramblings of a Reluctant Blogger

It is said, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And if I may add, the way to a woman’s heart passes through the kitchen. In fact the kitchen is her exclusive zone. Notwithstanding all the noises of patriarchy and male chauvinism,  everyone knows how dearly the women love their kitchens, their very own sanctum sanctorum. It certainly is so in my house. 

While my better half may even let go of, at times, her obsessive cleanliness when it comes to other rooms, she certainly does not compromise when it comes to the kitchen. Here, her idea of neatness and orderliness trumps over everything, and one dare not ever so slightly alter that.

And that majorly complicates the matter when I cook. Though I may not make it to the master chef category, I am a decent cook and can rustle up some delicious meals. And this part my wife too will ratify. What she will not entertain, though, is my method, and that puts us at loggerheads.

And being HER kitchen, I do find it exasperating that my methods do not match with her order. To her everything has its place and it promptly goes back to it. The utensils are all stacked up and various condiments and dals have their own place to rest and are immediately dispatched back once their need is over. Not that I am against it, I just do not seem to find what I look for, in the place I look for. Though for her it is all ‘There’! I am more of a what-I-want-has-to-be-see-in-front-of-me types.

And unlike the masterchef kitchen, ours boasts of just a few knives. One is very sharp which I avoid, and my wife prefers, and others have had their glory days but are tamed now. I am comfortable with them given that I am well aware of the certain angles to use and I do not cut myself either. Now those are the knives for which I have to launch a manhunt before laying my hands on them. I prefer a special ladle which most of the time cools itself away from all the heat.

It just isn’t about my favourite cutlery, it is my way of cooking too which raises the temperature. I love to spread out all the raw materials I need, beforehand on the dining table close to the cooking counter. It helps as I do not have to search for them while cooking. Practical is what I call it, more so when the setup favours the lady of the house. Then all the sliced, diced and peeled vegetables adorn one side of the dining table and their skins and unwanted extras too take up the space (to be discarded later). The masala boxes too join in to see a ‘professional’ at work. Various utensils, cooker jars, frying pans and spoons have a field day in the kitchen and are within my easy reach.

Chaotic it may seem, for the uninitiated, there is a method in my chaos. I also do not like to drape the apron, which I feel fetters my creativity. Ergo my shirts and shorts bear the tell tale signs of raw masalas and oils, cooked and semi-cooked. 

See me cooking one cannot be faulted if one is reminded of  a novice mechanic who has taken out all the innards of a car and is overwhelmed and wondering where all of it has come from. Whereas my wife would have used just one frying pan to cook the curry, I would have used up at least three or four utensils.

The final outcome _  the kitchen bears a look of a cyclone-hit tree-lined avenue. There are utensils of various sizes, some used, some partly used, some not, spoons and plates all around wondering if they will be used or not, vegetable peels and other discards all vying with each other to paint a happy picture of chaos. And though I own up and offer to do the cleaning, my wife, whose sense of order has been obliterated, will have nothing of it. “I would rather do the cooking, than clean up after you cook,” has been her constant refrain. No doubt she very rarely allows me to cook.

And for the cynics among you, No, I do not do so on purpose to get away from the job. It is just my style that my wife cannot digest!