A young Kalam watched as his mother served his father curry and burnt rotis. Apprehensive of his weary father's response, Kalam observed him as he calmly finished up everything on his plate. Later, as his wife apologized for the burnt dinner, Kalam's father reportedly said, "But I love burnt rotis!" And when Kalam sought an explanation for this strange conversation, his father said something to the effect of no one being perfect, and the dinner not being his harried mother's fault.
Not many of us like burnt rotis, and we don't even have to pretend to. But what we must have is empathy for the family member who cooks and serves and supervises our meals, just like the father in the anecdote. Even if it seems like a generalization, for most of us, it is our mother (or, in the case of most lucky males, a wife or sister or sister-in-law). It is almost taken for granted that they will put delectable food on the table at the correct times – which will warrant no appreciation even if executed perfectly, but a lot of criticism if it is even a little below expectation. The person who toiled so long over the pan of mutton kebabs obviously wanted it to be the most scrumptiousone ever – which is not always possible, because very few of us are born chefs.
No sooner does the family sit down for meals than someone pipes up, "The daal is too salty today." Someone else will add, "The pickle does not have any hing, lacks the tang." A third one says, "Why is this rice so squelchy, you should have let it simmer for a while." As a really fussy eater, I was one of these whiners. And then I learnt to cook, which taught me three things – that whipping up a good dish is one of the more difficult responsibilities, that insensitive grievances about food makes the cook feel resentful and unappreciated, and that I need not rely on anyone else to cater to my tastes.Which is why, as Buwa and Ama relished their bland soup and boiled vegetables, I pored over a spicy pasta sauce, and my sister went off to find a bowl in which to whip up a salad. Some of my friends admit, too, that they learnt the value of their food-providers once they began living and cooking by themselves.
So here is some serious advice for all the cantankerous eaters: add water to your salty daal, squeeze lemon into your achar, and eat up the soft rice before it gets cold – and stop being so cranky, it is really childish. Or better still, cook what you like, exactly as you like it, as you are the best judge of what you want to eat. Someone else cooking for you when they would rather spend their time reading or working or just relaxing – that is a real privilege! Also, people who are so quick and lavish with criticism would do well to speak up when the meals are appetizing, too.
Ten people might nit-pick, but barely one will praise an amazing dish – except when visiting other people's houses. We are so courteous to people we barely know, while disregarding the effort our closest ones put into cooking each day. That was why I nearly had tears in my eyes when, after a hearty lunch, my fifteen-year-old cousin stood up to say, "Thank you, didi, it was one of the best dishes I ever had, you cook so well." I don't, actually, but his thoughtfulness makes me want to cook for him again and again.
It is completely valid to visit a restaurant, pay for a meal, and then be dissatisfied for being served dishes that are carelessly put together, greasy or charred, undercooked or overpriced. It is a service, and they better prove their worth. But the people in our homes – they go through the mundane, monotonous, dull routine of cutting and cleaning, sautéing and frying to produce one dish that leaves no trace behind except a mound of dirty dishes. For many, it is a drudgery undergone for the sake of loved ones. Let us at least respect this fact, and not reduce cooking to another thankless chore. A simple meal is worth hundreds of words of approval, why should we be stingy in doling out just one?
My husband, meanwhile, is as happy with watery Maggi as with my elaborate chicken biryani, an easy person to feed. And he also analyzes his own culinary skills, which is a fair thing to do. But he is also of the opinion that calling an insipid dish by any other name would amount to a white lie. No, I argue, you don't have to shout out that a dish is bad, just appreciate the good parts. But even that, he says, will
leave people with the impression that you are merely being agreeable.
My maiju has the same complaint against me, which she repeats quite often. "I can never tell whether or not you actually like the food I cook," she says, "You eat up everything and claim that it is delicious – even when I am sure it's not!"
Others who know me would agree. I have been accused of calling a dish mitho simply out of habit, or because I want to be in the person's good books, or out of fear of hurting the other's feelings. All of it is true. But what is truest is that my gratitude is not merely for the fare, but everything that went into it – the time and attempt, the thought and affection, the skills and diligence.
I want everyone who cooks for me to have this complaint about me, and I wish to be able to grumble in the same way about everyone I cook for.
bh.richa@gmail.com
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