Rogue seeds of transformation
And a very Happy Thanksgiving
This is a continuation of my last post with the poem The Smuggler, where I said…
The irony, the argument (mostly with self) and the humor of it all is perhaps best illustrated by my journey as a cook. Because I went from being a strident feminist refusing to enter the kitchen to falling hopelessly in love with cooking. Oh how mightily the mighty fall — or at least reconsider their premises…
Here’s the rest of that story…
No kitchen, no woman, no cry
If you know me today, you know I love to cook and often spend happy hours lost in the kitchen. But if you’d said that to the freshly arrived graduate student back then she would have scoffed at your presumptuous (she might even claim, sexist) presumption. “Why? Because I’m a girl?” she would interrogate. That girl vehemently resisted all attempts to be “domesticated”. Kitchens and cooking were to be avoided at all costs. They were “jails for girls and women''. Oh yes!
Growing up in India in those days she wasn’t entirely off base either. Cooking was (in some quarters, remains) a gender- and role-driven prescription for wives, mothers, sisters. The woman in the kitchen is/was the expectation no matter her interest, her load or standing outside the home, let alone any competence. Rarely, did a man even assist in the kitchen, god forbid, take on meal preparation! Any such endeavor by him was viewed with great affection as an indulgence or hobby. Even in that scenario, the women fluttered about cleaning up after him, complimenting him for his (often) mediocre efforts and waxed on for his great humbleness in “helping” for days. Overwrought, sexist b.s. I wanted no part of. So I stayed away.
But a very different path’s scripting was already in print. My mother was an amazing, adventurous, and - did I say? - amazing, cook. And I came from a family of foodies. Plus my parents wisely ignored my anti-cooking campaigns, gave me other chores and mostly disregarded any friends/family (mostly women!) who expressed horror at my stony resistance to the kitchen. In engineering college, I got by on cafeteria food because the city - Delhi, where bad food is hard to come by - offered plentiful escape valves.
Foodie vs. Feminist
But then I arrived in Chicago — clueless grad student in a new land, even more clueless in the kitchen. While excited by new cuisines on offer, I often sought out local Indian restaurants. But I tired quickly of the fare my meagre research assistantship afforded me. So here I was: a staunch foodie, an exacting yet indigent food critic, AND thoroughly useless in the kitchen. Rome was falling!
But a very different path’s scripting was already in print. My mother was an amazing, adventurous, and - did I say? - amazing, cook. And we were a family of foodies…
Desperate, I wrote to my mother. Following instructions from the pages she wrote back, I attempted daal (lentils) of various ilk. After voluminous, bland gobs emerged and even rice refused to cooperate, turning out brittle or burnt in turn, I ran out and bought my very first Indian cookbook by Madhur Jaffrey — ironically, the first one she wrote — which claimed to teach Indian cooking in American kitchens!
The choice turned out to be pivotal. Because any recipe that can be made in 7 steps, dear Jaffrey packs with loving detail in about 23! Being a rookie, I didn’t risk any shortcuts, and the dishes turned out rather well. Soon I was in love with this oddly familiar act — and with Jaffrey!
So what about the resentment of sexist traditions in the kitchen? I kept it all, maintaining rightful indignation when confronted with it. Plus I maintained, who could enjoy a meal cooked by someone who folds her anger, resentment or even an abject dutifulness in with the spices?
Interestingly, the recent TV show Julia — about the mother of French cooking in America in the ‘60’s (parallelly what Jaffrey did for Indian cooking in the ‘70’s) — depicted a similar conundrum. In a scene at a gala honoring her, Julia Child is confronted by Betty Friedan, an angry feminist who accuses her of trapping women in the kitchen. That confrontation and Child’s bewilderment resonated - conversely - with me. Friedan sees “woman in the kitchen” and forgets all else, including the particulars of the woman before her: a leader, creator and self-made pioneer of The French Chef one of the first ever cooking shows on TV, in a world dominated by men.
But I get Friedan’s conflation because my own love of cooking only materialized when I could meet it on my own terms, in a milieu where there was no one to crow coulda, woulda, shoulda at me. Such is life. May we all recover the space to find our true selves.
Happy-ness…
Many years ago upon enjoying something I had cooked, my mother remarked, “I’m glad I didn’t waste time teaching you how to cook…” We both laughed. That sweet, ironic memory of a lost era remains with me.
Yet this accounting of my journey is by no means a prescription. Anyone and everyone who finds joy in the kitchen should go for it — on his own terms (see what I did there? ;-)). Besides, in today’s age of endless options, cooking-indifferent men or women needn’t fret either.
For me however, the resident foodie prevailed, took off her feminist-exasperation-colored glasses just in time to have found an abiding love for this creative outlet, this inner meditation, this faithful substrate for expressing love for those at my table.
…and Happy Thanksgiving!
I’m reminded of this fortuitous gift especially this time of year as Thanksgiving nears.
I look forward to at least two days of “cooking up a storm” as my hubby calls it. In keeping with Presidential tradition, I forgive the turkey. Instead my table (punnily!) tenders a leg of lamb (Raan Masaledar, courtesy who else?) or a fish or some other centerpiece along with a vegetarian offering for my beloved leaf-eaters.
For those two days you’ll find me in the kitchen, at first seemingly day dreaming. Then I get old Hindi songs blaring, and off I go. I run out every once in a while to my veggie patch to grab a few peppers, curry leaves or a meyer lemon or two and as the flavors fold in I feel a deep bliss for life, love and for all those with whom we break bread.
Is there much more to finding happiness?
…the resident foodie prevailed, took off her feminist-exasperation-colored glasses just in time to have found an abiding love for this creative outlet, this inner meditation, this faithful substrate for expressing love for those at my table.
Whatever your answer, I want to wish each of you who celebrate, those who don’t, those who enjoy cooking or who simply love to eat, oh… and the customs guy all those years ago who didn't realize what else I was smuggling in, a very happy and gratitude-filled Thanksgiving. Chin Chin!
And if you need inspiration here’s a video of the two doyennes cooking together. Note how intensely present yet lost in the flow of the practice they are, as Jaffrey presents her recipe with its gazillion exacting steps. Long live, dear Madhur!
Extra!
On a related note, I HIGHLY recommend this film The Great Indian Kitchen! It’s about some of the themes I mention, and a lot more.
Extra! Extra!!
Since we are talking food I wanted to share this rather shocking post from
's excellent blog. I’m always amazed that even high-end grocery stores continue to sell (because people continue to buy) sugary foods, while “low-fat” stuff dominates the aisles. I’m no expert, but even I know, added/refined sugar is bad news. That doesn’t mean I never indulge because, yes, sugar just tastes so good. My surprise stems from people buying “low fat” (vs. low carb) as a healthy option, while rarely checking sugar content.I’ve learned to always cross-check government guidelines on anything health. But to see an NIH-funded study like this one, especially in this day and age — that too from a reputable university — has me completely gobsmacked!
Read at your own I’ll-be-pigging-out-over-Thanksgiving-anyway peril :-)
You are great cook!! <3
Really enjoyed your writing Reena. Growing up I used to hate all things kitchen too and your writing brought all those days back. First few months of marriage too I resisted cooking and then slowly started experimenting and then enjoying it. Happy Thanksgiving 🍁 and keep writing.