I just realized what a spoilt child I was. Growing up, I probably entered our kitchen just to grab a bowl for my morning cereal or to sneak bites of my patti’s famous (in our family) home-made chocolate.
After I got married in 2010, I furtively attempted to cook the occasional dinner, usually with disastrous results. My mother-in-law, who is a good cook, was kind enough not to tell me that I suck! After my husband and I moved to the US of A, I felt the need to cook and had the privacy to screw up (which I did often!), so I opened up “Cook and See,” the Indian cookbook series that my grandma insists is the bible for every south Indian who wants to cook.
A few hundred burnt curries and lumpy cupcakes later, I had suddenly gotten to be, well, a fair cook, since I dare not call myself a good one. But, as I gained confidence at cooking (it comes purely from screwing up so badly, nothing can be worse!), I realized that I have never felt the urge to experiment in the kitchen.
You won’t find me buying exotic spices at the middle-eastern marketplace or whipping out exotic casseroles from the oven. I am not driven to create art in the kitchen with a spatula as my paint brush. But my conclusion: I might not be able to whip up a Rustic tomato, basil and asparugus flatbread at the drop of the hat, but I can cook.