I don’t cook. Read that carefully. I didn’t say I can’t cook. Or that I won’t cook. I just don’t. Well, not on a daily basis anyway. I do, however, have a surprisingly flamboyant repertoire for someone who routinely burns toast.
Fine. I’ll be honest. It’s not just toast. I’ve tried reheating boiled eggs in a microwave, only to have them explode with all the drama of gunshots. I once warmed French fries, hastily procured from a restaurant down the road, in my oven, forgetting that they were still wrapped in paper. Fortunately, I was drinking wine and gossiping in the kitchen with friends, or we wouldn’t have seen the flames. It’s not easy to quell a French fry fire after three glasses of wine. (P.S. It’s even harder to say ‘French Fry Fire after three glasses of wine.) And I’ve never made an omelette that didn’t turn into a scrambled egg halfway through the cooking process.
So, if the only way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, as that tired old saying goes, I’m clearly going to sink like a stone (or at least one of my less successful cakes) in the shaadi.com market.
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I know for sure I was disqualified by at least one potential husband for just this. We were at a romantic rooftop restaurant on one of those mind-numbingly awkward ‘arranged marriage dates’. He asked me if I’d like a drink — so I happily flipped over to the martini section of the menu. (As one does.)
Then, he unexpectedly ordered both of us ghastly beetroot-infused health elixirs. (Note to all single girls: Never trust a man who considers ‘beetroot’ a drink.) When he asked me if I could cook, I laughed and quoted one of my favourite aunts who answers this question with a standard “I’d rather starve”. I thought it was funny. He didn’t. I later heard on the family grapevine that he said, “It just won’t work. She can’t cook. And I like good food.” No great loss, of course. I’m sure he and his beetroot elixir are very happy.
Thankfully, the world is full of new-age men who enjoy cooking. Especially my world, given that I’m a food critic, and many of my best friends are talented chefs. I’ve sat in fancy restaurants from Chennai to London, eating my way through designer dinners cooked exclusively for me. I’ve hung around massive hotel kitchens, drinking sweet, milky chai with the chefs, soaking up their techniques. I’ve also sat in warm home-kitchens with off-duty chefs, while they cooked me everything from simple dosa lunches to truffle-infused dinners. Almost all are male. All of them take me seriously when I talk about food. And none of them have ever judged my culinary skills.
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This is because truly smart men — and women — know that cooking isn’t a big deal at all. It’s a life skill, sure. It’s also a decision. Anyone can cook. The basics are not hard to learn, and after that it’s just logic. The truth is, I can be a pretty good cook when I want to. I make deliciously pillow-ey banana bread, a slick pad Thai and have invented a zingy coriander pesto. My repertoire is decidedly eclectic, influenced by friends around the world: I make a creamy hummus I learnt from an Israeli girl who runs a market in Tel Aviv, moist coconut-milk soaked buns I mastered in Fiji and baked turmeric chicken, taught to me by an accidental friend in Kuala Lumpur.
But I don’t cook to impress anyone. And I don’t cook because I’m a woman. I cook for my friends and family because food is a wonderful way to connect with people you care about.
And when none of us feel like cooking, we dial a restaurant. Or eat toast. Or reheat some French fries. Because the best thing about food is, it’s gender neutral: It’s not about the cooking, or the flavours — though both are important. Ultimately, it’s about sitting together at one table and sharing a meal.