When the cook began to understand language of food

It was one of those things that I had never wanted to learn. It occurred in the nether regions of the old, palatial bungalows of our childhood where I didn't care to venture and it made me only mildly curious.

From a distance I could hear the sounds of grinding and pounding and I would shudder. It seemed like a torture chamber. Why would anyone want to go there? But somehow, in the deep recesses of my mind, I knew it was inevitable that my time would come someday - and when it did, as I'd feared, it turned out to be the stuff of nightmares! Sleepless nights, anxiety filled days - how did other people gloss over it so easily?

I'd listen to tired, worn-out people perking up as they exchanged formulae and spouted words that sounded like gibberish and sensed that what had exhausted them were those very concoctions they were discussing - and I marvelled that they actually got animated as they reeled off facts and figures. With memories like that, I thought, they could have been statisticians or mathematicians or academicians - and they probably were - until this horrific vocation laid them low!

I thought how much better off I'd be if I bypassed this entire stage completely and took myself off to a monastery or a cave somewhere in the Himalayas or anywhere but the place I eventually found myself with most of womankind - the kitchen!

Strange words like baste and broil and braise and sizzle and drizzle began to make sense to me when I put my hands to it. I learned to slice and dice and bake and steam and fry and grill as well - and tried to get the whole thing over with, all burners firing and every dish a-bubble! Anything - as long as it allowed an exit as quickly as possible from the sauna they call the heart of the home. It was certainly taking the heart out of me - and the head - since my thoughts were ruled by what should go into the next meal!

Endless cycle

The years rolled by in an endless cycle of kneading, marinating, roasting and toasting. But strangely, instead of getting burned out by the endless processes of food processing, it began to get easier. It seemed that I was at last learning this language and adapting it to the needs of the household. And how it changed! Where once recipes were pored over and experiments made, little vol-au-vents and time-consuming tarts appearing to appease hungry palates, gradually store-bought canapés and readymade dips found their way onto the table. Where once recipes had been pruned and modified and rid of all exotic ingredients in view of light purses and heavy loan instalments, now an extra job made way for little extravagances that took the heat off the cook!

And where earlier I would hover around the table that carried a little bit of this and a little bit of that, varied dishes just in case one didn't appeal to someone's taste, camouflaged brinjal and decorative carrot, now there was a large quick-to-prepare, easily identifiable, one-course meal! The frills had been cut, but there was plenty for all. Anxiety took a back seat - in fact, there was no place for it at this table any more! Only for good appetite and goodwill!

And if I stumble upon friends who launch into an exchange of elaborate recipes that sound like complicated chemistry equations and seem all aglow as they do it, I listen with just half an ear, so that sometime later when ingredients are being tossed around in my kitchen, they meld together into a completely novel interpretation of what I've heard.

It's a lot more fun this way - food has acquired a language of its own and while it still throws up surprises every now and then, at least it is something all of us understand!

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India