The Apprentice, Forever
The urge is palpable on days when work has been particularly stressful. And on weekends when I wake up from my siesta and find my evenings rather empty - thanks to one lockdown after the other.
The Kitchen. An art-house where delicacies are creatively crafted by master chefs to satisfy the sensory urges of smell, taste and sight. A factory where the raw produce from farmers is transformed to nutrition and well being every morning, afternoon and evening - by people we love. A lab where novices like me experiment with spices, mortally endangering others of our species gracious enough to be part of the charade I call cooking.
Ironically, what dragged me to the kitchen at a practical level was my parents confined to different rooms in home isolation, with my brother and I trying to take care of them. As I cautiously tried to turn on the gas and light the stove without causing much alarm, even my sick mother suppressed a weak smile. The double whammy was a younger brother with a condescending stare and a certainly superior skill set in home science.
Our family's tryst with COVID seemed to have affected our palate and appetite in a definitive way. We were not confident enough to go down the home delivery route just yet - but we were equally concerned by the restlessness of our taste buds that were used to at least occasionally tasting something that was a departure from the usual kitchen menu.
YouTube guided our imagination. A younger cousin expanded our horizon of possibilities with her exploits in the kitchen. I either pushed or gave enough confidence to a now fully recovered Amma (prefer to believe in the latter) to try something new in the kitchen, with me being her aide.
And yours truly, slowly climbed the hierarchy. Cutting vegetables was where I first made myself useful. Adding ginger, lemon, chilly, salt and pepper to complete a salad was my induction. The riot of colour in the salad was my first art.
Amma made it abundantly clear that if we wanted to taste novel stuff "from the kitchen", we better make ourselves useful by being "in the kitchen". I was soon standing in front of the stove, watching the pasta cook - as Amma indicated if I need to lower or increase the intensity of the flame, always sceptical because I'm left handed.
I was soon proficient enough to tell cooked from raw and vice versa. Then came the initiation to sauteing
. The hissing of cooking oil as the water evaporates sounded ominous initially, but was soon music to the ears. Adding chopped ginger, garlic and chilly to the boiling lake of oil and watching the changing colour turned out to be a bi-weekly craving. The pungent smell emanating from the combination would be the first announcement that something interesting is evolving in the kitchen.
I learnt to sort vegetables by their cooking time, made sure that that the vegetables didn't stick to the base of the pan and burn and learnt to carefully remove a piece of vegetable to see if it was still raw or cooked. And all these commanded hundred percent attention that left little head-space for other thoughts during the hour or so. For someone who doesn't cook regularly, the phenomenon of onion changing from pink to brown was wonder. A certain brightness sauteing in oil gave the carrot was amazement. The tomato melting in the frying pan was magic! And I never knew that all this happened in the kitchen everyday!
It's as though the entire family comes together to create the biriyani. Father is in a corner peeling garlic. Amma is carefully cleaning cauliflower. My brother has gone out to get the rice and spices. I'm in charge of cutting the other vegetables. Then the kitchen comes to life. The cloves, cinnamon, cardamom and the mishmash of spices; The different vegetables blending with these spices in a canvas of oil and water. The rice is getting ready in a separate vessel to lend meaning to the vegetables.
The finishing act is what takes my breath away, always. The vegetables are spread in the cooker. Then a layer of rice on top of them. A smattering of saffron and fried onion. Then layers of the remaining vegetables and rice. The monument of our collective efforts steadily takes shape. The countdown begins as the vegetables and rice slowly lend their flavors to each other in low flame. We want those fifteen minutes to be the fastest and slowest of our lives at the same time. When the biriyani eventually comes to life, it is the anticipation of almost two days that attains salvation.
I always thought being a foodie meant that you need to be gorging on anything and everything in sight. Then I had this light bulb moment when someone corrected me: being a foodie was more about enjoying different foods, appreciating the cooking and presentation - and knowing when to stop during a sumptuous meal. As I discovered the kitchen and its indulgences, I found myself resonating with this statement more and more. There are even days when the process and preparation are more enjoyable than eating the end result. And the appreciative nods and lip smacking means that the effort has found its reward.
If Amma were to read this piece, she would definitely point out that my occasional apprenticeship in the kitchen (under adult supervision) is only good for this sophisticated essay, while she faces the music of having to plan breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday - and has been doing for as long as I can remember. Yet in moments when she lets her guard down, she is hopeful that I might eventually learn to whip up a Rasam or a Sambhar with some rice and relieve her for a day from the kitchen!
But then....I've never been able to convert an apprenticeship to a permanent job offer, just yet!!
- 19th July 2021
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