Of Men and Kitchens

"Not for more than a day or two," joked friends and family, when they heard that I was going to dabble in some cooking.

"Why don't you take a few easy recipes with you", suggested my mom, trying to be helpful. But I was sure I didn't need them.

"A few onions and tomatoes here, a bit of masala and whatever else I want to put it in," I said laughing. "And with a bit of common sense, I should be able to manage just fine." So this gave everyone all the more reason to believe that I wasn't serious about my resolution to cook.

But a week later, armed with all the necessary powders and masalas, I jumped onto the Chennai-Mumbai express and reached Pune. And, I've been cooking for a week since then. When I began, I was reminded of an old teacher from college. She was one of the first feminists I had encountered. Let me assure you that she was no aging spinster, who had developed a distaste for anything male over a period of several rejections. On the contrary, she was quite a smart thirty-something-year-old, who carried with herself interesting anecdotes in which the men were usually the wrongdoers. She had, during one of her classes, mentioned that the big difference between men and women lay in the fact that when men were put away from home, they preferred walking into nearby restaurants, while women came up with something that was at least edible.

A year later, I moved to Pune. Unlike the women in her stories I was also walking into nearby restaurants that sold chappatis for an affordable two rupees. And a lot of the men I knew were managing proper kitchens. All the cooking my roommates and I did was boiling milk and making omelettes. Over a period of time, we became experts. We put the milk to boil and left for quick baths, or to read the newspaper. But we'd always get back to the milk just as it was getting ready to boil over. The omelettes also improved considerably. The fillings changed, and the quantity of grated cheese also increased.

A friend in the US (note: a man), occasionally tried tempting me with mouth-watering recipes such as special de la chicken (at least that is what he called them) and lasagna. A cousin also used most opportunities to brag about the success he had with pork vindaloo. For proof, he made it once when he was home. It was perfect. And my other friend didn't settle for the main meals only. He baked cakes and experimented with vadas and samosas. However I was lucky my parents never made comparisons with them. And when I did eventually begin cooking a year and a half later, they wondered if I was slowly getting ready to set up home (ahem… Not yet).

My mother learnt to cook after she got married. Of course, by then she was making desserts and baking cakes. But after her marriage, she supposedly took down hurried recipes on how to make sambar and the like and my father politely ate up everything that she came up with. There was little he could do. From cooking rice, he had graduated to making tea. And occasionally, he made his popular egg thoran, which is more popularly known as scrambled eggs with onions, tomatoes and grated coconut. And if mom was away, he preferred playing the indulgent father, who handed out money for pizzas and Chinese grub.

I grew up, oblivious to the pains (or joys) of cooking. I was showing few signs of being a good homemaker. Unlike my mom's friend's daughters, I wasn't cooking, baking and sewing. While some of them were attending classes that taught them the art of making delicious desserts, I was busy reading and listening to music. My mother didn't force me either, because she believed that if she could manage, I could as well. I of course made declarations of marrying a man who would cook and clean, if not get me a cook. And unlike me, my brother began showing an interest in baking. One boring summer afternoon, he woke mom up from her siesta and asked if she would teach him to bake a cake. She did and he came up with a cake that was quite a hit. I managed to get a slice of it after hours of begging, because he had announced before starting that if he was making the cake he wasn't going to share it either. And a year later, he also began using the microwave when my parents were away.

An aunt had commented recently that amongst the present generation, the boys preferred cooking unlike the girls. With immense pride, she boasted about her son's culinary skills, stopping only to ask if I could cook. A little flustered at the sudden question, I whimpered an inaudible "I can manage." In fact I was taken aback by the truth in her earlier sentence. A lot of my male friends were cooking. Though some of them continue hunting for restaurants that match their mother's cooking. And I can imagine them as pompous husbands who compare their wife's cooking to that of their mother's. But a vast majority was cooking not only because they had to, but also because they enjoyed it. I began typing out this article after cooking a rather tasty meal that comprised of rice, some bhindi masala and some spicy potato curry. After promising to give my folks a taste of my cooking when I returned to Chennai, I settled down to write this article. And as I finish it, I see myself smiling a smile of contentment, for cooking isn't a woman's duty anymore. Anyone who likes to do so is allowed the liberty of cooking. And the rest can refrain from doing it if disinterested in cooking. I quite enjoy the little cooking I do these days. But could I cook for 365 days a year? I don't think so. …

But, I can picture a lot of my male friends shrugging and muttering, "why not?"