There are two kinds of people. Ones who eat to live and the others who live to eat (considering that the latter don’t really live to eat and that this is just a metaphor to describe how much they enjoy food.) But I come across a third kind. Some people in my family. These people are so dead on the dining table that you would hope that they could at least eat to live. If these people understood that this food was providing them nutrition to carry on their trivial activities and their essential pursuits, that this food was the most enriching thing in their lives, maybe even a gift from god, they would eat with little more attention.
Every time I cook I expect my partner to attentively eat it. I expect that my partner will pay as much attention to it as he does to anything else. From the point of view of the partner, I tell myself that it is not always possible. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it ever. He does. But is it wrong to expect it every time? Each time? Is it wrong to feel disappointed? Isn’t cooking each meal like creating something new? Doesn’t all the attention and passion and love go into that meal? I heat up the pan then add the oil and then add the spices making sure at each step each one is hot enough that everything I put gives a crackle but not so hot that it burns away. Every step in the cooking process is carried with utmost attention, respect and honesty. I have dropped a little methi in the oil and then added four more grains and contemplated over four more but finally held myself back. Every grain of methi, jeera, dhaniya, rice, dal, is counted for and cared for. Not a drop is added ignorantly. Instead of just heating something later I have cooked it half way through only to completely cook it later ensuring that it is hot while eating. This avoids ruining the texture of the dish. I calculate minutes to ensure food is hot, that three things that take different cooking time are done cooking at the same time. I don’t cook any dal with any sabzi. I don’t just chose any chutney. That salad today has been chosen for a reason. Ask me. I have thoughtfully cooked arhar when it was sunny, and moong when it was a little cold and humid. I write a poem, I paint a picture, I sing a song, I cook a dish. Not one takes any less love than the other. And then it kills me when someone doesn’t make the most of that meal, when the food fails to cheer one up, when I see people stare away at the plate and eat like the dead. Animals eat better. The food seems to nourish them. I think I should start feeding stray animals. I can just imagine them gobbling up all my food. Oh! How much I would love to see someone relish my food. And most importantly every time!
So is it wrong for me to be disappointed? Is cooking not like creating art? If I created art everyday wouldn’t I expect it to be received with care each time? Doesn’t a teacher expect the students to be attentive and receptive in class every day? So when we blame the thoughts in our head for not appreciating what’s in front of us shouldn’t we question if trivial people and their trivial matters be considered important enough to not acknowledge the honest plate of hardwork and smartwork on the table?
My mom says that she cooks so that she can look at my content face when I am eating. Who do I cook for?