Men and cooking

Men and cooking, recipe for disaster is what comes to mind? Eh, no cooking a storm? Maybe and definitely ‘yes’, ‘nooooo’ and ‘sometimes…well…’ is what is evoked. At the most Maggi? Or with some struggle omelette? Or go get some roadside junk for peanuts?

I don’t remember Papa cooking frequently, not that his culinary skills were challenged. He made all the forbidden ‘meaty’ dishes for all rebel Adams and Eves in the cowshed. His dal preparation is by far the best dal in the world, simple, low on spice and high in taste. We would literally slurp-gulp it down like some fast food Chinese soup. He thinks spice kills all great food preparations, Mama begs to differ, albeit diplomatically. Ahem, ahem is what she says and declines to comment when Papa would go head over heels praising something that Mama whisks in a jiffy or otherwise.

Bro has his fetish at what level the wok should be when his omelette is made and that it has to be a certain cream color without the masala except salt and pepper, no chillis and onions or the Spanish kinds. He can barely make a cup of tea without saying loud hi/hellos to the utensil rack and also, knocking a few potatoes here and there. It’s like scaling Mount Vesuvius in its active state of volcanic activity. Whew!

A bunch of us in the university used to trek by bunking Friday afternoons. The majority being boys, they insisted we carry a lot of food. They would get a can of mackerel, some packets of bread and Amul butter, steal salt and pepper, and a spoon from the canteen, pluck cucumbers along the way from the orchard and one among us essentially did not fail to carry that day’s newspaper and a knife for cutting betel-nut. Boy, they prepared the best sandwiches.

A very dear friend of mine made sure all the pistas in the kheer…er…was it gajar ka halwa…should be aligned in a particular way for aesthetic appeal. I almost killed myself.

Most hotels, high and low end restaurants have men as cooks. If there is a Nigella Lawson, we also have a Sanjeev Kapoor who I adore so much. I am sincerely envious of his wife. She must be getting the best cooked food in the world, 24/7, 365 days…served with lot of love, care and whatever. Even the roadside dhabas, the fast food joints and my Papa’s office halwai are good- my god, I love every new preparation Rajkumar makes!

Why is that, men make good cooks outside the kitchen-at-home? Or is it there too? Even the cooks at office are, incidentally men. I liked being served my double cheese masala omelette with all specifications by M and M only.

Men romanticize that the best thing they can start a Saturday morning, even grudgingly by cutting down on their sleep is surprising their sweetheart with breakfast. Gosh, I am going weak in the knees! I love this species! Rules are being re-written, yes. The lady sleeps, the gentleman in shorts or dungarees runs down the street to see if all the ingredients in the battleground are ready and he should be well armed and armoured. Some have a fetish the pan has to be like this, some toss up magic with elan, some love the toast to be arranged like this or better still, anyway. Will she like it with honey? Or sauce? Oh, but I don’t have sauce. They get jittery when it comes to preparing omelettes lest they are passed a value-judgement. What becomes of the kitchen after that is a nightmare, that’s for the maid to clean. I love that funda of a clean desk being the sign of a messy drawer kinda thing. It’s simply amusing, hilarious and ADORABLE.

It’s rare to find a guy who can cook for himself and also, for another and others. Run a survey and you will find, they are the most popular among all, no prizes for guessing especially among girls for picnics and those quiet but noisy and populated dos at homes. Some make it difficult for you by intimidating you to competition. Some teach you that even a novice in South Indian fare can make her first dosa with oomph! But whatever it is, they learn the art from their moms even though they protest learning cooking is the foil of surviving the agonies of bachelorhood.

But the Eves love it, we really love the cook in our men. Talk of uber-equality, haha!

Even if he is doubly old as Amitabh Bachchan in Cheeni Kum. Sexy is the word.

Not jibberish definitely

What I do matters to none is what I grew up/on with, enough of social work drama,phew! The birds do not have time, my cat is fabulously lazy and I am not any lesser. Just that, you get panic attacks that time is probably running out and your moment of reckoning might just fade away. Anyway, when it comes to all these, I guess we should stop being the phoneys that we all are. Being all preachy and condescending and not doing your bit is no longer a crime, it is fashionable. Being the cynic was always a nasty job, the prospects have not got any better. Yes, but being a radical cynic helps, in my case.

I don’t know if things will change ever by/with my cribbing/sermonising.

How indifferent can you get? Suppose, there is a competition, then who wins??

Enough of mental games, strategies and ammunition. But nothing happens, the fire in the belly embers out.

In the land of the consumed, it’s an uphill task to comment, criticize and idealize. All adages fade strongly and inspire feebly. Resources are scarce and lil’ to spare. Time has always been an expensive customer.

Small matters matter big. Will that mole grow bigger? That’s what the girl is thinking in the midst of her revision. The boy is counting millions in his piggy bank. The father has retired at 35, the mother resigned at 25.

If looks could kill, plastic surgery should be cheap and subsidized by now.

If gossip is hot, Page3 should be scrapped.

If you are cocky, you won’t require graffiti and cartoons.

Just doing your thing in the bounds of civic sense seems the ideal situation but it is very difficult for people to tread the middle path. Most love to live life in select doses, nobody lives it king-size or queen-size however much he or she proclaims – “I am different”. Definitely, everyone is different, biologically and genetically proven.

Letting go

Far, far away, there...across
you sit and smile
as though you are the Buddha incarnate
your eyes speak more than your chosen silence.
volumes that no paper can hold
miles that no pen can fathom
such is the dilemma
of the awed other
should one savor the moment
or preserve it for posterity?

pleaded, fought and lost,
now, content.
concluded.

Death of an eternal Romantic- part 3

ah, what a crescendo of disappointment!
i never knew you never had it in you.
why did you let me hope so much?
and yet, dismiss the thought with heartless finesse?

but this, i knew not you always had
to rudely surprise and go your way
and leave the other pondering again,
what was my fault in the mutual game?

Death of an Eternal Romantic- part 2

across the smoky patch up there
a terrible mix-up has taken place,
of half baked dreams and repressed fears.
the path untrodden always looked so wild
and those taken never so kind.
with so much to lose and nearly all at stake
with no mask to aid a false bravado.
life is too short for dangerous liaisons
and the moment too hasty for betrayals.
that leaves no room for even, explanations.
ah, this, too will pass on...

Death of an eternal Romantic- Part 1

I’ve forgotten quite,

What it is to linger awhile.

After trying times and untold miseries,

I’ve forgotten, really

What it is to simply be.

My body has lost the beat of terror,

My muscles refuse to acknowledge pain,

My eyes betray what feeling is.

My senses defy spontaneity,

My heart is incapable of throbbing,

My feet can’t find and feel the frost of time.

My hands can’t reach out to touch,

My fingers can’t play what they loved to,

My memory fails me…

Limbo

As blinds are drawn
another sad day embers out
amidst anticipation,
waiting for something to happen.
The morsels are fed to keep hunger at bay
not to satisfy some external desire
but to engage the aching agony.
Books are open
and letters are disappearing,
how much can be absorbed
and how much retained?
The picture flashes...
to dissolve the paranoia,
and clear the fuddle.
The mind relaxes
but to welcome another pain.