Food, Fumbles, and Fortitude

When I was growing up, the kitchen was always alive with food, but I had never cooked. I only watched, spices sizzling, Mustard and Cumin Seeds popping, the slow comfort of Kaali Dal thickening on the stove. Meals arriving, life unfolding on the table. The thought of stepping into the kitchen felt daunting.

 

When cooking became part of my life, I learned quickly. Recipes were memorised, techniques mastered, meals executed. Compliments were sparse, if at all. Criticism flowed freely. I became very good at cooking. And I hated every minute of it.

 

And then one day, I stopped cooking. Completely.

 

 

For four long years, I flinched mentally each time the thought of cooking came to me. Four years of questioning myself. My capabilities. My choices.

 

And yet, meals still appeared on the table. Food cooked by staff. Delicious, healing, heartwarming food, soft Rotis still warm to the touch, Dals and Subzis cooked just the way I liked them, Rice that smelled faintly of Ghee and care.  Food cooked for me. The food I liked, tailored to my palate. Meals I could savour slowly. Food that soothed something deeper than hunger.

 

Then one sunny afternoon, something shifted.

 

It wasn’t obligation that drew me back into the kitchen; it was desire. A particular taste, a memory on the tongue, a quiet craving I couldn’t outsource. The next day, I stepped into the kitchen with trepidation, ready for mistakes, ready to fumble. 

 

But this time, there were no harsh voices. No shouted instructions. No one was watching to swoop down on any misstep.

 

Just me. And food.

 

I cooked slowly. Tentatively at first. I tasted as I went, the Salt finally right, the Spices fiery, the food tasting like it belonged to me. I trusted myself. The kitchen felt less like a test and more like a conversation. 

 

And somewhere between chopping and stirring, I realised something startling: I was enjoying it. Not the outcome. Not the approval. The act of cooking itself.

 

As I cooked, I discovered I had never truly hated cooking. I hated who I had to be while doing it. Rolling Besan Ladoos, still warm, it occurred to me that what is taken away finds its way back, in a better form, when you are finally ready for it. A full circle.

 

Now, cooking is becoming something different: an expression of care, curiosity, and creativity. A space where I am allowed to take time, make mistakes, and want things simply because I want them. A dialogue with myself, not a performance.

 

I’m not in love with cooking yet, but I like it. I enjoy it. And that feels like a beginning worth respecting.

 

Some things don’t need grand declarations; they just need safety. Time. A quiet kitchen. And a low flame that warms you slowly – until one day you realise you are home.