Me? A Desi Gordon Ramsay?
When I was young, I hated the thought of knowing that I had to learn how to cook. Maybe it was my inner feminist, but as a ten year old, I swore to myself (and repeatedly, to my parents) that I’ll never learn how to cook -- and with every relative wanting me to serve them a pyaala-of-chai every time they came over, the firmness of my stance grew even stronger. I was grateful that I didn’t have to do the heavy duty cooking in my family. The phenomenal women in my family took the reins on that front, providing our family with sustenance. Obviously I knew how to make the holy trinity of chai, rice, and maggi, but I never really took it upon myself to actively find interest in learning and truly understanding the process behind cooking. Once I moved to university though, I realized that I couldn’t really rely on the support of my family the way that I had it whilst I was back home. I got by in first year living in catered halls, but after that, I realized that I had to take control of my lack of skills - that I had to become a desi Gordon Ramsay.
It took a while for me to get used to cooking. I’m still not fully used to it really, but I’m getting better and better day by day. It started off with me following viral TikTok recipes (shoutout to Gigi Hadid’s spicy vodka pasta). But I realized that though pasta fills me up, it doesn’t make me feel like “mera mann bhar jaata hai.” The only thing that has the ability to do that is my grandmother’s dum aloo recipe. Once I exhausted the vodka pasta to its utmost level, I very very reluctantly moved onto learning how to make Indian dishes. My praise for Kashmiri dum aloo reached The Washington Post, but all I wanted was for it to be in front of me. So on one fine winter’s day, many many miles away from home, I gave my mom a ring, ready to follow instructions to feed my stomach - but most importantly - my soul.
Learning how to make dum aloo truly humbled me in the best way possible. My assumptions about cooking that dish, and many other dishes (especially Indian ones), vanished completely. I realized the amount of patience it takes to be able to make something like that. It didn’t turn out that amazing, but it was the first time I was proud of something that I made - with the help of my mother of course. It wasn’t easy whatsoever. But I understood for the first time why many think of cooking as a labor of love. I poured my heart and soul into making that dum aloo, and I absolutely loved myself for it afterwards.
It’s a cute little anecdote to tell, but it’s taught me so much. Now, I try and experiment with cooking whenever I have extra time and energy to do it. What once used to resemble childish whines to my mother about not wanting to learn how to turn on the stove has now turned into a chain of texts between us, discussing how many pressure cooker whistles are needed to make matar pulao or rajma or zeera rice. My mother and I now speak the language of recipes to each other. Whether that's through her typing out in extensive detail what I need to do, or video calling me to see if the consistency of besan is right for making pakoras, or sharing links from Pinterest, it’s a love language that I’m grateful we’ve cultivated over the past few months.
There really is a sense of comfort when you cook a meal for yourself or when you share it with your friends. I’m realizing these days that it’s making me so, so incredibly happy, and feel closer to my family, home, and country than ever before. Nothing compares to dancing to tunes by Arijit Singh or Prateek Kuhad, and cooking foods that you have loved ever since you were a kid. It’s hard doing so as a university student, but romanticizing the way I can incorporate it into my everyday life has helped me find time to enjoy it even more.
Though the title of this blog post is misleading and I’m no expert (yet), when I’m peeling ginger, adding some tadka to my dal, or even cutting an onion without having a breakdown, I truly do feel like a desi Gordon Ramsay. There’s something so beautiful in knowing that I’m adding my own spice (pun intended) to recipes that have been passed down in my family from person to person for decades -- from Srinagar to Indore to Aurangabad to Jaipur to Delhi and now, to me. Hopefully this transfer of knowledge, appreciation, and genuine love for food and culture is only going to continue to grow in the future
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