I spent my Sunday with that Faith No More song playing in my head: Easy like Sunday morning…
Well I know that song that as much to do with Sunday morning as I have to do with driving but I love that line. It sums up how a Sunday should be: Easy…
Yesterday was like that. And strangely enough I didn’t spend it lolling around in bed, having endless mugs of chai and lounging listelessly. I spent half of it cooking (toiling in the kitchen, slaving over the hot stove…get the picture you lazy Sunday loungers).
By the time I finished filling half the fridge with curries, chutneys and a pasta dish, Madhur Jaffrey’s face had a yellow haldi smudge across it, my fingers reeked of garlic and the microwave top had black spots thanks to the jumpy little mustard in hot oil.
I was sweating, needed a shower again but very happy (the prospect of the fridge being full for the next three days always makes me happy). There was beer chilling in the fridge and a nice book to look forward to. The afternoon couldn’t have been better.
It made me wonder how my ‘wonderful’ Sundays have changed over the years but that’s another blog. But I never really thought that I would wake up on a Sunday morning, spend just an hour with the papers and the rest cooking and feeling happy.
Relaxation? Or just the freedom to do what you want to in your own home? I choose to think it’s the latter.
When I lived on my own in Bombay and had a roommate who was one of those natural-born cooks, I never thought I was the 'cooking type'. But then I never thought that one day I would be married, buy a house, want children, spend my holidays cleaning the house…(If you’re getting visions of a sacked up maid in the making, stop reading immediately. I'm toned, brunette, Uma Thurman lookalike!)
Much to my surprise, over the last one year, I have discovered that I really like to cook. Not just the regular 'dal chawal' variety but even elaborately planned meals. I love poring over cookbooks, trying out recipes, testing my own combinations and er…sometimes even eating them myself coz not all my combos come out right.
My mother called when I was in the middle of pounding spices for the chicken curry and muttered for the 59768th time how I took after ‘dad’s side’ of the family when it came to cooking.
‘Has P demanded a huge meal?’ she wanted to know. No ma, he hadn’t and if he had I would’ve sent him packing to the nearest restaurant. Am not cooking for him. Am cooking for myself. For the joy of it. Yes hard to believe (can hear audible gasps if any of my Bombay friends were to read this) but c'est la truth!