Her inability to cook was, for the longest time, a pointed, personal attack. Against me the independent woman supporting myself. Me the girl who taught herself to cook. Me who learned to cook for myself, not to feed my husband or because my parents expected me to. It was an affront to this grand version of "me" -- a person who had never meant to learn to be domestic but pulled it off anyway.
She, on the other hand, was brought up in the traditional ways. She drew kolams and married early, followed her husband obediently, did as her parents asked. But she'd never learned to cook. More, she hadn't learned to live on salads, bread and the many kinds of food that do not require anyone to cook. She wanted elaborate Indian food, and I was the one stuck providing it.
I complained and blogged, and eventually moved far enough away that I'm no longer concerned with what, or if, she eats. It's been five years, and I never figured out why she was in my life.
Until today, when I was forced to come up with a sharp moment of clarity that changed the way I do things.
Because of her, I don't think of cooking as a domestic chore. It's about having fun, taking care of yourself, and enjoying what you create. It's also about getting over grandiose notions of who I am, and just turning the heat on under the rice cooker, which anyone -- even she -- can do. Because of her, I now have a story to tell.
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