If One Can Be a Bit Zen
Mr Subrat Ratho reflects on simple home cooking, fresh vegetables, forgotten spices and the quiet wisdom of knowing when not to add more.
The lady who had cooked for us for a long time told us a couple of months ago that she would have to discontinue her services because of logistical problems.
For once, my wife did not panic or immediately start looking for a replacement. Since both of us enjoy simple meals and are spending more time at home these days, she decided that she would do the cooking herself.
Given the yawning gap between my culinary ambitions and my culinary skills, I could only offer support from the fringes of the kitchen. I also volunteered to buy vegetables and groceries every morning — not because it is really necessary, but because it makes me feel useful and gives my morning walks a greater sense of purpose.
And so, here we are.
Our vegetables are fresh, our meals are hot and less oily, and our kitchen is gleaming.
Apart from eggs, seafood, free-range chicken, mushrooms, legumes or curd — which we consume regularly to ensure adequate protein intake — the star attraction at lunch is more often than not a member of the gourd family.
Bottle gourd, ridge gourd, snake gourd, sponge gourd: I have become far more familiar with their individual personalities than I ever expected. I buy only as much fruit and vegetables as we are likely to consume the same day, so only the tomatoes, cucumbers and green chillies make it into the fridge. The lactose-free milk is used to make yoghurt. Avocado, fruit, nuts, seeds and yoghurt find their way into our breakfast bowls.
On some days, after I have thoroughly enjoyed a dish that my wife is attempting for the first time, she suddenly remembers that she forgot to add one or two spices mentioned in the recipe. I invariably reassure her that those spices would not have improved the dish anyway.
And it is not marital diplomacy.
What these episodes have made me realise is the difference between someone like me, who keeps returning to the recipe every few minutes whenever attempting anything more ambitious than rice, dal or an omelette, and someone like my wife, who can produce something delicious from a vague recollection of the recipe and an instinctive understanding of what really matters.
Her intuition rarely omits anything essential. In fact, the result is often better than what strict obedience to the recipe might have produced.
It also makes me think about a common temptation in cooking — and perhaps in life.
We often assume that adding more will make something better: another spice, another ingredient, another feature, another process. Yet many dishes become memorable not because of what is added, but because of what is left out.
Less can indeed be more — but only when guided by experience and intuition.
The rest of us, meanwhile, should probably keep the recipe book open and stay grateful for the people who know when to close it.
