And the brat will make a cook of me yet....

It is no state secret that I am officially the world's uncontested worst cook ever. The kitchen has always been for me a place I enter with great dread, of course, unless I am entering said hallowed precints to serve myself food. When I got married, the mother smote her forehead at the thought of me being able to feed my family a healthy meal without resorting to takeaway menus. And I tried. God promise. I tried. In the initial years of my marriage, in the new found flush of love, I sat with recipe books and ingredient lists and planned out menus. Let's just say I gave up when I saw the husband rolling his eyes up when I presented some exotic dish I had slaved over for hours. Which according to me was delicious. I have never known the happiness of having anyone appreciate what I cook until now.


It took the child to drag me into the kitchen. Mamma, he asks me in all wonder, you can make Maggi? Yes. That is the height of my culinary abilities. I can boil Maggi noodles and I can make Sunfeast pasta. And I can pop popcorn. Thus far, this simple menu had kept me going. Apart from the occasional french fries. And scrambled egg. And half fried egg.

But as the brat grows. And visits friends. And gets to taste exotic dishes at said friends' homes he gets more ambitious. So he squeaks up, Mamma, make macaroni. Mamma, naturally, has a mini fit. Macaroni. Wait till the cook comes. No no no. You make for me, you make for me, you make for me. Mamma drags her reluctant carcass to the kitchen and begins the preparations. Boiling the macaroni. Remembering to add salt and oil. Checking if they are al dente. Draining with cold water. Making the onion and veggie base, adding the macaroni, the herbs. And serving it up. Voila. The brat tucked in and polished the plate up. Then made an O with his thumb and his forefinger. I would have gone right back into the kitchen and whipped up a seven course meal then and there.

There's a lesson to be learnt for the spouse here. If only he had done the thumb and forefinger O right then when I tried to cook for him, I might have reached Cordon Bleu levels by now. But no, he insisted on chortling or gagging at anything I placed in front of him. So I stopped completely.

This morning I made veg coin pizzas for the brat to take into school for his culminating day party. If you had told me, a year ago that I would wake up half an hour earlier to make tomato base fresh for pizzas instead of slathering on store bought stuff, I would have told you to stop smoking whatever it is you were smoking. But, I did. Got up early. Boiled, skinned, pureed the tomatoes, cooked them with a dash of oregano, and olive oil and pasta sauce. Simmered the sauce on low flame till it thickened lusciously. Grated cheese and layered it on said coin pizzas. Cooked them all and packed them in two separate boxes. This apart from the regular tiffin, the snacks and the lunch tiffin that the brat took with him any way.

And the look of joy on his face when he saw the coin pizzas neatly packed were reward enough for that sacrifice of sleep. And I am not a person who sacrifices sleep easily.

I think I might get the hang of this cooking thing yet. And maybe, just maybe, my son will grow up thinking his mom is the greatest cook ever.