Around me, people cook passion, instinct and most importantly with frightening confidence. They throw spices into hot oil without measuring anything, taste one spoonful, nod wisely, and somehow produce food that can heal heartbreak, fever, and family politics together. I still stand in the kitchen looking nervous in front of cumin seeds as if they might ask me difficult questions.
Even today, if someone says “temper the oil properly,” I behave like an underprepared student in a viva examination.
But life has been kind to me. I may not cook well, but I have been fed extraordinarily well.
My grandmother cooked like a magician who never needed recipes. She could make something heavenly out of leftover vegetables and one suspicious potato. Her kitchen had no measuring spoons. Everything was “a little bit,” “just enough,” and “you will understand by smell.” I never understood by smell. I understood only by eating.
Kakima was another legend entirely. Kakimas are dangerous people. She was a statistical officer, and yet could casually produce ten dishes before lunch and still ask, “Nothing special today?” Nothing special? There were five kinds of fries, two chutneys, fish cooked in mysterious perfection. And a dessert finally, that tasted like childhood and Durga Puja combined.
My mother belonged to the school of emotional cooking. Her food did not simply fill the stomach. It corrected life decisions. A bad day would become manageable after her dal and alu posto. She somehow knew from the sound of my voice whether I needed tea, khichdi, or immediate emotional repair through fried food. A government school teacher by profession, she carried the same quiet care into her kitchen.
And then there is my husband.
Now this is where the universe becomes openly dramatic.
Some women marry poets. Some marry businessmen. I married a man who can cook and also remain calm while cooking. This is a suspicious talent. He cuts vegetables uniformly. Uniformly! My chopped vegetables look like a geography map after political partition.
When he cooks, the kitchen smells like a happy restaurant. When I cook, people start entering the kitchen softly and asking cautious questions like, “Everything okay?”
I once tried making something simple. Very simple. Even YouTube described it as “easy.” By the end of the experiment, three utensils were damaged, one apron emotionally suffered, and the final dish looked like it had lost the will to live.
My sisters Brishti and Jhinuk have also joined the family tradition of cooking beautifully while treating me like a respected but unreliable food critic. They make exotic dishes with alarming confidence. Pasta with herbs I cannot pronounce. Desserts that look imported. Salads that seem to have philosophy.
And then there is Kumari didi in Delhi, who quietly makes food appear exactly when homesickness or exhaustion begins attacking me. In Kolkata, Topse feeds me with the confidence of somebody who has fully accepted that I should stay far away from active cooking duty. Across cities, kitchens, and years, people have somehow continued this noble mission of keeping me alive and well fed despite my alarming lack of culinary contribution.
Everybody says the same thing to me.
“You taste and tell.”
This is now my official family designation. Not cook. Taster.
I have become the Ministry of Final Approval.
They bring spoons toward me with expectation in their eyes. “Is the salt okay?” “Does this need more butter?” “Can you taste the sauce once?”
I take this responsibility seriously.
After all, tasting requires years of dedication. Subtle understanding. Emotional honesty. Also second helpings.
Nobody trusts me with the stove, but everybody trusts my appetite. That must count for something.
Over the years, I have accepted my culinary limitations with dignity. Some people create masterpieces. Some appreciate them loudly while sitting comfortably at the dining table. Society needs balance.
Besides, good cooks are often stressed. Good tasters are cheerful.
I know people who discuss air fryers with frightening intensity. I contribute instead by praising food with sincerity and disappearing before dishwashing begins. This too is an art form.
And honestly, being loved through food is one of life’s greatest privileges. Every carefully cooked meal carries affection hidden between spices and steam. My grandmother’s hands, Kakima’s warmth, my mother’s comfort, my husband’s patience, Brishti and Jhinuk’s creativity, Kumari didi’s care in Delhi, Topse’s affection in Kolkata, all somehow arrive together on a plate.
So no, I am not a good cook.
But I have been wonderfully fed by people who are.
And perhaps that is an even luckier destiny.
