In the quiet lanes of Lalgudi, where the morning sun filtered through the neem trees and the air carried the scent of filter coffee, there lived a gentleman who had long observed the curious rituals of the kitchen. He was no master of spices himself, yet he had watched enough neighbours, aunts, and ambitious young men attempt the art of cooking to gather a few gentle truths. These he offered freely, not as commandments from some lofty chef, but as simple observations for those who, like so many of us, found common sense surprisingly uncommon.
One must always, he would say, take up a holder when lifting a hot vessel. The bare hand has a way of discovering, rather late, that metal remembers the fire.
Every tin, every jar, every little packet of something-or-the-other should carry a clear nametag. Memory is a fickle servant in the kitchen; what looks like sugar in the morning light may prove, at the moment of crisis, to be salt.
And speaking of salt and sugar—use them as a miser uses his coins. There is, alas, no undo button once the spoon has tipped.
The recipe itself should be written large, in a hand bold enough to be read from across the room, preferably in a font that does not require spectacles or guesswork. Thirty points is not too much to ask of the printer.
Before the stove is even lit, gather every ingredient as a general gathers his troops. To discover halfway through that the coriander has vanished is a sorrow no cook should suffer.
Begin with the dishes of one’s own soil—the familiar rasam, the humble sambar, the everyday rice. Continental wonders may wait patiently until one has earned the quiet rank of Master Chef.
While the pot simmers, let the mind and body remain in the kitchen. The television, the telephone, and the endless distractions of the internet are enemies of good timing.
Timing, indeed, is the invisible thread that separates a dish that is merely edible from one that is remembered with affection. A clock on the wall is a wiser companion than any amount of guesswork.
And if the result is less than perfect? Do not despair. A great many people, the gentleman would remark with a mild smile, have never possessed the slightest cooking talent.
Yet when the plate is finally set before you, and the dish is one you yourself have coaxed into being—even if it is a trifle underdone—it will taste, to your own tongue at least, like something from the heavens.
Thus the old observer of Lalgudi would conclude, folding his hands and returning to his cup of coffee, leaving the rest to the quiet wisdom of the kitchen itself.