The kitchen and I have a contentious relationship.
I don’t enjoy cooking. Growing up, Gloria Steinem and my daddy taught me it’s just not my job.
Then, I married an Indian man. He didn’t cook. But his mom is an amazing cook. Too amazing.
I was nineteen when we got married and had no idea what I was getting into with his culture. I resisted the expectation in his family that only women cook, yet wanted to please my new husband – and ended up in a cultural food tug-of-war that he and I recently talked about on the BBC Program “The Food Chain”
Because of my baggage, I love to see men cook and hate when women offer to cook for me. I often post on social media about my ineptitude in the kitchen, and I feel loved when my friend Chef Elliott Farmer has offered to help me. (I was a guest at the pilot episode of his Atlanta Chef’s show, so I have tasted his magic). But, when my dear friend Ushma offers to cook something delicious for me, I squirm. She’s a pharmacist, a mom – no way am I going to let her make up for my shortcomings. I work from home, so I have no excuse to not cook.
Messed up, right?
My son cooks for his fiance. My brother cooks for his family. And my husband cooks sometimes now. My 85-year-old father-in-law even cooks sometimes. I love it all.
I do cook, though probably not enough. Our restaurant budget is sky-high.
I want to love to cook, but I guess I have an insecure chip on my shoulder shrouded in feminism. Because I’ve lived between 2 cultures for nearly two-thirds of my life, I question myself daily and want to know how other people handle meals.
And then I order Ubereats.