It's Not About The Food
There was a time when I loved to cook. When I adored scouring both dusty and crisp recipe books for tantalising meals. When I ate new dishes with my mind, heart and mouth, curling my tongue around every morsel and indulging every tastebud. When I cooked purely for the joy of creation, expression, emotional fulfillment and the gentle boost of ego.
But that was a long time ago.
That was way back when I was a university student in Down Under, living alone for the first time and faced with two choices - endure a diet of take-outs or enjoy wholesome home-cooked food. Since the well-stocked hypermarket was right across the road, the choice was obvious. I was ambitious in my first attempt, choosing to whip up a batch of chocolate chip muffins. They turned out beautifully and I became a faithful fan of Pillsbury’s muffin mix. Two months and five batches of muffins later, I met Robert. We had studied in the same college back home and our paths had crossed before, but we had never said more to each other than the polite greeting. Little did I know he would soon become my culinary mentor.
Before long, our tentative amicability exploded into a full-blown friendship, and with it came a journey into food heaven. Robert, an architecture student, was an amazing ‘chef’. He loved food and more importantly, he understood it. He knew how a certain herb would completely transform a dish and which ingredients would result in a richer flavour, smoother texture and deeper colour. He knew how to clean fish, pick the freshest fruit and vegetables, and turn an ordinary dish into a masterpiece with a few sprinkles of impromptu ingredients.
The first time I set foot in a wet market was with Robert. Every Saturday at 7am sharp, he would softly beep his car horn outside my window and I would stumble bleary-eyed downstairs, clutching my shopping list. As we trawled the market, he would banter with the various sellers, asking questions and exchanging tips. I stood beside him soaking up all this.
Then we would drive to his home, where we would unload the groceries, lay out the necessary ingredients and utensils, and start on Sunday brunch. While we chopped, grated and sliced, we talked about our lives. My then boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend, the places we wanted to go, our assignments, lecturers, mutual friends, hopes, dreams, fears and our lives back home. We laughed, empathised, argued, advised, scolded, taught, learned and reached out. When the actual cooking began, the wonderful aromas that filled the cosy kitchen would massage away the last of our reservations and pull us closer together.
Each dish we created became yet another piece in the tapestry of our shared lives. Our conversations flowed as effortlessly as the chocolate icing, our bond was as thick as the beef stroganoff and our enthusiasm as fresh as the garden salad.
Then as suddenly has he walked into my life, he walked out. I was confused and heartbroken. It was then that I realised it wasn’t about the food anymore. It was about the friendship. Although Robert eventually stepped back into my circle, the magic was gone and we never embarked on our food journeys again. But that dark cloud had a silver lining - I was now able to take new trips with other people. So I did.
Jeff and I discussed music as he jammed his cowboy hat on his head and taught me to make his special country Bolognese. With Yvonne, I learnt self-confidence and inner strength, even as we scratched our heads over her mother’s pang su si recipe. Daphne and I talked so much about relationships that the birthday cake we were baking for a party that evening burned. Ryhan revealed what really goes on in a guy’s head, as we threw together ingredients for spicy Indonesian fried rice. And Roger cultivated my taste for history as we barbecued in the Australian Outback.
That year, I had the most intimate brush with food as I’ll ever get. And I loved it! Since then, my culinary skills have somewhat improved but I have never been able to feel completely satiated, no matter how well a dish turned out. I've eventually realised that cooking isn’t just about the food, but the extra ingredients that you unconsciously throw into it. The warmth of good company, the pleasure of rich conversations, the blossoming of a deep friendship.
In Australia, the food was always perfect, but the true nourishment came from the experience.
But that was a long time ago.
That was way back when I was a university student in Down Under, living alone for the first time and faced with two choices - endure a diet of take-outs or enjoy wholesome home-cooked food. Since the well-stocked hypermarket was right across the road, the choice was obvious. I was ambitious in my first attempt, choosing to whip up a batch of chocolate chip muffins. They turned out beautifully and I became a faithful fan of Pillsbury’s muffin mix. Two months and five batches of muffins later, I met Robert. We had studied in the same college back home and our paths had crossed before, but we had never said more to each other than the polite greeting. Little did I know he would soon become my culinary mentor.
Before long, our tentative amicability exploded into a full-blown friendship, and with it came a journey into food heaven. Robert, an architecture student, was an amazing ‘chef’. He loved food and more importantly, he understood it. He knew how a certain herb would completely transform a dish and which ingredients would result in a richer flavour, smoother texture and deeper colour. He knew how to clean fish, pick the freshest fruit and vegetables, and turn an ordinary dish into a masterpiece with a few sprinkles of impromptu ingredients.
The first time I set foot in a wet market was with Robert. Every Saturday at 7am sharp, he would softly beep his car horn outside my window and I would stumble bleary-eyed downstairs, clutching my shopping list. As we trawled the market, he would banter with the various sellers, asking questions and exchanging tips. I stood beside him soaking up all this.
Then we would drive to his home, where we would unload the groceries, lay out the necessary ingredients and utensils, and start on Sunday brunch. While we chopped, grated and sliced, we talked about our lives. My then boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend, the places we wanted to go, our assignments, lecturers, mutual friends, hopes, dreams, fears and our lives back home. We laughed, empathised, argued, advised, scolded, taught, learned and reached out. When the actual cooking began, the wonderful aromas that filled the cosy kitchen would massage away the last of our reservations and pull us closer together.
Each dish we created became yet another piece in the tapestry of our shared lives. Our conversations flowed as effortlessly as the chocolate icing, our bond was as thick as the beef stroganoff and our enthusiasm as fresh as the garden salad.
Then as suddenly has he walked into my life, he walked out. I was confused and heartbroken. It was then that I realised it wasn’t about the food anymore. It was about the friendship. Although Robert eventually stepped back into my circle, the magic was gone and we never embarked on our food journeys again. But that dark cloud had a silver lining - I was now able to take new trips with other people. So I did.
Jeff and I discussed music as he jammed his cowboy hat on his head and taught me to make his special country Bolognese. With Yvonne, I learnt self-confidence and inner strength, even as we scratched our heads over her mother’s pang su si recipe. Daphne and I talked so much about relationships that the birthday cake we were baking for a party that evening burned. Ryhan revealed what really goes on in a guy’s head, as we threw together ingredients for spicy Indonesian fried rice. And Roger cultivated my taste for history as we barbecued in the Australian Outback.
That year, I had the most intimate brush with food as I’ll ever get. And I loved it! Since then, my culinary skills have somewhat improved but I have never been able to feel completely satiated, no matter how well a dish turned out. I've eventually realised that cooking isn’t just about the food, but the extra ingredients that you unconsciously throw into it. The warmth of good company, the pleasure of rich conversations, the blossoming of a deep friendship.
In Australia, the food was always perfect, but the true nourishment came from the experience.
posted by starlight at 7:33 PM
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