Every now and then, on a Sunday, I get into a nondescript state-of-being wherein I proclaim enough-is-enough and decide to plan my week ahead in order to bring a semblance of order into it. By plan, I mean meal plan. On such days, I sit with my laptop on my lap and a scrapbook and pen next to me, to jot down potential dishes I could make for the week, and the ingredients they would need so that my fridge can be stocked and my plans well laid out so that I don’t have to wake up on a weekday morning, stare into the fridge with bleary eyes and snap at unsuspecting family members that my entire life is spent wondering what to cook.
As expected with any kind of internet browsing, one click leads to another and soon I have sixteen tabs open on my browser, my mouth salivating at the delectable photos of food, the scrap book bereft of entries and guilt rising at how people gush over their passion for cooking, while here I am, hating the process more and more with my every tab browsed. “…stirring, chopping, cutting, smelling and tasting is what gives me pleasure” says one blogger and reading it makes my stomach ache with what could be jealousy, but more likely hunger.
I notice that food bloggers (at least the Indian ones) don’t bother about punctuation in their essays and that bothers the hell out of me – the passion for cooking could as well spill over to proper punctuation, I think uncharitably. And then I realise that the blogger could pay me back likewise with “someone who is so passionate about punctuation, could as well show a modicum of interest in cooking”. And in being less of a judgemental, pseudo-anglophilic, arrogant prick. Touché, my dear. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
So, I close all tabs, publish this blog post, go to my kitchen to stare at my messy and completely unstacked refrigerator and snap at unsuspecting family members that my life revolves around meal planning.
Another Sunday at the LG household. Be glad you are not part of it.