The cat is out of the bag (680 words)

The kitchen has long been considered the woman’s domain. Traditionally, there was a tacit understanding: the wife managed the dining table while the husband focused on earning a livelihood. Rarely did men step into the kitchen, much less learn the secrets behind the delicious meals their wives prepared.

Growing up, I was no exception. I thrived on the culinary delights my mother served daily. Even a hastily made mulligatawny rasam, thrown together when she was in a hurry, became ambrosia when a spoonful of ghee was added to hot rice. Nothing else would suffice once I’d tasted that.

Everything changed after I married Meena. Raised in the North, she had visited the South only once before our wedding, for a pilgrimage to Tirupati. Her brief week at my family home in Chennai after the wedding gave her no real chance to learn my mother’s methods or absorb the subtle variations unique to our kitchen.

Soon after, we moved to Calcutta, where I was working. With no firsthand knowledge of my mother’s style, Meena relied on her culinary instincts. Her cooking carried the aroma of garam masala, kala namak, and jeera powder. The staple was roti, accompanied by a flavorful fusion of Punjabi, Rajasthani, and UP-style side dishes. There was little trace of the South Indian flair I was used to. Then it was agreed that she would cook daily in the mornings, Tamilian type, with the help of Meenakshi Ammal culinary book and in the evenings whatever she wished.

Initially, I grumbled foolishly at times, claiming that her carefully prepared dishes didn’t match the taste of my mother’s, even though she insisted she followed Meenakshi Ammal’s book to the letter. Initially, her dishes felt unfamiliar to my tongue. But soon I came to appreciate her skill. She was, after all, talented in many fields, and her prowess in the kitchen was undeniable, especially when our North Indian friends and their families raved about her creations and sought her guidance for their own parties.

Still, I quietly held on to the belief that my mother’s cooking was the gold standard.

A year later, we went to Chennai for a holiday, and once again I savoured the comforting familiarity of sambar, vattha kuzhambu, various rasams, and a delightful mix of side dishes that changed with each meal.

One afternoon, as I was contentedly polishing off my mother’s sumptuous lunch, I overheard Meena talking to her. “Amma,” she said, “I am making mostly our type of food with the help of Meenakshi Ammal's book, except evenings when generally guests drop in. Though your son eats what I cook without complaint, he relishes your dishes more; the flavour is so distinct. Could you share with me the secrets of your magical cooking? I follow Meenakshi Ammal’s recipes faithfully, but yours still tastes different.”

My mother laughed heartily. “Sama doesn’t have the taste buds or nose to tell toor dal from chana dal! Often, I just stretch leftovers from the night before with a bit of water and spice. He’ll eat anything hot without protest—even if it’s slightly stale. Don’t take his opinions too seriously, dear. You’re fortunate to have a husband who isn’t picky. But mark my words, soon, he’ll be proclaiming that no one cooks like his wife. And he’ll be right. Your food is tastier than mine. Frankly, I never enjoyed cooking all that much.”

Her comments about my lack of culinary discernment left me a little deflated, but I could tell she meant it to comfort my wife. And I was genuinely pleased with the praise she lavished on Meena.

Back in Calcutta, I began to notice a change. The food Meena prepared suddenly had the familiar tang and flavour of home. When I complimented her, she beamed with quiet pride. “I’ve been following your mother’s tips exactly,” she said.

But then, one night, the truth came out. I opened the fridge to get some cool water, and there it was. The shelves were packed with vessels containing leftovers from the morning, the previous night, and even the day before that.