Essay On Of Kitchen Tales That Never Get Old

Wash a vessel, shake water off it, without rubbing it with a towel and put it on the stove. Light it. Tiny droplets move around in a furious dance, moments before they evaporate. Residual stock on the walls of the vessel is drawn in too, seemingly by these massless, baseless droplets in an effort to make more of their own kind. Drawn into the fight like unwilling gladiators, they collide, forcefully moving away from the vapour and then moving into it, becoming vapour. For me, the kitchen is an embodiment of all kinds of wonders in the world, a place where patience actually pays off, where learning matters and where mistakes - big or small, can be undone. The tiny little room with a chimney on top of the stove, black shiny tiles on the wall, luminescent in the most remarkable of ways, a glaze of mist that goes unseen if not for the sunlight trickling through the ventilator, empty vessels one stacked one over the other, their hollows making waves in ether without having to be touched.
The kitchen also happens to be the place where I study. A newspaper as I brew coffee, taking in the events of yesterday with complacence just like ground coffee blends with the vapours of steam. I read the latest in chemistry as I fry the bacon, watching little bubbles of flesh surface on the processed flesh, waiting for the brown to appear to make red more palatable. And wonder about particle physics as I watch the dishes rotate in the microwave. Matter constantly changes from one form into another in my little kitchen, and I watch and I watch, the bubbles and the smoke, the melting butter, the spreading cheese and spices rolling in fat. I hear the little chops of everything, fizzing and popping, hear the sound of the whistle, the hiss of smoke, the drip of honey and the whip of cream. The roll of dough under my fingers, the slippery beans, the slick slash of sharp metal as if the knife was cutting me instead of the slender carrot, so smooth its motion, so confident its stance; and I feel the veinous detail of the lettuce, with the knowledge of flowing fluids inside, far from dead, the heaviness of the bulbs knowing they’ve come from the deep of the earth, the farsightedness of the onion and the mysterious texture of cucumber. On the cold granite slab, I plonk myself and dangle my legs, wondering the etymologies of hogwash and potato-head. And of the Higg’s Boson as I stir the dough, round and round, feeling it get thicker and thicker. Of love and concern as I mash potatoes that way my mother does, with lumps. More can be said of my time in the kitchen than there are smells and tastes recognised by human senses. More can be felt in the solitude of the rectangular space where something is always changing than in the busiest streets of New York. More can be measured in terms of experience, sense gratification and self-worth in this space that I have marked as mine, than in a whole year spent shopping around the world. But then again, in my kitchen, less is more.