My Wife is Cooking a Curry
My wife is cooking a curry for dinner tonight and, if I’m honest, that terrifies me.
Not because she’s a bad cook. Quite the opposite. She’s actually a very instinctive cook; she just rarely gets the chance to do much of it. In our house the kitchen has always been my territory. As a chef and food stylist I spend most of my days there testing recipes, adjusting sauces, and fussing over tiny details.
I’m scared because a curry is the culinary equivalent of walking a tightrope while juggling flaming torches. Big flavours, delicate balances, exotic spices. Searing and sweating, deglazing and simmering. Enough steps to make a NASA launch checklist look like a grocery list. Get it wrong and you’ve just spent fifty dollars on spices and spent an afternoon destroying your own self esteem.
My wife was recently made redundant, which means she suddenly has a lot of time on her hands. I’d love for her to get in the kitchen more, provided it doesn’t interfere too much with my own cooking, but I also don’t want her to take on something so ambitious that it knocks her confidence and she’s scared to step back into the kitchen. I know the feeling all too well.
When I started cooking more seriously as a teenager, I’d get excited about preparing something intricate or slightly fancy for my family. Not to show off, but to experiment. To go on a small journey with a recipe. To try something new. And often, unfortunately, it didn’t quite live up to my expectations.
I think that’s what I’m most afraid of tonight. Sitting down to a meal my wife has spent hours thinking about, preparing, and cooking, only to see that familiar look creep across her face, the quiet realization that it didn’t turn out the way she imagined. Every cook knows that look. And it made me wonder something. If I could go back, would I change any of the meals I “failed” at when I was learning?
The slow roasted Moroccan lamb that I somehow managed to overcook and served as hockey pucks atop dry couscous. The tiered chocolate cake with crème Chantilly, mixed berries and coulis I made for a friend’s birthday where I accidentally used salt instead of sugar and it was utterly inedible. Probably not.
Because if we don’t push ourselves in the kitchen, if we don’t try things that feel a little beyond us, then we’re just making food. We’re not really cooking. And there’s a big difference.
I’ve been cooking for so long now, some dishes feel like muscle memory. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like to take a risk with a recipe, to cook something where the outcome isn’t guaranteed. Maybe next time I should take a lead from my wife and throw a little caution to the wind. After all, cooking for your family isn’t just about warming ingredients and putting them on a plate. It’s about nourishing the people you love, showing them how much, you care for them.
Which brings me back to tonight’s curry. I’m no longer terrified about dinner anymore. In fact, I’m quietly hoping she goes completely overboard. Three different curries. Two different chutneys. Jewelled rice. Homemade naan bread. Maybe even curry puffs as a starter. The whole nine yards.
Because the best meals aren’t always the perfect ones. They’re the ones someone was brave enough to cook for you. And tonight, my wife is cooking a curry.