Eating my words: heartache to heartburn

I HAVE always loved to cook, I can't say that there has always been a willing audience, but you have to be a little loopy if your idea of fun is to peel 1 kg grapes on a Saturday night. It is actually very therapeutic to twirl whisks and knives around in the kitchen or at least it is for me. I dine on decadence, which can be quite divine when pure cholesterol cakes, glistening with dark icing wait to be devoured by hungry appetites. Prolong the sensual romance of memorable meals by making sure that you don't have to do the washing up afterwards. Tea towels, sponges and vim have a habit of wiping out the lightness of lemon souffles in seconds flat. Far better to chop parsley with the meanest blade in town, than sulk because your mum won't let you go out to `yet another' party. Kneading bread dough is another pleasurable past time; slapping it across kitchen counters takes the cake away from Jane Fonda's workouts. You get to eat doughnuts afterwards, which can't be all bad.

My mother cooks great Punjabi food, which made our house into a tourist destination for the rest of the village. We lived on the edge of the Lake District, England, and in the 1970's, red-hot chillies in the north of England meant a sniff of garlic and a squeeze of lemon. Our kitchen was different; it smelt as if Vasco de Gama had left his luggage behind. While the kabuli channas were having a ball blowing off weights from the pressure cooker, mum would be rolling out rotis at a pace faster than light. Our neighbours called them scones, I am sure that they would have spread strawberry jam over them if the choice was there. It is not that we never ate English meals, we did, but only during daylight hours, when the light was good enough to ensure that no English cows had fallen into the stockpot. Mum learnt how to cook British food from our friends in the village, but the two cuisines never danced together on the same dinner plate. The mirch and masala went into the `dal and subzi', leaving salt and pepper for shepherds pie and boiled vegetables.

I do believe that childhood experiences lay the base for interests, vocations and career choices made later in life. All it takes is one jarring burn to freeze a natural curiosity, which all children are born with. I recall being ridiculed by my maths teacher in front of the whole class when I was eight years old. The episode took just two minutes of her time, but for me the doors to thinking with a logical, analytical mind were slammed shut that very day. Mention percentages, fractions and division, and I shake like a jelly on a plate.

It was not a calculated move to take up `food' as a career move; I was simply led astray by the enticing aroma of hot cakes baking in the oven. Roopa Sethi, as I was then, decided to be a chef of sorts at the age of eleven. Five years later, I remember my mother chatting with me as she hung out the washing one frosty morning. With her eyes moving from the washing line to the pegs in her hand, she advised me to choose my career and imagine myself in it at the age of 50. If the idea made me shudder, then perhaps I should reconsider the options. Good advice, I was at that time equally passionate about music. In between the butter and beans, I did harbour a quiet dream of making it as a classical guitarist. But the guitar is a solitary instrument, and at 50, I could see myself plucking more chickens than strings.

As a youngster my choices were usually razor sharp and black or white; I loved cooking and hated mathematics; craved for chocolate and detested `daily dal'. Today it is shades of grey that give depth to my work. I am 37 years old and see no reason why Segovia cannot be digested with a slice of fine Madeira cake. Give yourself the freedom to dip into the past when making important decisions involving career choices. Childhood enjoyment is pure and usually untainted by others expectations.

Our school cookery teacher only noticed children with rings on their fingers (unhygienic) and knives in their hands, the rest of us were free to whip ourselves in to a snowstorm of fluffy egg whites, while chicken casseroles were cremated on back burners of the stove. My enthusiasm was not at all proportional to talent. All those bursting adolescent hormones kept the kitchen fires burning, carrying me along on the crest of whisked meringues. I did not want to make any normal dishes; it was below my dignity. I cooked from recipes that read like cryptic clues to the wrong crossword. It actually reached a stage that whenever I cracked an egg against the side of a pan, the family would run out of the house screaming. I had that kind of affect on people. Now if the same egg had been fried into a nice safe non-stick pan, my sister might even have grilled the toast for me. But I was heading for a multi layered honeycomb mould. Mistakes happen, and the results might have been better put to use as a face pack! Reality bites, but I must say that I am very grateful for having polite parents.

I arrived at The Cordon Bleu Cookery School to have the rough edges smoothened from the uneven edges of my pastry. Here I learnt that although cooking is an art, it is based on very definite scientific formulae. For weeks, we shed tears into demi glace sauce, moving away from the stove only when our reflections could be seen in the surface of the trembling sauce. That training is ingrained in my psyche. It does upset me when I visit hotels and taste food that has been made as if it were nothing more than an engineering exercise.

In 1982 I moved away from the apple pies of England, to the fiery spice, sights, sounds and smells of New Delhi. Seasons dictated menus and I began to play with ingredients as a painter dabbles with paints on his palette. I worked as a trainer and Consultant Chef at The Taj Mahal Hotel, in Delhi for four years. Being unable to slot my work into a box gave me a great advantage. I happily poached `romali rotis' from the Indian kitchen, introducing it to a sort of live in relationship with red cooked duck in the Chinese Section. Rules were never broken, they were stretched. Tiptoeing through a minefield of fragile egos thankfully never became part of my working day. I gave recipes away by the dozen, most of them were probably used as paper to drain `pakoras' on, but it was a symbolic gesture on my part to share whatever little knowledge I had; it is a bit like breaking bread with your neighbour.

I enjoy playing with words almost as much as tossing vegetables in and out of pans, but I often end up eating more words than anything else in the bargain. There are links between writing, talking with a television camera, and a tear jerking affair with French onion soup. The ingredients change, but the recipe remains the same. The common thread is an appeasement of senses, followed by an anticipation of flavours to follow.

Although schooled in classic French cuisine, my wooden spoon has crossed many air miles in its time. I am attached to all my recipes, even ones that have caused a little heartache. I live by blending flavours, moods and memories into a slow simmered collection of culinary curiosity.

Pen nibs have as sharp a cutting edge as the knives in my kitchen. I like living in the edge.

ROOPA GULATI

The author is a well -known consultant chef and television personality.