Because I study and write about food and research gastronomic culture, people assume that I grew up in abundance: elaborate meals, a mother who cooked with care, and a childhood full of spices. None of this is true.
In this world, food was a measure of maternal love and success. To my disappointment, my mother refused this measure; Fortunately, when she had free time, she was able to catch up on her reading, write, or garden instead of cooking.
My mother, a doctor and caregiver, hated cooking. To this day, she says with unusual clarity that there is one task she could do without, and it is cooking. As a child, I was embarrassed by my mother’s disposition. I grew up in an industrial community in India in the late 1980s and 1990s, where most of my friends’ mothers were housewives and therefore exemplary cooks. I attended an all-girls convent school where lunchboxes were an expression of care and competence and recipes were a reputation. In this world, food was a measure of maternal love and success. To my disappointment, my mother refused this measure; Fortunately, when she had free time, she was able to catch up on her reading, write, or garden instead of cooking.
The work of cooking and who is expected to do it
My father, also a doctor, didn’t cook. The idea of him cooking still feels silly and weird to this day. It wasn’t about preferences or skills, but about the lack of expectations and responsibility. He didn’t own the kitchen and he didn’t own the kitchen either. Yet he complained about the food—its boringness, its repetition—without ever having been involved in the preparation of the meal. My mother did cook, but on the surface the food at home was purely for sustenance. The meals were functional, monotonous and boring. My brother and I ate without complaining, not because we were particularly disciplined kids, but because complaining just wasn’t an option; Food was provided and that was enough.
However, when my maternal grandmother arrived, the cuisine changed, meals became occasions, flavors expanded, and indulgence was suddenly permitted. These visits revealed what we were missing, but also revealed something more complicated: that cooking, in its fullness, requires time, attention, and a willingness to dedicate ourselves to others. The other arrangements my mother made, such as hiring cooks, were something my grandmother never fully agreed with when she visited us. The unease concerned not only the outsourcing of cooking but also the question of who was doing it, a fact that upset my grandmother more than my mother’s reluctance to cook. Even as a child, I understood that the kitchen has its own hierarchies.
Years later, as I moved away, started my own home, and became a mother, I began to better understand my mother’s position. Unlike her, I had a partner who was comfortable in the kitchen. And the cooking work was divided, at least in part, between the two of us and whatever cooks we could afford. Nevertheless, something of the old structure remained. He was the one who would still complain about the food, the burnt dal or an undercooked sabji, often with the ease of someone freed from the labor of preparation. I found myself overlooking these moments as if it was still my job to deal with them. That’s when I began to understand my mother differently.
A silent, resolute rejection
What I meant to interpret as a lack of ability or interest was actually a rejection, not an accidental rejection, but a conscious rejection. Cooking at home is often portrayed as a form of love, but it is also labor-intensive, monotonous and time-consuming. My mother understood this and decided not to take it upon herself too much. She had already put her work, time, emotional and physical energy into a demanding job. She resisted the expectation that she would return home and seamlessly transition into another shift of unpaid, invisible and often thankless work. However, her refusal came at a price, as we as her children had to endure parts of it in intangible ways – monotonous meals, silent comparisons with peers, and the longing for something more.
What I meant to interpret as a lack of ability or interest was actually a rejection, not an accidental rejection, but a conscious rejection. Cooking at home is often portrayed as a form of love, but it is also labor-intensive, monotonous and time-consuming. My mother understood this and decided not to take it upon herself too much.
My mother left a system that makes Care unevenexhausting and inevitable. One in which it is assumed that a woman will quietly take over the work of feeding everyone else. But something had to replace what she rejected. The rift created by their refusal did not disappear; it was simply transferred to someone else. When work is withdrawn, it moves to another kitchen, to other hands, to other lives. Whether it was another woman paid to take it on or my grandmother taking it upon herself without question, the burden didn’t go away; it only moved between women.
An elaborate selection of Indian dishes (representative image). Image source: Canva Pro
I grew up between two forms of cooking: my grandmother’s extensive cooking efforts and my mother’s insistence on her limits. Now I realize that they both negotiated the same system: one that offers no real solution, just a compromise by asking someone else to cover the costs.
Shweta Mohapatra is a visual storyteller, author and designer and a graduate of the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad. She is currently pursuing a master’s degree in food science at New York University. Her work explores food, culture, memory and everyday life through writing and visual practice.
