Cooking has become a part of my daily entertainment since the virus locked down began. I’ve had a love hate relationship to cooking all my life, starting from the day when I heard my mom complaining about the responsibility of cooking. That was a sunny day and we were about to have lunch. I pointed out to my mom that there’s a smear on her wrist, most likely from the old stove which was covered with accumulated soot due to years of cooking. “Without this, you won’t be able to have lunch.” She scowled and barked, not really in bad temper, but in her usual manner of friendly fury. She never talked much, but whenever she did, she could always invoke my fear or my sympathy. She didn’t like children but struggled to cope with the life of raising children; she disliked cooking and was never good at it, but tried to go through the daily routine of putting something eatable on the table; she desired to have a husband who could help her but ended up with my father whose only interest is his books.
Anyway, for years I’ve considered cooking an evil, a necessary one, but still an evil. I often dream of a future when women robotic scientists create a cooking robot and alleviate millions and millions of women from the drudgery of cooking. And I’ve been often shocked to see robotic scientists creating robots involving not in the important task of cooking but rather many frivolous tasks.