Ever since I had moved to my new place a year and a half back, I had strictly used it as a convenient house to crash after a long day at work or a long night out, but never really as a home to stay in, relax and enjoy. While I did have friends coming over for a drink or outstation people staying over, I had never felt a strong connection or sense of belonging to it. Quite contrary to the place I shared with S right after we passed out, which was the quintessential bachelor pad, which we looked after as our own, decorated and took pride in while entertaining guests. From simple pizza parties and birthday parties to bachelor parties and new year parties, it was our escape zone from everything. While S was the more domestic one, setting up the kitchen, making it more colourful and cosy, I enjoyed all the benefits it had to offer.
But my current place is the diametric opposite to it. I could barely live in it, but continued since it was so close to work and the main Hiranandani area, saving me a lot of time and headache of commuting. Even when friends came, they got the alcohol along, while we ordered pizza. On the rare occasions when we cooked, it would mostly be JB1/soulgoat who would do all the hard work, while I simply criticized and ate.
However, with soulgate finally getting married this weekend (I can heave a sigh of relief after being subjected to extreme emotional torture over the last five years) and me having a holiday yesterday, I decided to do the unimaginable. I INVITED a friend over for dinner, and by definition, an invitation means complete ownership of cooking, serving and in general, being polite and host-like, i.e. things that you would normally not associate with me.
Armed with a brand new cylinder refill, not only did I buy chicken and vegetables, cooked a flawless chicken curry AND daal, I also made sure there was soft drinks, snacks and desserts and Maggie as back-up just in case everything else got screwed up. But things were perfect as I could have imagined! I got up early in the morning, spring-cleaned my apartment, bought new plates and bowls, while doing up my hall with bright cushions and rugs, just to make it a little more cheerful. Then I cooked for FOUR long hours: a personal best for someone who lives on bread/milk/fruits/kurkure.
I don’t know why I was suddenly so motivated: may be the long-hidden woman in me is finally coming to terms with age; may be it was the rare moment of being pleasant or may be it was about discovering my passion for cooking!
On second thoughts, may be it was the resurgence of the little girl in me who used to love playing house raising her pigtailed head…