Kitchen Goddess

I’m the Kitchen Goddess. Apron tied. Hair pulled back. Knife in hand. Before me lie my tools: pots and pans, and a world of recipes unknown to anyone but myself. There I stand, in the middle of my domain, a reigning queen, I close my eyes and blend the East and the West. In my head, I allow worlds to collide and set myself to prepare a feast.[break]



On the unfamiliar tiles I stand, spending a lot of time on my feet. Rushing between piles of onions and fresh greens, making sure the temperature is perfect, and I don’t forget a single ingredient. Throwing in spices you wouldn’t suspect, mixing meats with crushed seeds. Since I grew up in Asia and currently live in the States, my taste-buds have developed a liking for foods that I’ve learned to create myself.



I marinate the chicken in a combination of herbs with foreign scents and drops of tangy citrus. While it soaks in the flavors, I make my knife dance with onions and potatoes, cilantro, and shapeless lumps of ginger. In separate piles they sit, waiting until I throw them onto the sizzling pan.



I allow my friends to watch and talk to me, but the work in the wok, the art, is mine, and mine alone.







“What’re you using?” they ask me, and I smile. For my American friends who wish to replicate my dishes, I reply with the simplified truth. “Butter, salt, pepper, soy sauce and garlic.” The wave of awe always thrills me, and I feel as though I’m the only one to have ever used those ingredients. “Nothing special at all,” I add and show them which vegetables I mixed with which ingredients. The spices of the West. Salt. Pepper. Black and White. What a contrast!



At home in Nepal, I don’t know spices by their names; I know them by their smells. The rich cumin, ground coriander, yellow powder, red powder, saffron, and fresh cilantro are the only ones that I know, but in English. Many a times, I stood around my mother as she cooked, and watched the blue flame as the pot simmered, and the blends of savory delights wafted to my nose. I watched her cook, not with recipes, but with intuition.



This sixth sense for tastes and combinations was one that I didn’t discover in myself until very recently. One week, I found myself playing host to a dozen people, and the responsibility of preparing dinner lay solely on me. I should’ve been afraid, but the inner Kitchen Goddess awakened in me and I found an independent and yet strangely domesticated woman in me that was in full command.



It’s the mistress of spices in me that comes out and makes concoctions using the magic touches of the East, the very same queen in command that knows exactly what to add, and knows without hesitation what’s missing. It’s the muse from Everest that moves my hands and measures everything to perfection, without any lined cups or spoons. It’s this very other woman in me that prevents my friends from obtaining all my recipes.



“There isn’t one, really,” I say, and they sigh at me and shake their heads. “Can’t you give us a general list of things we need?” It’s my turn to sigh and shake my head. It’s not the same, actually.



In my own bland apartment, I create international cuisine. Time in different places has taught my tongue to crave an assortment of dishes. The plates and platters of burgers and fries, as delicious as they may be, just don’t do it for me. I need rice for my Asian soul; I need spices to fill my pores. I’m still incomplete without pizza and Chinese, though, a fact due to the permanent tourist I seem to be.



A vagabond, I wander, without a place to call my own. Home is a distant land over which I ponder – no concrete walls, solid images, or the same number on a phone. Home is a fragment of cities in countries that have faded and blurred into my memory. It’s these smells in the kitchen that help keep my past a reality. The aromas of different lands trigger and enhance my memory. It’s the tastes rolling on my tongue that take me back to when I was five, four, three, and free.



It’s the sweet and sour, the hot and spicy, the grilled and greasy that I’ve devoured and come to love that dictates what dinner will be tonight. Each taste is so distinct, either marred or complimented by what I choose it to marry. All of the flavors known to me beg to be used differently. So I use the sauce of the Chinese and the penne of Italians, the French twist of lemon, and the hot spices of Nepal – all to create a dish that isn’t on menus and probably never will be.



In my kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, I stir and mix more than dishes. Into dinner I pour my past; with each spice, I add a different story. Each delicacy I create is more than mere nutrition; it’s a commentary on my experiences.



I’m the Kitchen Goddess – exploring, discovering, and creating.

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