Kishore Singh: Off the eaten track

Two mornings a week, my daughter goes for Zumba classes, which, for those not in the know, is a form of callisthenic dancercising. It leaves her tired, sweaty, irritable and hungry, so the cook makes sure that by the time she returns, a fresh cake has been baked to calm her down. He has been known to ensure there is always cake in the house, even tucking some into her bedside drawer on occasions when she's in a particularly foul temper.

On the remaining five days, my daughter won't wake up till it's time to leave for work, which is when she will have a tantrum because the cook didn't pack her a "nice" lunch - though, usually, he makes sure she has a choice from cut fruit to her favourite pasta to Thai curry. If the lunch is approved - phew! - there's still the ordeal of breakfast to go through. No, she doesn't want egg; no, she won't have cereals; no, she doesn't want anything "Indian" - her euphemism for anything calorific - and no, she's not in the mood for pancakes, "Can't I just have something nice, please?" Returning from work, she'll call to ask what's for dinner, on which basis she'll decide whether to make an evening of it or call friends home. Because meals are cooked depending on her whims, on the days she opts to eat out, the cook will ask me to "adjust" with either leftovers or the summer staple of vegetables that you wouldn't feed even your mother-in-law.
 

My son's gym-going is regular or erratic depending on the time he chooses to fetch up. Subject to his working out in the morning or evening, the cook must temper his offerings accordingly because eggs need to be boiled (the yolks being saved for the dog's kedgeree), protein shakes whisked, chicken stewed, carbohydrates dissed, so my choice of tuck-in becomes a casualty. His packed lunch is different from his sister's, so by the time it's my turn to pick a takeaway for office, all that's available is a choice between an unappetising sandwich and the previous night's dinner.

Because my wife is always on diet, coarse grain breads and leafy stuff that's a soggy mess from being steamed, or sauteed, is on offer on her side of the table. Since she makes a virtue of her sacrifice, it would seem rude not to offer her a taste of whatever the cook has thought fit to serve his master. She never rejects these blandishments, as a result of which I'm left to die on her abandoned meal, eating healthy if not well.

The cook and his assistant won't have what they serve us, choosing to spice up their menu with aromatic curries. Mouth-watering fragrances waft up, but you can't pinch your own staff's dinner, though I have been known to raid the fridge past midnight in search of leftovers - but chefs choose to eat fresh, never keeping aside anything for the following day, such unhealthy practice being the preserve of their employers.

The dog likes his meals cooked daily, moping if he's served anything that's even a day old. And what a feast is laid out for him - bits of meat, some sausage, a leg of chicken, a piece of bacon mixed together with vegetables in a bowl of rice. It would be quite tasty too, if only the cook would think to add some salt and pepper - I know, because I've tasted it. And since the mutt can't think to complain, I don't need to tell.