Tonight, I host me

A plate of effort for yourself

Fixing myself a plate is a simple act of kindness.

One I offer myself.

There has been many a breakfast, skipped and belittled by the sudden outburst of my twenty’s urgency. Countless dinners I ate straight out of the fridge in takeaway containers, stifling the part of me that was still sensitised to cold and stale. I am guilty of standing over a pan still atop a resting stove and eating a spoonful right off of it. More often than not, I don’t have the energy for presentation. At least not when there’s no one watching, judging. I don’t have the time, literally and preferably to go through the ordeal of bending fifteen degrees, opening the drawer, getting out a plate, rinsing it, drying it and plating it with the food whose destiny is after all, to reach my belly. Why then must I cover the distance of a longer route, when I can displace and reach the very same goal?

I follow a couple of really interesting handles on Instagram. I’ve spent long unaccounted hours that could possibly culminate to weeks, scrolling through the contents on these pages. One of them happens to be a senior from school, who has now adopted a very coveted lifestyle hosting frequent home cooked dinners with close friends, baking Sundays, slow walks through farmers markets, the works. I’ve lived vicariously through his page, looking at pictures of his meals even when it’s just for one, arranged gorgeously on a round table covered with that classic red and white checkered tablecloth. There will be a nice, tall glass of water next to his plate. It is all tied together with some fresh lilies in a ceramic vase. ‘For the gram’.

Undoubtably. Right? Or……bitterly?

Maybe, I envied the purity of this love he had for himself.

One time he had roasted the most beautiful chicken I had ever seen- nice looking crisp on the skin, with a generous amount of juiciness in the flesh. I have no shame in confessing that I got a little turned on by that goddamn thirst trap. On this post, he had captioned that the secret to being a good host is to frequently host yourself. Good host he said. Good host? I was already a bloody good host. I love the act of hosting my loved ones. The process of cooking for them, setting a meticulously planned table, then making an announcement that ‘the food didn’t turn out that well’ and waiting eagerly for them to bite off their fingers to retain every morsel of taste.

Back home, especially during festivals when the whole snake nest, sorry I mean family gets together for celebratory dinners, I observed that while all the men are sitting on the sofa enjoying their conversations, my mother and aunts are the ones working to get food out on the table. As I started growing up, I didn’t need to be told to lend in a helping hand to the ladies in the kitchen. I’ve often thought about it, this inherent unsaid rule that still runs rampant even in a household like mine where my father and mother are fairly more open minded when it comes to these age-old practices. They divide most of their chores around the house. However, under the gawking eyes of company, the situation unintentionally falls back to the default Indian setting. It’s like sorcery, I swear.

But me, I like the idea of setting the table for company irrespective of who they are. This gratification that comes with being a great host, gives me some strange feeling of accomplishment. I don’t even like some of the people I have hosted- colleagues, batchmates, relatives etc. Even though the tea I probably brewed for them would lack significant effort, the way I arranged the biscuits in a semi lunar fashion with the bowl of bhujiya tucked inside its curve told me I liked presenting well. ‘For validation?’

Undoubtably. Right? Or……..habitually?

Maybe, I am a hostess.

If it was perhaps the genetic coding of the ‘Bhartiya Nari’ in me that makes me inherently drawn towards hosting, although grudgingly under certain instances- now that I am old enough to see subtler flaws in traditions, then I wonder why I don’t feel the same pull towards wanting to treat myself with comparable care. Perhaps it was the path given to us youngsters by our predecessor youths. Skipping breakfast, eating stale take out, maggie dinners and such has been the norm and rightfully so. It’s too much effort to balance living well and the convulsions of twenties all at once. I also wonder if I secretly like the façade of presentation and when I am all alone and safe, it feels great to shed it off to embrace the primal animalistic essence of going rogue. But no, it does bring me clear genuine delight to host those I truly love. Some of the meals I’ve shared with my best friend and my partner, huddled around a low coffee table in his bachelor’s pad are one of my fondest memories.

So, perhaps it’s not all show.

With that logic, I became slightly weary about the quality of love I have for myself. It’s easier to show myself affection, no? Just think it and the love is received. The whole process of ‘efforts’ is eliminated, not needed, unnecessary even. But it’s still nice once in a while, I’ve seen. I’ve begun to consciously host myself in the recent past. Authentically, with as much effort I would put if I were to let’s say host that one particular aunty who always has a little criticism to offer, in order to prove a point and leave her bitterly impressed. Sometimes, I cook myself a really elaborate meal, trying new techniques and tricks just to cater to my own taste. Then I go have a long shower, change into some comfortable clothes that still makes me look nice but feels like a long hug. As if I’m looking well for myself. I make sure I am smelling like the store of body care products and with my hair still soaking, I sit myself under a warm, low light like that of a date and host me.

Just me, someone whom I don’t have to impress. But whose impression should matter the most to me.

It. Feels. Great.

And sometimes when I don’t have the energy to cook myself anything after a long day, I fix myself a plate of whatever has been prepared by the cook. I don’t drink out of the bottle that night, I offer myself a glass of water instead. Just a small, tiny bit of effort. I sit in the quietness of the closing day and feel the luxury of being cared for. Of course I cannot do this often. There are still those days when I drink my smoothie straight out of the mixing jar. But every now and then I plate my rice in a nice circle, pour my dal in a separate bowl, cut myself some fresh cucumbers and sit down to enjoy this meal I fixed. For myself. The more I do it, the easier it becomes for me to repeat.

It’s like I am getting used to living better. Living for me.