The girls themselves were scared of the daunting task ahead of them. Three meals a day! All edible, at least to some extent. Breakfast was easy, rustle up a few fruits, bread and cheese and some milk. That couldn't be Herculean. Little did they know. The milk boiled over ofcourse. The cheese was the one thing the women had told them to buy. With nothing to serve the bread with, they plastered some jam onto the on-the-verge-of-cinder slices. Didn't they know the man didn't eat jam?
If the cauliflower was put in the middle it would've actually looked like the tricolour. Interesting. The award for finest artistic chopping of coloured cubes goes to Girl 1. Girl 2 was busy getting mesmerized by the colours.
Cooking is a colourful activity. A rape of the senses. Pour in the oil. Watch it make designs on the bottom of the pan. Let it heat. A handful of mustard seeds get thrown in, sputtering in delight to be reunited with their long lost cholestrolic friend (reminiscint of the relationship Q shares with U in a game of Scrabble). The chishhhh sound as you empty out the cabbage into the pot. The smell of its wholesome greenery simmering over the now quiet mustard seeds. The yellow and red powders sprinkled in generous abandon. Adding colour, tingling in their hued flavours. A cook is a magician at work. Hands work tirelessly - sometimes with lazy precision, sometimes in hasty circles; slicing, grating, creating, redoing. A spoon is lifted to the mouth. You taste your concoction. The broth needs tang your mind says. The smells urge your nose to have an opinion. You smile, you frown, you wonder and make-up. You prompt, you pre empt.
A week later the girls were found with their legs propped up gorging on humungous pizzas. Ordered ofcourse.