How cooking is a way to speak with your senses

For it is in the kitchen that a language is spoken that addresses the eye, the ear, the nose, the tongue and even the skin, all five senses, something that all of us are exposed to since childhood but few of us realize. ~ excerpt from The Talking Thali* by Devdutt Pattanaik

My mother taught me how to cook rice without a measuring cup. Instead the tools were my hands, my eyes, and my nose. I learned to cook with my senses. First you wash the rice with your hands, massaging the grains gently. The water, initially thick and milky, will become clear as it’s rinsed and drained. Repeat this process at least twice, three times is even better. 

Next, you’ll fill the water to double that of the rice, the measurements being taken with your index finger and thumb. By putting your index finger in the pot you can mark the water level. By lowering your thumb to the level of the rice, you’ll mark the rice level. The water marks reveal the appropriate water level where you adjust if necessary. 

Before measuring cups and spoons we used our hands and senses. You can tell when the rice is ready by the smell. Rather than setting a timer, I let the rice speak. It becomes fragrant. The essence and aroma rises from the steam and it becomes distinctly sweet. 

Often food is enclosed in a pot or oven and we cannot see it, therefore smell is essential. As the smell comes alive and the steam diminishes you know it is time. You cut the heat and leave the lid on. Leaving the lid on captures the remainder of the steam. It swells and becomes light and fluffy as it sits undisturbed. I’ve learned that many foods, not just rice, enjoy this final stage of rest.

In my early twenties I worked on a farm that was owned by a family that was half Japanese. A pot of rice was an integral part of every meal. In fact, it was the center of the meal, surrounded by fresh vegetables, eggs, tofu, miso, and sauces. Prior to the shared meal, one of us would head in early to prepare a pot of rice and the side dishes. Direct from the fields to the table, we would gather. 

Before the rice was served, it was essential to take a paddle and stir it, cutting it down the center and then around the sides of the pot. Having the pot stirred ensured a shared experience. A simple gesture, yet one I never saw done differently. 

I grew up watching my mother, my aunties, and my grandma perform the same movements. All of these women are Portuguese and live or have lived in Hawaii. Hawaii, where my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother were born and raised, was a mix of cultures and cooking styles. Because of which, my own family is a blend of Portuguese, Japanese, Hawaiian, and Chinese. Now with each generation the conversation of cooking continues, and it is through our senses, rather than our voices, that we speak. 

*https://devdutt.com/articles/the-talking-thali/