I was appalled to see the state in which I found Kaveri, a young friend of mine, when I dropped in on her the other day. Though it was almost mid-day, she was dishevelled and disarrayed. The kitchen, where she was, looked as though it had been hit by a hurricane. Every available surface was littered with pots and pans. An assortment of different items of food, in various stages of preparedness, lay on the counters, while Kaveri frantically tried to put them together. “I feel as though I am on the verge of a breakdown,” she moaned. “I just don’t know how to cope.”

The reason for her condition was sheer exhaustion. And the reason for the exhaustion was the departure of her cook a few days earlier. But surely this was not enough of a reason to reduce her to this state? After all thousands of women all over the world cope quite efficiently with the business of feeding their families, many of them doing so in addition to holding down full-time jobs. Why should Kaveri react in this manner to producing two meals a day for her family of five?

Quite simply, because Kaveri is faced with catering, at least where food is concerned, to a thoroughly spoilt and inconsiderate family. Every meal consists of five completely different menus. If Kaveri decides on cooking fish for lunch, she has to fry it for her son, who won’t eat it in any other way and make it into a curry for her older daughter because she will only eat it in this form. The younger daughter (like her father) can’t stand the smell of fish, but being a die-hard non-vegetarian, she must have a substitute, preferably chicken, which — you guessed it — the husband cannot abide.

And so it goes on. If one likes baingan, the other does not, if moong dal is cooked, half the family will not touch it, if father likes hing, the children loathe it. There is not an item, unless it is the ubiquitous potato, that is acceptable to the whole family, nor are they willing to accommodate each other’s tastes.

But Kaveri has no one to blame but herself. From the time her children have been small, and against the advice of friends and family, she has gone out of her way to spoil them, encouraging them in their fads and fancies. “Poor little darlings,” she would say, “let them eat what they like.”

Feeding the poor little darlings, now that she herself has to take on the onus, is a nightmare. But what is far worse is that Kaveri, through her mistaken kindness, has deprived her children of the joy of eating.

I am convinced that to behave in a manner opposite to Kaveri’s brings rich dividends. Children who are brought up to eat any and everything from the very start develop palates that have been trained to receive and enjoy all manner of foods. Eating becomes an adventure for them, something to explore and look forward to. And consequently, cooking for them becomes a real pleasure, rather than the nerve-wracking chore it is for the Kaveris of this world.