MAID OF HONOUR

Forenote: I have taken the liberty to add a few fictional events and fictional dishes to the mix to enhance the quality of the prose and make it more readable.

One might be tempted to think that an ideal domestic maid is a paragon of punctuality, proficiency, and an embodiment of culinary excellence. In our household, we have Manda Tai, who, I dare say, is none of these things. She is, however, honest and hardworking, virtues we hold in high regard, though they do little to mitigate the daily domestic disasters that seem to follow in her wake.

Manda Tai, a woman of formidable constitution and an even more formidable will, has been a fixture in our home for years. Her approach to her duties is characterized by a lackadaisical competence, a sort of endearing mediocrity. She reminds me, quite fittingly, of a well-meaning but inept governess from a Victorian novel, whose attempts at order and efficiency invariably result in mild chaos and unintended hilarity.

Cooking is, without doubt, her pièce de résistance. I use the term 'cooking' loosely here, for Manda Tai subscribes to a school of thought that holds flavor and preference in contempt. She does not prepare what we like; rather, she insists, with a conviction worthy of a more noble cause, that we should like what she prepares. One could almost admire the audacity of it.

Her culinary creations are a testament to her unique philosophy. Take, for instance, her notorious 'Vegetable Symphony.' A dish that, in theory, ought to be a delightful medley of garden-fresh produce, transforms under her stewardship into something that bears an uncanny resemblance to compost. Not one to brook criticism lightly, Manda Tai reacts to our polite protests with a theatrical sigh, as though the mere act of complaint is a profound injustice to her artistic vision.

"Sir," she intones solemnly, "the cauliflower has personality."

"Personality," I retort once, somewhat unkindly, "is not something one typically seeks in a vegetable."

My quip earns me a look of such withering disappointment that I feel rather like a schoolboy being reprimanded by the headmistress. Thereafter, I endeavor to offer feedback with the diplomatic finesse of a seasoned ambassador, though it is often to no avail. Manda Tai sulks, a phenomenon that casts a pall over the entire household.

Her sulking is an art form in itself. She moves about the house like a specter, her usually bustling presence reduced to a funereal shuffle. The clattering of dishes is replaced by the faintest tinkle, a sort of mournful dirge that echoes through the halls. We learn, through bitter experience, that it is better to endure her culinary experiments in silence than to provoke this melancholy.

Now, let me pause for a moment to speak of Manda Tai’s other, arguably more robust relationship— with her mobile phone. Oh yes, her cooking may hold us hostage, but it is her phone that truly enslaves her. The moment Manda Tai sets foot in our house— nay, the very nanosecond her slipper grazes our doorstep — the phone rings. And who is it, you ask? Is it an old friend with pressing news? Perhaps a long-lost cousin finally calling to reveal they’re a billionaire and want to leave her a small island as inheritance?

No, dear reader. It is the same family member who was breathing the same air as her, sitting at the same dining table, a mere 20 minutes ago. You see, Manda Tai’s family seems to believe in the ancient art of “non-urgent but highly immediate post-departure communication.” They sit together for hours, barely a word exchanged, perhaps a nod or a grunt here and there, but the moment Manda steps out the door, it’s as if the floodgates of creativity open. “Oh no!” they cry, “We forgot to discuss the exact texture of yesterday’s samosas!” or “Quick, we must share our thoughts on the weather this very instant, before the opportunity is lost forever!”

And let me tell you, Manda Tai doesn’t talk on the phone. No, no, no. That would be far too pedestrian for her. She communicates with the phone at a decibel level usually reserved for stadium announcements or perhaps alerting an entire village that a tiger has escaped from the zoo. The irony is, with the volume at which she’s operating, you could very well take the phone away and they’d probably carry on just fine, yelling at each other from across town, no wires needed.

Sometimes I wonder if they’re trying to out-shout each other as a kind of sport. “HELLO!” says Manda. “HELLO!” says her family member. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?” “OF COURSE I CAN HEAR YOU. CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Honestly, it’s less a phone call and more of a live performance of “Who Can Shout Louder?” 

In fact, there are moments when I feel the phone is entirely superfluous. Manda Tai could simply open the window, shout into the wind, and her family would likely hear her without any technological assistance. The phone, you see, is just a prop, a mere accessory in this grand performance.

By the end of it, Manda hangs up the phone as if she’s conquered a mountain, completely oblivious to the fact that the rest of us are now nursing mild cases of hearing loss and wondering how we ended up in the middle of a shouting match.

 

But back to the sulking.

It is not just in the kitchen that Manda Tai's unique talents manifest. Her cleaning, too, is an exercise in well-meaning futility. One memorable incident involves the mysterious disappearance of a prized set of antique teaspoons. After an exhaustive search, we find them, weeks later, gleaming from the bottom of a potted plant. When confronted, Manda Tai explains, with a serene smile, that she has buried them there for 'safekeeping.'

In the end, it is her heart, her indefatigable spirit, that endears her to us. She might not be a master chef, nor a housekeeper of exceptional prowess, but she is ours, and we love her dearly for it. Each day with Manda Tai is an adventure, a delightful romp through the vagaries of domestic life, and though we often despair, we wouldn't have it any other way.

And so, we continue to sample her culinary 'masterpieces,' wincing and smiling in equal measure, and we learn to appreciate the charm of her inefficiencies. For in a world obsessed with perfection, there is something wonderfully refreshing about Manda Tai and her splendidly average aptitude."