The Seasoning We Stopped Doing

I heard the word “seasoning” on a cooking show the other day and realised we almost never use it outside the kitchen anymore. It used to be a wider verb. A new cricket bat had to be seasoned— Linseed oiled, wrapped, knocked for hours until it felt right in the hands. As an aside, the bats used to highlight if they were with ‘fish-cover’ which for a long time I thought was a bat wrapped in fish-skin..until years later I realised, it was a kind of plastic wrap on the blade of the bat.

I remember my friends who kept reminding me, sitting behind their new two-wheeler, while I rode - to keep the speeds low and avoid sudden bursts. I think it too was called tuning the engine and some called it seasoning period till its first service. Seasoning was not garnish. It was patience made practical.

There were other versions. New leather school shoes needed a few careful, blistered days before they softened and became yours. I remember having a fountain pen (For those from Hyderabad will remember the MISAK pens) and the nib improved after pages of writing; your hand taught it a slant. Raw denim took months to fall in line with your knees. Every musician knows that a violin bow needs rosin and restraint; even a cheap guitar sounds better after the strings have stretched and settled. In the kitchen, a cast-iron tawa only behaves after repeated oiling and heat. An earthen matka is soaked before it holds water without drinking it. Before Diwali, the earthen diyas are soaked and dried before use. Even buildings once asked for time—the old lime and concrete cures that nobody dares to rush.

We used to season not just things, but ourselves. First weeks at a new job were for apprenticeship, not instant impact. A team was allowed to find its rhythm. A marriage understood that “settling in” was a phase, not a flaw. Children were told to practise, to let boredom harden into attention. Seasoning was simply how the world made space for becoming.

Even in advertising agencies, ideas were allowed to soak, before the actual work started. In fact, we were asked to sleep over it before further discussion. We allowed a decision to wait till morning.

Now the pressure is different. Ideas need to be worked instantaneously. Clients ask for day-one deliverables and thirty-day impact. Devices must be “ready out of the box.” Shoes promise zero break-in. Jeans arrive pre-washed to look lived in. Cars advertise engines that don’t need running-in. Products come pre-marinated; recipes promise thirty minutes. Even emotions are asked to move quickly—name it, fix it, move on. We’ve kept the result and removed the time before it.

The cost shows up in small ways. Things are returned because they don’t fit perfectly on day one. Feet blister because we never expected new leather to resist. Teams fray because they were never permitted to gel. Ideas feel thin because they were never allowed to sit overnight. We think we’ve eliminated inefficiency; often we’ve just skipped the part that makes something take our shape.

Seasoning was never about romance. It was a method. It prevented brittleness. It reduced regret. It helped a bat find its middle, an engine find its temper, a relationship find its pace. It was the patient, invisible work that turned ownership into belonging.

Perhaps the word hasn’t disappeared; it has been crowded out by speed. If we bring it back, even quietly, we might leave a little room in our lives for things to arrive properly. Oil the new bat before the weekend game. Give the scooter its gentle first thousand kilometres. Wear the stiff shoes at home for an hour. Let the new teammate have a month of questions.

In a culture that prizes verification and velocity, seasoning reminds us that some of the best fits are not found—they are formed. We can still have efficiency. We just don’t have to have it immediately.