Hello Kitchen. Hello London. Hello Home.

Hello Blog, Hello Computer, Hello High Speed Internet, Hello Facebook, Hello time-alone-to-write, Hello time-alone-to-think, Hello cooking-for-myself, Hello Cooking-for-my-husband, Hello cooking-for-my-kid, Hello grocery shopping, Hello dishwashing. Hello laundry. Hello making-my-own-tea/coffee/bed/breakfast.

Hello Kitchen, Hello London. Hello Home.

Yeah. That’s right. Hello. Again.

I’ve been in India, you see. Attending my sister-in-law’s wedding (Su, you’re maaaaaarrrrriiiieeeed!!! Yay!!!) And what a FUN wedding it was! In true Punju style, a veritable feast for the senses – music and dancing and people and booze and flowers and colours and lights and FOOD. Food of virtually every kind imaginable – Lebanese and Japanese and Chinese and Continental and Italian. And Indian. Of course.  Dum Biryani and Raan and Chicken Kali Mirch and Malai Kofta and Kabuli Channa and  Kababs and Tar Meat and Mirchi Roti and Tandoori Prawns…mmmmm.

So, eat your heart out people, cause I certainly did. Oh yeah.

I did other things too, you know. Lest you think all I do in life is eat. (And how right you are). But yes, I did do other things. Most definitely so. After all, folks, it was my sister-in-law’s wedding. And so, I successfully fulfilled all my required duties as the dutiful and compliant Bahu-of-Khanna-family. (It’s ok, you can laugh. I’m laughing too). No, but, seriously – among several other dutiful and compliant tasks worthy of Bahu-of-Khanna-family – I was handed sole responsibility of the auspicious and highly eminent task of tying the Gatbandhan for this delightful couple. It is hard work that, I tell you, tying that knot so tightly that there is no chance in hell it ever comes undone. Thank god for all the bicep training I’ve been getting at the gym.

Now Su and Gareth: you were probably blissfully unaware of this little fact, being lost in excited anticipation of the various activities that were to fill the happy hours of your wedding night.

BUT....

(Oh and I don’t blame you, one bit. One should always be lost in excited anticipation of the various activities that are to fill the happy hours of one’s wedding night.)

I’m referring to the amorous devouring of Godiva and Dom Perignon of course. What else could I possibly mean? <flutter of eyelashes>

BUT....

Pull yourselves together and attempt, please, just for one second, to get back to the moment in question.  And remember that it is your duty and your obligation to keep that knot tied strong. I speak metaphorically of course. Hopeless romantic that I am, even I’m not so foolish as to expect you to walk around your whole lives tied together by a piece of cloth. Even one tied by Yours Truly. But you know what I mean. So, since my wish is also my command (and everything is always all about me) – here you go: May you both be happily married always and forever. Partly because that’s the way it should be. But mostly because some part of the responsibility for your everlasting conjugal happiness rests on my little muscles. Kapeesh??

Anyhow. All that is well and good, and here’s to many, many, many years of happiness to Su and Gareth.

But, The Big Wedding – sadly – is over.

As I said to my mother-in-law, casually, on the day after the wedding – “I think, quite honestly, that you and Dad have committed a grave injustice to the world in not having produced an additional 5-6 children that you could marry off in such pomp and ceremony.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

Clearly she missed the point. Duh.

This is no laughing matter, you see. I mean I could certainly do with a whole week of uninterrupted fun, frolic and debauchery, every year for the next 5-6.  I think.

But it is not to be.

They had two children. Losers!!!! A measly two.

Both of whom are now married.

No more uninterrupted fun, frolic and debauchery for me.

Boo.

But on that unhappy note, I’m sooooooooooooo sorry I haven’t Yummyami’d for ages and ages. I hope you’ve missed me, cause I’ve certainly missed you! Awwwwww!!!!

Not to make excuses, but I haven’t blogged because I haven’t cooked. And if I don’t cook, there’s nothing to blog about. No? Also of course, I find it trés impossible to write in India. For starters, you are NEVER alone. EVER. There’s always someone somewhere. Here and there. Around and about. It’s a country of 1.1 billion people, so that’s to be expected, I suppose. The problem is I can’t write unless I’m alone. Weird peculiarity, I know, but there you have it. And then of course the speed of the internet in my parents’ home would give the Tortoise (of the legendary “The Hare and The Tortoise” fame,) a serious run for his money. And finally, you’ve got to concede, this time was a most-special occasion and, I was way too busy practicing dancing to “Will you be my Chhamak Chhalo” and making myself look pretty (now, that’s hard work) and tying never-to-be-undone Gatbandhans. And eating. (Mostly eating. But don’t tell anyone. Please?)

And now? Now, I am home. In quiet, silent, polite England. Where you can hear a pin drop. Just me and Ranbir. And Sid at work.

But, I’m happy to be back actually. Cause true to the cliché, there really is no place like home. It’s nice to get back to my bed and my bathroom and my high speed internet and my laptop and the taste of my own cooking...

Or not.

Cause. (Brace yourself.) I. Think. That. I’ve. Forgotten. How. To. Cook.

Now you may scoff at me and tell me that’s not possible.

But I have.

Sob.

I know it and my kitchen knows it. Deep in our hearts.

Really.

Because, you see I step into my kitchen and the gleaming white tiles stare me sadly in the face. As does my empty sink, glinting in the sunlight. And my strangely spotless pots and pans. And the unnaturally clear surface of my wooden counter top. All I can smell - everywhere - is Mr. Muscle.

All thanks to Sid who returned a few days before me. But of course. Sid, you bloody clean-freak. How do you stay married to me?

So, (sigh) I need to make friends with my kitchen again. Get reacquainted. Win back it’s heart. Show some love. Warm and fuzzy. And all. But... where do I begin??

I mean, the most poignant labour of love (To Kitchen, With Love) would be to cook Indian food. Maximum ingredients, maximum time, maximum mess, maximum taste. But I just can’t do Indian food right now. I’m Indian Fooded out. Totally. I mean, after the Dum Biryani and Raan and Chicken Kali Mirch and Malai Kofta and Kabuli Channa and  Kababs and Tar Meat and Mirchi Roti and Tandoori Prawns, could you do Indian food?

I think not.

So I fall back on the Old Faithful. Chinese Stir Fry. "Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai", after all.

So, it’s Honey Prawns and Garlic Broccoli. Fresh, Simple, Healthy, Delicious.

Here’s what you need:

Honey Prawns

- 2 tbsp olive oil

- 1 tbsp dried crushed red chillies

- 1 clove garlic, chopped

- 1 tbsp grated root ginger

- 2 tsp honey

- 500g (1 1/4 lb) jumbo prawns - peeled and deveined

- Salt to taste

Stir-fried Broccoli

- 1 tbsp olive oil

- 1 clove garlic, chopped

- 1 broccoli, cut into florets

- ½ tsp chilli flakes

- 2 tbsp soy sauce

Here’s how you do the Prawns...

Heat the olive oil and crushed chillies in a wok over medium heat. Add the prawns, ginger and garlic and stir fry for 5-10 minutes until the prawns are cooked. Add honey as your final step stirring constantly so it doesn’t stick. Serve immediately.

...and then the Brocolli

Once you’ve emptied out the prawns from the wok, heat some more the olive oil over high heat. Add the garlic, broccoli and chilli flakes and stir fry for 5-6 minutes. Add the soy sauce, and season to taste.

And so, while I dig into a large serving of prawns and broccoli, I realize that my kitchen is alive with the aroma of chillies and burnt garlic. On the wooden counter top, are my cutting board and knife waiting to be cleaned; garlic skins waiting to be discarded; bottles of honey and olive oil waiting to be put back where they belong. The sink is full of dishes waiting to be washed.  Before me is a plate full of deliciousness waiting to be savoured.

It is a strangely comforting sight.

My now-familiar kitchen seems to smile at me in gratitude.

I smile back.

Hello Kitchen. Hello London. Hello Home.

Winging it, Ammi Style!

Last evening, we had some friends drop in to give Ranbir his birthday present (which I now need to find a home for. Have I mentioned before that I need a bigger house?)

Anyway, it was lovely to see them and Ranbir LOVED unwrapping his gift (thank you guys!) but it all made me think how long it’s been since anyone has last “dropped in” to my house!

I suppose this is the fundamental difference between the East and the West. Back home in India, it is perfectly normal for people to “drop in” all the time, for no reason other than the fact that they just feel like “dropping in.” Here, on the other hand, we live and die by our diaries and our calendars and appointments and play dates.  It’s a totally different context, I admit; culturally and practically. Neither is better or worse. Just different. But while in India, everyone seems awfully well-prepared to welcome visitors at any given point in time, I have to admit, last night, I had to think laterally! Big time! Not that I mind at all. In fact, quite honestly it was SUCH a welcome respite to see friends unexpectedly. It made me realise just how much, a little bit less of this draconian diary-keeping, would enrich our quality of life. If only we all eased up a little, and just winged it, sometimes. Because there is nothing quite as pleasurable as the company of people you like. And somehow according to the diary, there is just never enough time to spend in the company of people you like. Hugely weird irony if you stop to think about it.

So anyway – last evening. Speaking of preparedness. Or lack of. Here’s what happens:

Sid is reading the newspaper. Ranbir is “playing” his piano (yes, this is yet another new toy). I am doing what I have been doing, non-stop it seems, since the 2^nd of October. Which is putting away toys. (Have I mentioned before that I need a bigger house?)
The doorbell rings. Sid looks at me. I look at him. We look bemused. Ranbir looks amused. “Who could that be?” Sid remarks aloud.
I raise my newly threaded eyebrows (thank you, Indian lady on Bond Street) and make a classic I-don't-know face.  
“Package, maybe?” I suggest.
“I didn’t order anything,” says Sid
“Well, I didn’t order anything either,” says me, somewhat defensively.
The bell rings again. Persistent Package Man. Apparently.
“Well,” says Sid. “Are you going to get it?”
“Noooo,” says me. “You’re going to get it. I’m putting away toys.”
Sid looks at me. I am putting away toys. Undeniably so.
"Alright then. Fine," says Sid folding up the newspaper with a resigned sigh. As if the newspaper these days has any news worth reading anyway.
"Alright then, Fine." says me too, as I continue putting away toys. I'm always happy when we agree. It makes for a very successful marriage.

Seconds later I hear happy, raised voices. And I crane my neck in alarm.
“Welcome, welcome,” says Sid, sounding merry
“Holy sh$$,” says me.
(The $$ is not just for editorial etiquette, by the way. My “it’s” are silent these days.  Due, rather annoyingly, to a little person who follows me around, copying everything I say or do. It’s not halfway as satisfying I’ve got to admit, these sh$$’s with the silent $$'s. But sigh. One’s got to do what one’s got to do.)

Anyhow, back to the current predicament of Sid sounding merry. He doesn’t usually sound merry on a Sunday night. Sunday nights, you see, are not about being merry. But then, he’s sounding merry. Very merry. Is the Package Man just an exceptionally nice sort?
But who – on God’s earth – is he welcoming so merrily?  
Is he inviting the Package Man for tea?
But (clever girl that I am), I rule out that possibility somewhat promptly.
Because Sid’s not the kind to generally invite Package Men for tea, no matter how exceptionally nice they might be.
“Holy sh$$,” says me. Once again. This time in proper falsetto. Has someone dropped in??

The first thought to enter my brain is myself (most important!). So, I check to see if I’m dressed decently. Or for that matter, if I’m dressed at all. (Now don’t be getting all excited, people. That was a joke). Thankfully (for everyone), it turns out that I am.

The second thought to enter my brain is food (of course!) I abandon the toy-stacking and make a mad dash for the kitchen before the happy raised voices come any closer. Is there anything in the house worthy of guests? And as I look around my kitchen – at tins of baked beans, a loaf of bread, frozen corn, milk, cheese and lots of green chillies – I conclude despondently: Yummyami has no food worthy of guests. Boo.

And in that split second – before the realisation sinks in and the waves of panic hit – the only thing I can think of is: What would Ammi do?

Cause Ammi is the one person who is always prepared for guests. She always looks fabulous. And she always has food. Come for breakfast, lunch, tea, coffee, dinner, drinks, or in-between, she’s always ready. Always. Don’t ask me how.

By the way, Ammi, (as you all know from Uday Park Chicken) is Sid’s grandmother, Ranbir’s great grandmother and my grandmother-in-law. I still think of her in the present tense because a part of me just can’t come to terms with the fact that she’s no longer in the present tense. In fact half the time when I’m visiting her (amazingly well-kept) home in Uday Park, I expect her to come billowing out of the kitchen, looking gorgeous as usual, laughing her big hearty laugh, and saying “haha, fooled you all!”

Silly, delusional me.
Still. I like to speak of her in the present tense. So, pardonne moi for the incorrect grammar.

Anyway, so Ammi, this lady of so many talents, would know exactly what to do. And so I transport myself into the brain of Ammi, and this is what I do:

1)      Beans on toast

2)      Devilled Eggs

3)      Creamed corn on salto biscuits

4)      Cheese balls

Here’s what you need (everything below serves 6 people):

Beans on toast

- 1 tin baked beans
- Bread slices, cut into quarters
- 2 tbsp grated cheese
- 1 tsp chopped coriander
- 2 copped green chillies

Lightly fry the bread slices until brown and keep aside. Heat beans, pile them generously on the bread, garnish with grated cheese and coriander!

Devilled Eggs

- 6 hard boiled eggs
- 2 tbsp mayonnaise
- 1 tsp mustard
- 1 tsp chopped coriander
- salt and pepper, to taste

Cut the eggs into halves lengthwise. Gently remove and mash yolk and combine with mayonnaise, mustard, coriander, salt and pepper. Fill them back into the egg white shells. Done!

Creamed corn on salto biscuits

- ½ packet corn, defrosted
- 2 chopped onions
- 1 inch chopped ginger
- 2 tbsp chopped coriander
- 1 chopped green chilly
- 2 tbsp grated cheese
- ½ cup milk
- salt and pepper, to taste

Cook corn with salt, pepper, onion, ginger, cheese and milk until thick and creamy. Pile onto salto biscuits (crackers), garnish with coriander and chillies. Serve hot!

Cheese Balls

- 3 tbsp grated cheese
- 1 tbsp butter
- 6 tbsp breadcrumbs
- 3 tbsp chopped ham (for a veggie version, just leave out the ham)
- 1 chopped green chilly
- 1 tbsp chopped coriander
- salt and pepper, to taste

For Batter, mix together
- ½ cup milk
- 1 egg
- 2 tbsp flour

Mix together the cheese, butter, breadcrumbs, ham, chilly, coriander, salt and pepper. Form into small rounded balls, dip in batter and deep fry to a golden brown.

Success! Four quick dishes. With whatever I happened to have at home. Which was not very much!

Anyway, serve the above with wine. Bottles of it. So many that you lose count. For, wine, if you don’t already know, makes everything seem a bit fancier. Wine is the most remarkable illusionist. And illusion, my friends, is the secret to good hostessing. Unless you’re Ammi. In which case, of course, you need no illusions. But then, sadly, there’s only 1 Ammi. So, wine it is. And a bit of creativity.

Now, it so happens that the friends who dropped in are lovely, warm, relaxed people who couldn’t have cared less if I served them nothing at all. But, it never hurts to offer people food. Food, after all, is love. And based on the fact that I had absolutely no leftovers, I think our friends felt very loved! Which, for a welcome change, left me feeling quite pleased with myself. So much so that if I could, I would have picked up the phone to call Ammi and say, “Guess what I made today...” just to hear her say, “Wow, Amu, I’m so proud of you!”

So, after an unexpected, but rather delightful couple of hours, Sid is back to reading the newspaper, Ranbir is back to “playing” his piano, and I am backing to stacking toys (Did I ever mention....?)

So the moral of the story?
Good friends, good food and good wine – leaves everyone content, fed and quite drunk.
And that, my friends, is that.

Happy Birthday Ranbir!

Kheer - delicious and delicately flavoured – is synonymous, in my mind, with festivity!

I come from a completely un-ritualistic family – indeed I am hard pressed to think of many things we did, growing up, that can be granted the stature of ubiquity. The one thing that definitely qualifies, however – that we did ritualistically, without fail, and that they continue to do, even in my absence (sob!) is to eat Kheer on special occasions. So, be it Diwali, birthdays, engagements, anniversaries, promotions, even Christmas, there was always Kheer at lunch. For us, it was a symbol of congratulations and celebration. Of good luck and continuity.

And so, on this – my most special occasion yet - I am making Kheer.

October 2, 2010

The biggest countdown of my life has just ended.  9 months of anticipation and 22 hours of labour later, I am holding, in my arms - my son.

I don’t know what to do at this moment to be honest.  Or what to feel. The emotions overwhelm me. I am jubilant. But I don’t know why. Because the pain is over? Because I am no longer fat? Because I am holding this tiny squirming being in my arms – this being, that Sid and I have created. This being that is now mine?

I am tired, oh so tired. I am crying. From relief, from happiness, from sheer exhaustion? I don’t know. Dr. Teoh is congratulating me – “you did it, you did it,” he repeats over and over again. Ebi, my midwife (God Bless You, I will never forget your kindness in all my life) is laughing, her perfectly white teeth shining against her smooth, perfectly dark skin. Sid is hugging me, his face reflecting a pride so marked, that I remember it still.

He is a father.

And me? I am a mother.  A mother. The words don’t seem real somehow. 

And I don’t know what to do at this moment. But Ranbir does. He needs no help, no direction, no guidance. The first thing he does on this earth is feed.  He is my son.

October 2, 2011

Time has flown like a creature with wings.

A year has passed. And how far we have come!  How far we have come from the day we brought Ranbir home from the hospital.

Our First Year

Fear
It is 9am on Monday morning. The sky is steel grey, dark clouds looming above us, threatening rain. Ranbir is so tiny, his newborn sized sleepsuit (the one smaller than 0-3 months!) hanging loosely around his little body. He is smaller than the length of my forearm, light as a feather.  I am looking back woefully as we drive home. I know I am leaving behind the protective shelter of the hospital, my bright room in the maternity ward done up in cheerful hues of yellow, the midwives who know everything. This is the moment – the precise moment – that reality hits. Cold and Hard.  This is it folks. Moment of truth. It’s just us: Sid and myself, my mother (the only somewhat knowledgeable one of us all, albeit from 30 years ago) and my father (if-i-touch-the-baby-i-will-break-it.) With a 2-day old. Who shares our emotions exactly. We are all the same. Alone. Clueless. And terrified.

Despair
The first 12 weeks seem like 12 years. The days that end before they begin, the long, endless nights.

Time stops.

People tell me he is “cute.” Really?? “Mishti mukh” my mother coos to him all day long – sweet face. Whatever. To me, he barely looks human. He certainly doesn’t behave like one.  I mean, couldja just not pee in my face the next time I’m changing you? Please? Cause you may think it’s cool, but I certainly don’t.  

Sleep, precious sleep. Dark circles. Tears.  I dread the nights. And when the sun comes up – finally – I breathe a sigh of relief – I have survived one more day.  Sometimes I laugh. I call him King Khanna –“What can I do for you now your Majesty?” Sometimes nothing works. The baby cries all day and all night.  Is this how it is meant to be? Or am I a failure? Sid holds me. Tight. It gives me strength. He tells me I’m a great mom. I don’t believe him. I read the books – the expert books – over and over again.  “All they need is love,” the books say.  I look down at my wailing baby. “I love you so much,” I whisper in his ear, “but do you love me?”

Hope
We are learning, Ranbir and I. We are learning how to understand each other. Only now do I begin to appreciate the full power of language, how wonderfully enabling it is. But we don’t have this luxury, Ranbir and I, the luxury of spoken language. Of words. So we both learn. Slowly. Patiently. How to communicate in other ways.

I learn the subtle differences in the sound of his cries (I’m hungry, I’m bored, I’m sleepy, I need changing, I’m just throwing a tantrum because I can) and what I must do in response (feed, play, settle, change diaper, ignore).  I learn that when he kicks his legs furiously, he is happy and when he rubs the side of his face against the hollow in my neck he is sleepy and that when he yawns in the middle of his bath, he is blissfully content. I learn.

And he learns too. Many little things. But one big thing. He learns that he needn’t be scared. That he will be fed and cuddled. And loved unconditionally. He learns that with us, he is safe. And that it may not be such a bad thing after all to keep us around.

He is starting to look human now.  When people call him “beautiful” and then follow it up with “he looks JUST like you” I have to concede – I enjoy it.

There are still times that frustrate me. When communication fails. And I throw up my arms in resignation. But I learn how to deal with that too. I am a fast learner. In times like these, I put him in a safe place, shut the door, and eat chocolate.  It TOTALLY helps.

Love
There are many milestones in the life of a new mother, each one special in its own way. To me, the most memorable will always be Ranbir’s first smile.

It is astounding how much that first little glimmer of a smile means to me. At first, I can’t believe he’s done it. But then he does it again. And he looks at me as if waiting for me to smile back. To respond. It’s the first time he’s held my gaze. It touches  my very core, melts my heart to mush.

Because it is more than just a smile. It is a turning point of sorts.  It is, at long last, an acknowledgment of my existence. It is LOVE.

And as my friend Aimee says to me when I moan to her - about losing sleep and losing me-time and losing independence and losing sanity. “Well, you clearly know everything that you’re going to lose. But, trust me, you have NO idea how much you are going to gain.”

This I discover now.

I discover that the hardest and most selfless job I have ever done in my life is also the most fulfilling. Because I have turned my baby into the most delightful little person I know.  And I am privileged, so privileged, to be his mama.

And from this point on, time flies like a creature with wings.

Lots of things happen, at amazing pace. The squeals of laughter that crack me up every single time, the butterfly kisses, the baby babble (though in Ranbir’s limited vocab, everything and everyone is “da-da”). Suddenly life is a game.  He takes things out of drawers, dustbins, handbags. I put them all back patiently and he takes them out again. This time, I don’t take the bait despite the sorrowful look he’s giving me. He moves on to putting my shoes in his mouth. Or touching the wheels of the pram. Dirty things entertain him the most. My mobile phone is a close second. Now when I hold him, he holds me back. And I want to hold on to that moment forever. I kiss him on his neck and smell that milk smell of his and he laughs because he is tickled. It is the best feeling in the world. Indescribable. Incomparable.  Before I know it, he eats egg fried rice. And mud. He sits up, crawls, plays peek-a-boo by himself, “reads,” claps his hands, waves, does high-fives.

Sometimes I watch him watch me – his large brown eyes looking at me with – dare I say it? Adoration? And it fills my heart with so much love. So much that I didn’t think my heart was big enough to hold. I wonder – how can a person so small affect a love so great?

Sometimes, I watch him sleep – his smooth unlined face so peaceful, so calm, his hands managing to break out of the swaddle I have so painstakingly wrapped him in, his little escaped fists clutching his blanket or a toy, his mouth making little puckering sounds.  And I think to myself – I made that?

Today we have reached the 1 year mark.
Today the English sun is shining for me.  
And I am basking in its glory.

Please celebrate with me. With Kheer.

I am making my Kheer with rice, but every part of India – and every Indian family, for that matter – probably has its own version of Kheer. The essential ingredients are milk and sugar, but different variations can be made by replacing rice with vermicelli, semolina, and even oranges. My mother makes a fantastic and absolutely unrivalled mango Kheer. But I’m rubbish at dessert anyway, so I’m sticking to the basics.  This is homemade, wholesome goodness. This is Rice Kheer.

Here’s what you need:

- 1/4th cup long grain rice, washed and drained
- 4-5 cups milk
- 2-3 cardamom seeds, crushed
- 2 tbsp almonds, blanched & silvered
- A few of saffron threads, soaked in a little hot milk
- 1 tbsp skinned pistachio nuts, chopped
- 1 tbsp sultanas or raisins
- 2  tbsp sugar or as desired

Here’s how you do it:

Add rice, milk and cardamom to a pan, and slowly bring to a boil stirring constantly. Simmer gently until the rice grains start to break up and soften, but keep stirring to make sure the rice doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Continue to simmer (and stir) until the milk is reduced by about half; this may take as long as 1 hour. (No pain, no gain, as they say :) When the milk has thickened, add as much sugar as you like (I don't like to add too much because as I explain in my coffee recipe, boiling milk releases enough sugar for my taste, but then I don't like my desserts too sweet) and stir until completely dissolved. Finally add almonds, pistachio, saffron and raisins and simmer for another 3-4 minutes. Remove the Kheer from heat and let cool. Keep it in the fridge for a few hours and serve chilled.

They say the day a baby is born a mother is born too.  To Ranbir then.  And to me.  On our 1st birthday.

Roast Chicken, à la Didima

Didima, my grandmother, is way too old to cook anymore. She’s almost too old even to eat.  But when I close my eyes, I don’t think of her like this. I think of her as she was when I was growing up – slim and elegant in her red and white saris, long black hair cascading down her back, large hazel-green eyes. And the best cook in the world.

Indeed, she had this tremendous knack for taking a bunch of disparate ingredients, bunging them together and creating the most remarkably tasty dishes you can imagine.  They say the best chefs are born out of the perfect balance between inherent creative talent and unequivocal commitment – and my grandmother certainly had both.  The best part of it all was the effortless ease with which she managed her culinary prowess; she would breeze in and out of the kitchen, cool as a cucumber, and before you knew it, there would appear – just like magic – a veritable feast laid out in front of you.

I have so many memories – such profoundly fond ones – of the numerous delicious meals that came out of Didima’s kitchen and onto the rectangular wooden dining table in that sun drenched room in Calcutta.

“Didima!!” the rest of us would remark in awe, “when did you make all that?”

“Just now dear”, she would reply modestly, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled, “it’s all so simple.”

Yeah right.

And we would gather around the table and eat and eat and eat. Till we could eat no more. While the afternoon sun came streaming in, casting shadows on the white-washed walls. And the ceiling fan whirred noisily above us, cooling the sticky Calcutta air. And the koel birds sang koo-oo on the branches of the Mulberry tree outside. And Didima smiled to herself as we all literally licked our plates clean. What higher praise can a chef ask for? Especially when it was "all so simple!" to make.

As I said before -Yeah right.

But perhaps it really is “all so simple.” Perhaps we just make it more difficult than it is. Or should be.

So, today I tried Roast Chicken, one of my Didima’s many specialties. And it was simple. And delicious. Which really is the best combination of all.

Now, I must warn you, the thing about Didima’s cooking is that there are no measurements at all. It’s all andaaz – a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

So, I telephone her this morning to ask her just how much of this and how much of that I would need.

“I’ll tell your mother to write it down, dear,” she tells me, “and she can send it to you in a letter. You know, through the computer.”

Ha!

And surely enough, when I checked my email an hour later, this is what I got:

Dear Nickname-that-shall-not-be-revealed,

Didima asked me to send you the following: Take a whole chicken, some potatoes and onion. And salt and pepper. And some garlic if you like. And put it in the oven.

Love,
Mama

Well. That’s just swell, isn’t it? Couldja be a bit more vague if you tried?

But, just because no one can cook as effortlessly as Didima doesn’t mean that one shouldn’t give it a go, now, should it?

So, in the spirit of aspiring to be even half as good as she is, I took her general instructions, attempted to guesstimate the correct quantities of everything, added my own twist, and immersed myself in the pursuit of making the perfect roast chicken, à la Didima.

And I’m happy to declare that it all worked out like a charm.

So, here’s what you need (demystified to the best of my ability):

- 1 whole chicken. The chicken is really your protagonist, so the fresher and better quality it is, the greater your chances of a perfect roast.  And if you can get your hands on free-range, please go for it! In any case, buy a smallish whole chicken – it cooks easier, faster and is actually much tastier when done.  
- 6 medium sized potatoes
- 4 large onions
- 1 garlic bulb
- 1 lemon
- Salt and pepper, to taste
- A sprinkling of rosemary and thyme (my little creative input)

Here’s how you do it:

First, foil over a large oven safe tray and preheat the oven to 200C/400F.  Use a knife to make small slits in the chicken so the insides cook evenly, and place bang in the centre of the tray (right where the protagonist should be!) Peel the onions and cut into eighths (cut into quarters first and then divide each quarter into two). Spread the onion pieces out evenly all around the sides of the chicken. Do the same with the potatoes, but leave the skin on. If the potatoes are too small to cut into eighths, quarters will work just as well (it’s all andaaz, remember?).  Try and crush the potatoes a little by pressing down on them with a spatula or spoon. Truth be told, the only purpose of the onions and the potatoes is to mingle with the juices that are released from the chicken as it cooks – this eventually becomes your gravy. Now, break the garlic bulb into cloves, and scatter around the tray as well – don’t bother peeling them, they’ll cook beautifully in their skins.  Next, prick the lemon liberally so the juices will release when hot and place, along with the rosemary and thyme, inside the cavity of the chicken.  Finally, season the whole thing with salt and pepper.

Leave to cook for about 1 hour. Halfway through cooking, you will start to hear this fantastic “sputter-crackle-sizzle” from your tray, as well as get wafts of the yummy aroma of roasting chicken infused with garlic, zesty lemon and fragrant herbs!  Baste the chicken at this point, and if the onions and garlic begin to look dried out, add a splash of water to the tray and let it continue cooking.

You know you are done, when visually, your chicken looks golden brown and crisp on the outside. If it has cooked correctly, the meat will be so tender and juicy on the inside that it will literally fall off the bone when you carve.  Ladle on some gravy from the sides of the tray and serve hot!

Simple + Delicious = Didima’s Home Cooking

A combination that can’t be beat.

Smooth(ie) Operator...

Just the other day, on a balmy autumn afternoon (yes folks, ready or not, it’s autumn already), I was taking a leisurely stroll through the park with my banker-turned-fitness-instructor, friend Romy. (Bat not an eyelid, please, people - stranger things have been known to happen...)

Anyway, so my BTFI friend Romy, flushed and rejuvenated (whether from a run earlier that afternoon, her emancipation from the shackles of investment banking, or from my glorious and thoroughly enchanting company, I don’t know), turns to look at me, a bemused expression on her pretty face, and asks, “Soooo Ami. You can cook and all. Why does the world charge £6 for a smoothie? Does the world think a smoothie deserves £6? What do YOU think?

Hmm...

I’m foxed. Admittedly.

Because, while I generally laud the wisdom and good judgment of the world, and like to keep the flag of worldliness flying high, this question presents a grave conundrum. What do I think, she asks.

Well, here’s what I think (in my head):

I think that £6 for a smoothie is an outrage. Given that I can get a sushi roll for £4.80 and that, involves not only scarce resources (i.e. sashimi grade fish), but also an insane amount of skill. Like, really, have ya ever seen sushi chefs at work?? Cause if cooking is an art, then they are the indisputable Lord and Masters.

So – then, my friends, we return once more to the problematic matter of the £6 smoothie.  I mean, don’t get me wrong – I love a chilled, refreshing, smoothie as much as the next guy (or gal, in my case), and they’re awfully, awfully good for you.  And they are classified quite dramatically as a “Superfood” - the buzzword to end all buzzwords.  And we’re all suckers for buzzwords, aren’t we? “Superfood.” What a word. Think about it. Superfoods make us feel virtuous. Atone for past sins. Superfoods are the food(ie)quivalent of 5 Hail Mary’s.

i.e.

“I’m having a smoothie today”
“Oh, how come?”
“I had a cupcake yesterday”

And so on and so forth.

But no, seriously. The Superfoods in a smoothie are the antioxidants. Now, I’m sure you've all heard how good antioxidants are for you – they improve your skin, your health, fight cancer and extend your life expectancy. And while several fruits (prunes, plums, apples, sweet cherry, cranberries etc) are excellent sources of antioxidants, berries (the ubiquitous smoothie ingredient) pack the biggest punch of antioxidants, per serving size, of them all.

But all that notwithstanding – what on God’s earth are they charging for?

Because, here’s what you need (for 1 generously big glass of Very-Berry Smoothie):

- 1 banana (about 6 oz.), peeled and cut into chunks
- 1 cup orange juice (or 1 fresh orange, peeled and de-seeded)
- 1/2 cup nonfat yogurt
- 1/4 cup fresh raspberries
-1/4 cup fresh blackberries
- 5 cubes of ice

So, tell me please - what on God’s earth are they charging for?  Ice??

Now mind you, all this is me thinking (in my head).

I inhale deeply. The autumn air is crisp and cool and clean. Around me, the leaves have just begun to change colour. Golden brown and red. And russet.

And I look at Romy. She looks expectantly back at me.

“No. I tell her. £6 for a smoothie is highway robbery. Let’s prove it”

I barely wait for a response, grab her arm and start running through the park with great gusto.

“We’re going to Sainsbury’s,” I exclaim excitedly, “to buy stuff. And then to my flat. I am making a smoothie, and you’re going to do the Maths!”

So, arm in arm, me and my somewhat dazed BTFI friend Romy run across the length of Regent’s Park and arrive, somewhat breathless, at the fruit aisle of Sainsbury’s.

Here’s what we buy:

-  8 bananas for £0.87
-  8 oranges for £1.60
-  170g (2 cups) raspberries for £1.50
-  170g (2 cups) blackberries for £1.50
-  500g (4 cups) Non-Fat Yogurt for £0.90

Now, my friends, Managing Expenses entail Maths and Accounting. And Maths and Accounting are not my forte.

(You see, that’s why in my household, we have a system in place when it comes to Managing Expenses. Pure and Simple Division of Labour – Sid earns, I spend and Ranbir saves. It woks beautifully.)

Anyway, I digress. So, as you all know, Maths and Accounting are not my forte. But according to Romy who can do perfect Maths – (now, who says Bankers have no useful skills other than causing the world’s biggest recession?) – this all adds up to £6.37. And is enough material to make 8 smoothies. So, if we made the smoothies, and sold them at the retail price of £6 each, we would make £48. Having spent £6.37. Making our profit margin £41.63 or – (take a deep breath now) - a whopping 654%

Highway Robbery or what??? I mean - even my mathematically defunct brain can work out that much.

AND – smoothies are dead simple to make. Except for peeling the oranges. Which I must admit has to be the single most tedious household task that exists. But when you’re over that part, the rest is dead simple. So much so that I am not even going to bother to tell you. I mean, what’s there to tell? You just chuck the whole lot into the blender and blitz. Until it all becomes smooth as a smoothie, of course.

So as Romy takes a big gulp of antioxidant goodness from her large, chilled glass of Very-Berry Smoothie that I’ve just made for £0.80, she exclaims:

 “oooooh my! Ami! This is soooo good! And just look at the economics! Instead of a Fitness Instructor, I should have opened a smoothie stand in Regent’s Park! Is it too late?? What do YOU think?”

Uh oh. Once a banker, always a banker...

Cheese Naan for Ebony

Right.
I’ve had a number of recipe requests (yay!) but I am horribly behind schedule (boo!) so I’m going to charge through the next few posts like a woman on a mission (woo-hoo!) and hopefully live up to your expectations of my superb culinary prowess (not!)

So, here is the recipe for my first request. It's cheese naan. For Ebony.
Who is my friend from Trini and Tobago. (Honorary Indian.) (But without the drama.)
Who is beautiful, clever, sexy, funny, opinionated, humble, classy, and one hell of a woman! (Lucky Miro!)
Who was my section-mate at HBS (Go D!)
Who has a cute little boy called William (whose clothes she irons). I don’t. (Ranbir’s I mean.)
Who just had a birthday. (Happy Birthday Ebony!)
Who hates people who mix up your and you’re (Hey, your not alone). (Oops.)
Who worries about growing older (Don’t. We are always only as old as we think.)
Who has the widest and whitest smile of anyone I know. (Keep smiling my friend.)
Who wanted the recipe for cheese naan. (So, here you go.)

Get your hands on:

- 2 cups of plain flour
- 1 sachet yeast (yeast makes the end product light and fluffy, not hard and crispy)
- Pinch each of salt and sugar
- Water to combine
- 1 tbsp crushed garlic, per naan
- 1 cup grated cheese (any kind you like), per naan

Here’s how to make it:

Pre-heat your oven to 200 c and place a greased baking tray in the oven.

Meanwhile, mix flour, yeast, salt, and sugar, and add warm water to this mixture, slowly kneading until you can make a soft but firm dough ball with your hands. To get it firmer, add more flour; to get it softer, add more water. Now, sprinkle some flour on a baking tray, add the dough to the tray and knead for about 5 minutes. Set the dough mixture aside for 20-30 minutes.

Next, divide the dough into 4 pieces and roll or press each into a flat pancake, around 1/2 cm each in thickness.  Add a tablespoon of crushed garlic and a sprinkling of grated cheese in the middle of each pancake. Close the dough by folding it over, pressing the edges together, and rolling it out again. Repeat this process with each dough circle. Sprinkle the top of your naans with dhania (dhania = coriander = magic, remember?) or whatever else you like (mustard seeds, cumin seeds, kalonji/onion seeds, fennel seeds all work really well.)

Finally, pop the naana into the oven on the preheated baking sheets for 5 minutes or until golden brown. Brush with melted butter or ghee as it comes from the oven if you like. (You like.)

Let me know how it goes! It's a bit tedious, but I think it beats ironing...
:)

A Sip of Past Times

It is the end of an era.

My High Street coffee shop has closed for good. Gone, finished, kaput. Never to return.

RIP, Louis Hungarian.

Sob.

This isn’t the first mom-and-pop joint to close down around here. In fact, of late, the lot of them have been falling like bricks with disheartening frequency. Every time I take a walk (which, by the way, is every day, and sometimes several times a day), it seems like there’s another boarded up shop with a sad little sign that says “We are closing down and we thank you for your patronage.” Or words to that nature.

It’s terrible to say the least.

Because these small, charming, local, family-run places are what used to define London’s High Streets not that long ago. You walked into a quaint little space where you were promptly greeted with a smile (a genuine one), and while there were no big banners and labels and you actually had to look around for what you wanted (but that’s part of the joy of shopping, no?), someone was always around to help you find it. Or answer questions. Or exchange pleasantries.

That elusive human touch. Fast vanishing.

These were the places, where you’d often see, way at the back of the store, a grandfatherly person, hunched down, still working away at something or the other as industriously as he did when he was behind the till instead of his grandson (or great grandson!) He’d look up at you and tip his hat proudly. It would be like stepping back in time. 

So, when I see these places closing down, one by one, I feel terrible. And what makes it all even more morose is the fact that their space is always re-occupied by large, impersonal, chain stores with their flashy lights and identical decor and clone-like uniformed salespeople with plastic smiles. All boring and dull. Indistinguishably so. But with more rent money than their delightful predecessors. And so, sadly, my High Street pharmacy has become a Superdrug, my High Street bookstore has become a Waterstones, and now my beloved High Street coffee shop has become – horror of all horrors – a Costa.

Sob.

Louis Hungarian Cafe was run by a father and two-daughter team who knew their clients so well that you only had to walk through the door and the preparations for your “usual” were already underway. If they knew your name, they’d greet you by name, and if they didn’t, they’d made sure they did if you ever came back. Consider this, for instance: The old man once said to me “How nice to see you Ami, your smiling face brightens up my day!”

I mean, really.

Who says things like that anymore?

So, call it clichéd, but if there was ever such a thing as, ‘service with a smile’ they knew how to do it.

And here’s the clincher – not only was the service friendly and personal, the coffee and cakes were excellent; every cup freshly brewed and piping hot, every pastry a scrumptious little homemade treat, crisp and flaky and just how it should be. The inside was bright and cheerful with  comfortable upholstered couches, side tables with curvy, carved legs, pictures on the walls, Hungarian rugs...(and if I’m making it all sound far nicer than the humble furnishings at my own flat – it’s because it was!)

And if that is not enough, get this: How rare is it to hear live music nowadays? Anywhere? Without paying a small fortune, that is? But this little coffee place had it. Every now and then, there'd be a lovely gentleman on his keyboard – an uncle? A brother? A nephew? A willing friend? Who knows? But I’m telling you, it was brilliant! There is no treat quite like a real piano performance accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee on a cold, misty London afternoon.

I’ve lost count of the many quiet hours I spent in Louis cavernous interiors with a perfectly made Joe-Joe and a book, listening to the music, watching the world go by. 

But alas!

Those days are no more and all I have are the memories.

Louis is gone. And in place of this quaint little haven of solitude, there now stands, a Costa.

Sob. Sob. And Sob again.

So just to make myself feel better and for the sake of 1) loyalty and 2) old times and 3) memories (wonderous things, those) I swear to myself that I will Never. Ever. Ever. buy a single cup of “coffee” from that Louis-usurping Costa down the street.

Never. Ever. Ever.

No more of my money (actually it’s Sid’s money, but whatever). No more of my money is going to feed the coffers of the cruel and callous Costas of the world and propagate the demise of the Louis Hungarians.

So there. Three fingers up and read between those lines.

Soooo…all that being said, please fast forward if you will to this morning…

Now, this morning, here I am, walking back from the gym, pleased that I’ve at least attempted to work off some of that irresistible Hummingbird Bakery red velvet cake that my sweet Hungarian friend Nora (no relation to Louis) ordered for her boyfriend’s birthday and insisted that we take home in large quantities. And of course, if there’s cake in the house, guess who eats it. Sigh. Temptation will be the death of me, I tell you.

Anyway, I digress.

So here I am, walking back from the gym, the cool wind blowing on my face, the rare London sun shining down on me in all its splendour, and suddenly I think to myself – hmmmm...a coffee would be nice...

And as the thought creeps into my brain, and slowly (but surely) starts to take control of my senses, the first sneaky signs of a craving begin and before you know it, I can almost taste that coffee – hot, strong, rich, oily… I can’t wait to hold that mug, both my hands around it, the warmth from it radiating lovingly into my cold fingers, while the smell of freshly ground beans waft over me. I take my first sip (in my head, I mean), and lose myself in caffeine heaven. Mmmm.

And then.

Just as my craving has graduated into a full-blown coffee invasion and all I have on my mind is “Coffee, Coffee, Coffee,” – I come face-to-face with IT.

IT is a gigantic maroon board, placed strategically on the side-walk, so I literally have to swerve to keep from walking straight into IT. Either IT is very tall or I am very short, because IT is bigger than me. And IT has – front and center, magnified to human-height, and impossible to miss – an image of? Yeah, you guessed it: An earth-shatteringly-great-looking cup of espresso loveliness!!!

For a person with coffee on their brain, you have no idea how this image messes with you: A sparkling-toothpaste-white mug filled to the brim with coffee lusciousness. All frothy and creamy. Chocolate powder sprinkled on top. They even have steam coming out of it. Little life-size smoke rings.

How on earth do they photograph these things with such perfection?

I mean, I can smell it.

So, of course, now I’ve got to have it.

Except for a small snag.

The owner of IT – the gigantic maroon board (and the picture) (and for that matter, the coffee) is none other than Costa.

Ha.

Life is a bi$$h.

And as I stand there debating what to do, I hear the shrill, metallic, voice of Mr. Costa. In my imagination, he looks 007’s Jaws.

“Mess with her. Suck her in. We’ve GOT HER!” he screams through metal-mantled teeth.

Ahhh. See my dilemma? Give in or get out? This is a problem. A major problem. Because you see, with food (or drink) (especially drink), I always give in. Always.  But this? This is a question of Principle.

And so – most reluctantly, and mostly for the sake of Louis Hungarian (May you Rest in Peace) – I make my decision:

Mr. Jaws Costa  - You shall not: Mess with me. Suck me in. GET ME.

Never. Ever. Ever. Remember?

I’m going home.  To make my very own boutique style coffee experience. With (sob) Illy.

But here’s the thing: I don’t have live music, and I don’t have velvet couches and I don’t have Dobosh Torte.

And it’s not Louis.

But at least it’s coffee.