Kala Chana (The Namesake)

I’m going to start at The End.

Yup.

Because sometimes, The End that is the very best place to start.

The End…

It was a freezing cold December evening in London. To focus my energies away from the travesty that had just – minutes ago – occurred, I was on the internet, contemplating retirement plans in Havana…

“I’ll smoke Cigars,” I think, “spend my life eating rice and beans and banana fritters in my swimsuit…”

(You see, now that my pressure cooker is at death’s door, there’s no real point to life in London anymore. Oh no.)

Meanwhile…

The sound of a key turning in the lock interrupts the icy silence.

(Enter Sid)

“Hello everyone,” he says joyously.

“Papa, papa!!” the child shrieks loudly, his eyes glinting with a wild excitement, that has not once been directed at me in all of 2 years and 2 months.

Abandoning Cuba, I jump up, eyes glinting wild excitement of equal measure. (It’s in the DNA, see?)

I shriek: “You have to go to Sainsburys. I need Vinegar, baking soda and a steel scourer. Now!!”

He winces notably at all the shrieking. “What happened?” He asks.

“The pressure cooker!!” I say desperately. “It’s the pressure cooker. It’s almost dead. We must save it!!! You must help me!! Vinegar, baking soda, scourer!! Go, Go, Go, Go!!!”

“OK, no problem. What the “mm-mm-mm-mm” is that sme…?” he asks before I slam the door shut on his face

Earlier that evening…

I burnt an entire pressure cooker of kala chana.

I burnt the kala chana.

I burnt the pressure cooker.

And that, my friends, is that.

The how, why, where and when…

So, this may be hard to believe – but I am not perfect.

Really, I’m not.

This isn’t me trying to be modest or anything.

Because I have burnt food before.

But I’ve almost always managed to save most of it. Especially the stuff on the top. Which still tastes perfectly normal. Great, even. In these cases, I’ve had to bury (with sadness) the burned stuff at the bottom. Which hasn’t ever been a lot. Definitely not enough to write a blog post on.

On the rare occasion where the incident has been of a more dire nature, the stuff that’s saved has been less than the stuff that I’ve had to bury. These situations have made me sad. Quite sad. But I have moved on. Eventually. After I'd mustered up all the courage in every fibre of being and made myself move on. I'm brave like that. 

But this time, you see, was a first.

For I was confronted with nothing but a 12 inch layer of blackness coating the better part of my pressure cooker.

You’ve gotto be having a laugh, I say to myself.

“Kala Chana??” 

Which translates precisely to “Black Chickpeas”

Oh yeah baby. Black Chickpeas indeed.

But the point is:

For the first time in my life, there was nothing left even to bury.

You follow?

This was no burial, people. This was a cremation.

Sigh.

“How the hell did you not smell it,” you ask.

“I don’t know!!!” I say. Maybe because I was in a room far away.”

“You must live in a very big house,” you conjecture, “with wings and all.”

“Hahaha,” I laugh. (Because that’s just funny).

The truth is, people, that I must have a very poor sense of smell. I really can’t think of much else. They say everyone in the world is blessed with 1 excellent sense, of the 4 possible senses of sight, smell, hearing and taste.

Now, I hate to toot my own horn (I do, truly), but I cannot complain insofar as taste is concerned. Taste, I possess in ample quantities. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that my taste buds are a whole separate living entity unto themselves. Which explains perhaps the many midnight conversations I have with them, ending most times with me traipsing down to the fridge in my Snoopy slippers and devouring a large mouthful of chocolate cake from the fridge, simply to appease them.

The things one does for one’s imaginary friends.

Anyhow, the point is: if you allow me to taste any preparation of anything, I’m fairly sure I’d be able to itemize a list of ingredients that went into its preparation.

Right back at you. No jokes.

I am truly blessed.

For this I thank the good Lord.

But then, there is that pesky mathematical concept of mean reversion. Which basically keeps my ego in check. Because you see, with the rest of the 3 senses, I got less lucky.

(Or, in plain language – I got screwed.)

See:

Sight? I am blind as a bat. Or was until a few months ago. Thanks to the excellent Dr. Julian Stevens at Moorfields Eye Hospital, lots of moolahs I don’t really have, and a remarkable procedure called LASIK (which I still don't really fully understand, scarily enough) now I have 20-20 vision. Which means I could fly a plane. Not that I recommend you be my passenger or anything. I wouldn’t really be my own passenger, if you know what I mean.

Hearing? I am as deaf as a doorknob. More so since the birth of my kid. The birth of a kid renders one deaf. This is a fact. Guaranteed. One of God’s gifts to all womankind. I am deaf to anything that sounds like whining, bawling, screaming and shrieking. This is my return-gift for going through all the trouble of pregnancy and labour, you know. What goes around, comes around, law of averages etc.

Smell? Now, this one is most disappointing. Smell is a most wonderful virtue. Smell alerts you to what lies ahead, a harbinger of all things good (well, mostly). Now, I always thought I had a keen sense of smell. But no. Apparently, I don’t.

Because how someone can sit around in a tiny flat and not smell something burn to a crisp (and that’s me being kind) is beyond me. And it can means only one thing.

That the someone in question has no sense of smell. At all.

Zero, nada, naught, zilch, cipher.

Goose Egg.

You get my drift?

And so, here, henceforth and forthwith, I do solemnly swear that I cannot smell squat.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, is my defense.

Guilty as charged.

And now my pressure cooker is dying.

All because of my lousy sense of smell.

And so I put my tail between my legs (so as to speak) and left the kitchen defeated. I wandered to my computer and took refuse in Facebook. Which is wonderful solace I must add in such times of deep despair. The stuff some people put on there? Enough to eke a hearty laugh out the dampest squid. Seriously. Check it out sometime.

Anyway, on Facebook, I wandered to the empty box on top that reads “what’s on your mind?”

and I told you all what was on my mind. “ARGH!!!" I wrote. "I just burned a whole pressure cooker full of stuff. There goes todays Yummyami post :(“ 

To which, all you excellent people suggested I write a post anyway.

Which made me think.

And thinking is a wonderful thing, truly.

I wish more of us did it more regularly.

And I thinked and I thinked. Till my head hurted.

Because I knew not what to write in a food blog when there is no food to write about.

But since I exist, only to please, here you go.

Please find: Kala Chana (The Namesake)

Here’s what you need:

- 1 cup kala chana (Black Chickpeas or Bengal Gram)

- 3 tbsp oil

- Pinch asafoetida

- 1 tsp cumin seeds

- 1 green chili finely chopped

- ¼ inch ginger finely chopped

- 2 tbsp coriander powder

- ½ tbsp turmeric

- ½ teaspoon red chili powder

- Salt, to taste

- 1 tsp lemon juice

- Coriander to garnish

- 3 tbsp dry coconut powder to garnish

Here’s how you do it:

Wash and soak kala chana for a few hours, preferably overnight.

When you are ready to cook, heat some oil in a pressure cooker over medium high heat. Add in the cumin seeds and as they start to crackle, add the asafoetida and stir. Add the ginger, green chili, coriander powder, turmeric, and chili powder, along with some water and stir for another minute.

Add soaked kala chana, and 4 cups of water to the pressure cooker so that the lentils are fully submerged. As the cooker starts steaming, turn down the heat to medium.

Here’s what you DON’T DO:

Turn on the exhaust to full, shut the kitchen door and leave. Decide (for some inexplicable reason), to go to the part of the house farthest from the kitchen. Then basically do nothing. Sprawl out on the bed, make irrelevant chit-chat on the phone, drink some orange juice, and read about Kate Middleton’s pregnancy from page 1 to page 598 on The Times.

Then, approximately one hour later, sit up with a start as the unmistakable scent of burn wafts uninvitingly towards you. Open your mouth, scream like a banshee, and make a mad dash for the kitchen, all the while uttering the choicest unutterables…

Alas! Too late.

Here’s what you DO DO (Dudu):

Wait for 4-5 whistles.

Turn off the heat and wait until all the steam has released before opening the pressure cooker.

Add salt and let it cook for 2-3 minutes on low heat. Stir in lemon juice and sprinkle with coriander and dry coconut powder before serving.

Now, I know IMH (in my head) what this is supposed to taste like: Spicy and tangy, wholesome and hearty, full of flavour and aromatic goodness. If you do this right, it will melt in your mouth, filling you with nutty, nutritious wonder.

IRL (in real life): Not a clue.

But while I’m on a mission saving my beloved pressure cooker, I’m sure you folks will make some and let me know.

Please?

When a picture speaks a thousand words...

(please find below: 12,000 words) 

1. Homemade Red Hot Curry Paste
(Serves 2)

Here's what you need:
- 1 large dried red chilli
- 2 dried small red chillies
- 2 fresh red hot chillies
- 1/2 tsp chopped kaffir lime peel or 2 tsp. torn kaffir lime leaves
- 1 tsp. chopped fresh lemon grass
- 1/2 tsp. chopped fresh galangal
- 1/2 tsp. fresh coriander root or 1 tsp. stems and leaves chopped finely
- 1 tsp. chopped garlic
- 2 tsp chopped shallots
- 1 tsp. shrimp paste
- 1/8 tsp. coriander seeds
- 1/8 tsp. anise seeds
- 1/8 tsp. cumin seeds
- 1/2 tsp. black peppercorns
- 1/4 tsp. salt

Here's how you do it:
Cut the dried large red chilli into tiny strips with scissors, soak in warm water for 15 minutes, and then drain. In a small pan or wok, stir fry the cumin seeds, coriander seeds, black pepper and anise seeds until fragrant (about 15 seconds). Put in a stone mortar with salt and grind to a powder. Add the chillies and pound to a smooth paste. Add the kaffir lime peel, lemon grass, galangal, coriander root and pound again. Add the garlic and shallots and pound to a smooth paste. Finally add the shrimp paste and pound again until smooth.

PS - This can be frozen in a plastic bag and used over time!

2. Stir-Fried Red Curry with Pork (I used Chicken)

(Serves 2)

Here's what you need:

- 1 cup chicken breast sliced thinly into even size pieces

- 2 tbsp. red curry paste (from above)

- 2 fresh kaffir lime leaves torn in half

- 1/3 cup sweet basil leaves

- 1/2 large fresh red chilli seeded and cut into thin slices

- 1/2 large fresh green chilli seeded and cut into thin slices

- 1/2 cup long green beans cut into bit-size pieces

- 2 fresh green peppercorns, cut in half

- 1/2 cup chicken stock or vegetable stock

-1/2 cup coconut cream

- 1-2 tsp. fish sauce

- 1/2 tsp. white cane sugar

- 1/4 tsp. white or black pepper powder to taste

- 1 tbsp. soy bean oil (or other vegetable oil)

Here's how you do it:

Heat the oil in a large pan or wok. Add the red curry paste and lime leaves and some stock and stir-fry until fragrant. Add the chicken and the stock. Stir-fry for about 30 seconds. Add the green beans, peppercorn, chilli and chicken stock and stir about 1 minute. Now add 1/2 cup coconut cream, fish sauce, pepper and sugar and stir. Add basil and stir again. Serve hot. Garnish with basil.

3. Stir-Fried Mixed Seafood with Holy Basil & Garlic

(Serves 2)

Here's what you need:

- 1 cup seafood (prawns and squid)

- 1/3 cup fresh holy basil (only leaves) or sweet basil

- 1/4 cup red pepper seeded and cut into thick strips

- 1/4 cup green pepper seeded and cut into thick strips

- 1/4 cup yellow pepper seeded and cut into thick strips

- 2 tbsp. fresh green peppercorn cut in half

- 1/3 cup white onion thickly sliced

- 1-2 fresh coriander chopped

- 2-3 fresh red hot chilli sliced finely

- 2-3 cloves garlic chopped

- 1 tbsp. oyster sauce

- 1 tsp. soy sauce

- 1 tsp. fish sauce

- 1/2 tsp. white cane sugar

- 1/4 white or black pepper powder

- 1/2 cup chicken stock or vegetable stock

- 1 tbsp. soy bean oil (or any other vegetable oil)

- 1 tbsp. corn starch or corn flour

Here's how you do it:

In a wok or frying pan, heat the soy bean oil on medium heat, Briefly stir fry the seafood and coriander root, red-hot chillies, garlic and 1/4 cup stock for about 30 seconds. Add in the onion, green, red and yellow peppers, peppercorn, and 1/4 cup stock and cook about 1 minute. Next, add the fish sauce, soy sauce, oyster sauce, sugar, white or black pepper and stir fry for another 30 seconds. Add the holy basil and corn starch and stir another 30 seconds. Garnish with fresh basil, coriander leaves, deep-fried garlic and the rest of the chilli slices.

4. Coconut Milk Soup with Fish & Turmeric

(Serves 2)

Here's what you need:

-1 cup fresh white fish fillet cut into bite-sized pieces

- 1/2 cup fresh oyster or straw mushrooms torn bite-sized

- 2-3 cherry tomatoes cut into half

- 1 tbsp. fresh turmeric, grated or 1 tsp. turmeric powder

- 2 fresh kaffir lime leaves torn

- 1/3 cup fresh galangal thinly sliced

- 1/2 fresh lemon grass cut by angle thickly

- 3 shallots thickly sliced

- 3-5 fresh red hot chillies cut in half or finely sliced

- 2 coriander root or 2 stems and leaves chopped

- 1/4 cup spring onion cut i inch long

- 1/4 cup coriander leaves cut 1 inch long

- 1 tbsp. fish sauce

- 1/2 tbsp. fresh lime juice

- 2 tbsp. tamarind juice

- 1/4 tsp. salt

- 1/2 tsp. white cane sugar

- 2 cups coconut milk

- 1-2 tbsp. chilli oil for garnish

- Coriander leaves for garnish

Here's how you do it:

Heat a dry wok or pan. Add the turmeric, lemon grass, kaffir lime leaves, galangal, hot chillies, shallots and coriander root. Stir-fry until fragrant about 1 minute. Pour the coconut milk and bring to medium heat until it boils, then add the mushroom and tomato and boil for about 1 minute. Add all the fish without stirring (very important) for about 3 minutes. Add the fish sauce, tamarind juice, salt, and sugar and boil for 20 seconds. Now add the spring onion and coriander leaves for another 20 seconds. Boil briefly and remove from heat. Add the lime juice. Serve hot!

Tani's Very Green Parathas

So...by the double virtue (!?) of being half Bengali and having spent the better part of my life in Southern India, you'd think - and quite justifiably at that - that I must love my rice.
And I do! Very much indeed.
But - here's an unexpected secret:
I love my Roti more!
And not just a little more. A lot, lot more. And have, ever since ever.

Which is pretty darn bizarre when you think about it because I belong to as staunch a family of rice eaters as they come. And which, in turn, leads the romantic in me  to believe that marrying my Punjabi, Roti devouring Sid was written. There's really no other explanation; it was simply meant to be.

That little passionate declaration of love out of the way, let's take a(nother) moment to digress. Because digression as you know is one of my most favourite activities. So in the spirit of digression, I'd like you to take a moment to ponder the notion of hierarchy.

Now, hierarchy, according to Wikipedia, "is an arrangement of items (objects, names, values, categories, etc.) in which the items are represented as being "above," "below," or "at the same level as" one another." So hierarchy provides structure to things, a pecking order of desirability, if you like. And  whether one wishes to admit it or not, there is always some sort of hierarchy to most aspects of life, whether in government, organizations, militia or countries.
And - before you laugh - so it is with Roti.
 
Now, the hierarchy in the Roti family (unlike Japan) is entirely subjective. My number 1 may not be your number 1 and your number 1 may not be my number 1 and we can all agree to disagree and live happily ever after. In fact, on yet another random aside, I'd love nothing more than to hear your personal Roti hierarchy - knowing whether you place the Roomali over the Kulcha (and so on) would make for some very interesting bedtime reading, so do drop me a line if you can. (Yes, I think I have just allowed you unfettered access into the mind of a deranged foodophile...)

But, getting (finally) to the point of it all, I have to admit that my number 1 in the Roti clan is without contest, the Paratha - that beautiful unleavened flat-bread made by pan frying whole-wheat dough on a tava or griddle, layer upon flaky layer of delicious buttery goodness -  what's there not to love?  

I could not tire of the Paratha you know. Even if I tried. And I mean that sincerely. 
I love it. 
Truly, madly, deeply. 
Do.
In fact I went through a bizarre two-week phase in my life where all I did was eat Parathas ordered from various Sub Continental restaurants across New York City for dinner every night. I consumed many quantities of parathas of all types - plain paratha, methi paratha, lachha paratha, aloo paratha, gobi paratha, unda paratha, keema paratha, mooli paratha, even (a rather awful) "ponir" paratha from the chaps down on Brick Lane. 

It was a veritable "Woman vs. Paratha" fest, it was.

Needless to say, I'm quite the authority on NYC Parathas, so if you're ever in the market for such valuable info, please be aware that I shall be glad to dispense it for free. 
I'm nice like that.

Restaurants aside, (and I promise) getting to the core of this note - the best Paratha in the world comes from the kitchens of my friend Tani, who makes Parathas which are most distinctive. Yes, I do mean in taste. But - more importantly - I mean, in appearance. Tani's Parathas, you see, are a curious shade of green.

Now what's remarkable about this whole thing is that the Green Parathas or "Paronthi" as she calls them in Punjabi, were not even meant for me. Oh no! I stumbled upon them by pure accident. Or sheer luck. Whichever you prefer. But, whatever you'd like to call it, my dear friends, the truth was that I chanced upon this delightful creation in a monumental act of serendipity.

The events unfolded as follows:

I was over for dinner at Tani's house, hanging out with her in the kitchen, chatting about this and that, while she fiddled with an excellent looking chicken curry...when suddenly I noticed, tucked into the far corner of the polished granite worktop, a most wondrous sight. For wrapped most neatly in a sheet of cling film, was a mound of very green dough.

Now as you would rightly expect from a passionate and obsessive food freak such as myself, on seeing such a delightful thing as very green dough, my senses were immediately piqued.

"What's that," I asked.
"Green paronthi" she replied, "for the kids. Aunty makes them."

Noting the perplexed look on my face, she kindly proffered an explanation:

"They won't eat their vegetables any other way, ya. So we have to mix spinach and broccoli and stuff into the flour."

(Aunty by the way, is the lovely lady who quadruples as cook, nanny, babysitter and general matriarchal protector of the Singh family, encapsulated quite lovingly by anyone who knows her as "aunty")


Anyway, back to the very green dough. Now: given that I had not that long ago spent a good two weeks of my life eating the Paratha varietals of every establishment from 9th street to 96th street, there really wasn't that much in parathaland that I hadn't tasted.

But this - even for me - was remarkably novel.

"Ohhhhhh" I remarked in deep contemplation.
 
Then: (contemplation duly complete)
"Can I try?", I asked - adventurous (as ever)
"Yes, of course" she replied - gracious (as ever), reaching for the very green dough, taking some in her fingers, shaping it into a ball, and rolling it out with the expert dexterity that only a Sardarni from The Punjab can ever hope to achieve.

And so she rolled and she folded and she rolled again. And she folded and she rolled and she folded again. And I tried not to look at the butter that she so lovingly added each time she rolled and she folded and she folded and she rolled.

But when that baby sizzled on the griddle, my friends - time, for a few but precious moments - came to a breathtaking halt.

For Green History had just been created.
 
Hot, crispy, flaky, melt-in-your-mouth goodness...this was the one of the most gorgeous things my lips have ever touched.



A landslide victory for the Botanists, I tell you!

So here is Tani's recipe - or technically, Auntie's recipe. And for precisely that reason, you'll have to use some approximation with the exact quantities...but then it's small price to pay for something this authentic. Make it please! This is one of those things that everyone has simply got to taste at least once in their lives!

Here's what you need (verbatim from Aunty, duly translated by Tani):

- Vegetables: Broccoli, Spinach, carrots (for sweetness), beans, zucchini, peas - any or all of these can be combined with spinach as the main ingredient - washed and roughly chopped (they'll be boiled later so don't worry about fine chopping)
- Lentils - moong daal, binds them together - a 1/4 katori (bowl) washed and soaked for 10 mins.
- Adrak (Ginger) - one finger phalange size (for making the food easier to digest)
- Salt to taste
 
Here's how you do it (verbatim from Aunty, although I am inclined to believe that Tani is the rightful owner of the truly terrible spinach joke):

"In a pressure cooker, put all the ingredients and put enough water so they are all covered with water. Not too much water (spinach also leaves some of its own - no pun intended!). Bring it all to a boil - 2 whistles. When it cools - put it in a blender and make a puree. Now use this thickish puree to 'goondo your aata'...don't use any water...so whatever quantity of aata you choose - it should not be so much that you need to use water.

And that's it - use that for your yummy, healthy parathas."


Right, so that's how you get your very green dough. Now, here's where I come in to tell you how to go from dough to Parathas. So here are the steps, numbered because it involves several folds and rolls and I know it's all pretty darn confusing...but what the hey, here goes!


1) Roll the dough into a circular disc of roughly 3/4 inch diameter. 
2) Spread some butter uniformly on this disc. 
3) Next, fold it in half so its a semi-circle. 
4) Now again spread some butter on the surface. 
5) Fold it once more, so its quarter shaped, like a quesadilla triangle. 
6) Now sprinkle some wheat flour over it and roll out the double folded dough into a circle.So you're really back to square one, but not really - because in all the folding (not to mention the buttering) you've created some truly beautiful layers which will be crisp, flaky and delicious when done. 
7) Final step - Fry the Parathas on a tava or griddle with a tad more butter (but of course). 

And there you have it!

So to my gorgeous friend Tani, who by some magical combination of great looking genes, a radiant personality and a wonderful temperament, is a fountain of beauty and youth - here is my wish for you:

May you always remain as evergreen as your parathas!

All my love now and always 
YA x

Diwali Rice

I love this dish not only because of the memories it brings back, but also because the pleasure of its flavour far exceeds the pain of its preparation - a culinary equation that wins me over every time!

This is vegetable pulao, folks - delicate, nourishing, aromatic - but I call it Diwali Rice because my very first memory of this dish is from my first memory of Diwali...

Which really was a very long time ago.
But then, first memories stick.
Clear and vivid.
As if it were just yesterday that they were created.

Come back with me, then, to my very first memory of Diwali...

The excitement would really all begin a week or so before the actual day, with a visit to the Diwali maidan to pick out fireworks. We'd walk from stall to stall, giggling with anticipation, surveying the goods, picking things out - a bit of this, a bit of that.  Some spinning chakras, a boxful of anaars, which when lit, would burst upwards into droplets of golden fire, rockets that would shoot streaks of brilliant reds and blues and greens and golds into the heavens...all of these, bought, then carefully boxed and stored, and put aside until Diwali eve.

We'd hardly sleep a wink the night before Diwali, hugging our pillows tight, impatiently waiting for morning to come.  And then as the first light of dawn would shine into our bedrooms, we'd jump out of bed, get into new clothes and savour the feel of festivity. Most of the day would be spent setting things up for the evening, the house in a state of friendly chaos, people scurrying between rooms, deities being brought out of store cupboards, silver being polished, kitchens busy at work, the smell of cloves and cinnamon wafting enticingly through the air...

With dusk finally settling in, we'd get even more impatient. "Crackers, crackers!" we'd scream, jumping up and down in glee, "when can we do the crackers?" "Be patient," the adults would say, "we'll do the crackers soon, but first the Puja." And so, the evening would commence with the Puja, the offering of prayers to the goddess Lakshmi - milk and honey and the ceremonial fire in return for health, and happiness and prosperity. Puja done, we'd feed each other sweets  - cool, nutty kaju barfi, creamy peda, yellow ladoos stuffed with plump raisins and nuts...
 
And then, finally, it would be time for the highlight of the evening; indeed for many of us, the highlight of the year. Fireworks time!
 
We'd step outside the house, leaving windows and doors ajar, expressly for goddess Lakshmi to pay us a visit if she so desired! Then we'd carry the fireworks out into the driveway, stopping to marvel at the street we lived on, transformed, overnight, into a shimmering fairy wonderland, filled with laughter and life - whole families joined together, joyous and jubilant in this celebration of Diwali, the festival of lights. 

We'd stand and we'd stare, taking it all in - this image of row upon row of houses glittering in the light of a thousand diyas, their flames dancing in the balmy October breeze.

Then, the fireworks would start, much to the delight of giggling children and the dismay of terrified dogs. Sparklers and rockets and flower pots and spinning wheels, would go off, one after the other, and we'd look upwards and gape at the night sky ablaze with colour and light. We'd stand there for hours, untiringly lighting cracker upon cracker with the same unrelenting enthusiasm and eagerness with which we'd do this every single year.

And then, when the very last sparkler had been lit and twirled around and around and around to make little circles of fire in front of us, that finally fizzled away, we'd go back inside and sit down to dinner, tired but happy. And hungry, oh so hungry!

We've always been vegetarian on Diwali, either as a mark of respect or a token of sacrifice, I don't know which. And so while dishes like ghosht biryani or prawn malai curry were more likely to be served on occasions like birthdays and anniversaries, on Diwali, it was always Diwali Rice that would take center stage - fragrant with the aroma of saffron and nutmeg.

And it would be the perfect conclusion to a perfect day.
You just have to taste it to see why...

Here's what you need:

- 500 gms long grained basmati rice
- 4 black cardamoms
- 2 tsp caraway seeds
- 3 bayleaves
- 2 cinnamon sticks
- 2 cloves

 

- ½ tsp brown mustard seeds

 

- Pinch of powdered nutmeg

- 1 inch piece of fresh ginger  

- Pinch of saffron strands dissolved in a tsp of milk 

- 2 tbsp ghee (for the real stuff) or 2 tbsp olive or groundnut oil (if you really insist) 

- 1 large onion, peeled and finely minced
- 100g potato, peeled and diced
- 1/2 carrot, peeled and diced
- 50g peas
- 40g green beans, trimmed and cut into 1/2 inch segments
- ½ tsp turmeric powder
-  3 tbsp natural yoghurt
- Salt, to taste
- 50g packet salted roasted cashew nuts, to garnish

Here's how you do it:

Soak the rice in water for about 30 minutes. Then drain and set aside. So, for a good pulao, it's really important to get the right rice. You're aiming for each grain to remain separate from every other when cooked, and you will really only get that with long grained basmati, so please try and get your hands on some if you can.

Meanwhile, heat some ghee (or, sigh, olive oil) in a large, deep bottomed pan, and add the chopped onions until they are slightly browned. Add in all the whole garam masala - (cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, caraway seeds, bay leaves, and mustard seeds saute on a medium flame, till the spices are aromatic.
 
Stir in the ginger and all the other vegetables, sprinkle in the turmeric, salt and nutmeg and continue to cook on medium heat. At this point, I lower my flame and add in some natural yogurt. This is totally optional, but I find it lends a tart, creamy, distinctive flavour to my pulao, which I really like, but if you choose to use yogurt too, be really careful. Heating yogurt too rapidly can cause it to separate, which will completely ruin your dish - yes, yes, I speak from experience :( so stir in small bits of the yogurt, in batches, stirring constantly.

Now, pressure cook the rice along with 3 cups water for 3 whistles. Allow the stem to escape before opening the lid. The rice should be soft and fluffy but not sticky - this is why I'm banging on about the kind of rice you use! Long grained basmati has never let me down!

Stir in all the rice into the pan with the vegetables, mixing everything together. Sprinkle the saffron evenly on top and garnish with cashews.

And there, its done: flavourful, fragrant, festive Diwali Rice!


I guarantee the aroma is enough to make your senses sing!
And it's all upside from here, because what smells good, usually tastes even better!

So go on, dig in. Because, I certainly am. And even now, years later, my first mouthful is as amazing as I remember it all those years ago. It is the taste of Diwali. 

A thousand dancing diyas
The sparkle in the sky
The burst of fireworks carried along by the wind.
And long after it's all over - the strains of laughter lingering in the air.

"Leggo Bock Mushy Gleeth Goo"

It's 6pm on a Friday and boy, am I exhausted!

The week gone by - and what a busy one it's been - has just caught up with me and really all I want to do is sit on my couch with a glass of wine and a particularly bad chick-flick for company.

WHICH, my friends, is exactly what I was going to do…right up until a little person decides to tug at my expensive silk shirt (definitely not meant for tugging) and declare, “leggo”

“Leggo?” I ask in incomprehension.

"Leggo." I get with a nod. And a definitive one at that.

“You want to play with your lego?” I ask, incomprehension turning quickly to clarification.

“No lego.” Comes the prompt reply back. “Ba-bye lego”

OK. Got it. Leggo, but NO lego.

That's done then. 

But...as you would expect, in keeping with the heart-stopping, nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat pace of my previous posts, this particular story can't quite end here. 

And, I'm happy to report, it doesn't.

Because I have barely tucked in my expensive silk shirt so tightly that it cannot be tugged, when the little person decides, instead, to tug at my hair.

Now, lookie here: Im going through a very sensitive phase in my life with respect to my hair. Because, you see, half my hair is falling out and the other half is turning grey. And so naturally, you will forgive me if I tell you that this quite innocently intended act of attention-grabbing-hair-tugging drives me, rather unfairly, to extreme annoyance.

“What?” I (nearly) scream, prying the (exceptionally strong) little fingers away from my beloved hair.

“Leggo!!!” comes the stock reply back, albeit with a distinct note of impatience this time.

In fact the note is a note so distinct that I turn around in amazement to look at the speaker of said distinct impatience.

And it’s only when I turn around and take in the entirety of my 2 feet something speaker, that comprehension floods me like the lights of Madison Square Garden during an exceptionally wonderful performance. Because, you see, my speaker has, clutched in the grasp of his free, non-tugging hand - his pair of shoes, socks and all. 

“Leggo” = “let's go”

Ah. 

Now we’re talking.

“Okay,” I say. “I get it, I get it. Let's go where?”

Bullseye.
It's the right question to have asked.
Because the answer, my friends, comes pronto. Chop-chop. Lickety-split.
“Leggo bock mushy gleeth goo”

Now, I don’t consider myself a genius or anything, but I actually totally get that. I mean, now that I've figured out “leggo,” the rest is a piece of cake. 

“Leggo, bock mushy gleeth goo?"

A perfectly constructed sentence. Indeed, as perfect as they come.

Because (in case you didn't get it...) “leggo, bock mushy gleeth goo” means:  "Let’s go to the Mexican Restaurant called Wahaca where I can eat black beans (bock mushy) and guacamole (green/gleeth goo).”

Don’t you just love the nuances of communicating with a two-year old?

I'm so thrilled that my child has spoken a full sentence (and a perfectly constructed one at that), that right now I'll do anything.  

Except go out, that is.

The combination of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and "Gone With The Wind" is much too much to give up. Even for a perfectly constructed sentence.

But, what's life without a little compromise?

And I, my friends, am the Queen of Compromise. (Ask my husband.)

And compromise, in the present, pressing moment, means only one thing. It means that I've got to create some "bock mushy gleeth goo" right here on my very own chef’s table! And all without any “leggoing” at all! It's win-win!

So without further ado, here’s Wahaca style Black beans and Guacamole. Absolutely delicious with tortilla chips! Even for grown-ups!

Black Beans

This is a kiddified and adapted version of Thomasina Miers’ recipe, but it’s delicious all the same, each mouthful a burst of surprise!

Here’s what you need:

- 250g dried black beans

- 4 cloves garlic, peeled and smushed

- 4 bay leaves

- Pinch, anise seeds

- Pinch, cumin seeds

- 1 onion, roughly chopped

- Salt to taste

- A fat pat of butter. This is necessary.

Here’s how you do it:

Place the beans in a large sauce pan and cover with cold water. If you have the time (I obviously didn’t) you can soak the beans overnight, which will really speed up the overall cooking time.

Add the garlic, herbs and onion and bring the water to the boil. Cook the beans until they are mashably-soft, topping them up with boiling water if the water looks like it is boiling off. 

Drain the beans and discard any big pieces of garlic and onion that have not dissolved. Add the fat pat of butter and mush up the beans with a fork to the consistency you want. Or in other words, until it's a huge bowl of creamy, buttery, delicious BOCK MUSHY!

Guacamole

Here’s what you need:

- 3 avocados

- 3 red onions

- 12 tomatoes

- handful coriander leaves

- 1 green chilli (skip if your kid cant take fire, mine can!)

- Juice of 1 lime

- Salt, to taste

 Here’s how you do it:

Chop up equal quantities of onion and tomato and roughly chop the coriander, discarding the stems. Add all three to a bowl.

Slice the green chilli in half. Scrape out and discard the seeds (feel free to leave them in if you really want some heat). Chop the rest of the chilli finely and add to the bowl above.  Pour in the lime juice, season with salt, mix everything together and set aside.

Now, halve the avocados lengthwise. Discard the pits and scoop out the flesh inside the shell into a bowl.  Mash with a fork until you get the avocado to the consistency you want.

Finally, stir in the tomato-onion-coriander-chilli mixture and stir well until it's all one big tasty GLEETH GOO!

Enjoy!