Who's the fairest of them all?

A heat wave is upon us and I am loving every single scorching second of it.

I look at my sun drenched garden, my rhododendrons in full fuchsia bloom,  and I think to myself: It's the sort of day that needs to start with dessert.

Cold dessert.  Cold, creamy, dessert.  Cold, creamy, consummately decadent dessert.

The end.

I have some Greek yogurt. And I have vanilla pods. And I have strawberries that have just come into season. And a boxful of bouncing British blueberries. And I want to use the lot of them to make dessert. Cold, creamy, consummately decadent dessert.

What do you think?

Now, here’s a little secret. Shhhhhh....

I am a vanilla junkie.

I get positively high on the stuff.

But you can't tell anyone. You have to swear to be silent

As silent as a fish in a grave on the moon

(I told you. High as a kite.)

But, really. I think vanilla was created to be worshipped.

There’s really very few things on God’s earth as miraculous as vanilla.

It’s subtle. It’s delicate. It’s indulgent. It’s transformational.

It’s full-on flavour. And I love it.

It’s funny. My earliest association with vanilla was the slabfulls of ice-cream my dad would bring home for us.  Growing up in India in the 80's there were only  three flavours of ice-cream on offer – Vanilla, Strawberry and Chocolate – and even these were big city luxuries! But we didn't mind. There was a certain amount of charm in the simplicity. And if I remember correctly, for the longest, longest time, Kwality Walls was the only ice-cream brand around. Then Amul joined in the fun. The economic liberalisation of the 90’s brought foreign player Baskin-Robbins and then a decade or so later Haagen-Dazs followed. A Rainbow of colours and flavours proliferated the market, but interestingly, the original trio still makes up 60% of the country’s ice cream market! Old habits die hard. Or soft, I suppose, in this case!

Anyway, so back in the day, my dad would bring home alternating flavours of the Kwality Walls take-home packs of ice-cream – one week vanilla, one week chocolate, one week strawberry and then vanilla again and so on – in thick, flat, rectangular slabs, packed in hideously poor quality cardboard that you had to peel away as you worked your way through.  We’d lick the bits of ice-cream off the paper before discarding it. I haven’t the faintest clue why, because it tasted – frankly disgusting.

But the ice-cream inside, was heaven.

We’d eat it with cut fruit, I remember, a combination that was looked upon favourably by my mum’s eagle eye. In fact, Ice-cream and other milk-based desserts – yogurts and custards and things were (for whatever reason) the only dessert we were allowed to have on a somewhat regular basis. And these too, with fruit. Always with fruit. The other stuff – cakes and so on – we’d only be allowed on the weekends. And very, very, rarely on weekdays, under exceptional circumstances  – only if someone’s birthday (or other deserving occasion) happened to fall on a weekday.  We almost never ate Indian sweets. My parents were really strict like that, a lot stricter than I would be with my kid, I think.

But it’s amazing when you think about how one’s tastes get defined gradually and over the years. And how early influences craft desire: I like this. I don’t like that. You carry forward so much of what you grow up with.

And so (quite sadly for me) I haven't a sweet tooth in my mouth. I love fruit. I love ice-cream and yogurt. I adore custard and jelly (the cold, wobbly kind – not jam, which is what they call jelly in America). But I find most Indian sweets too sweet to eat, and I can pass on cake without so much as a single longing glance.  I’ve mentioned before in this blog that I very rarely crave chocolate, and when I do, it’s the dark, bitter almost 75% (upwards) cocoa kind. This is an adult taste, because I was never given chocolate as a kid! Carbonated drinks were locked away in the pantry, brought out only for guests. I don’t think coco-cola touched my lips until I was nearly thirteen! Which means I have niether the taste nor the slightest desire for the stuff.

So if you've come to the conclusion that I had no fun, you have my parents to thank for that. And for my non-existent sweet tooth. And I suppose (because I give credit, where credit is due) for my remaining 31 exceptionally good teeth  :-)

Anyhow, back to vanilla, what’s funny is that even back then, when we were kids - and I'm talking way before we were sophisticated enough to understand the implications of the term "plain vanilla" - we'd refer to vanilla ice-cream, as "plain ice-cream."

It's such a sorry little name for it, really. And I don't know why we came up with it. I can only guess that because it was white, and the other two were coloured, it just somehow got branded the "plain" one, by default.

Which is all very ironic to me, because as far as flavour is concerned – whether it’s ice-cream, yogurt or just about anything else – strawberry and chocolate can never hold a candle to vanilla. Never. Not in a million years to the power of max.

Vanilla is amazing.

Vanilla is like nothing else.

Vanilla is, unquestionably, the fairest of them all.

Especially "real vanilla" like in the yogurt I am making.

See for yourself.

Now what I mean by "real vanilla" is that in addition to a teaspoon-full of vanilla extract, I am also going to use vanilla beans. Which is the real stuff. And it's not just to kick up the flavour. Or for that brilliant subtle crunch. It's also because I simply love the visual impact it creates.

It's like a makeover for dessert.

Seriously. 

Here's what you need:

- 1 hand-held mirror. You know the kind with the oval looking glass and the long sleek handle, that you'd find lying on your grandmothers dressing table?

- 720g Greek yoghurt

- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

- Seeds scraped from 1/2 vanilla bean (optional)

- As many berries as you want. There’s no portion control on fruit. As least according to my mum!

Look for strawberries that are shiny and scarlet and bursting with flavour. And blueberries – purple and plump, a round squirt of sugar.

And, if you can get a hold of the pods, do! But if you can't, just use the extract. No problem.

But try to get them – there’s something seriously special about those perfumed black flecks of vanilla scattered in every creamy spoonful.  It adds depth and it adds dimension and it is divine.

And if you are buying the pods, look for beans that are shiny and really dark, almost black, and tender, plump and moist. The outside surface should look sleek and supple not hard and dry. And really – the best way to tell a good pod (unlike a good egg which is quite impossible to tell this way) is to get down and dirty, and inhale large quantities of the stuff until you are virtually hallucinating.

Aaahhh...now you know why I'm flying...(and do you blame me??)

No really, you've simply got to do the smell test. It's a load of fun. The good ones will always give out a rich, deep aroma. And the bad ones won't smell like anything at all. So it’s all very straightforward.

I smell about 50 and narrow it down to 5. But I’m obsessive...

Anyhow...here’s how you do it:

Add the vanilla extract to the yogurt.

If you are using the pod, slit it open lengthwise, then scrape out the small, sticky seeds from both sides of the bean using the tip of a small, sharp knife. Add the “caviar” directly to the yogurt.

Mix it all together and refrigerate for an hour or so.

Cut the strawberries. Basically, take off the leaves and cut them on the vertical - each slice should look heart shaped. I'm digging the heart shape these days – it’s turning out to be a very fashionable shape...

You don’t need to do anything with the blueberries. That’s the beauty of blueberries.

When you’re ready, pour the vanilla scented yogurt you’ve just made into a beautiful tall glass or desert bowl. And top with the berries. And pause to admire. Because objects of beauty must be admired.

And this is beautiful.

It’s luscious, it’s light.

It’s seasonal, it’s fresh.

It’s utterly sublime.

But before you do anything else – please, if you will – pick up that hand-held mirror and hold it (like a beacon) on top of your cold, creamy, consummately decadent dessert.

And ask that all important question: Mirror, mirror (not) on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?

And look me in the eye and tell me it’s not vanilla!

And now, dig in. Because sometimes, and for no particular reason, we all deserve to be high on life.

Bite-Sized Diamond Crunch

I’ve done some pretty cool things in my life, but I think one of the coolest things I’ve ever done is to have been born my grandmother’s granddaughter.

I simply adore her.

She is a woman of Spirit.

Even at 93.

And really, I am the luckiest little girl in the world to still have her in my life.

She’s always been my number one favourite person. In fact, her periodic visits to us from her home in Calcutta were the out-and-out highlight of my growing-up years. I looked forward to these visits like nothing else. Indeed her visits would cause so much stir in my little world that I’d deliberately never be told that Didima would be visiting until the morning of her arrival.  Because otherwise, all I would do, every day, morning and night and every minute in-between, would be to ask anybody and everybody around me when she’d be coming, up until she came! And that, of course, would be the end of all productive activity.

So, most unfairly, I would usually be told on the morning of her arrival, often over breakfast, and most often by my father, who would turn to me and announce (not without a bit of jealousy)  – “your favourite person is coming today.”

I’d scream for joy and laugh and laugh. And then I’d anxiously count down the hours with a song in my heart and a skip in my step.

And then, at long last, I’d hear her voice – thick and sweet and melty like honey – and she’d be there!

She would pick me up in her arms and I would bury my face in her neck, against her cool caramel-burnished skin that smelled of sandalwood.

Then she would kiss me all over and call me something that only she’s ever called me. She’d call me her Diamond Baby.

And then I would grab her hand and we’d run up the stairs and we’d unpack her suitcases.

One of them would always be full of presents for me.

She always packed her belongings in miscellaneous plastic bags – a fact that confounds me still. What I mean is, she’d fold three or four of her “home sarees” and put them in a plastic bag, then she’d fold another three or four of her “going-out sarees” and put them in another plastic bag, she’d put blouses in a third, socks in a fourth and so on. And then she’d fill her suitcases with the plastic bags! So when you unzipped her suitcases, all you’d see would be a million different plastic bags, each containing one or more similar items.

It’s absolutely bizarre, I know!

I’d ask her on numerous occasions why she packed like this and she’d always say, “habit, dear” Which really isn’t an answer at all, is it?

Anyway, so unpacking her suitcases always meant, de-bagging everything first. Which added to the all excitement actually. Because you never knew what was in what until you opened everything up! My presents were usually a whole assortment of goodies from New Market, or if I’d been extra good at school – AC market, which (duly named because it was the only air conditioned “mall” at the time!!) stocked all the imported stuff – rubber bands with pink plastic teddies on them and multicoloured head bands and toys and stuffed animals and dolls. Whenever she bought me stuffed toys or dolls, she’d present them to me already named, as if they were real people that I was being introduced to. Their names were always followed by a little explanation, her version of an ice-breaker, so I’d have some background information on my new friends: Frenchie because she’s made in France, Rosie because she has red cheeks, Monkey because, well, he’s a monkey!

But ah! She knew me better than anyone else. And nothing she didn’t know about me was worth knowing anyway. Because even way back then, the surest way to my heart was through my stomach. And we shared this, Didima and I, this mad love for food.

So more than the toys and the clothes and the baubles, the one thing that I knew she would always, always bring for me – positively and without fail – was a great, big jar of Nimki: the small, savoury, diamond-shaped strips of fried pastry that she knew I loved with all my heart!

And so we’d go through all the plastic packets in her suitcase and fish out the one with the jar of Nimki and she would hold it up proudly and say “Diamond Nimki for my Diamond Baby!”

And then I would sit in her lap while she sang me old Bengali songs and played with my hair while I hungrily popped the Nimki into my mouth – each Bite-sized Diamond Crunch – crisp and flaky and smacking of flavour.

Here’s what you need:

I’m adding a bit of lateral thinking to the original recipe just to make things interesting. And to make my gran proud, because she is the Queen of Improvisation of all things Food. And to add an Anglo kick to this dish.  Because like most Bengali’s, I love all things Anglo. Ha!

So, my twist is the addition of some Red Leicester cheese, which I’m mixing into the dough. Red Leicester is an English cheese, a sort of crumbly, creamy cheddar, firm and nutty and russet red. Using it in Nimki dough is a rather unorthodox experiment but I’m hoping the mellow sweetness of the cheese will be a pretty tasty foil to the sharp spicy pungency of the Nigella and Cumin seeds. Oh and don’t worry if you can’t get a hold of Red Leicester – really any kind of sharp cheese (Cheddar or Parmesan) should work really well.

If any of this works at all!!

- 250g whole wheat flour 

- 50g Red Leicester cheese (very finely grated)

- 1/2 teaspoon Nigella (kalonji) seeds

- 1 teaspoon Cumin (jeera) seeds

- Salt and black pepper, to taste

- Pinch of asafoetida (hing)

- 2-3 tsp oil and 2-3 tsp water for kneading. Use a little more if you (k)need to. Sorry, couldn’t resist that one! ;)

- 2 cups oil (for deep frying)

Here’s how you do it:

First make the dough. Now, like all things that involve flour, this takes a little bit of effort. But then, like all things that involve flour – it’s totally worth it. And this is from a yeastophobe like me, so you can imagine how good this stuff really is.

Take flour in a bowl, add Nigella and Cumin seeds, cheese, salt, black pepper, asafoetida, and oil. Knead well and add water to make it into a tight, stretchy dough.

Next, make little balls with the dough, smoothing them between the palms of your hands. Roll them out and flatten them into thin circles (My Didima always made them perfectly circular, but heck! I’m not her – mine always end up being sort of heart-shaped. But heart-shaped is nice too. Very trendy.)

Anyway, now take a sharp knife and make criss-cross slashes across the whole surface to make little diamond shapes.

So now, it looks like a broken heart.

Or a totally shattered heart.

=(

But don’t get too sad, because I promise you’ll get cheered up as soon as you deep-fry these little beauties!

So go for it!

Heat some oil in a wok or deep-bottomed pan. When it’s nice and hot, fry the Nimki in batches. By the way, you’ve got to make sure the cheese is really, really finely grated and mixed completely into the dough, otherwise you will find that the cheese separates and burns. (Disaster.)

Remove the Nimki when golden brown and place them on a kitchen towel to drain the excess oil. Wait until they are cooled to room temperature and then store in an air-tight bottle. They last a long, long time. How long exactly, depends on your will power.

But, there you have it.

Many handfuls of crispy, crunchy, cheesy Nimki.

Your very own Bite-Sized Diamond Crunch

And even as the first one crumbles flakily upon my tongue, I can picture how Didima would have done it, all those years ago…

In my mind….

…I can picture the flat.

Sun-drenched and cool, windows open…to let in the breeze, the cries of hawkers, Tagore’s voice on somebody’s radio. The bedroom, sheer white curtains streaming in the breeze, fan whirring lazily on the high, paint-cracked ceiling, suitcases atop the solid mahogany four-poster bed, mostly packed, filled with plastic bags…

In my mind…

…I can picture her.

In her classic Bengali saree, cream with a red border, long black hair, just washed, smelling of jasmine, cascading in waves down her back, gold-rimmed glasses circling her beautiful green-hazel eyes, sparkling with concentration as she kneads and rolls and cuts and fries. Making my Nimki as part of the ritual of locking up and leaving. One last plastic packet in the suitcase, before it’s zipped and locked and marched of to DumDum.

My Nimki. Each one uniform.  A mirror of the other. Identical in every way and impossible to tell apart. Paper thin and golden brown. Perfectly made - each Bite-sized Diamond Crunch.

And here’s something else I remember. I remember – clear as crystal – the first time Didima came to visit me without the Nimki. My mother had been telling me for some time before then – gently, kindly, in the way mothers do – how Didima was growing old, how little things were becoming hard for her to do.

It never quite sunk in. Until the first time she came without the Nimki. And never came with it again.

Realisation is a funny little thing, eh? What it takes for things to register in the mind of a child.

Nimki was our language of love. Hers and mine.

And suddenly it became too tedious a task.

She is a woman of Spirit.

I know how much she must have fought it. How hard she must have tried. How many years longer than most people, she must have continued to make them. Until she just physically couldn’t.

It was the ultimate realization.

So make this, please. Make it today. Make it for someone you love.

Gareth's Bird

We spend every Christmas at the lovely country home of Sid’s sister Su and husband Gareth. He hasn’t always been “Husband Gareth” by the way – he’s just earned that coveted little title this past November. He’s been many things before that: (in reverse chronological order) “Fiancé Gareth”, “Boyfriend Gareth”, and “Weird-white-boy-who lingers-awfully-close-to-my-sister Gareth.”


In each of these roles, however, Gareth has always been the epitome of sweetness, kindness and grace. And it’s really no wonder that they say opposites attract…

I’m teasing, I’m teasing. I love Su. And Su knows it. In fact, I rather think the affection is mutual. Because not that long ago, in a state of deep inebriation (or extreme lucidity, whichever you prefer), she declared, “If you were a guy, and not my brother’s wife, I would have married you.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s just about the best compliment I’ve ever got. So yes, she’s a barrel of laughs and one of the (few) reasons I keep her brother around. And if you think I’m joking about that one, you’re the only one laughing.

But, I digress.

So, Su and Gareth graciously invite us over every Christmas. Which – call me a sentimental fool – is perhaps the only time of year where it irks me to be alone. It’s just much more fun to spend Christmas with family – talking deep into the night, giggling like little children, getting quite unacceptably drunk, exchanging juicy bits of gossip about the usual people, and stuffing our faces (quite literally) like we’ve never seen food before. And the best part of it all is that this is the norm at Christmas time. You’re supposed to do nothing except eat, drink, and be merry. I love it.

Now, to make this all the more exciting is the fact that while food is the highlight of my life (in general), it is the high-estlight of my life during Christmas at the Werrens. Because the cooking is absolutely top-notch.

Simply, Smashingly, “Santa”stic.

There’s a long and luscious list of goodies that this lovely pair chef up over the course of the evening; in fact, the dishes come out, thick and fast, like a series of surprises that have no end. And although each one is better than the last, leaving me in an interminable state of rapturous suspended animation – there is one clear winner.

And that is Gareth’s Bird.

Now, Gareth’s Bird is, in fact, a bird in the traditional sense. And not one in the non-traditional one. Which is just as well because if it were, it would be Sid’s sister, Su. Who, as much as I like, I’d really prefer not to eat.

This bird, very much of the edible kind, is a Roast Chicken with Lemon and Sage Stuffing, conceived, crafted and created by – as you may have guessed – Gareth.

(Tip your hat, please, Gareth)

I have my own version of Roast Chicken that my Didima taught me that you can read about here – it’s bastardised Anglo-Bengali and I adore it – but Gareth’s is delectably different. And so, I can safely conclude that:

A Roast chicken is not a Roast Chicken is not a Roast Chicken. Just a small tweak in the ingredients, a different cooking process, the length of time it cooks for – and the end product is completely unique. This one certainly is nothing like I’ve ever tasted before and it leaves me in an ambrosial trance-like state for many days after. See for yourself!

Here’s what you need:


- 1 small whole chicken, about 1.5 – 2.5 kg
- 180g fresh bread crumbled
- 1 small red onion – chopped finely
- 1 small garlic clove – minced
- 3/4cup parsley
- 1 tbsp chopped fresh/dried sage
- Rind and juice of 1 lemon – don't throw the lemon away! (you can do 1.5 lemons if you like!!)
- 25g melted butter
- 1 egg – well beaten
- Salt and pepper, to taste

Here’s how you do it:

Mix all the stuffing ingredients up in a bowl, and shove it all into the cavity of the chicken. Then stuff in the squeezed lemon halves, and you’re ready to cook the bird!

Preheat oven to 160C/gas 4

Remember to rub some salt on the skin of the chicken, and cover it with either foil and/or bacon to avoid the bird drying out. Baste every 10 to 15mins. The foil can be removed for the last 20mins of cooking.

Cooking time for whole chicken:

1-1.5kg – 45 to 60min

1.5-2.5kg – 60 to 90min

Now, I know I’ve said the Bird is a Christmas tradition, and yes, I know we are nearing the end of May. But:

A) I’m not (as you know) the conventional type.

B) This stuff is just brilliant and now that the thought’s entered my head, it’s driving me to distraction. It’s simply got to be made.

C) I am still (if you care to know) wearing my winter coat and want to ask all the tank-top clad mannequins at shop windows if they’ve all gone stark-raving mad

D) Tasty things deserve to be cooked (and eaten) year-round.

And I think that’s reason enough.

So while our chicken’s cooking, and for a little taster of what you’re about to create, I take you back to the first time that Gareth’s Bird ever touched my lips…

It’s a cold winter’s evening in December, the smell of snow in the air. Inside, the fire is roaring, all golden embers and warmth. The tree is lit with fairy lights. The table is set, white linen, sparkling glass, shimmering silver...

We wait in anticipation.

The side dishes are in place. There is a space created for her in the very centre of the table; she is the indisputable star of the show. We clink our glasses together and blow on paper trumpets. And finally, sat majestically atop a huge platter, she glistens her way to the table. It is a dramatic appearance. Conversation stops. We ooh and we aah. It’s been worth the wait – she is gorgeous.

Crisp, caramel-coloured, skin. Burnished gold. Juices dripping. Heaving with flavour. Begging to be devoured.

She is Gareth’s Bird.

I want to just pick her up, all of her in her full glorious entirety, with my bare hands and stuff her in my mouth. But I think perhaps it’s not worth tarnishing my reputation with these lovely folk who live in this lovely house where such splendidness is created. Who knows, they might deem me quite, quite mad and never invite me again for fear of contagion.

And so – with great anguish – I hold myself back.

And instead, push my chair back, and do the Chicken Dance all around the dining table.

Somehow it seems appropriate.

No?

Anyway, the Bird is served alongside a rather stunning collection of accompaniments – all of which I shall produce recipes for shortly, since after many months of endless pestering, Su has finally sent them my way (yay!) (thank you!) The chestnut and cranberry stuffing is pure sin in a roll. The slow cooked red cabbage is good enough to convert even the staunchest of vegetable haters. I’m not a fan of Brussels sprouts – I usually find them insipid and rather distressing –but these are roasted until nearly caramelised and I actually find them very, very tasty. More about these later. Because our Bird is just about to be carved.

Gareth stands up, wishes everyone a Merry Christmas, and ceremoniously does the honours. He is masterful with the knife, like a skilled surgeon, he knows exactly what he’s doing, which parts to hack and in what order. On the table, there is one platter for the white meat – the lighter, healthier bit, another for the dark meat – the bits on the bone. That’s me. I’m a dark meat girl.

I cannot wait to dig in.

I’ve got dibs on the legs. I love the legs.

Gareth won’t eat the meat on the bone.

“I’m a breast person,” he declares.

“A chicken breast person” he clarifies quickly.

Fair enough (either way =)

And that’s great news for me, cause there’s one less person to share with.

I hate sharing.

Just kidding.

Not.

So, I take a bite.

Savoury succulence engulfs me.

And I actually want to cry.

The meat is so tender, it straightaway pulls away from the bone and melts in my mouth. The flesh is deep and rich and bursting with flavour. There’s a sultry smokiness to it, an unexpected taste on the tongue; it’s a thrilling sensation, like bumping into an old friend when you least expect to. (I learn later that this comes from the bacon he uses to baste the chicken while in the oven.)

I surrender to the lemon infused Bird. And attain Nirvana.

In a somewhat emotional state, I ask Gareth how he’s managed to create such magnificence.

I expect (in my head) a somewhat speedy reply. Top of my list of possible answers is “Oh, it was nothing” (or something like that.)

But I realise (too late) that I am painting him with a stereotypically Indian paintbrush. 

It’s the sort of thing my mother would say.

When we’d have a party, she’d cook forty dishes for four straight days and then when a gobsmacked guest would gape at all the food and ask how on earth she’d managed it, she’d smile and shrug and say, “Oh, it was nothing”

But not Gareth.

Oh no.

He takes it all very seriously.

So he witters on endlessly about this and that. And I feign polite interest and pretend like I’m listening, but I’m not. I’m too distracted by the chicken. I can’t help myself. It’s just that good.

It’s only later, when the intoxication has worn off and I am dying to make it myself because I simply must taste it again, that I wish I’d paid a bit more attention.

But I do (I think) catch the most important bit. Which is, his take on British cooking. “British food,” he tells me (rather cryptically), “is all about what is actually being cooked.”

When I stare back with him with a blank look, he pauses thoughtfully, then explains. “You see, with British food – when it’s chicken, it needs to be all about the chicken. When it’s beef, it needs to be all about the beef. Whatever it is, it needs to be fresh and it needs to be of the highest quality. We don’t get a lot of help from spices and things you see, the ingredient list is really rather brief. So for British food to be good, the ingredients you do use need to accentuate, rather than disguise, the flavour of the main component of the dish.”

And he’s really absolutely right. There really was nothing fancy, fussy or exotic about the food we were served. And yet, it was one of the best meals I’ve had.

And suddenly, just from that little insight, I think about the entire evening in a way that I never thought about before. And I know why we come back here, year after year (apart from the fact that they continue to invite us, that is). And that’s because Su and Gareth’s food is unpretentious and large-hearted and honest and classy – much like the pair of them.

The realisation fills me with a warm and comforting glow.

I applaud you, Gareth Werren.

Finest Bird Maker in all of Britain.

Hiding!

We've started to play a new game, Ranbir and I.

The rules are fairly simple:

"Hiding!" – he announces excitedly, as he positions himself behind a plant or under the table or behind the pram. He’s completely visible, but that’s hardly the point.

I have to pretend I can't see him.

I also have to scrunch up my face and pretend I am genuinely worried. If I don't, he repeats "hiding!" about forty three times, as if the sound of the word (oft repeated) should somehow convince me that he is in fact, well and truly "hiding."

Next, I have to pretend to look everywhere – in all the obvious places – and make a big fuss about not finding him. I must lift up the covers of the bed, look behind the door, peer inside every closet, and be absolutely thorough (otherwise, I just get “hiding!” another forty three times)

He giggles as I do this, his laughter getting louder and louder the more places I look, the more worried I pretend to be.

Finally, I steal a look in his direction, do an exaggerated double-take and make believe that I've – finally – found him. I heave a big (pretend) sigh and look mighty relieved and say "Oooooh! You’re so clever! But I FOUND you!"

(It's not over…)

Next, he runs away and I have to catch him. For some reason that I find absolutely hysterical, he always runs himself into a corner and crouches there, head bent, arms huddled together, as if willing himself to become invisible! When I get to the corner, he squeals with anticipation and then bursts into loud and uncontrollable peals of laughter as I tickle him all over his little body. His laughter is so contagious, so all-encompassing – like the sun breaking through the clouds – that I cannot help but throw back my head and laugh too. We end the game with a big, long, delicious cuddle. It is perhaps the only time ever that he allows himself to be held. But just for a minute. Then he wriggles out of my arms.

And then we have to do it all over again.

But I don’t mind. It’s tiring work, all that pretending, but truth be told, I will do anything, anything, to hear those cute giggles. I just can’t get enough of them. Ranbir’s laughter is nothing like I’d imagined it to be and it cracks me up every time. His eyes twinkle, his cheeks dimple and when he laughs, his whole body laughs with him. It’s natural and it’s beautiful and it just makes me smile.

So, this is for Ranbir and soon enough you’ll know why!

I’m making Shepherd’s Pie, a classic British dish made with minced lamb (because Shepherds look after sheep!). Feel free to use chicken or turkey mince (but I can tell you it won’t taste as good!). My method is really simple – today is all about simple: simple game, simple rules, simple method, simple food. But this (simply) means that you (simply) can’t mess up :-)

Here’s what you need:

For the mince…

- 2 tbsp olive oil

- 1 large onion, chopped

- 2 carrots, chopped

- 700g minced lamb

- 4 tbsp tomato purée

- 3 tsp Worcestershire sauce

- 4 bay leaves

- 450ml chicken stock

- Salt and pepper to taste

For the mash…

- 700g potatoes

- 80g butter

- 55ml milk

Preheat the oven to 200C/Gas 6.

Heat the oil in a saucepan, and cook onions and carrots for a few minutes till soft. Next, crumble in the lamb and brown on high heat, breaking up any lumps as you fry the meat. Add the bay leaves, tomato purée and Worcestershire sauce, and mix well for all the flavours to be absorbed. Pour over the stock, bring to a boil, season to taste, then let simmer for 40-45 minutes.

For the mash, boil the potatoes in salted water for 10-15 minutes until completely tender. Drain, and then mash with the butter and milk.

Pour the mince into an ovenproof dish, spread the mash on top and – this is my favourite bit – make many zigzag lines with a fork. I'm a child, I know.

Bake for 20-25 minutes until the top turns a beautiful golden brown and the mince bubbles through at the edges! Yum!

I wait for the dish to cool down completely and take it (the whole thing, as is) to the dining table. I hand Ranbir his yellow plastic fork and take the blue one for myself. Then I stare at the dish for a long time, scrunch up my face and pretend to look worried.

Ranbir looks intently at me, wondering what on earth I’m doing.

I fork over the mashed potatoes till I get to the meat at the bottom.

I pause, as understanding and anticipation floods his little face…

I wait for the smile to break out and then, the first tiny peals of laughter…

…and then, I joyfully declare – “Hiding!”

Saucy!

I'm a saucy person.

Indeed I am.

Seriously – I love my sauces.

I'm the kind of person, who, when asked at a restaurant, "what sauces would you like?" says "everything!" quite shamelessly. It's not only because I'm greedy (though that does, I concede, have rather a large part to play in all of this), but because I don't know which sauce will go best with the food on my plate until I try it all. See? 

(I think I might have just given you unfettered access into the warped mind of a greedy foodie......weird huh?)

I also "collect" sauces. 

There's a large tray in my kitchen – you know the flat object that most normal people use to carry teapots and things from one place to another? Well, mine doesn’t move. Mine has made itself a nice, cosy little home in the nook right next to my hob, and it sits there, adorned with a rather stunning assortment of sauces. There's vinegars and mustards and pickles and chutneys and sauces of all shapes and sizes. And really, these have been "collected," lovingly and patiently over the years from here and there. Many have made it to the "repeat category" which means of course that I need replenishment when a bottle gets over. Which, in turn, means that I absolutely have to go back and find that one stall amidst the maze of stalls, on that one street, amidst the maze of streets in York City Centre (or wherever) where I first got my hands on the original. And believe me, I do it too, like a crazed woman on a mission.

Sometimes it’s not possible to go back to these places just to buy a bottle of sauce. I mean, if it were all up to me, everything would be possible. But sometimes, Sid just says no. Like that one time when we bought a bottle of coriander-groundnut paste in the Congo? I really wanted to go back for more, but Sid would have none of it. Sigh.

Which is when, I use all my charm and charisma to get friends and family to bring me sauces from various far-flung corners of the world. 

And when that fails, I lose all self-respect and just beg.

So frankly speaking, if you ever want to give me a gift I will truly appreciate, it really must be a sauce. I mean, feel free to give me anything, I won’t say no – but if is connected, even in the most tenuous manner, to the sauce-family, you’ve scored yourself some major brownie points cause that stuff just makes my heart sing a little song. 

For instance, lookie here: My parents are in the States right now, attending my little sister's graduation. I’m gutted I can't go, but I can’t because the Home Office has my passport (CTM, Mate etc.) But anyway, they keep asking what they should get me (my parents that is, not the lovely folk at the Home Office), and I keep saying – nothing, absolutely nothing, because my London-sized flat is bursting at the seams. BUT...I say, you HAVE to bring me Bo Ky. In fact, you’re not allowed to cross my threshold, have a sip of water or a nibble of stale bread or get so much as a glimpse of your only grandson if you turn up without the Bo Ky.

Blackmail always works wonders.

Right, so now of course you need to know what Bo Ky is. See, they know what Bo Ky is, having had over 34 years of practice in understanding my funny little ways, but for you all who don't - let me tell you what you are missing!

The New Bo KY restaurant on Bayard Street in New York is a little neon-drenched cubbyhole that was introduced to me by my ‘damn-should've-been-born Chinese/Vietnamese/Korean/Taiwanese’ friends, Horace and Jyo. So, ever since I’ve known Horace and Jyo (which is a long, long time) they’ve always been a bit obsessed by Asia and all things Asian – I’m talking food, travel, furniture, art, artefacts, Mandarin Chinese, The Buddha, feng shui...

But this love for all things Eastern, combined with the fact that they’ve always had impeccable taste, means that when they introduced me to the New Bo Ky, I was more than a little excited. (Oh by the way, they now live, quite unsurprisingly, in Hong Kong…)

And goodness, this is the essence of why life without friends must be one long painful little crick in the neck. No wonder all the friendless people one reads about are always so miserable. Because friends do all these brilliant little things for each other. And one of the most brilliant things any friend has ever done for me, has been to introduce me to the New Bo Ky. So thank you Horace and Jyo, with all my Heart and S(e)oul….

Oh and in case you’re curious, I haven’t the faintest why the good people who own the establishment chose to prefix the place with a “New.” Because I have roamed the streets of Chinatown like a lost Kangaroo, and if there ever was an Old Bo Ky, I haven't found it

In all probability, they are both really the same place. Just under new management. Which must have, I’m certain, done some very good things in its new capacity. Such as replacing the old formica tables with new ones. And covering up some stains on the wall with pictures of very realistic looking dragons. And changing the name of the place to New Bo Ky.  I don’t know, I’m guessing.

Anyhoo, old or new, it could not get more local than this – the clientele is almost exclusively Chinese and the menu is almost exclusively noodle soup. But before you say “oh how dull” and walk away – let me tell you that it offers over 30 different kinds of noodle soup. Yup, you heard me. There’s thin noodles and thick noodles and flat noodles. There’s egg noodles and rice noodles and soba and udon and cellophane noodles (which I think are made from mung beans, but I could be way off). The soups have tofu if you’re vegetarian and duck or chicken or pork or beef or every conceivable kind of exotic seafood, if you’re not. And there’s tons of vegetables in everything – Chinese greens and mushrooms and bamboo shoots and bean sprouts – so it’s all really hearty and healthy and nourishing.

The MO at the New Bo Ky is such: you order your soup and no one writes it down. They just remember it (even if there’s 25 of you) and bring it to you in five seconds flat. Please don’t ask how, because I have no idea. With your soup comes one soupspoon. And that’s all. (The new management pride themselves on minimalism.) Placed on each (formica) table there is a napkin clip (with napkins) and a communal two-pot condiment holder – one of which contains vinegar and the other of which contains something, which to the uninitiated, looks like hot sauce. And you’re meant to just plonk some into your soup and slurp away.

And so I do.

And become – officially – hooked.

I mean, don’t be fooled people, because this ain’t no ordinary hot sauce! This stuff is the bomb. It’s not really spicy you see. It’s just intensely flavourful – it tastes of sesame and burnt garlic and star anise and cinnamon and it kills me, it’s so good. I’m telling you, it’s the undisputed number one, the supreme leader and commander of all things saucy. It’s King Kong from Hong Kong

The beauty of it is that you can use it for way more than just Chinese food. One tiny quarter teaspoonful will transform a pork pie into crusty-heaven. Add a bit to steamed broccoli or beans and watch what happens. I use it to flavour my hummus, spice up my spaghetti, and add ‘groovy’ to my turkey sandwich. I eat it with plain white rice. I dip my pitta in it and I even – and do it before you judge me please – spoon some over Doritos and bake them in the oven. You’ll be hard pressed to taste anything more fabulous. I tell you, its culinary genius.

The first time I ate at the New Bo Ky, I went through two whole jars of the stuff. When I asked for more, they brought me my bill.

Hmph.

Then I realized you can buy the stuff. They sell them for about $4 a pop in neat little airtight jars. So I started buying them. Somewhat on a regular basis. There was only one small, teeny-tiny problem, though. And this is very important to the flow of my story, so please pay attention: this stuff is so damn good that they know it too. And - believe it or not - they won't sell one person more than two jars. I'm totally serious.

It took me a while to understand this. For starters, the language barrier in this place is absolutely impenetrable, but after much sign language and wild gesticulation I indicated that in addition to the two jars that had been so graciously handed over to me, I wanted three more (which would make a total of five jars). First they just stood there and stared at me, making no move whatsoever to reach over for the extra three, in question. I pointed again, smiling pleasantly. Unfortunately, this was followed by a lot of vigourous head shaking and finger waggling and a string of Chinese phrases, which I reckon were not exactly complimentary.

By now, a small crowd had gathered. I don’t know precisely what was causing them so much amusement, but there were lots of Chinese people, laughing and pointing at me and clapping their hands with glee.

This only meant one thing. This meant that the time to preserve any remaining dignity and flee the scene had passed.

I had crossed the Rubicon.

Now it was a question of Pride.

So after lots of equally vigourous head shaking (on my part) and some choice Hindi phrases of my own, all the while still smiling pleasantly, they finally gave me my desired five jars. But not before I was very clearly made to understand that this was a rare exception and that I was a very special person indeed. Because - wait for this - they didn’t want my money.

Now, let me tell you – even after understanding this, I still couldn’t understand it. This was an utterly new and inexplicable phenomenon. Because of all the attributes I would credit to the people of this great and ancient civilization, refusing money would not be one of them. And yet, this is exactly what was happening. They were refusing my money. Could this be possible?

Was there a problem with the money, I wondered for a brief and panicked moment, staring at the greenbacks in my hand. Was it all fake? Have I just been taken by the ATM on Mott Street?

But no - the money was genuine. 

It was just that the stuff they were selling was worth more than money.  Evidently they thought so, anyway. And so they needed to limit the supply. Two jars per person and that’s that. Non-negotiable. This was the saucy equivalent of gold dust. And they weren’t trading.

So now you understand why, when my parents come, I need the Bo Ky (I think you know, by this point, that I am referring to the sauce, not the establishment, yes?) I really, really need it. I’ve been without it too long. In fact, I have a little calendar in my kitchen and I’m counting down the days until the Bo Ky turns up (the arrival of the parents, by the way, is an inevitable incidental.) Honestly, I can barely contain myself.  And if I sound like a druggie needing a fix, that’s about an accurate assessment.

By the way, in case you’re wondering, it is sadly, the only place where you get that exact thing. I’ve searched high and low and sampled half a dozen sauces from half a dozen establishments, all very ethnic and authentic. And they’re good and all. But they’re not that.

So, I’ll be damned if I settle for four measly jars of the stuff (two from each parent) especially if they are lugging it all the way across the Atlantic.

Not a chance in hell.

I want a dozen.

This is logical. See, it’s one for each month of the year. And, a year, I think is a reasonable period of time before some other unknowing chappie comes my way from New York City, and I get to use my charm and charisma…and well, you know the rest.

Anyway, back to the here and now, I’m sure you can appreciate the gravity of the situation I’m in. I have deep and detailed discussions with my parents. We plot and scheme. And then my dad – my hero! – finds a very acceptable work around.

It’s hardly surprising, really. Because you see, if anyone can compete with the Chinese in resourcefulness, it’s the Indians. Tandoori Chicken and Egg Fried Rice are going to take over the world, you just wait and watch.

So: it will be a covert mission of the most dangerous kind.

This is how they will do it…

First he will go in and indulge in much hand shaking and “ni hao” greeting. He’s very good at this, my dad.  He will try to be highly conspicuous and create a big hoo-ha and make friends and put them all in a jolly good mood. He will buy his quota’d two jars and leave.

Two jars under my belt.

Then she will go in, while he lurks in the shadows. She will endeavour to remain discrete. Which means, no unnecessary displays of enthusiasm or gusto. She will buy her quota’d two jars and leave, more or less unnoticed.

Four jars under my belt.

Then they will go away, two blocks down, to this most astounding place (also introduced to me by Horace and Jyo!!) called Jing Fong , which looks like a wedding hall, but serves dim sum instead. And have themselves a hearty meal of dumplings (my treat).

And then they will go back. This time, she will try and merge with the crowd (if you stare closely enough, she does have some small resemblance about the eyes) and he will go in. But he will be disguised this time. He will be wearing dark glasses and a baseball hat that says “NY Rangers.” And he will walk with a swagger and behave very coolly and nonchalantly. And he will buy another two…

Six jars under my belt.

And then 10 days later, this will repeat this all over again.

Twelve jars under my belt.

Here's a noodle soup in honour of Bo Ky. It's not even close to as good as theirs, but what the hey!

I’m doing plain tofu and vegetables, but feel free to add in any meats you like. Or just email me and I’ll inbox you a recipe :)

Here's what you need:

-1.2 litre water

- 2-inch piece fresh ginger root, peeled

- 2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed

- 1 star anise

- 2 cloves

- 2 tbsp light soy sauce

- ½ tspn dark soy sauce (teaspoon please!)

- 1 tspn sugar

- 2 tbsp Shaohsing rice wine or dry sherry

- 2 tbsp sesame oil

- 250g dried udon (flat wheat-flour) noodles

- 350g baby bok choy, washed and chopped

- 450g fresh beancurd, cut into 3/4in cubes

- 1 carrot, peeled and sliced

Here’s how you do it:

Dry roast the spices – cinnamon, cloves and star anise – in a pot until aromatic.

Meanwhile, place noodles in a large bowl and cover with hot water. Let stand for 20-30 minutes until soft. Drain. (If soaking does not soften the noodles enough, blanch them in a pot of boiling water for a few seconds.)

Separately, add water, garlic, ginger, sugar, soy sauces, and rice wine to a large stock pot. Bring to a boil. Add in the dry roasted spices. Reduce to a simmer and simmer, covered, for about 30 minutes. Strain to remove solids. Add the tofu and simmer for another 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. The tofu will swell, imbibing the flavour of the soup. Add in the other vegetables at the very end, so they are just blanched.

Remove soup from heat and stir in sesame oil. Ladle broth and vegetables over the noodles and serve immediately.

I’ll let you know if my stealth mission is successful.

I’m rather confident it will be – I am, after all, the progeny of a rather ingenious pair of peeps.

But please wish me luck anyway – when you take a break from slurping your noodles, that is.