Главная страница | Кулинария | Miss Masala

Miss Masala
Mallika Basu
Cookery goddess and girl about town Mallika Basu reveals her secrets for cooking gorgeous Indian food in this highly covetable book, inspired by her blog. Her no-nonsense kitchen advice demystifies all those glorious, exotic ingredients and spices, and shows just how easy and rewarding it is to cook Indian cuisine at home.Miss Masala has done the hard work in the kitchen so that you don't have to. So much more than just a cookbook, this beautiful, handbag-sized journal fuses irresistible Indian recipes with Mallika’s quirky and hilarious tales - it will make ethnic cooking an effortless part of your goddess lifestyle.Alongside easy instructions for making aromatic Kerala Chicken or the best Seekh Kebabs, Mallika shares witty anecdotes about her high-flying city life, and gives handy hints on how to cook a jalfrezi and still head to the bar an hour later without reeking of eau de curry. Bollywood finally meets Sex and the City, and anyone who wants to whip up a meal for friends will be basking in the glory. This is real Indian cooking for busy city living!Chapter Breakdown:Know your Bhuna from your Balti; Perfect in No Time; Never Let you Down; Light and Bright; Showing Off; Food for Feeling Better; Sweet Indulgences.Why not try these recipes?…• Kosha Mangsho (Lamb sautéed in yoghurt and roasted cumin)• Murgh Makhani (Velvety butter chicken)• Baingan Bharta (Smoky roasted aubergine mash)• Channa Masala (Hot, spicy curried chickpeas)• Tandoori Macchli (Succulent monkfish in tandoori spices)• Peshawari Naan (Luxurious naan stuffed with nuts and raisins)• Mango Fool (Pureed mangoes folded into double cream)• Bhapa doi (Saffron and cardamom cheesecake)• Vodka Chilli Cocktails (For those who dare!)





Dedication (#ulink_52616a14-1d33-5ba9-9dfb-6ad759e9254d)
This book is dedicated to the boss who said I couldn’t write.
CONTENTS
COVER (#u89f948e3-cb51-5f82-b599-755fb1916b1b)
TITLE PAGE (#u8c707036-a431-5168-81c2-917a88a3b773)
DEDICATION (#ulink_b919f01e-871d-5253-92b4-21c5fa3a037f)
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_d8c8f7be-6177-5968-abf3-5bcbca111cb7)
BEFORE YOU START (#ulink_607c2537-a7e4-54db-aaad-c31bdd1c141a)
1. FROM BHUNA TO BALTI (#ulink_4ea99f3c-b80a-539a-9242-0c33764c2db7)
Getting to know Indian food and the very basics (#ulink_4ea99f3c-b80a-539a-9242-0c33764c2db7)
Keema Mattar (#ulink_31f79498-5b68-506b-bebd-05f2577e4b78)
Mattar Paneer (#u373e12fa-9a34-40d3-8e44-c9bb9eff792e)
Berry Dal (#ufd4be544-9d7e-40ef-abac-beada7154bf9)
Perfectly Fluffy Basmati (#ulink_032580b3-b484-56ec-a8c5-887788a4e852)
2. PERFECT IN NO TIME (#ulink_f0f257f8-4d36-5df3-aaa0-b0099e00f638)
Quick recipes for when you’d rather not be in the kitchen (#ulink_f0f257f8-4d36-5df3-aaa0-b0099e00f638)
Chicken Jhalfrezi (#u147d6ed6-d454-4072-a0a4-472ba0b522c7)
Aloo Gobi (#u41840ce0-cb9e-41eb-92e8-40240df646b0)
Palak Paneer (#u2e0c4598-41df-4761-bf0a-602026ba4eb1)
Tadka Dal (#u3d1c9b5d-540d-4305-a66d-105ffcf54303)
Achari Baingan (#litres_trial_promo)
Masala Fish (#litres_trial_promo)
Navratan Korma (#litres_trial_promo)
Rajma (#litres_trial_promo)
Channa Masala (#litres_trial_promo)
Kerala Chicken Curry (#litres_trial_promo)
Kolmino Patio (#litres_trial_promo)
Dal Palak (#litres_trial_promo)
Zafrani Gosht (#litres_trial_promo)
Chicken Pulao (#litres_trial_promo)
3. NEVER LET YOU DOWN (#litres_trial_promo)
Classics and favourites for every occasion – recipes to rely on! (#litres_trial_promo)
Murgh Masala (#litres_trial_promo)
Kosha Mangsho (#litres_trial_promo)
Baingan Bharta (#litres_trial_promo)
Taheri (#litres_trial_promo)
Pav Bhaji (#litres_trial_promo)
Chicken Kathi Rolls (#litres_trial_promo)
Aloo Channa Chaat (#litres_trial_promo)
Cheese Bondas (#litres_trial_promo)
Pakoras (#litres_trial_promo)
Rotis (#litres_trial_promo)
Naan (#litres_trial_promo)
4. LIGHT AND BRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
Light lunches and food for warmer days (#litres_trial_promo)
Aloo Chenchki (#litres_trial_promo)
Paneer Bhujia (#litres_trial_promo)
Bean Salad (#litres_trial_promo)
Hariyali Murgh (#litres_trial_promo)
Lamb Korma (#litres_trial_promo)
Dosakaya Pappu (#litres_trial_promo)
Seekh Kebabs (#litres_trial_promo)
Tandoori Macchli (#litres_trial_promo)
Paneer Shashlik (#litres_trial_promo)
Hariyali Tikkis (#litres_trial_promo)
Lamb Chaaps (#litres_trial_promo)
Bharwan Shimla Mirch (#litres_trial_promo)
5. SHOWING OFF (#litres_trial_promo)
Recipes for special occasions and for impressing guests (#litres_trial_promo)
Cholar Dal (#litres_trial_promo)
Paneer Butter Masala (#litres_trial_promo)
Patra ni Macchi (#litres_trial_promo)
Chingri Malai Curry (#litres_trial_promo)
Bhoger Khichuri (#litres_trial_promo)
Beguni (#litres_trial_promo)
Quick Lamb Biryani (#litres_trial_promo)
Anda Raita (#litres_trial_promo)
Jardaloo Sali Boti (#litres_trial_promo)
Murgh Makhani (#litres_trial_promo)
Peshawari Naan (#litres_trial_promo)
Dal Tikkis (#litres_trial_promo)
Murgh Malai Kebabs (#litres_trial_promo)
Vodka Chilli Cocktails (#litres_trial_promo)
6. FOOD FOR FEELING BETTER (#litres_trial_promo)
Pick-me-ups for all your woes (#litres_trial_promo)
Parathas: Aloo, Gajar and Mooli (#litres_trial_promo)
Maacher Cutlets (#litres_trial_promo)
Khichdi (#litres_trial_promo)
Doi Maach (#litres_trial_promo)
Masala Chai (#litres_trial_promo)
Two Rasam Recipes (#litres_trial_promo)
Tomato Rasam (#litres_trial_promo)
Pepper Rasam (#litres_trial_promo)
Dahi Bhaat (#litres_trial_promo)
Jeera Chicken (#litres_trial_promo)
Prawn Pulao (#litres_trial_promo)
Maacher Chop (#litres_trial_promo)
Mutton Ishtew (#litres_trial_promo)
7. SWEET INDULGENCES (#litres_trial_promo)
Irresistible ways to get a sugar high (#litres_trial_promo)
Kesar Pista Burfis (#litres_trial_promo)
Besan Laddoos (#litres_trial_promo)
Narkel Narus (#litres_trial_promo)
Carrot Halwa (#litres_trial_promo)
Rose and Vanilla Firni (#litres_trial_promo)
Payesh (#litres_trial_promo)
Bhapa Doi (#litres_trial_promo)
Chilli Chocolate Brownies (#litres_trial_promo)
Kulfi (#litres_trial_promo)
Mango Fool (#litres_trial_promo)
Shrikhand (#litres_trial_promo)
GLOSSARY (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#litres_trial_promo)
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_b86738f1-ec50-5ab1-90a5-c0e7ac6865fe)
Squashed on a train unfit for cattle transport, in an Austin Reed suit and Kurt Geiger heels, I can think about only one thing. Rotis. Round, soft, fluffy rotis.
This is my life: 30-something girl about town, corporate superbitch and keen Indian cook. Ten years ago, just the thought of combining the three would have thrown me into a blind panic, and had me reaching for the nearest chicken tikka sandwich pack.
You see, growing up in India, I cared more about eating food than cooking it. Tantalising meals were assembled at home (although not by me) with little oil, fresh ingredients and lots of imagination, all served with limes, coriander, pickle and green finger chillies. From sweet coconut prawn curry and juicy tandoori chicken to buttery Tadka Dal and spicy-sour aloo. It was all accompanied by puffed rotis rolled and tawa-baked by our masterly cook, Dada. Oblivious to his talent, we two bespectacled sisters ate them hot, dripping with the butter we wore so proudly as lip-gloss at the dining table.
Dada was on an everyday mission – to keep it simple but delicious. As in most other Indian homes, aromatic pulaos, rich curries and deep-fried goodies were strictly reserved for weekends and special occasions. Then, Dada would turn sous-chef to my father and his elaborate kitchen feats. A keen and superb cook, my chain-smoking dad’s speciality was the rice delicacy biryani. It always arrived late from a battle-ravaged kitchen.
Mother, unlike my many aunties, stayed well away from the hotbed of fiery tempers and masalas that was our Kolkata kitchen. Dabbling with the occasional spaghetti Bolognese in her psychedelic kaftan, she preferred directing and overseeing Dada’s glorious Indian meals rather than troubling her good self by actually cooking them.
When I decided to leave it all behind for university in England, nobody thought to disrupt my hectic schedule of debates and rooftop parties with lessons in cooking Aloo Gobi. I arrived in rainy Buckingham, and plunged headlong into an undergraduate degree in business studies and an education in how not to eat. My experiments in the kitchen were short-lived. The burnt frozen pizzas. The tins that exploded in the microwave. The boil-in-the-bag rice that never quite cooked.
I didn’t give a damn. The 90s clubbing scene was exploding around me. My love life and my finances were imploding. Homemade chicken curry was hardly going to see me through it all. Besides, I was about to embark on a master’s degree in journalism. The future would be all about sharp suits, dictaphones, black cabs and mojitos. A far cry from the hair-in-bun, handloom-cotton image I had of aunties and seasoned cooks back home.


But after years of Taj Mahal takeaways and petrol station cuisine, I started aching for some good home-cooked food. I had no idea where to start, however. I needed help.
So I asked someone who had all the answers. Mother. She sent me a copy of the National Indian Association of Women Cookbook, given to newly wedded daughters, the soon-to-live-abroad and other hapless beings.
Armed with this seminal tome, I was ready to become Miss Masala. So what if I now worked long hours in London, spent evenings sampling cheap wine and didn’t know the first thing about cooking Indian food? It couldn’t be that difficult, right?
Wrong.
You see, professional Indian cooks can be a canny lot. Always happy to give you a quick breakdown of ingredients, they withhold some of the crucial basics. Perhaps as payback for all their hard graft as beginners. Aunties, on the other hand, are only too happy to oblige with recipes. But years of experience mean they use andaaz, giving little idea of quantities. Directions like ‘Cook the onions, add some turmeric and fry with a bit of garam masala’ are no good to a novice. We need specifics.
Most Indian cookbooks are no place for beginners, either. They assume the sort of basic knowledge I simply didn’t have, or expect a little too much in the way of free time. Instructions like ‘Soak overnight and then simmer for 3 hours’ scared me half to death.
Then you have the ingredients to contend with. Indian cooking uses a seemingly endless array of specialist spices, and the magic each one brings to a dish is a mystery of Bollywood-epic proportions. Like the foul-smelling asafoetida – a deeply offensive powder but which, once cooked, infuses dishes with a magical buttery flavour.
And finally there are all those secrets you can learn only from experience. No one ever tells you, for instance, that ready-made channa masala powder plus frying onions equals three days of spicy sofa. Or that fresh curry and methi (fenugreek) leaves can be frozen for months and still retain their flavour.
Altogether it’s a quagmire for the uninitiated. Thankfully, I craved the food enough to wade through it all. It was my labour of love – aided by the NIAW Cookbook, numerous international phone calls and Smirnoff vodka.
I started cooking for anyone who dared to sample it – whether keen colleague, hesitant sister or bewildered boyfriend. Low-oil and high-nutrient recipes from back home provided early inspiration, with a vindaloo or two thrown in for good measure. I was on the quest for mouth-watering dishes that I could rustle up after numbingly long days and harrowing weeks at work.
Along the way, I got married and dived into a public relations career. The art of frying onions to the perfect shade of gold now had to be combined with the science of juggling client deadlines with a hungry husband, lavish Indian functions and late-night partying. Time officially became money. Shortcuts de rigueur.


I have learnt lots of valuable lessons. That cooking when drunk is not a good idea, for instance. Especially when it’s your boss who is waiting to be fed. That I would rather eat my shoe than make a samosa from scratch. And that making round, fluffy rotis plays havoc with manicured fingernails.
Most importantly, I have learnt that authentic Indian cooking is, in fact, blindingly easy and can be a regular part of frantic lives. To make gloriously aromatic pulao and creamy korma, all you need are simple recipes and basic know-how. Once you crack the essentials, the rest is a piece of chappati.
This book is all about those invaluable lessons, transferred from my kitchen to yours. It’s about loving Indian food and cooking it from scratch while enjoying too many cocktails, after a steamy commute and faced with an empty fridge. The pages that follow are packed with simple recipes and handy tips for busy people who live full lives.
On some occasions an easy masala dinner will usually do the trick. But there are other nights when only a rich curry, served with heaps of basmati rice and lashings of dal and raita, will hit the spot. This book caters for such moments, whatever your mood, taste or time constraints. There are recipes for when time is of the essence, others that are big-crowd pleasers and ones for your own indulgence.
You, too, can keep it simple with quick Chicken Jhalfrezi on a bed of peppery salad leaves. Impress colleagues with a three-course dal, curry and sabzi combo. Hang out with friends, a few bottles of wine and heaps of melt-in-the-mouth lamb kebabs. And recover from it all with comforting rice Khichdi, aubergine raita and delicious little coconut bites.
Slip on your heels, keep a pair of old pyjamas handy and open your mind.
This is real Indian cooking for busy living!

Before You Start – Read This (#ulink_55031e5b-5804-55f0-ac4c-a26adab0af16)
Are you feeling somewhat inspired? Ready to take on the challenge of Indian home cooking? Have you dusted off the oversize aluminium stockpot, normally reserved for deadly punches, to make your own ghee? Invested in an industrial pestle and mortar? Convinced yourself that fermenting and sun-drying your own lime pickle is time truly well spent?
Shame.
This cookbook isn’t into that sort of thing. I want to cook traditional Indian food and have a life. So, in a step change from time-honoured Indian cooking tradition, I blatantly advocate the use of store-bought ingredients, dinky gadgets and shortcuts. If you are a tad busy or lazy, this book is just the thing for you.
The first chapter introduces the very basics and other useful information. Tips and tricks are littered throughout the rest of the book, amongst my stories and introductions to the recipes. To avoid boring you stiff by repeating myself in the recipe descriptions, I’ve collected a handful of cooking tips here. Please do read these before you begin.



SOURCING INGREDIENTS
Indian spices can be bought in supermarkets, at ethnic shops or online. You could even sweet-talk your local corner shop into stocking a wide selection. And once you’ve bought them, you can put them to use in many different dishes, from all sorts of cuisines. If you don’t have one or two of the spices specified in a dish, leave them out rather than use a substitute. Omitting a couple of the ingredients isn’t going to dramatically alter the flavour of a dish. Just make sure you have the main ingredients that feature in the title or subtitle of a recipe.

A FEW WORDS ON SOME COMMONLY USED INGREDIENTS AND EQUIPMENT:
LENTILS The different types called for in Indian cooking are many and various but not really interchangeable. For more on the different varieties, see the box (#ulink_fca6d14e-caf5-5204-bcb2-51a2ec4c1338).
CARDAMOMS Green cardamoms are most commonly used in the recipes in this book. Occasionally brown cardamoms (also known as black cardamoms) are called for. These can’t be used instead of green cardamoms, however, as they have a completely different, smoky taste.
PANEER This Indian cheese is used in a number of the recipes. It’s widely available in the hard cheese section of supermarkets. You could, at a pinch, substitute it with low-fat halloumi.
CURRY LEAVES Buy these herbs in an ethnic store or the ethnic section of your local supermarket. You can use them fresh or keep a bag in the freezer and cook straight from frozen. Never use the dried leaves; they’re just not the same.


GREEN FINGER CHILLIES These have a very particular flavour and can’t be substituted with any other type of green chilli. If you have a problem sourcing them, buy a jar of ready-minced green chillies to keep for emergencies.
CHILLI POWDER AND WHOLE CHILLIES While on the subject on chillies, I always use extra-hot chilli powder. The milder stuff doesn’t seem worth the effort, frankly. I don’t deseed chillies, either. Why, when the seeds are packed with serious punch? I’m not a great fan of super-spicy food, so my recipes are on the milder side, unless otherwise stated. If you can handle it, go crazy with chillies. For more on the different types of chillies used in Indian cooking, see the box (#litres_trial_promo). Note: bell peppers are deseeded.
YOGHURT This features extensively in Indian curries, often used to thicken curries or as a creamy, but lower fat alternative to cream. Low-fat yoghurt used straight out of the fridge will almost inevitably curdle when it touches hot oil. Use Greek yoghurt instead, which has a higher fat content, and leave it on the worktop to get it closer to room temperature before cooking. This will save your curry.
FAN-ASSISTED OVENS Most Indian food is cooked on the hob. Where I cook a dish in the oven, I’ve put the temperature in Centigrade/Fahrenheit and for gas. If you have a fan-assisted electric oven, please deduct approximately 20°C (70°F) from the temperature given in the recipe and cook for the same length of time. In any case, it’s always worth checking the food is cooked before you serve it.
MEASURING WITH MUGS Everyone has a mug or cup set aside to measure rice. I use a great big builder’s mug, which gives me 350g (12oz) rice – four generous portions. When I’m cooking rice or lentils, I state the amount of water needed in the form of a ratio of water to rice/lentils, e.g. ‘one-and-a-half times as much water as rice’ or ‘twice as much water as lentils’. By using the same mug/cup, you have an easy and accurate way of adding just the right volume of water. Always check the rice with a fork at the end of cooking. Depending on its quality, you may sometimes need to add an extra half a cup of hot water to get it cooked just right.
ESSENTIAL GADGETS Pestles and mortars are wonderful. But I’m not keen on bits of garlic, ginger and whole spices flying into my hair, face and clothes. A cheap mini electric coffee grinder works wonders to powder roasted spices. A hand blender can purée ingredients in seconds, without taking up much shelf space in the kitchen. See the box (#ulink_051971a4-5732-52e1-8b65-883277d7603d) on how to make your own ginger and garlic pastes.


COOKING OILS You’ll see that I generally don’t specify a particular type of cooking oil. You can use any type of neutral flavour oil (sunflower, vegetable, groundnut, etc.), just not olive oil. For more on this, see the box (#ulink_b197191a-18ba-5150-8e56-2e9278f28116).
PRECOOKING VEGETABLES Try not to parboil or shallow-fry vegetables before cooking them. It is too much extra effort and you lose their essential nutrients. Also, the longer veggies get with the spices, the better they will taste.
COOKING ON A HIGH HEAT I tend to cook over a high heat on the hob, so that the ingredients cook more quickly. But do reduce the heat slightly if a pot is boiling too vigorously or fried ingredients are browning too quickly and in danger of burning.
A WORD ON SALT I consume far too much salt. Which, I’ve been led to believe, will cause me untold grief in the form of hideous illnesses before I turn 40. I’ll spare you a similar fate by leaving salt addition in my recipes to your own discretion. The best thing to do is add a little at a time right at the end of a recipe until you get it to taste just the way you like it.
INDIAN COOKING TERMS To help with the strange Indian words that pepper these pages, just turn to the glossary at the back of this book.
AND LASTLY Please don’t worry if your chicken curry doesn’t match the exact shade of sienna orange in the fancy photograph. The hue of your home-cooked feast will depend on the brand of spices, type of ingredients and the lighting in your kitchen. As always, it’s the taste that counts.
Now for the rest. Happy cooking!
1. (#ulink_c7ddcd8a-4b4c-56dd-af67-612cebf000fe)
FROM BHUNA TO BALTI (#ulink_c7ddcd8a-4b4c-56dd-af67-612cebf000fe)
Getting to know Indian food and the very basics (#ulink_c7ddcd8a-4b4c-56dd-af67-612cebf000fe)
Miss Masala.



ACHIEVING ‘AUNTYDOM’ WAS NEVER GOING TO BE EASY.
Such high standards. So many spices, so little time. No information on what they actually do. Or how best to use them, for that matter. I started my quest with a trip to the nearest aunty, conveniently located in Birmingham – epicentre of the British curry phenomenon.
The door flew open and Aunty launched into high-pitched squawks about how thin I looked. In my family, being thin is considered an even worse fate than left-handedness, singledom or unemployment. More cries of ‘gaunt/tired/malnourished’ were the cue for me to step into the kitchen where Aunty, a senior Indian Diplomatic Officer, had laid out a dazzling four-piece, home-cooked meal.
Aunty lamented the sorry state of the Indian government, the rise of the balti and the problem with young people today. I worked my way through the coconut and raisin dal, chilli pumpkin stir-fry and spicy chicken curry, agreeing and wondering what possessed me to aspire to such dizzying culinary heights.
If Aunty was to be believed, everything was ‘so easy to make’. The dishes, authentic recipes passed down from her great-great-grandmother’s north Kolkata kitchen, took ‘no time at all’. My hopes were fading fast, like the empty space in my rapidly filling stomach.
But I dared not mention this to her. The size-eight-one-who-was-wasting-away would need to be comatose or sick before she was allowed to stop eating. I contemplated faking a fainting spell as she heaped more basmati rice on to my plate.
The next day, we visited a local curry house. Inspired by the delights of the previous night’s authentic Indian meal, I took a fresh, critical look at the fare that had, until now, been my happy respite from three-for-a-fiver microwave meals. I reflected on several interesting things:
1. The word ‘curry’ means ‘sauce’ or ‘gravy’ in India. In the UK, on the other hand, it’s used as a generic term for pretty much all Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi food. Not all our dishes are curries – there are bharta, bhuna, tandoori and kadai dishes, and many others besides. In a nod to popular British culture, however, I have used the words ‘curry’ and ‘Indian food’ interchangeably throughout this book.
But don’t get me on to balti, which means ‘bucket’. Fancy dinner out of a bucket? Me neither. Some say balti originated from the Kashmiri province of Baltistan. The truth is that the word was coined by a clever Brummie and has as little to do with cooking as my ceramic hair irons.
2. This creativity extends to restaurant menus. Many of the popular British curry dishes don’t exist in India. Such as phal (mouth-numbingly hot), madras (fluorescent red and gloopy), and chicken tikka masala (no description needed). The perfect greasy end to an alcohol-ridden evening they are. Indian they are not.
Interestingly, chicken tikka masala has had the rare privilege of infiltrating many restaurant menus in India. It is based on a far more delectable, decadent and diet-defying dish, Murgh Makhani (also known as ‘butter chicken’), which is sadly harder to find in the UK.
3. The range of dishes at a standard local curry house is pretty limited. The same cubes of pre-prepared meat are stirred into a set number of curries, depending on what you fancy. Where are the sweet, light Bengali curries? The coconut-filled south Indian dishes? The rich, spicy feasts from Mughal-inspired Hyderabad and Lucknow? And the famous fusion cuisine of the Parsis and Goans? Even the few recognisably Indian dishes on the menu are transformed beyond recognition before they arrive at the table.

MY MOST HATED UK CURRY LINGO
Naan bread
Naan is bread, so this translates as ‘bread bread’. Plain wrong.
Pulao rice
‘Pulao’ means ‘flavoured rice’. I rest my case.
Poppadom
In Hindi, this is ‘papad’, which is conveniently shorter.

IT WAS TIME FOR ME TO SACRIFICE MY LOVE of the local takeaway on the altar of authentic Indian home cooking. Aunty sent me off with a 20-piece dinner set from the local cash and carry. I returned to my ex-council apartment and promptly made my way to the inventively named ‘Indian Spice Shop’ in Euston.
The Indian Spice Shop was as much a part of my teenage years as George Michael and Clearasil. Our family summer holidays in Europe always ended with a few weeks in London, by which time the words schnitzel, strudel and steak frites sent a chill down my spine. I happily played bag carrier to Mother as she stocked up on masalas, pickle and ready-made chappatis for our short-let central London apartment.
But I was alone now. I went round this monument to the art of subcontinental cooking with a rusty basket. Shelves were stacked high with spices, flour, basmati rice, pickles and lentils. I had a list, but it seemed pointless. Where do I start? Where is Mother when I need her?
The owner came to my rescue. To this guy, a first-time masala buyer sticks out like an unaccompanied man in the M&S lingerie department. He advised me to buy the smallest quantities, as you always use less than you think and the flavour of the spices quickly fades.
With that tiny titbit, I started building my collection. The dried spices needed for Indian cooking come in two types – whole and powdered – and are known as masalas. The same word applies to a mix of spices. And it can, confusingly, also refer to a paste of dried spices with fresh ingredients, such as onions, garlic and ginger. First I bought the very basics – the ingredients used in many of the recipes I had bookmarked to try.

WHOLE SPICES
SIZZLED IN HOT OIL AT THE BEGINNING OF COOKING TO RELEASE SUBTLE AROMAS
Bay leaves (TEJ PATTA) – Woody leaves of the laurel plant.
Black peppercorns (KALI MIRCH) – Pungent whole peppercorns.
Cloves (LAVANG) – Strong and minty flower buds.
Green cardamoms (ELAICHI) – Fragrant seedpods.
Cinnamon (DALCHINI) sticks – Sharp and sweet bark of a tree.
Cumin (JEERA) – Warm and earthy seeds.
Red chillies (LAL MIRCH) – Long fiery red chillies.

POWDERED SPICES
ADDED LATER TO INJECT THE DISH WITH INTENSE FLAVOURS
Coriander (DHANIYA) – Warm and lemony powdered seeds.
Cumin (JEERA) – Earthy powdered seeds.
Turmeric (HALDI) – Bitter and luminous-yellow powdered root.
Chilli (LAL MIRCH) – Powdered fiery chillies.
Garam masala – A blend of the whole spices (see above), roasted and powdered.
The initial stash was going to keep me going for some time, according to Masala Man. So next I stocked up on the fresh ingredients, used in between adding the whole and powdered spices. These perishable ingredients would clearly need to be purchased more frequently, at my local supermarket for convenience.

FRESH INGREDIENTS
Root ginger / Garlic / Green finger chillies
Bunch of coriander leaves / Bag of curry leaves
Onions / Greek yoghurt

MISS MASALA HAD ARRIVED. And Keema Mattar was my first recipe of choice. Highly satisfying with some pitta bread, this also appealed because it needed no more skill than a deft hand to jab mince with a wooden spoon. The long list of ingredients had all been duly acquired.
Gripped with feverish excitement, I set the oil to heat and quickly chucked in the whole spices. Next, I threw in the onions, ginger and garlic and stirred gently, waiting for them to brown. They didn’t for ages. So I lost patience and added everything else. The result was a crunchy onion and mince concoction that was as far away from India as I was from opening my own restaurant.
I had followed every instruction (almost) to the letter. So I couldn’t have been very far from the real thing. Down but not out, I tried the recipe again the following week. And this time, it came out just the way I remembered from our weekday dinners at home.
It seemed that the most basic ingredient for Indian cooking was patience. Creating the perfect kebab was never going to be as straightforward as opening a bag of ready-prepared salad. Or as quick. In fact, the word ‘quick’, when applied to Indian cooking, is truly relative. Considering some recipes take up to a day of soaking, chopping and stirring, half an hour to make a mixed vegetable curry is essentially fast food.
The secret of cooking the food just right lies in timing. Indian cookbooks are full of vague instructions like ‘when the onions are cooked’ or ‘when the masalas are ready’. Knowing when the moment is right is essential, because ingredients are added in stages. A group of spices is added only when the previous lot has changed hue, aroma or texture. But I had to work out for myself when the dish was ready for the next addition, because no one ever explains it.
I learnt with the keema that I should have waited until the oil was hot before starting to cook. Next, added any whole spices like cloves, cinnamon and bay leaves. As they started sizzling, I should have tossed in the chopped onions and fried them until golden brown. It was my job to watch the lot. Which sounds exhausting, but actually is easy to get the hang of. After a few goes, I was on autopilot.

Keema Mattar (#ulink_4bd9d5ff-f9dd-56aa-b716-11bd456a4171)
Minced meat with peas and fresh coriander


My favourite Pakistani restaurant has the dubious strap line ‘probably the best tandoori restaurant in London’. I once asked the waiter about the ingredients in their Keema Mattar. Beef mince, he replied, helpfully.
Beef isn’t eaten by Hindus in India. Only the really bad ones like me. After years of blood, sweat and tears (I do like a bit of drama), I finally came up with a recipe that uses more than just mince and less than a page of ingredients. It’s as simple to make as spaghetti Bolognese and chilli con carne but a happy respite from both. You could just as easily use lamb mince for this moist but curry-free dish.
Feeds 4
1 large onion
2.5cm (1in) root ginger
2 garlic cloves
1 tbsp oil
whole spices
2 bay leaves
8 cloves
8 cardamoms
5cm (2in) cinnamon stick
10 whole black peppercorns
1 tsp coriander powder
1 tsp cumin powder

/
tsp turmeric powder

/
tsp chilli powder
4 tbsp tomato purée
2 fresh green finger chillies
4 tbsp natural Greek yoghurt
500g (1lb 2oz) lean minced beef or lamb
1 mug of frozen peas

/
tsp garam masala
25g (1oz) fresh coriander, roughly chopped
salt
1. Peel and finely chop the onion, ginger and garlic. Pour the oil into a medium pan set over a high heat. When the oil is hot, add the whole spices. Within seconds they will start spluttering, and you’ll be able to smell their heady aromas.
2. Now add the onion and fry for 5 minutes until it starts to go a pale gold. Stir in the ginger and garlic, and fry for a further 5 minutes until the masala mixture caramelises, turning a golden brown.
3. Next add all the powdered spices bar the garam masala. Fry them for about 5 minutes, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. If the spices get stuck to the bottom of the pan, add a tablespoon of hot water to release them while stirring and scraping the base of the pan with the spoon.
4. Then stir in the tomato purée and fry for a further minute. Lower the heat and simmer for 5–10 minutes until you can see the oil beginning to rise to the surface of the mixture. Meanwhile, roughly chop the green finger chillies.
5. Turn the heat up high once again, and add the yoghurt, chillies and mince. Stir like a maniac so that the meat browns evenly and there are no large lumps in it. Then add half a mug of hot water and leave to simmer, uncovered, for 15 minutes.
6. Finally, add the peas and simmer for about 5 minutes until they’re cooked. Add salt to taste, and stir in the garam masala and chopped coriander to finish.
7. Keema is divine served with toasted pitta bread or hot rotis, along with some mango pickle and a dollop of creamy, natural Greek yoghurt.
WITH ALL INDIAN RECIPES THERE ARE SOME OBVIOUS SIGNS FOR WHEN TO MOVE ON TO THE NEXT STAGE OF COOKING:

The oil is sufficiently hot if it forms little bubbles when you touch it with your wooden spoon.

Whole spices are ready when they sizzle and release pungent aromas.

Dried spices, whole and powdered, each have their own strong smell, which will tone down when cooked.

Onions are cooked when they are evenly golden brown but not burnt.

Tomatoes are cooked when they disintegrate.

A combination of dried spices and other ingredients is ready when, having been cooked on a slow simmer, oil starts oozing out of little holes in the mixture.

Lentils are done when they lose their shape and become integrated with the cooking water to form a thick soup.

AN IMPORTANT TRICK, I LEARNT, is to whack the heat up high and stir like a maniac to prevent the spices from getting stuck to the bottom of the pan and burning. As I explained to my uninitiated sister: don’t make love to it, fuck it! If the spices do get stuck on the bottom of the pan, just add a couple of tablespoons of hot water from the kettle and scrape them off.
Initially this meant giving each pan of food my undivided attention, a boring task that is broadly comparable to watching cheap nail colour dry. It’s not difficult, but until you get the hang of it you have to pay attention and avoid getting distracted. With this revelation I embraced my next Indian cooking attempt – the Mattar Paneer. The stakes were getting higher. This is a classic north Indian dish made with Indian cheese and peas. To destroy this recipe would be tantamount to committing curry hara-kiri.
True to form, I dived straight into the recipe. But midway through the frying-onions stage, extreme boredom set in. I wandered off to pour myself a glass of wine. Then fired off an impassioned e-mail to a friend on the idiocy of men. By which time, the onions had started to burn, bringing the attempt to an untimely and tragic conclusion.
Of course, there is no shame in burnt curry. As with many things in life, like perms and financial journalism, it is better to have tried and failed to cook Indian food than to have never tried at all.



Mattar Paneer (#ulink_98ce6a18-7f0d-54e4-ba1e-e67ccbe8f6cc)
Curried Indian cheese with tomatoes and peas
Paneer is Indian cheese – a firm favourite with vegetarian Indians and yours truly. Cooked paneer has the texture of tofu and the moreishness of good-quality buffalo mozzarella. Stone cold, however, it has all the allure of cubed polystyrene.
Luckily, paneer is only served steaming hot as chunks of loveliness nestled amidst a melange of spiced ingredients. I tried making it from scratch once, with disappointing results. Buy it ready-made from the hard cheese section of your local supermarket and focus your efforts on the recipe instead.
Feeds 4 Vegetarian
1 large onion
4cm (1
/
in) root ginger
4 garlic cloves
3 medium tomatoes
250g (9oz) paneer
2 tbsp oil
1 tsp kasoori methi (optional)
2 tsp coriander powder
1 tsp cumin powder

/
tsp turmeric powder

/
tsp chilli powder
3 tbsp natural Greek yoghurt
1 mug of frozen peas

/
tsp garam masala
salt
1. Peel and finely chop the onion, ginger, garlic and tomatoes and cut the paneer into bite-sized pieces. The best way to do this is to first halve and then quarter the block of cheese lengthways, then cut through the width at even intervals.
2. Pour 1 tablespoon of the oil into a large frying pan set over a high heat. When the oil is hot, fry the paneer cubes until golden for 1 minute on one side and a further minute on the opposite side. This will prevent the cheese from crumbling later. Remove the pieces with a slotted spoon and set aside.
3. Leave the kasoori methi (if using) to soak in 2 tablespoons of hot water. Next pour the remaining oil into the same frying pan. When the oil is hot, stir in the onion, ginger and garlic and fry for about 10 minutes until pale golden. Now stir in all the powdered spices apart from the garam masala, add the tomatoes and fry for another 5 minutes, jabbing the masala mixture with your wooden spoon to help it disintegrate and form a thick paste. You may need to add a little hot water to prevent the mixture from sticking to the bottom of the pan.
4. Lower the heat to a simmer, add the yoghurt and stir it in well. Now wait for the oil to ooze through little pores in the masala mixture, stirring from time to time until this happens. When it does, after about 2 minutes, mix in the peas and half a mug of hot water. Cook for another 3 minutes, then season with salt to taste and chuck in the garam masala, paneer chunks and the kasoori methi (if using) along with its water.
5. Add another half mug of hot water to cook the whole lot for 5 minutes. Once oil floats to the top, serve the Mattar Paneer hot with some warm ready-made naans and creamy natural Greek yoghurt.



INTRODUCING KASOORI METHI
Kasoori methi, dried bitter fenugreek leaves, works miracles to balance the sweetness of curried dishes. It’s sold alongside other dried spices and is at its finest first soaked in a tablespoon of hot water and then added along with the liquid to the dish towards the end of cooking.


Keema Mattar (#ulink_31f79498-5b68-506b-bebd-05f2577e4b78)
Perfectly Fluffy Basmati (#ulink_032580b3-b484-56ec-a8c5-887788a4e852)
Mattar Paneer (#ulink_4bc9179c-eede-59c3-a8d1-7c64ce471410)
Berry Dal (#ulink_d7505811-de5a-5090-abcb-2c57054da162)

MY SECOND ATTEMPT AT MATTAR PANEER was a triumph – a culinary phoenix that rose, quite literally, from the ashes. Bright-eyed and optimistic, I carried on valiantly. Climbing at work to the heady heights of PR manager and moving to a modern apartment block, albeit in grim Elephant and Castle. And gaining enough confidence to add more spices to my collection. Mustard seeds, dried mango powder, asafoetida and tamarind paste made it to my bulging ‘Indian’ kitchen shelf. Familiar dishes from my childhood were tried from the NIAW Cookbook, with mixed results.
But I felt empowered. Emboldened. Excited. I sealed my fate by having a go at the age-old dal recipe passed down the generations of my maternal grandmother’s Berry (pronounced ‘Bay-ree’) family.



Berry Dal (#ulink_c74899e8-dc7c-54d5-9387-f83eb08f679d)
Simple buttery lentils – a family favourite
Some of the best holidays I had as a child were in Delhi, India’s capital city. Mother used to pack us off to her family home with Nani, her strong-willed mum. And we spent the days rolling around being spoilt by various uncles and aunties, nourished on a diet of Berry Dal, fresh chappatis, sabzi and homemade pickles.
This dal uses tadka (pronounced ‘tur-ka’) – a magical mix of spices sizzled in hot oil – to infuse the dish with flavour. I remember dal being served thick, a consistency created by adding a little hot water at a time and only when the lentils dry up and start spluttering on to the kitchen tiles.
Feeds 4 Vegetarian
125g (4
/
oz) huskless moong (split yellow) lentils

/
tsp turmeric powder
1 tsp ghee
1 pinch of asafoetida
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 dried long red chilli

/
tsp chilli powder
salt
1. Place the lentils in a sieve and rinse thoroughly under a cold tap until the water runs clear. Then put them in a medium pan and cover with twice as much cold water as lentils. Add the turmeric and boil gently on a medium heat, keeping alert for the first couple of minutes to make sure the pan doesn’t boil over.
2. As it boils, the dal will produce scum, which you need to skim off the surface. Every time the lentils begin to dry out, add a little bit more hot water. The consistency of this dal should be thick, like soup from a carton.
3. When the lentils start integrating with the water in the pan, which will take about 20 minutes, you can make the tadka. Heat the ghee in a small frying pan. When it begins to bubble, add the asafoetida. This stuff smells disgusting – you have been warned – but tastes amazing! Then add the cumin seeds, the chilli pepper and the chilli powder. Let it all sizzle for a few seconds and then pour the tadka over the dal.
4. Heat the dal for another minute as you mix in the tadka. Add salt to taste, and voilà, the Berry Dal is ready. This is best eaten with rotis dunked in it.

LOVING LENTILS
Forget the horrors of boiled pulses. Dal is a piping-hot bowl of delicately spiced lentil curry. A must with every Indian meal. Soft and buttery, each dal has its own special cooking time and addition of spices known as tadka (also called baghar or chaunk).
My first lentil shopping trip was totally overwhelming. Lentils come in green, brown, yellow and red, some with husks and others skinless. The variety is quite bewildering, as is how to cook each type. I used my tried-and-tested, scientific method to master cooking them: buy one small bagful and perfect it after several failed attempts. The trick is to buy 500g (1lb 2oz) of a variety at a time and never, ever replace the lentils in one dal recipe for another. These are the types of lentil typically used in Indian dishes:
MASOOR – SPLIT RED LENTILS.
Widely available and super quick to cook.
A real winner in my books.
TOOR – SPLIT YELLOW LENTILS.
Also known as Arhar or Tuvar. These are shaped like flat discs, sometimes sold with an oil coating that you can just wash off. Popularly used in south Indian dals.
CHANNA – A SMALLER RELATIVE OF THE CHICKPEA.
It’s split in half to create a yellow lentil. It has a sweet, nutty flavour and is often cooked with sweet vegetables or sugar.
MOONG – A GREEN PULSE THAT CAN BE SPLIT AND DE-HUSKED TO GIVE AN OVAL-SHAPED YELLOW LENTIL.
The green stuff is a great stodgy winter choice, while the yellow version gives a lighter perennial option.

THERE. I HAD IT. The finest homemade dal, Mattar Paneer and Keema Mattar. The three ideal basics for my first ever, complete Indian meal. All I still needed was to master the art of fluffy basmati rice.
This was easier than I thought. My father arrived in London for his annual summer holiday. I invited him over for some of my newly perfected, quick Indian home cooking. He brought along a brand new, Iranian Pars Khazar rice cooker. Handing me the large box, he declared that every girl’s new home needs a rice cooker. For the first time since I was two, I agreed with him instantly.
For good measure, he also handed over his fail-safe recipe for perfect basmati rice.

Perfectly Fluffy Basmati (#ulink_6ed6cd85-6005-5946-8a4d-884089ed545e)
Steaming hot rice for every Indian meal
I never cook anything but white basmati rice when eating Indian food. I’ve read all about how it’s lower in fat than other long-grain rice. But honestly, it’s the light, fluffy texture and nutty fragrance that does it for me.
For a brief, seriously healthy spell I tried making brown basmati instead. This is packed full of fibre and even healthier that the white variety. But it takes a bit of getting used to with a curry. So I use it only to serve with other, non-Indian meals.
Feeds 4 Vegetarian
350g (12oz) basmati rice
1. Having weighed the rice in the kitchen scales, measure it out again in a mug – taking note of the number of mugfuls – and place in a medium pan. Fill the pan with cold water. With one hand, stir the rice for a minute to release the dust from the rice into the water.
2. Next drain the rice and, using the same mug, add one-and-a-half times as much hot water as rice into the same pan. By measuring the water in this way, you are adding only as much as the rice needs to absorb while cooking. No need for draining or second-guessing!
3. Bring the pan to a boil, then lower the heat to a simmer, cover with a lid and cook for 10–15 minutes until the water is all absorbed and the rice is cooked through. Never stir the rice while cooking because that releases starch and makes it all gloopy. If you desperately want to prod the rice to check it, use a fork instead of a spoon. Once the rice is ready, keep the lid on the pan for 2 minutes to let the steam release any grains stuck to the bottom. Then scoop on to a plate and attack.

JALDI JALDI
QUICK TRICKS FOR THE GODDESS IN YOU
Getting to grips with the recipes was one thing. Retrofitting them into my life was quite another.
In the early days, I made grand plans to further my cooking prowess. Never mind deadlines. I was going to powder my own garam masala. Marinate meat overnight. Cook raw chickpeas for hours as recommended by the latest cookery magazine. All the while, maintaining the karmic calm of a stoned Himalayan sadhu.
I soon realised that the truly inspirational cookery programme was presented by a celebrity with a crack team of experts. Invisible to the outside world, like Santa’s elves, they ran around her, shopping, chopping, cleaning and washing up, while others did her hair and mopped her brow.
I, on the other hand, had no one but my meagre self and a long list of urgent priorities. Work paid the bills. Friends were essential for fun. Men were high maintenance. Painting nails and updating my wardrobe were critical. Fashioning shortcrust dough into triangular-shaped samosas was not.
I decided that spending unnecessarily long toiling in the kitchen ranked close to ironing jeans and drinking Liebfraumilch. Daily slaving over a steaming pot simply wasn’t for me. The goddess in me needed shortcuts. Anything to make my life easier. This, believe it or not, was how Dada and my aunties operated too. I didn’t actually know anyone who made his or her own garam masala back home.
During my next food-shopping trip, I contemplated the complex equation of effort vs. reward. The answer seemed to be a pot of curry powder. This premixed ingredient is the mainstay of recipes in dog-eared women’s magazines at the dentist and the doctor’s. On the surface, it sounds like a godsend. A blend of essential whole spices such as cumin, coriander, chilli, cloves, black pepper, etc., ground into an all-purpose curry powder. Ready for whatever Indian dish you are planning to cook.
Easy, but so boring. I tried it with chicken. Then lamb. Next with vegetables. Everything tasted the same – of supermarket own-brand curry powder. This isn’t in the spirit of true Indian cooking. Half the fun is in the variation, adding a little bit of this and a little bit of that to end up with something truly unique. It was also far too reminiscent of the dried fruit and nut British homemade curries of the 70s. I cast the stuff aside and made once more for my haven of masala salvation – the Indian Spice Shop.
Here, I sought another vaguely familiar spice shortcut of the past. In my student years, Mother had taken to sending me presents via any willing London-bound relative. The parcels contained contact-lens solution (‘much cheaper in India’), boxes of sugary Indian mithai and cartons of recipe-specific spice blends, including ready-mixed meat masala, chicken masala and the optimistically named Kitchen King.
Alas, I hadn’t made the most of these gifts. My student brain cells had been reserved for the pursuit of an education in business, contemporary fashion and the exploration of illegal substances. But now I was a changed person. A clean and respectable, tax-paying, law-abiding goddess-in-the-making. I loaded the rickety basket with channa masala and kadai gosht masala and filled whatever space was left with cartons of Kitchen King.
In my apartment, the back-of-the-pack recipe for sautéed chickpeas instantly appealed. I stir-fried some onions and tomatoes; added 3 tablespoons of channa masala powder, and the tinned legumes became my new best friend. I sighed, ‘You complete me’ under my breath as I toasted wholemeal pitta bread. And then the doorbell rang.
It was a fellow would-be goddess in pink velour track pants – my neighbour from downstairs. Also third cousin, i.e. immediate family, and close friend. She wanted to borrow some serving dishes. ‘Are you cooking channa?’ she enquired as I threw the door open. ‘Yes. Doesn’t it smell great?’ I replied. I quickly ate a massive bowlful in front of the telly after she left and put away the leftovers to take for lunch at work. But as I walked through the corridor the next morning, nose twitching, I wondered what the neighbours thought of my kitchen wizardry.
It wasn’t just the corridor of our porter-guarded tower block that had been overtaken by the potent whiff of the spice blend. It had infiltrated my two tiny bedrooms, the inbuilt closets, my jewellery chest and every millimetre of upholstery. I frantically aired the flat, opening windows wide and lighting scented candles, but the smell of channa masala lingered on. Three days later when my neighbour came over to return the dishes and chat, I could smell the stuff emanating through the pores of the battered blue Ikea sofa.
The first lesson here was that chickpeas are the ultimate Indian fast food. The second and more important lesson was that ready-made spice blends do not always the best shortcuts make. The search for culinary tricks continued well into the next year of my big cooking adventure. And this is what I concluded: spices smell, so plan Indian cooking carefully.
Curry hair is never going to be the height of style. Every time I rushed out to party after a spot of cooking, I might as well have been balancing a pot of saag gosht on my head. Too self-conscious to show off my dance moves, I’d stand in a corner and drink myself silly instead. My dinner-party guests were subjected to it, too. No one ever thanked me for dry-cleaning bills for coats smelling of the jeera aloo I had served earlier.
The truth is that Indian spices smell pretty strong. I couldn’t avoid using them, so I just got smarter about managing them. It was a bit like smoking in my teenage years. Knowing my parents might catch me lighting up in the house didn’t make me stop – just encouraged me to stock up on air freshener and chewing gum.



THIS IS HOW TO SET YOUR HOME FREE OF SMELLS:
COOK A DAY IN ADVANCE IF POSSIBLE.
A bit of clever social diarising and the night before a dinner party is a quiet one in. I cook all the food early and put it in the fridge to reheat the following evening. I don’t worry about serving guests stale food because Indian cuisine always tastes better the next day. Ingredients slowly soak up all those heady spices and develop far more intense flavours. In India, leftovers served at an ‘after’ party are always better than food freshly cooked for the party itself. My guests are inadvertently bestowed a great honour and cherish me even more for it. (I’m guessing.)
When I’m being super well organised (a rare feat), I cook a few days in advance and freeze the dishes. All they need is overnight defrosting and, again, a quick reheat before the meal. With the cooking dealt with in advance, on the actual day I can spend the time tidying up, getting changed and placing flowers in vases.
DRESS APPROPRIATELY.
I’m not Eric the dry-cleaner’s favourite customer for nothing. I often come home battle-worn from work or desperately hungry after a few drinks with friends and start cooking in my suit. While snacking on microwaved papads and mango pickle.
It’s taken a hefty cleaning bill to partly shake off this messy habit. Now my top trick is to quickly change into a pair of old pyjamas and don a shower cap to protect my hair. The shower cap looks stupid. But it does save me the bother of washing and recreating the do when there was nothing wrong with it in the first place. And I can rip the cap off in seconds if someone shows up unexpectedly.
IF YOU’RE IN A RUSH, COOK LOW-SMELL RECIPES.
Usually, I’m dashing around on public transport. Racing to get dinner on the table before that all-important episode of a vacuous TV talent show. Or trying to line my stomach before a long night ahead. With a strictly limited window of opportunity to transform from spice girl to sizzling siren.
For occasions like this, low-smell recipes are the best ones to go for. As a rule, frying onions with lots of powdered spices will fill you and your kitchen with strong aromas. The dishes to go for are a one-pot healthy pulao or a dal brimming with vegetables. If I do choose to make a curry, I pick those that use only a few spices or have a herby base.
AND FINALLY, PREPARE THE HOME.
I’m no Mrs Beeton, but keeping an apartment smelling fresh and wonderful is pure common sense. I keep the kitchen door shut tight and the windows open wide to prevent aromas from creeping into the other rooms. Then the scented candles come out. For a bit of added authenticity, I have a stash of super-strong incense sticks at the ready. Play some Bollywood tunes and it’s the perfect setting for a proper Indian meal.
Before I move on, though, I have to say this. If you don’t like the aroma of Indian food, you’re reading the wrong book. If it’s your man who doesn’t like it, this is the perfect moment to finally rid yourself of him.

Gizmos and Gadgets SAVING THOSE PRECIOUS MINUTES
Inspired by the equipment used by professional cooks, I bought sturdy aluminium pots and pans for cooking Indian food. Big mistake. Those professional types have extra-strong arm muscles and masses of patience (not to mention an army of underlings to scrape off the leftovers). They also don’t get distracted by The X Factor and glitter-vest ironing. I discovered soon enough that the best shortcut of all is to use the highest-quality non-stick cookware I could afford.
It started a mini revolution in my kitchen. Within a week I had bought my first ever hand blender. This miraculous gadget saves nails like a Korean manicurist. I could now purée fresh ginger and garlic, whiz up some kebab marinade and even make a mango lassi. Thankfully for me, the blender came with completely idiot-proof instructions and a splatter-proof beaker.
Over the years, I have amassed a grand collection of kitchen gadgets, some exceptionally useful and others utterly pointless. The chopper does a remarkable job of dicing small quantities of vegetables like onion, cucumber, root ginger and garlic. The rice cooker I will take to my grave. The mini electric coffee grinder finely powders in seconds homemade spice blends for dhansak, sambhar and tandoori chicken.
The food processor, on the other hand, is scary to look at. Exhausting to drag from its special shelf and monstrous on the worktop. Except for grinding small quantities of dry ingredients, the mortar calls for too much pestling. The less said about the juicer and the herb chopper the better.
The most life-changing of all gadgets has, without a smidgen of doubt, been the pressure cooker. No Indian kitchen is complete without a selection of them in different sizes. I wasn’t always convinced, though. My first doubts about it were sown in my friend’s New York kitchen. Turns out she put some vegetables in the contraption and wandered off to shower and blow-dry her hair. The next thing she heard was a muffled explosion. If the battered pan wasn’t enough to send a shudder through her Molton Browned body, there was green vegetable mush plastered all over the ceiling.
An internal voice instructed me to stay as far away from explosive kitchen devices as possible. But once I’d learnt not to get too distracted and wander off, I couldn’t help warming to the idea of a pressure cooker. What’s not to like? It cuts cooking time by using steam pressure on the food, saves electricity and, by default, the world. Who says a goddess can’t be a part-time eco-warrior?
The first time I used one, I sat patiently at the kitchen table waiting for the reassuring whistle. Too scared to go anywhere; too petrified of what might go wrong. Nothing ever did. Now I’ve acquired two. One large one and a smaller version perfect for a meal for two.



TOP PRESSURE-COOKER TIPS

1 Never fill the pan to more than a third.
2 When cooking dal, wash well and add a teaspoon of oil to reduce foaming.
3 Fry up your spices first in the same pan before you stick the lid on, rather than frying them up separately and adding them after the dish is cooked, as they will still taste raw.
4 Don’t shake the pan when the lid is on.
5 Release steam by gently lifting the weight on top with a long-handled wooden spoon and keep out of the way of the little vent holes.

Cooking Shortcuts THE SEARCH CONTINUES…
Alongside my quest for life-changing gadgets ran the search for food shortcuts. The attempt to make my own paneer started it. I curdled almost a gallon of milk but ended up with only a tiny block of too crumbly cheese. This was clearly the food equivalent of big box, little present. For a whole day’s work too – Google research included.
It hardly encouraged me to make my own coconut milk, garam masala, ghee or tomato purée. Ready-to-use ingredients form the basis of a multibillion-pound industry for good reason. I salute them. Particularly the ones that offer high quality and convenience. Sadly, some solutions – like ready-puréed ginger and garlic – don’t always make the cut. They can be more anaemic than the real thing. I keep a store-bought jar of each handy but if you have the time, these two ingredients are definitely worth fiddling over (see the box (#ulink_051971a4-5732-52e1-8b65-883277d7603d)).

MY FAVOURITE COOKING SHORTCUTS

Freshly frozen spinach and peas.

Frozen grated coconut (from any Oriental supermarket) and coconut milk.

Tinned chickpeas, black-eyed beans and kidney beans.

Ready-to-cook frozen parathas – both plain and stuffed with onion.

Ready-made chappatis/rotis.



THE TRUTH ABOUT MAKING GHEE
I would love to make ghee from scratch some day. But I couldn’t possibly recommend it. It takes 3 hours plus to make. My entire flat would then stink of grease for the rest of eternity. Far better just to stick to the bought stuff.

Simplify Meals
Back home in India, meals ranged from little snack platters to multi-course madness. The elaborate ones featured dal, a meat or fish curry, two vegetable side dishes served with papads, deep-fried shredded potatoes, salad and raita. These were served at weekends and extended family dinners.
Then there were the simple Indian meals, mainly for weekdays or weekend brunches. Like a lamb pulao with Kachumbar Raita. Or shallow-fried parathas stuffed with spiced carrots and served with a selection of pickles and thick natural yoghurt.
And finally, there were the intermittent snacks. The little nibbly things for when you came home famished from swimming lessons or drama classes. Like aloo tikkis and fish chops – little pan-fried croquettes served with coriander and mint chutney.
The same principles apply in my kitchen. Except that we like variety. So Indian curries are limited to two meals a week. My trick is to keep it simple when it’s just the two of us on a weekday. Choose one or two wholesome dishes and serve them up with something low fuss. For example:

Rice and lentil Khichdi (#litres_trial_promo) and crispy papads (see below)

Keema, vegetable dal and piping hot basmati (#ulink_032580b3-b484-56ec-a8c5-887788a4e852) rice (for a fail-safe recipe)

Paneer Bhujia (#litres_trial_promo) with toasted pitta bread

Masala Fish (#litres_trial_promo) and a green leaf salad

COOKING CRISPY PAPADS
For the best results, cook for 1 minute on high in the microwave. No need for a plate. If you don’t have a microwave, pop directly on the hob (gas or electric) for 1 minute, turning until evenly crispy on both sides.

Cooking two or more dishes at the same time calls for some dedication. So this I reserve for weekends when I push the boat out with a few additional dishes like raita or sabzi. This works wonders for when a friend pops in too. I might make:

Methi Murgh, Baingan Bharta (#litres_trial_promo) and Fluffy Basmati (#ulink_032580b3-b484-56ec-a8c5-887788a4e852) Rice

Chicken Jhalfrezi (#ulink_5e5fba20-e3ea-55af-8fc2-3f15d834355a), Anda Raita (#litres_trial_promo) and ready-made parathas

Bhuna Gosht, Spinach Dal and Jeera Pulao (see the box (#litres_trial_promo))
For dinner parties, it’s more of the same, with fancier recipes and a quick dessert. I cook a few dishes in advance in large quantities and either freeze them or keep them in the fridge. I then reheat them just before the meal, either in the oven or the microwave. The trick is to leave as little to do on the day as possible.
Larger crowds and wilder soirées call for clever thinking. The simplest thing to do, I’ve found, is to cook large batches of filling food. Little parcels, croquettes and other bits that need to be individually fashioned and then fried are definite no-nos. The ingredients of choice for me are chicken drumsticks, potatoes, vegetables and lentils that can be grilled or left to bake while I get pretty. Laid out with some homemade chutney and flatbread, they effortlessly make me the life and soul of the party.

Cooking Extra to Save Time in the Future
Cooking for eight in order to feed two is a sub-continental cultural phenomenon. Where I come from, it is customary to feel overwhelmed by hospitality and the vast quantities of food served. Who am I to disregard years of ritual overfeeding?
In fact, this time-honoured tradition works rather well for me. If I’m going to forgo speed-dialling my local Japanese takeaway, I want to savour the results more than just once.
This means I have a special relationship with Tupperware. I buy a lot of it but deplete most of my supply by drunkenly distributing doggy bags to guests after dinner parties. Then I start stockpiling them again. My fridge contains more Tupperware than food. There are boxes filled with half-used vegetables, leftover chopped tomatoes and fresh puréed ginger and garlic paste.
We eat our fill of what was cooked the day before. The remainder gets stashed away in the freezer for another day’s feast. I’ve worked out that you can freeze just about anything: dal, chicken curry, lamb curry and so on. But not cooked potatoes or rice. I learnt the hard way that they get horribly soggy when you defrost them at room temperature or in a microwave.
How long the stuff lasts in a freezer clearly depends on the appliance. In the knock-off, creaking freezer supplied by a penny-pinching landlord, I could wait about a month before sensibly emptying the contents of rock-solid Tupperware. In my glossy, second-hand Smeg, I give each frozen box about two months.
And each time, the food tastes even better defrosted and reheated. Firstly, because it’s the flavoursome leftovers (as explained on page (#u4b49c727-396b-4a18-84e0-8094d720f67e)). Secondly, because I didn’t have to cook it from scratch on a day when I simply didn’t have the energy to do so.

WHEN AND WHAT TO DRINK WITH INDIAN FOOD A CAUTIONARY TALE
When I gained enough confidence in the kitchen, I invited my colleagues for dinner. The drinks were flowing. Nerves (mine) were running high. I drank one glass of wine. Then another while they waited to be fed. Before I knew it, the room was spinning and the food looked as green as I felt.
Staying sober until the curry’s cooked is a difficult task. I tend to join the festivities prematurely. Which inevitably leads to last-minute, bleary-eyed panic.
The odd glass of alcoholic beverage while cooking curry is a must. It fills me with the confidence of a teenage Ferrari driver. But it’s hard to stop there. So when the pressure is on (i.e. my boss is waiting to be fed/colleagues are relying on my party snacks) I simply avoid drinking until the food’s on the table. And overcompensate for the abstinence later.
The tipple of choice is almost always a good-quality vodka or gin. Both are non-acidic, highly distilled, refreshingly smooth and go perfectly with a dash of tonic water and Indian food. Saying that, I also consume copious amounts of wine with curry. This is not always the best idea for food cooked with yoghurt, chillies and spices. Acidic, oaky or tannin-heavy varieties are best avoided, judging from my morning-after experiences. When in doubt, I read the labels. ‘Fruity’ and ‘easy to drink’ are the buzzwords to look out for.
There’s beer too. Which I know little about and avoid at all costs to save my gut from an expansive fate. When I’m buying it for guests, top choices are Asian varieties like Cobra, Kingfisher or Tiger beer. Works a treat every time.

BEFORE YOU START, REMEMBER THIS:

OIL COOKING IN A PAN WILL SIZZLE AGAINST A WOODEN SPOON WHEN IT IS HOT AND READY FOR YOUR INGREDIENTS.

INDIAN FOOD SMELLS GREAT BUT NOT ON YOU OR YOUR FURNITURE. PROTECT YOURSELF!

WHACK UP THE HEAT AND STIR LIKE A MANIAC TO PREVENT FOOD FROM BURNING.

IF THE INGREDIENTS GET STUCK TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAN, ADD A BIT OF HOT WATER AND SCRAPE THEM OFF.

TRY NOT TO GET DRUNK AND PASS OUT BEFORE DINNER IS READY.


2. (#ulink_8a04053e-b478-5943-9a05-109a205f4415)
PERFECT IN NO TIME (#ulink_8a04053e-b478-5943-9a05-109a205f4415)
Quick recipes for when you’d rather not be in the kitchen (#ulink_8a04053e-b478-5943-9a05-109a205f4415)
Miss Masala.


YET ANOTHER CLIENT CRISIS, the biggest new business pitch ever and two long meetings. Being part PR consultant and part domestic goddess can be hard going. Still sitting at my desk at eight in the evening, editing version 25 of what was once an interesting report on a riveting subject, I was considering professional suicide with one quick e-mail.
Dear client, I began, much as I would like to spend the rest of my life editing your insightful document, I no longer have the will to continue. And then, the cleaners arrived. It was a sign from above. My brain entered meltdown mode. I pressed delete and started wondering what to cook for dinner as I grabbed my coat, dashed outside and flagged down a taxi on the street.
All I needed now to unwind was an uneventful ride home and a hearty Indian meal. It’s at moments like this that I am tempted to call the local Spice-Tandoori-Balti-Taj-Mahal-Whatever. For anything with chilli and turmeric in it. That I don’t have to cook myself.
Time seems almost always to be in short supply in my life. Cooking Indian food has to jostle for pride of place in a topsy-turvy week of client deadlines, unexpected guests and last-minute plans with friends. Days are mostly spent planning evenings out with close friends at cocktail bars, restaurants or nightclubs. And then recovering from them.
There is a time and a place for elaborate cooking. Busy weekdays and social weekends most definitely aren’t it. But masala cravings can make me do terrible things. I have ghastly memories of midnight meals. Gammon steaks wrapped in ready-frozen parathas. Soda bread soaked in mango pickle. Cringe-worthy failed attempts to cook dal when drunk. I’ve even come this close to trying out an Australian colleague’s recipe for curry porridge.
The sensible thing to do, of course, is to cook oneself something when sober and wide awake. Something requiring minimum effort but with maximum result. A wholesome, healthy dish that uses fridge-ready ingredients and takes no more than half an hour from preparation to plate.
I’m talking protein-rich vegetable dal, a comforting pulao or some bhuna chicken with salad. All cooked in extra quantities to provide sustenance before and after a booze-fuelled evening, or simply frozen for busy days to come and other desperate moments.
I racked my brains for inspiration as I flopped on to the taxi seat.The back of a black cab is usually where I pause to think and take stock. Make calendar notes of birthdays. Return overdue phone calls. Painfully remind myself of the meagre contents of the fridge.
And then the friendly driver interrupted my reverie:
‘Are you Welsh?’
Here we go again …
‘Indian? You speak very good English?’
It might have been the years of the Raj that clinched it.
‘I love curry. Madras is my favourite.’
At which point, I flung away my CrackBerry and launched into an impassioned monologue about real Indian food. While I was at it, I handed out a 10-minute lesson in Indian history and chucked in some quick Indian cooking tips for good measure. The driver humoured me as we turned into my street.
The lecturing got me thinking. Madras and phal may be figments of the Western culinary imagination (refer to rant (#ulink_d7a18dfe-8295-5c94-83ff-fb894bc67c27)), but some truly authentic dishes have infiltrated British curry-house fare. And not all of them take hours of preparation and stirring. Just the way I like it.

Chicken Jhalfrezi (#ulink_bc324be2-fa26-5e4a-988c-a69eeaca8dea)
Pan-fried chicken with fresh green peppers
Chicken Jhalfrezi is a personal favourite. Literally meaning ‘chilli fried’, a jhalfrezi is an Indian stir-fry. Flummoxed? So was I when I saw the curry-house version – limp green peppers swimming in a watery marinade.
This recipe really is worth dragging the beastly Ken Hom wok from the dark underbelly of my kitchen cabinet. I set it on a high heat. Fry up lean chicken and strips of pepper and onion with the tiniest amount of oil. Rip open a bag of fresh watercress and rocket to serve it on. And say a quiet thanks for chatty cabbies.
Feeds 4
4 skinless chicken thigh fillets
4 tbsp low-fat natural yoghurt
1 tbsp tomato purée
1 tsp turmeric powder

/
tsp chilli powder
2 tbsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 medium onions
1 large tomato
2 green peppers
1 tbsp oil

/
tsp garlic paste
1 tsp ginger paste
1 tsp garam masala
25g (1oz) fresh coriander, roughly chopped
salt
1. Slice the chicken into strips and soak it in the yoghurt, tomato purée, turmeric and chilli, adding the lemon juice for extra zing. While it’s marinating, peel the onions and slice these plus the tomato and green peppers into 1cm (
/
in) wide slices.
2. Warm the oil in a wok or large frying pan set over a high heat. When it sizzles, fry the onions and garlic and ginger pastes for 2–3 minutes until softened.
3. Now add the chicken, with its marinade, and stir vigorously for 5 minutes until the meat is sealed evenly. Throw in the tomato slices and keep cooking and stirring over a high heat for about 5 minutes.
4. Finally, toss in the green peppers and garam masala. Cover the wok/pan with a tight-fitting lid and cook for a further 2 minutes until the peppers soften and the chicken has absorbed its yoghurt marinade.
5. Stir in the coriander, add salt to taste and serve the chicken piled high on a bed of mixed green salad leaves tossed with fresh lemon juice, salt and chilli powder.

HOMEMADE GINGER AND GARLIC PASTES
OKAY, HERE’S THE TRUTH.
The one thing I keep failing to achieve is jars of fresh, lovingly prepared homemade ginger and garlic paste. I usually purée the amount I need for a recipe just before I get started. One fat clove of garlic and 1cm (
/
in) root ginger gives approximately 2 teaspoons of ginger-garlic paste when puréed with 1 tablespoon of water.
Jars of store-bought garlic and ginger pastes are a permanent fixture in my fridge for those exceptionally lazy days. If you can be slightly more organised than me, by all means make your own. Twelve fat garlic cloves peeled and puréed in a hand blender with 2 tablespoons of water will give you 12 teaspoons of garlic paste. For ginger, 15cm (6in) peeled root ginger puréed with 2 tablespoons of water will give you about 12 teaspoons of the paste. Seal them tight in well-washed and thoroughly dried glass jars (I reuse empty ginger and garlic paste bottles) and use for up to four days, keeping them in the fridge.

TO MARINATE OR NOT TO MARINATE
Leaving meat to sit for hours is not absolutely essential, but the longer you give it, the more flavoursome and tender it becomes. Plan shopping trips, makeup application and household chores to take place after you’ve whipped up the marinade, to make best use of time.

Aloo Gobi (#ulink_4e120cbe-78df-565c-82da-335854333fe2)
Famous sautéed potato and cauliflower


Aloo Gobi was immortalised in Gurinder Chadha’s Bend It Like Beckham. My mother, unlike her counterpart in the film, would have me turning professional footballer any day over queen of authentic Aloo Gobi. Thankfully, I don’t play football. Which means I am free to hold forth in the back of black cabs, extolling the virtues of this celebrated north Indian dish.
A classic bhuna or stirred dish, Aloo Gobi is cooked in its own juices and best made with the freshest vegetables. Serve it tucked into warm toasted pitta bread.
Feeds 4 Vegetarian
400g (14oz) cauliflower
4 large new potatoes
1 small onion
1cm (
/
in) root ginger
1 garlic clove
2 tbsp oil
1 tsp coriander powder
1 tsp cumin powder

/
tsp turmeric powder

/
tsp chilli powder
1 tsp garam masala
1 large handful of fresh coriander, roughly chopped
salt
1. First cut the cauliflower into large bite-sized florets. This will prevent them from falling apart once they start cooking. Peel and quarter the potatoes and peel and finely chop the onion, ginger and garlic.
2. Warm the oil in a large frying pan set over a high heat. When it starts to sizzle, add the onions, garlic and ginger and fry for about 5 minutes until they soften and turn translucent. Next, throw in the potatoes and all the spices, apart from the garam masala.
3. Add a tablespoon of water, cover the pan with a lid and partly cook the potatoes for 5–10 minutes. When you can insert a fork into them, but with some difficulty, it’s time to add the cauliflower florets. It’s crucial not to add the cauliflower too early, however – you don’t want it to overcook!
4. Once you’ve added the cauliflower, stir well to incorporate with the other ingredients, cover the pan once again and cook for 3–4 minutes until the florets are soft but still whole.
5. Sprinkle the garam masala all over, add salt to taste and finish with a handful of chopped coriander.

Palak Paneer (#ulink_bd902ea1-c66f-5c24-b2bc-fc19c180d2c0)
Indian cheese in a spiced spinach purée
By far the most popular recipe on my blog, and it’s no surprise why: soft chunks of paneer and spiced spinach purée are a match made in heaven and the last thing I will eat if I ever find myself on the way to hell.
Fresh spinach works just fine in this recipe. But why bother, when freshly frozen spinach is more nutritious and is almost always sitting in a big bag in the freezer. Make loads in one go – you’ll crave this for at least two days afterwards.
Feeds 4 Vegetarian
225g (8oz) paneer

/
tsp turmeric powder

/
tsp chilli powder
1 medium onion
4 garlic cloves
2.5cm (1in) root ginger
2 tbsp oil
1 large fresh green finger chilli
1 tsp cumin powder
500g (1lb 2oz) frozen spinach

/
tsp garam masala
salt
1. Chop the block of paneer into even, bite-sized pieces. In a large bowl, mix the paneer pieces with the turmeric and chilli and a teaspoon of salt, then set aside.
2. Now, peel and roughly chop the onion, then peel and purée the ginger and garlic with a hand blender. Pour the oil into a large non-stick frying pan and set over a high heat. When the oil is hot, add the paneer and fry on one side until golden brown and then flip the pieces over and repeat on the opposite side. Remove the paneer with a slotted spoon and place back in the bowl.
3. In the same frying pan and using the oil left in the pan, fry the onions, ginger and garlic. While these are cooking, roughly chop the chilli. When the onions start going translucent, after about 5 minutes, mix in the cumin and the chilli. Fry for a further 5 minutes until the mixture turns a deep golden brown.
4. Now mix in the frozen spinach and let it cook for 5 minutes. When it is thoroughly defrosted in the pan and evenly mixed with the masala, add half a mug of hot water and go in with a hand blender to liquidise the whole lot into a smooth, creamy mixture. Alternatively, you could whiz the spinach in a food processor for the same result.
5. When the spinach mixture is smooth, pour it back into the pan, then add the fried paneer pieces and the garam masala. Lower the heat and simmer for 10 minutes until all the liquid has evaporated and the spinach has absorbed the spices evenly (taste a little just to check).
6. At this point, add salt to taste. You’ll need to add a fair bit to offset the blandness of the spinach. But this dish is worth it. Eat it piping hot as a side dish or with some ready-made naans for a complete meal.


I ARRIVED HOME FROM WORK FEELING INSPIRED. Ready to roll my sleeves up and set the pots on the fire. But it’s never quite that simple. I first had to change into a retro nightdress (for which, read ‘old, torn’), pour myself a vodka lemonade and fire up the laptop. The urgent pleas of desperate new converts to Indian cooking around the world required an immediate response on my Quick Indian Cooking blog:
Help, I have no raisins! Done.
Do you have a single sister? Ignore.
Would you like to enlarge your penis? Bin.
Before I knew it, it was time for dinner. The options were limited. Since my university days, I’ve avoided greasy takeaways like a double helping of lard. So we could eat one of the three dishes my man had perfected. Or something low in fat and high in wonderful things I hastily offered to put together instead.
But this just wasn’t good enough for some people. My half-British, half-Peruvian man is apparently a qualified authority on everything curry-related. Now he was hungry and smarting from rejection. Between quick cigarette drags out on the balcony, he slunk around in my shadow, watching my every move. Whacking the flame up when I wasn’t looking. Or chucking an extra green chilli into the bubbling pot.
I exploded momentarily. Then rolled my eyes and poured myself another stiff drink. Food would be ready soon. Gok Wan was about to take on the new season’s fashion trends. Kitchen squabbles will pass, I reminded myself. All I needed now was a plate of food and a remote control.
The man sensed a power struggle. He piled his plate high with whatever was in the pot and rushed to the couch, clutching the remote for dear life. Then I heard a wail of protest from the living room: ‘There’s no ghee in this!’ Turned out this curry-loving, Cobra Beer-drinking Latino is also a superlative judge of the adequate level of fat in dal.
Fat and health are serious issues in my home. Most Indians I know speak of cholesterol, high blood pressure and adult acne with the reverence ordinarily reserved for national security and socio-economic issues. My family home in India was particularly full of health freaks. Mother kept cooking oil under lock and key. Our cook, Dada, schemed to sneak vegetables into every dish. Dad treated deep-fried foods like post-war rations. And even the dog rejected red meat.
I value my size eight bod too much to feel otherwise. Besides, I also work in public relations. The office is full of gorgeous blondes on size-zero diets. Bread and bananas are conspicuously absent. The beauties to my right pay daily tribute to the canned tuna and bagged salad industries. With my two-course curry lunches and chocolate biscuit habits, a few teaspoons of oil is the only guilty pleasure I can afford at home.
I use measured amounts of oil in everyday Indian cooking. Deep-frying is strictly banned in my home. Where it offers a suitable alternative to shallow-frying, I bake or grill dishes. But call me weak; I just can’t resist a dash of sublime buttery ghee in a pot of thick, piping-hot dal.
Now, I was being accused of playing miser with that promised teaspoon of liquid gold. I briefly contemplated knocking the man out with the can of ghee. Luckily for him, it was too much effort for me. I sighed and curled up on the couch with my own mound of well-deserved dinner. Ready to watch Gok Wan’s pearls of fashion wisdom on TV. Ready for the rest.

COOKING OILS
LOVE IT OR HATE IT,
YOU CAN’T COOK INDIAN FOOD WITHOUT OIL.
When I started cooking while studying for my journalism degree, I failed spectacularly to make Indian food using miniscule quantities of oil. It was devastating to accept that I’d be old and wrinkled before three onions would fry in one teaspoon of oil. So I compromised by using non-stick pans and as little oil as was necessary to cook the food properly. At the time my journalism tutors joked: ‘Never believe anything written in newspapers.’ I haven’t quite followed this sound advice. Some article glorified the health benefits of sunflower oil and I’ve used it in Indian cooking ever since.
In truth, I could use any flavourless, colourless variety of oil that has a high smoking point, such as corn, groundnut or safflower oil. These are what I recommend for my recipes unless I specify otherwise. There’s also coconut oil, used widely in south India, and mustard oil, popular in Bengal. But I use these only occasionally. Mainly because I can never find storage space for them in my kitchen cupboards.
And finally, there’s olive oil.
A contentious choice – fast becoming most fashionable in India. But let me ask you, would you cook a pasta dish with mustard oil? Or a roast dinner in coconut oil? Besides, olive oil loses its famous delicate flavour when heated to the high temperatures needed for Indian cooking, and it costs a bomb. So wrong on so many levels. Best avoided for curries, I say.

Tadka Dal (#ulink_8d9bfb27-39d4-5825-8821-331dec6f9e08)
Buttery lentils with vegetables and sizzling cumin
Dal and rice is easily the simplest and healthiest Indian meal to cook. Masoor dal, or split red lentils, are my all-time favourite because they cook quickly and are readily available in virtually any supermarket or corner shop.
High protein content aside, this is the ultimate comfort food. Think hangover cure meets warm soft cuddle. This dish is incomplete without the tablespoon of ghee that makes it so sublimely buttery. Just chuck in some raw peas, carrots and cauliflower to appease your guilty conscience.
Feeds 4 Vegetarian
200g (7oz) masoor (split red) lentils

/
tsp turmeric powder
1 large tomato
200g (7oz) chopped raw vegetables, such as green beans, carrots, peas and cauliflower
1 tbsp ghee
1 pinch of asafoetida
2 dried long red chillies

/
tsp chilli powder
1 tsp cumin seeds
salt
1. Wash the lentils under a cold tap until the water runs clean. In a medium pan, mix these with the turmeric, then add twice as much cold water as lentils and bring to the boil. Once the water starts bubbling rapidly, lower the heat to medium. Stir the lentils every 5 minutes to prevent them from settling on the bottom or sides of the pan.
2. Watch the pan, skimming off any foam that rises to the surface. If the lentils threaten to boil over, take the pan off the heat for a few seconds. If they have soaked up all the water, add a half mug of hot water to keep the mixture fluid.
3. After about 20 minutes, the lentils will slowly disintegrate and resemble a fibrous soup. When this happens, roughly chop the tomato and add it to the pan, stirring over the heat for about 5 minutes until the tomato starts to melt into the lentils. Now stir in the raw vegetables that you are using. They’ll cook with the lentils, sealing their natural goodness in the dal.
4. Stir gently for about 10 more minutes until the vegetables are done and the lentils have formed a thick, golden-yellow soup. Add salt to taste and leave to simmer over a low heat while you make the tadka.
5. Warm the ghee on a high heat in the smallest pan you possess. When it starts to sizzle, add the asafoetida, long red chillies, chilli powder and cumin seeds. Within seconds, the spices will start spluttering and releasing their heady aromas. Take the pan off the heat and stir the tadka into the lentil mixture.
6. Pour the piping-hot dal over fluffy basmati rice and enjoy with mango pickle and papads.



INTRODUCING AJWAIN
AJWAIN, or carom fruit pods, resemble little greyish seeds and add a pungent and slightly bitter tangy edge to dishes. They are an essential pickling spice and taste lovely sprinkled sparingly over summer salads.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/mallika-basu/miss-masala/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.