Quick Indian Cooking

Something unusual happened to me recently. A new friendship turned ugly. Nasty accusations got made. Yours truly got to play chief antagonist in a real-life Lindsay Lohan drama.

Normally, I’d take a whiff and move on. But my testosterone levels have sunk to record lows lately. I blame motherhood. So I cried copious tears, while cradling a bottle of vino and ranting down the phone to an unsuspecting close friend.

A whole hour later I realised the poor man had slid off to watch TV. Not wishing to bother him with my theatrics, I plonked myself on the sofa pleasantly enquiring about the sword-wielding blonde gracing the silver screen.

It’s Kill Bill, he said. A movie about a woman who is betrayed by everyone she loves and trusts. Cue: more floods of tears followed by a prompt end to the day.

Sometimes in life you need things that just work. Like unconditional love. Solid friendships. Trusted kitchen appliances. Failsafe recipes. The things that you care for dearly. That take anything you throw at them. Last forever. And can be relied upon come rain or shine.

This recipe is one that has survived through thick and thin with me. Quick dinner for sister. Check. Lunch for toddler playdate. Check. Centre piece for dinner party. Check check. I’ve left the peas out once, taken the tomatoes out another time and used yoghurt instead, mixed in some fresh coriander and each time the result is tremendous.

The trick is to cook the rice separately while the prawn masala bubbles away and then mix the two together. This is cheating, of course (this isn’t), but it speeds up the cooking time dramatically and the end result is almost foolproof in its fluffy perfection.

To be eaten with true friends and plain yoghurt. Naturally.
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It’s official. Home cooked Indian equals free babysitting volunteers.

Front row London Fashion Week: Curry.

Birthday party in neighbourhood local: Curry.

When sis offered her services for an old friend’s shock wedding I knew I had to pull the stops out.

I made for the farmer’s market. Followed by lunch in a Polish caf with mini Basu, the man, his crazy younger bro and friends.  Then made a pit stop into a boutique to buy an entire outfit for the evening. While mini Basu slobbered on the season’s latest polyester offerings. The bro offered unsolicited fashion advice and the man faked a fainting spell.

Luckily, the recipe wasn’t going to finish me off altogether. Durga Puja, the annual Bengali religious calendar event was on. The dish was going to an old family favourite – Maacher Jhol – the famous Bengali fish curry.

Aromatic and light, it didn’t render me fishy. Sis said it made her teary – with happiness. Bro declared it was the best fish he had ever tasted. Both offered endless nights of babysitting.

It pays to cook Indian. Quite.
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Thanks for the lovely wishes. But I am not going all Earth Mother yet people!

Life hasn’t changed very much since the big discovery. The first three things that came to mind were stretch marks, weight gain and childcare (in no particular order).

I immediately invited hubby and and myself over to our Parsi neighbour’s for dinner. A shoe entrepreneur and mother of two tiny tearaways, she is grand dame of the great art of parenting delegation.

While we talked shoes and nannies, her daughter clambered all over me. As we moved on to discussing Parsi recipes I started being pelted with cashewnut missiles, which landed all over my freshly-washed hair.

My neighbour carried on unnerved. This is war, I wanted to scream and hurl a few almonds myself.

Instead, I turned and gave hubby a nervous look, is it too late?

He responded with a pale smile, I told you so.

Thankfully bedtime arrived and we were left in wonderful silence to enjoy dinner. My neighbour kindly lent me her mother’s 101 Parsi Cookbook. I recreated the oil free Patra Ni Macchi we ate – fish marinated in coconut and herbs steamed in banana leaf parcels – for a raucous dinner with friends at home later.

That, thankfully, I could cope with. 
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The weekend started with an elaborate dinner party. Not my own, this time.

I sat around doing nothing. Feasting on Ostrich steak and home made apple strudel. Every offer of washing up, cooking and tidying being brutally rejected.

I felt stuffed. Indulged. Empty.

Three further consecutive meals out and I simply had to reinstate myself in the kitchen with a reassuringly fiddly though easy recipe.

Fish fry is what I settled on – a traditionally deep fried, spicy, breaded fish fillet. In my kitchen, they would be grilled.

So I changed into a comfy pair of shorts, took one last look at my fluorescent manicured fingernails and plunged into an assembly line of fish marinade and coatings.

Ten minutes of dipping, patting and 20 minutes of grilling and felt complete again. Now, when’s my next dinner party?
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