Quick Indian Cooking

Just as I was leaving home for yoga, my neighbour invited me to join her BBQ in our communal garden.

Normally, I am the focused, sensible sort. But given a choice between dangling my legs mid air and watching succulent cuts of meat cook outdoors, I knew which way to go.

I fretted all the way to the yoga class. Sulked as the instructor didn’t show on time. Then 20 minutes of waiting, I hurried home via the supermarket praising divine intervention.

In an ideal world I would get more notice for a BBQ. But this is Britain. We don’t notice we’ve had summer until it’s long gone.

Carpe Diem!

I slashed a few chicken drumsticks and smothered them with a roasted cumin marinade. Made a rice pulao to accompany it. Shoved the whole lot with a jar of mango pickle into a large Selfridge’s bag and dashed downstairs before the flames went out.

The mini meal was a big success. I’m waiting for my next invitation. Hopefully, before summer runs out.

PS= They ate the whole lot before I could photograph the food. I had to cook it again and grill the lot. Your BBQ version will be a lot darker (from the charcoal) and drier (ditto). But it will taste delicious anyway.

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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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The champagne went in the fridge. The quality lamb was acquired. The stage was set for the mid-week girly dinner. Now I needed a recipe to really wow the girls on a Wednesday night.

I chose to dust off one of my Indian cookbooks.

Now, Indian cookbooks are objects of great desire in my home. I purchase many. Mainly to see the spines lined up on the bookshelf. Occasionally I leaf through each recipe. Ogle over the full page of ingredients required. And then stick it back on the shelf.

This time, I decided to put one to better use. Out came this one. It was the photos of the whacky chef with elephants in South India that first attracted me.

But ultimately it was his sister’s recipe for Gosht Kali Mirch or Lamb with Black Pepper that clinched it.

The recipe was simple, used (comparatively) few ingredients and so delicious that I had to restrain myself from eating it all immediately. Not for the faint hearted or chilli challenged mind you.

We’ll see if the girls leave it on the shelf.
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Answer this. What’s the point of all this self-styled, know-it-all banter and cooking if I can’t give a professional total hell from time to time?

So I take to any brief respites from my kitchen with great aplomb. Scanning the restaurant menu for dishes I would hesitate to cook at home. Ordering everything my heart desires. Protesting vehemently about discrepancies in the food/service/ambience.

My third dinner out this week and I was ready to exercise my self-bestowed rights. But just as I was about to tuck into the Beef and Foie Gras Gyoza’s at my friend’s chi chi new restaurant this week, my stomach gave up on me.

I was really looking forward to those dumplings. Instead, I was bundled into a black cab, while cursing poetic justice, and sent home.

Revenge is a dish best served cold they say. Now I had to soothe myself with a cooling treat from the quick Indian staple – the South Indian Curd Rice.

Back in India, this was standard lunch on blindingly hot summer days or when you didn’t feel quite right. Fresh, full of flavour and idiot proof – it’ll mend bruised pride and a raging inside in no time at all.

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