Quick Indian Cooking

We took our first well-deserved break this year. A road trip to a family wedding. Not far from Glasgow – the curry capital of Scotland.

Mini Basu was strapped squawking into the back of a Mercedes. I shoved the contents of our entire apartment into the rest of the car. Got some white Versace sunglasses and shiny wedge-heeled wellies on. And off we went.  Driving towards three days of fresh air.

It was going so well there. Until I asked an old friend, if the lady of a certain age accompanying him was his mother. No, he replied, she’s my girlfriend.

I am happy to report that Shimla is officially the most popular curry house and takeaway name in the small towns in Ayrshire. In fact, so popular is this stuff, that the chef’s Sunday night special at Irvine’s oldest pub (and nicest) was a Lamb Rogan Josh with Spiced Rice.

Made me crave the subtly-spiced Adraki Gosht, or gingered lamb, I’d once cooked for our financial adviser. I sang its praises before lunch until he declared he hates ginger. With Spring well in the air, and quality lamb about, I’ll happily eat this along with my words any day.
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I’ve done some stupid things in my time. But this last month has taken the biscuit. I’ve:

Left my makeup bag and spectacles in the back of a black cab

Burnt mini Basu’s creative casserole and other gourmet offerings to crisp

Conducted a branding workshop for 22 senior corporate executives with my fly undone

Now, there’s Chinese food on an Indian cooking blog.

Bear with me. I’m a big fan of Chinese cooking. We eat Dim Sum every weekend. But Chindian is short for Indian Chinese. Originally from the Hakka Chinese community in India, with a bit of masala thrown in for good measure.

It’s all in honour of a dear friend and fellow blogger Ann Mah, whose literary debut Kitchen Chinese launched this week. The Hakka Noodle and Chilli Chicken combo fed my video guru, man and me last night. I can’t wait to get some brain cells back to read about the real thing!
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So what does it feel like being back at work?

Wonderful. I bought a new pair of four-inchers and the shortest tulip dress I could find.

Hello intellectual emancipation.

Not that I didn’t make the best possible use of maternity leave. I researched the purchase of Mini Basu’s every toy, wardrobe essentials, equipment with the fervour usually reserved for groundbreaking client reports. I shook in my shoe boots as I read the latest baby management techniques. For the third time over. Mostly, I bonded with the little fiend. Wooden spoons, I am proud to report, are her favourite kitchen gadgets.

Six month’s later, I was tripping over myself to get back into the real world. Heartless me! It’s clearly okay to be asked why I don’t want to spend more time at home with mini Basu. It’s clearly not okay to wonder why one would want to embrace soiled nappies instead of a well-deserved promotion. Or am I being unreasonable?

It’s not easy. Racing home to see mini Basu, feeling guilty most of the time, about mostly everything. Still, I think I’m lucky to live in a world where I can make the choice.

I choose rushing around. And moist Aloo Keema, or lean mincement with potatoes, tucked into a pitta bread. Something different to an every day spag bol supper.
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Nothing like a last minute holiday. Mini Basu tucked into one arm, oversized summer tote draped on the other it was time to terrorise other passengers on a long haul Kolkata flight.

It was all going so well. Until we returned via Dubai. I arrived at the departure gate. Baby intact. Outfit in place. Handbag missing.

Disaster. All those valuables. That lucky lipgloss! The irreplaceable Chanel sunglasses! A brand new, albeit empty, Coccinelle wallet!

Luckily, the man had the passports and boarding cards. We jumped on the flight back to London. Mini Basu played merrily with the crew. While I mourned the loss of my precious belongings.

I wasted no time on my return. I ranted and raved at Dubai airport police. Someone stole my handbag. The sunglasses were like no other. The bag was almost new. And when I stopped for breath, they announced it had been found in the last coffee shop I had visited. All contents intact.

This called for celebration. I remembered seeing a decadent recipe for Nalli Gosht, or lamb shank curry, in an old copy of Indian GQ. Contributed by a hotel chef it had the prerequisite cream, butter et al. In my version, you can shove the whole lot into the oven and finish off the curry by running it through a sieve. I ditched the cream, but a small amount of butter really crowned this beauty.

At just over an hour, it’s on my uppermost limit of quick Indian cooking. But I defended my choice by having ample time to make Jeera Pulao, Kulfi and raita for my small dinner party while the lamb did its thing in the oven. You could, of course, cook this on the hob but the shanks will take at least an hour and a half to soften, while you turn them at regular intervals.
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