Quick Indian Cooking

I know I said no more dinner parties. But rules are meant to be broken. Three separate groups of four each don’t one big dinner party make. And feeding hungry students in December is more Christmas charity less entertaining.

So I invited my sister and her three closest mates over for dinner. That’s two three Bengali girls and one Punjabi boy, who is a recent convert to quick Indian cooking. None had eaten since end of November in anticipation of the feast.

I was set to impress with the trendy-but-domestic sister act. I cooked all the food in advance. Popped it into pyrex glass dishes ready to reheat the oven. The table was laid. The man taught me how to spin itunes to provide choons for the evening.

It was all going swimmingly. I couldn’t get itunes to work initially. When I finally worked it out, I set it on non-stop party playlist. A safe choice. What could go wrong? Ne-Yo. Tick. Mika. Tick. Beyonce. Tick.

And then Pump up the Jam. That’s 1989! I jumped out of my chair and lunged towards the imac. Just in time to prevent Madonna from breaking into a 1983 rendition of Holiday.

Pride in tatters, I turned to the food. We ate Kosha Mangsho, Cholar dal, Beguni with Kumro Chokka, a deceptively simple sweet and spicy pumpkin stir fry with little black chick peas. It’s cooked with a classic Bengali five spice mix called Panch Phoron.

I chose pumpkin because they are so in season. They cook in a jiffy. And I’m also sick of pumpkin soup. Luckily for my cool credentials, they also turned out to be the biggest hit of the evening.
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The festive season has started with a bang. Not one to do things by halves, I went to two parties on Saturday night.

The first was a spookily quiet house party. The second, an Irish birthday bash at a new Covent Garden cocktail lounge.

I thawed in the living room at the first stop. Teeth chattering from the big Arctic freeze outside. And then I got involved in a slagging match over a male friend’s hideously-inappropriate party attire of ski boots.

He defended his patch: They’re manly.

I couldn’t believe my ears. Try stepping out in freezing weather in a lace off-the-shoulder dress in the style of Victoria Beckham, silver kitten heels and no socks. Now that’s balls!

And off I went to the madness of central London. This time in a cab to protect the block of ice that once served me well as toes.

To celebrate the start of the jolly season, I cooked a lavish vegetarian main dish that knocks the socks off a plain ingredient. This is Bandh Gobhi Massallam, a whole cabbage smothered in a nutty curry and baked until tender.

Moist, creamy and utterly divine, this party accessory won’t draw any undesired attention.
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I’ve been outed. Shortly after the Frankfurt book fair, an Indian magazine announced my other big news.

My mad ramblings, irreverent rants and quick recipes are to be published into a lifestyle/narrative cookbook by HarperCollins titled “Miss Masala”.

Of course this being journalism, they got two out of three facts wrong. I write a Quick Indian Cooking food blog. True. I live in the US. False. I am the obese spoon-wielding aunty in a cotton sari depicted by the resident cartoonist. Gross misrepresentation!

Still, it’s far better than the tepid response from some of my family members. Gran and dad take it in turns to claim I inherited the skill from them. On his recent trip, dad responded disbelievingly at the meal I cooked for him. And even asked me if I knew what “blanching” meant.

Thank god I have publishing glory to look forward to. Even though the book won’t hit the shops until March 2010. Watch this space.

In the meantime, here’s a Tamatar Shorba or Mughlai-style Indian tomato soup recipe requested by one of my readers. I’ll spare you too much sentimentality, but I wouldn’t be here without you lot, yadi yadi yada…  Just please start saving to buy my book!
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Once a year I grudgingly give up a Saturday evening, dress up in full traditional garb and drive out to the middle of nowhere for a charity Indian dinner and dance.

All for the benefit of a new hospital in Kolkata. The toothy grin on my ageing former local guardian. And a lavish Indian dinner.

I extracted five metres of thick, South Indian silk from the top wardrobe shelf. Self mutilated myself forcing lurid burnt gold bangles down my wrist. All while remaining outwardly chirpy to egg on the miserable suit-fearing man.

We got there just about on time. As I shuffled through the lobby like a subcontinental geisha, a little girl squealed: “Look daddy, a princess.” And everyone turned to look at me.

This freak theme is a recurring one lately.

I quickly posed for a photograph with her and started moving towards the reception. The Indian canapes were running out with every wasted second. I came across a platter of spring rolls. Then salmon blinis. And then the bombshell.

Tonight, people, we are having a three-course traditional British dinner. I choked on my mini fishcake as uncle delivered the blow. I’d greeted half the aunties. I couldn’t run away now.

I pulled the pregnancy card after dessert and made for the exit. The next day, I feasted on Diwali leftover Dahi Wale Aloo, a supermarket mini naan and some delicious Khanum lime pickle from the box of treats they sent me.

Hardly any effort but worth every minute this time.

PS = I used new potatoes to save peeling time. But by all means use cubed white potatoes…
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