Amidst the chaos, this blog turned six.

Yes. Six years ago over a few bevvies, a drunken conversation and the back of a beermat sketch, the idea was born. I would write about the food I love and the life I live. In the vain hope that I might inspire someone to try their hand at proper Indian cooking, in between the craziness of life.

Life was different in many ways then. Married, but with no kids. Work, with all the time to relax after. I braved each pan of sizzling cumin, burnt aubergine and mis-shapen roti with vengeance and a gin and slimline.

By now I should technically be on top of the world. A semi-expert in the art of decidedly idiot-proof Indian cooking. So I decided to take a stab at making Sandesh, a Bengali smooth cheese sweet that just melts in the mouth pronounced Shon-Dashe. Normally, you would make your own paneer and then loving roll, gently saute and fashion these.

In the spirit of this blog, I bought three packs of paneer instead. First pack, I overcooked to death. Which resulted in what was meant to be Makha Sandesh, turn into sweet shavings of plastic. That then got binned post haste.

The second pack, I didn’t quite cook enough. Which made me wonder what the hell I was doing trying to make Sandesh at home anyway. So I stuck the whole lot into evaporated milk and created a cheat’s version of Channar Payesh instead, a decadent paneer-based dessert that would be a perfect ending to an Indian feast.

I spooned it into little bowls and mini Basu decorated them with sprinkles of cardamom powder and almonds. The third pack of paneer will be turned into a weekday meal that can be scooped up with store bought rotis! Some things will never change, although some things irrevocably have. Thank you for being a part of this wonderful journey.

PS = Thanks Sia for the reminder! Life without you crazy fellow bloggers would be a very dull place…

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Friday mornings are stressful.  I have the gargantuan task of getting two toddlers ready. For someone who has survived a 12-year career in Corporate PR, this is quite an admission.

Mini Basu is 3.5. Her favourite colours are the colours of the rainbow. Mostly pink. Pink is not a colour in the rainbow. No matter. Micro Mini Basu is almost 2. He is learning to speak. Mostly repeat renditions of “go away” and “don’t want it”. Accompanied by the odd kick in the shins/smack in the face type stuff.

Believe me when I say I would rather re-live weekly the pitch presentation to an angry mob of prospective clients I once had the misfortune to experience.

In the midst of all this, I have to also get dressed. Now this normally would not make a blind bit of difference. I am, after all, going to a nursery. I could wear a frikkin chicken costume and the bleary eyed parents would not notice. But I have discovered some clients live dangerously near me.

To make matters worse, I have a glamorous cooking avatar to live up to. Or something.  (If anyone mentions the word “supermum” I will come after you with a sharp knife and a lurid plastic shovel…)

Last week, I hit a new low. Dropping the kids off, I decided to make Cabbage Parathas for our brunch together. Those who know me, know well that I hate sticky dough with a vengeance. But a few weeks of blog redesigning has revealed an abysmal record of the brunch dishes I cook.

So several parathas later, I dropped into nursery with turmeric-stained nails, hair in a top knot and the vague aroma of Ajwain about me. And lo behold I spotted a leopard-print legginged, leather jacket and red lipstick wearing mum of darling toddler. Wafting around the grounds like she had just stumbled out of bed looking like Venus Divine.

I was about to mumble a banned grown up bad word under my breath, when I heard her introduce herself as Georgina’s godmother. So that explains that. I told mini Basu we had parathas for brunch and it took little other persuasion to get both of us skipping back home together. Good thing they didn’t notice the sneaky cabbage in the parathas!

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I have started writing my second book.

Well. Maybe “started” is a bit strong. I have written two paragraphs, the first of which begins with “oh shit”. This one is going to be an international bestseller.

I blame a life devoid of any form of creative reading whatsoever. Last month’s Vogue at the hairdresser and tweeted articles do not count. How can anyone write if they are not absorbing the fine printed words of others?

In my former child-free, girl-about-town avatar, I found the words just rolled off the tip of my tongue after a glass of wine. Now I simply roll off the sofa with exhaustion after a glass of wine. So I went and stood in a bookshop to feel inspired.

Bad idea. All those beautiful books. So little time. Yada, yada, yada. Cue: total intimidation and utter frustration. I would need to start smaller.

I transported myself to the front of our new bookshelf at home. Scanning the shelves of recently arranged books, I settled on one written by a journalist, fellow blogger and friend Ann Mah. She sent me an unproofed copy of her debut novel Kitchen Chinese about the same time as I was launching Miss Masala. I promised to read it at the time. But reading at leisure proved impossible at the time.

I dusted it off and plunged right in. Thrilled to finally get a chance to read it. Selfishly hoping it would inspire something.

Now I am no book review expert or anything. Centred around a return to the homeland theme, this had all the promise of an Amy Tan novel, oft referenced by the author too. It was far from. Racy, fun and filled with food descriptions from around China that made the jaw ache and stomach grumble with hunger. If I could have eaten the pages, I would have.

I have no idea how the book did. Whether it made any money. The two questions I get asked the whole time about mine. I do have an idea about how Ann must have felt when she saw it on a bookshelf, read about it, good and bad, in the media. And I felt a warm glow of pride that I know her and we once shared a cupcake in hazy London sunshine.

And that, I guess, is what makes it all so worthwhile. This post is dedicated to the three things I share with Ann: blogs, books and bowls of steaming rice. A simple Vegetable Pulao, speckled with the goodness of vegetables in spluttered whole spices, is the simplest and yet most delicious way to dress up plain old Basmati. Never ever use the starchy, easy cook variety for this and go wild with variations!

Now for paragraph three of book 2. Wish me luck. I will need it.
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Nothing like a bit of ambition. So when our Barrister neighbour announced he was going to attempt his first barbeque, featuring Indian kebabs he had never previously attempted, for an important weekend luncheon party, I couldn’t resist offering my services.

Not before I’d told him he was bloody nuts, of course. Feeding people is fraught with problems at the best of times. Feeding important people, with untested recipes, using an all new contraption is a whole different ball game. And then there are toddlers to consider.

Take the normal neighbourly Sunday lunches we’ve taken to hosting for each other for instance. I cook a simple homecooked Indian meal in advance. Crack the quality booze open. Everyone else talks while the kids try to poke each others eyes out with different implements. Every now and again we put one of the combined force of four toddlers in a naughty corner/naughty step to momentarily break the delirium.

In their house, things can take a slightly different shape. A giant chunk of exceedingly good quality meat gets shoved into the oven, with braised vegetable accompaniments. The cook offers quality booze. The rest of us talk, while we prevent the toddlers from shoving their faces in the oven. And repeat aforementioned disciplined techniques.

The stakes were clearly higher at this barbeque. So we got the kids in bed and met to discuss the essentials. My top tips for Indian kebabs were:

1. Don’t spend a fortune on meat. No one will notice the difference between organic, hand reared, tenderly loved lamb and something you managed to source easily from a local supermarket/butcher. That’s the power of spices.

2. Do get meat tenderiser powder. This is readily available in shops and online. Fear not, it’s just papain, or dried and powdered papaya enzyme. Seeps through meat (particularly chicken breast) to make it the softest, juiciest chunks you have come across.

3. Keep the oil handy. Instead of putting it in the marinade, keep melted butter or flavourless oil mixed with lemon juice handy to baste the kebabs as they cook. If like me, you forget this important step, go back to spice power point of bullet 1. Also take another sip of said alcohol.

I then proceeded to send him a bunch of recipes to mix and match to create Chicken Shashliks and Lamb Seekh Kebabs. One didn’t have instructions for what to do with the ginger/garlic in the ingredients and one asked for spices unavailable in our local supermarket. Stellar job there. Not.

The good news is the kebabs were a success and they are still talking to me. I will make it up eventually by inviting them over for the Masala Lamb Chaanp recipe I have been perfecting. Traditionally, this is made with lamb chops but I have been using thin cut steaks. The recipe uses just five ingredients, and is just as good under a grill as on a barbeque. Just the kind of simple entertaining that always gets my vote!
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