Miss Masala

Before I knew it, it was time for dinner. The options were limited. Since my university days, I’ve avoided greasy takeaways like a double helping of lard. So we could eat one of the three dishes my man had perfected. Or something low in fat and high in wonderful things I hastily offered to put together instead.

But this just wasn’t good enough for some people. My half-British, half-Peruvian man is apparently a qualified authority on everything curry-related. Now he was hungry and smarting from rejection. Between quick cigarette drags out on the balcony, he slunk around in my shadow, watching my every move. Whacking the flame up when I wasn’t looking. Or chucking an extra green chilli into the bubbling pot.

I exploded momentarily. Then rolled my eyes and poured myself another stiff drink. Food would be ready soon. Gok Wan was about to take on the new season’s fashion trends. Kitchen squabbles will pass, I reminded myself. All I needed now was a plate of food and a remote control.

The man sensed a power struggle. He piled his plate high with whatever was in the pot and rushed to the couch, clutching the remote for dear life. Then I heard a wail of protest from the living room: ‘There’s no ghee in this!’ Turned out this curry-loving, Cobra Beer-drinking Latino is also a superlative judge of the adequate level of fat in dal.

Fat and health are serious issues in my home. Most Indians I know speak of cholesterol, high blood pressure and adult acne with the reverence ordinarily reserved for national security and socio-economic issues. My family home in India was particularly full of health freaks. Mother kept cooking oil under lock and key. Our cook, Dada, schemed to sneak vegetables into every dish. Dad treated deep-fried foods like post-war rations. And even the dog rejected red meat.

I value my size eight bod too much to feel otherwise. Besides, I also work in public relations. The office is full of gorgeous blondes on size-zero diets. Bread and bananas are conspicuously absent. The beauties to my right pay daily tribute to the canned tuna and bagged salad industries. With my two-course curry lunches and chocolate biscuit habits, a few teaspoons of oil is the only guilty pleasure I can afford at home.

I use measured amounts of oil in everyday Indian cooking. Deep-frying is strictly banned in my home. Where it offers a suitable alternative to shallow-frying, I bake or grill dishes. But call me weak; I just can’t resist a dash of sublime buttery ghee in a pot of thick, piping-hot dal.

Now, I was being accused of playing miser with that promised teaspoon of liquid gold. I briefly contemplated knocking the man out with the can of ghee. Luckily for him, it was too much effort for me. I sighed and curled up on the couch with my own mound of well-deserved dinner. Ready to watch Gok Wan’s pearls of fashion wisdom on TV. Ready for the rest.

COOKING OILS

LOVE IT OR HATE IT,

YOU CAN’T COOK INDIAN FOOD WITHOUT OIL.

When I started cooking while studying for my journalism degree, I failed spectacularly to make Indian food using miniscule quantities of oil. It was devastating to accept that I’d be old and wrinkled before three onions would fry in one teaspoon of oil. So I compromised by using non-stick pans and as little oil as was necessary to cook the food properly. At the time my journalism tutors joked: ‘Never believe anything written in newspapers.’ I haven’t quite followed this sound advice. Some article glorified the health benefits of sunflower oil and I’ve used it in Indian cooking ever since.

In truth, I could use any flavourless, colourless variety of oil that has a high smoking point, such as corn, groundnut or safflower oil. These are what I recommend for my recipes unless I specify otherwise. There’s also coconut oil, used widely in south India, and mustard oil, popular in Bengal. But I use these only occasionally. Mainly because I can never find storage space for them in my kitchen cupboards.

And finally, there’s olive oil.

A contentious choice – fast becoming most fashionable in India. But let me ask you, would you cook a pasta dish with mustard oil? Or a roast dinner in coconut oil? Besides, olive oil loses its famous delicate flavour when heated to the high temperatures needed for Indian cooking, and it costs a bomb. So wrong on so many levels. Best avoided for curries, I say.

Tadka Dal (#ulink_8d9bfb27-39d4-5825-8821-331dec6f9e08)

Buttery lentils with vegetables and sizzling cumin

Dal and rice is easily the simplest and healthiest Indian meal to cook. Masoor dal, or split red lentils, are my all-time favourite because they cook quickly and are readily available in virtually any supermarket or corner shop.

High protein content aside, this is the ultimate comfort food. Think hangover cure meets warm soft cuddle. This dish is incomplete without the tablespoon of ghee that makes it so sublimely buttery. Just chuck in some raw peas, carrots and cauliflower to appease your guilty conscience.

Feeds 4 Vegetarian

200g (7oz) masoor (split red) lentils

/

tsp turmeric powder

1 large tomato

200g (7oz) chopped raw vegetables, such as green beans, carrots, peas and cauliflower

1 tbsp ghee

1 pinch of asafoetida

2 dried long red chillies

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tsp chilli powder

1 tsp cumin seeds

salt

1. Wash the lentils under a cold tap until the water runs clean. In a medium pan, mix these with the turmeric, then add twice as much cold water as lentils and bring to the boil. Once the water starts bubbling rapidly, lower the heat to medium. Stir the lentils every 5 minutes to prevent them from settling on the bottom or sides of the pan.

2. Watch the pan, skimming off any foam that rises to the surface. If the lentils threaten to boil over, take the pan off the heat for a few seconds. If they have soaked up all the water, add a half mug of hot water to keep the mixture fluid.

3. After about 20 minutes, the lentils will slowly disintegrate and resemble a fibrous soup. When this happens, roughly chop the tomato and add it to the pan, stirring over the heat for about 5 minutes until the tomato starts to melt into the lentils. Now stir in the raw vegetables that you are using. They’ll cook with the lentils, sealing their natural goodness in the dal.

4. Stir gently for about 10 more minutes until the vegetables are done and the lentils have formed a thick, golden-yellow soup. Add salt to taste and leave to simmer over a low heat while you make the tadka.

5. Warm the ghee on a high heat in the smallest pan you possess. When it starts to sizzle, add the asafoetida, long red chillies, chilli powder and cumin seeds. Within seconds, the spices will start spluttering and releasing their heady aromas. Take the pan off the heat and stir the tadka into the lentil mixture.

6. Pour the piping-hot dal over fluffy basmati rice and enjoy with mango pickle and papads.

INTRODUCING AJWAIN

AJWAIN, or carom fruit pods, resemble little greyish seeds and add a pungent and slightly bitter tangy edge to dishes. They are an essential pickling spice and taste lovely sprinkled sparingly over summer salads.