Miss Masala

I, on the other hand, had no one but my meagre self and a long list of urgent priorities. Work paid the bills. Friends were essential for fun. Men were high maintenance. Painting nails and updating my wardrobe were critical. Fashioning shortcrust dough into triangular-shaped samosas was not.

I decided that spending unnecessarily long toiling in the kitchen ranked close to ironing jeans and drinking Liebfraumilch. Daily slaving over a steaming pot simply wasn’t for me. The goddess in me needed shortcuts. Anything to make my life easier. This, believe it or not, was how Dada and my aunties operated too. I didn’t actually know anyone who made his or her own garam masala back home.

During my next food-shopping trip, I contemplated the complex equation of effort vs. reward. The answer seemed to be a pot of curry powder. This premixed ingredient is the mainstay of recipes in dog-eared women’s magazines at the dentist and the doctor’s. On the surface, it sounds like a godsend. A blend of essential whole spices such as cumin, coriander, chilli, cloves, black pepper, etc., ground into an all-purpose curry powder. Ready for whatever Indian dish you are planning to cook.

Easy, but so boring. I tried it with chicken. Then lamb. Next with vegetables. Everything tasted the same – of supermarket own-brand curry powder. This isn’t in the spirit of true Indian cooking. Half the fun is in the variation, adding a little bit of this and a little bit of that to end up with something truly unique. It was also far too reminiscent of the dried fruit and nut British homemade curries of the 70s. I cast the stuff aside and made once more for my haven of masala salvation – the Indian Spice Shop.

Here, I sought another vaguely familiar spice shortcut of the past. In my student years, Mother had taken to sending me presents via any willing London-bound relative. The parcels contained contact-lens solution (‘much cheaper in India’), boxes of sugary Indian mithai and cartons of recipe-specific spice blends, including ready-mixed meat masala, chicken masala and the optimistically named Kitchen King.

Alas, I hadn’t made the most of these gifts. My student brain cells had been reserved for the pursuit of an education in business, contemporary fashion and the exploration of illegal substances. But now I was a changed person. A clean and respectable, tax-paying, law-abiding goddess-in-the-making. I loaded the rickety basket with channa masala and kadai gosht masala and filled whatever space was left with cartons of Kitchen King.

In my apartment, the back-of-the-pack recipe for sautéed chickpeas instantly appealed. I stir-fried some onions and tomatoes; added 3 tablespoons of channa masala powder, and the tinned legumes became my new best friend. I sighed, ‘You complete me’ under my breath as I toasted wholemeal pitta bread. And then the doorbell rang.

It was a fellow would-be goddess in pink velour track pants – my neighbour from downstairs. Also third cousin, i.e. immediate family, and close friend. She wanted to borrow some serving dishes. ‘Are you cooking channa?’ she enquired as I threw the door open. ‘Yes. Doesn’t it smell great?’ I replied. I quickly ate a massive bowlful in front of the telly after she left and put away the leftovers to take for lunch at work. But as I walked through the corridor the next morning, nose twitching, I wondered what the neighbours thought of my kitchen wizardry.

It wasn’t just the corridor of our porter-guarded tower block that had been overtaken by the potent whiff of the spice blend. It had infiltrated my two tiny bedrooms, the inbuilt closets, my jewellery chest and every millimetre of upholstery. I frantically aired the flat, opening windows wide and lighting scented candles, but the smell of channa masala lingered on. Three days later when my neighbour came over to return the dishes and chat, I could smell the stuff emanating through the pores of the battered blue Ikea sofa.

The first lesson here was that chickpeas are the ultimate Indian fast food. The second and more important lesson was that ready-made spice blends do not always the best shortcuts make. The search for culinary tricks continued well into the next year of my big cooking adventure. And this is what I concluded: spices smell, so plan Indian cooking carefully.

Curry hair is never going to be the height of style. Every time I rushed out to party after a spot of cooking, I might as well have been balancing a pot of saag gosht on my head. Too self-conscious to show off my dance moves, I’d stand in a corner and drink myself silly instead. My dinner-party guests were subjected to it, too. No one ever thanked me for dry-cleaning bills for coats smelling of the jeera aloo I had served earlier.

The truth is that Indian spices smell pretty strong. I couldn’t avoid using them, so I just got smarter about managing them. It was a bit like smoking in my teenage years. Knowing my parents might catch me lighting up in the house didn’t make me stop – just encouraged me to stock up on air freshener and chewing gum.

THIS IS HOW TO SET YOUR HOME FREE OF SMELLS:

COOK A DAY IN ADVANCE IF POSSIBLE.

A bit of clever social diarising and the night before a dinner party is a quiet one in. I cook all the food early and put it in the fridge to reheat the following evening. I don’t worry about serving guests stale food because Indian cuisine always tastes better the next day. Ingredients slowly soak up all those heady spices and develop far more intense flavours. In India, leftovers served at an ‘after’ party are always better than food freshly cooked for the party itself. My guests are inadvertently bestowed a great honour and cherish me even more for it. (I’m guessing.)

When I’m being super well organised (a rare feat), I cook a few days in advance and freeze the dishes. All they need is overnight defrosting and, again, a quick reheat before the meal. With the cooking dealt with in advance, on the actual day I can spend the time tidying up, getting changed and placing flowers in vases.

DRESS APPROPRIATELY.

I’m not Eric the dry-cleaner’s favourite customer for nothing. I often come home battle-worn from work or desperately hungry after a few drinks with friends and start cooking in my suit. While snacking on microwaved papads and mango pickle.

It’s taken a hefty cleaning bill to partly shake off this messy habit. Now my top trick is to quickly change into a pair of old pyjamas and don a shower cap to protect my hair. The shower cap looks stupid. But it does save me the bother of washing and recreating the do when there was nothing wrong with it in the first place. And I can rip the cap off in seconds if someone shows up unexpectedly.

IF YOU’RE IN A RUSH, COOK LOW-SMELL RECIPES.

Usually, I’m dashing around on public transport. Racing to get dinner on the table before that all-important episode of a vacuous TV talent show. Or trying to line my stomach before a long night ahead. With a strictly limited window of opportunity to transform from spice girl to sizzling siren.

For occasions like this, low-smell recipes are the best ones to go for. As a rule, frying onions with lots of powdered spices will fill you and your kitchen with strong aromas. The dishes to go for are a one-pot healthy pulao or a dal brimming with vegetables. If I do choose to make a curry, I pick those that use only a few spices or have a herby base.

AND FINALLY, PREPARE THE HOME.

I’m no Mrs Beeton, but keeping an apartment smelling fresh and wonderful is pure common sense. I keep the kitchen door shut tight and the windows open wide to prevent aromas from creeping into the other rooms. Then the scented candles come out. For a bit of added authenticity, I have a stash of super-strong incense sticks at the ready. Play some Bollywood tunes and it’s the perfect setting for a proper Indian meal.

Before I move on, though, I have to say this. If you don’t like the aroma of Indian food, you’re reading the wrong book. If it’s your man who doesn’t like it, this is the perfect moment to finally rid yourself of him.

Gizmos and Gadgets SAVING THOSE PRECIOUS MINUTES

Inspired by the equipment used by professional cooks, I bought sturdy aluminium pots and pans for cooking Indian food. Big mistake. Those professional types have extra-strong arm muscles and masses of patience (not to mention an army of underlings to scrape off the leftovers). They also don’t get distracted by The X Factor and glitter-vest ironing. I discovered soon enough that the best shortcut of all is to use the highest-quality non-stick cookware I could afford.

It started a mini revolution in my kitchen. Within a week I had bought my first ever hand blender. This miraculous gadget saves nails like a Korean manicurist. I could now purée fresh ginger and garlic, whiz up some kebab marinade and even make a mango lassi. Thankfully for me, the blender came with completely idiot-proof instructions and a splatter-proof beaker.

Over the years, I have amassed a grand collection of kitchen gadgets, some exceptionally useful and others utterly pointless. The chopper does a remarkable job of dicing small quantities of vegetables like onion, cucumber, root ginger and garlic. The rice cooker I will take to my grave. The mini electric coffee grinder finely powders in seconds homemade spice blends for dhansak, sambhar and tandoori chicken.

The food processor, on the other hand, is scary to look at. Exhausting to drag from its special shelf and monstrous on the worktop. Except for grinding small quantities of dry ingredients, the mortar calls for too much pestling. The less said about the juicer and the herb chopper the better.

The most life-changing of all gadgets has, without a smidgen of doubt, been the pressure cooker. No Indian kitchen is complete without a selection of them in different sizes. I wasn’t always convinced, though. My first doubts about it were sown in my friend’s New York kitchen. Turns out she put some vegetables in the contraption and wandered off to shower and blow-dry her hair. The next thing she heard was a muffled explosion. If the battered pan wasn’t enough to send a shudder through her Molton Browned body, there was green vegetable mush plastered all over the ceiling.

An internal voice instructed me to stay as far away from explosive kitchen devices as possible. But once I’d learnt not to get too distracted and wander off, I couldn’t help warming to the idea of a pressure cooker. What’s not to like? It cuts cooking time by using steam pressure on the food, saves electricity and, by default, the world. Who says a goddess can’t be a part-time eco-warrior?

The first time I used one, I sat patiently at the kitchen table waiting for the reassuring whistle. Too scared to go anywhere; too petrified of what might go wrong. Nothing ever did. Now I’ve acquired two. One large one and a smaller version perfect for a meal for two.

TOP PRESSURE-COOKER TIPS

1 Never fill the pan to more than a third.

2 When cooking dal, wash well and add a teaspoon of oil to reduce foaming.

3 Fry up your spices first in the same pan before you stick the lid on, rather than frying them up separately and adding them after the dish is cooked, as they will still taste raw.

4 Don’t shake the pan when the lid is on.

5 Release steam by gently lifting the weight on top with a long-handled wooden spoon and keep out of the way of the little vent holes.

Cooking Shortcuts THE SEARCH CONTINUES…

Alongside my quest for life-changing gadgets ran the search for food shortcuts. The attempt to make my own paneer started it. I curdled almost a gallon of milk but ended up with only a tiny block of too crumbly cheese. This was clearly the food equivalent of big box, little present. For a whole day’s work too – Google research included.

It hardly encouraged me to make my own coconut milk, garam masala, ghee or tomato purée. Ready-to-use ingredients form the basis of a multibillion-pound industry for good reason. I salute them. Particularly the ones that offer high quality and convenience. Sadly, some solutions – like ready-puréed ginger and garlic – don’t always make the cut. They can be more anaemic than the real thing. I keep a store-bought jar of each handy but if you have the time, these two ingredients are definitely worth fiddling over (see the box (#ulink_051971a4-5732-52e1-8b65-883277d7603d)).

MY FAVOURITE COOKING SHORTCUTS

Freshly frozen spinach and peas.

Frozen grated coconut (from any Oriental supermarket) and coconut milk.

Tinned chickpeas, black-eyed beans and kidney beans.

Ready-to-cook frozen parathas – both plain and stuffed with onion.

Ready-made chappatis/rotis.

THE TRUTH ABOUT MAKING GHEE

I would love to make ghee from scratch some day. But I couldn’t possibly recommend it. It takes 3 hours plus to make. My entire flat would then stink of grease for the rest of eternity. Far better just to stick to the bought stuff.