Pride in ones culinary talents and an Indian boyfriend do not sit particularly well together. Although a deft hand at most western cuisines and capable as concerns certain East Asian dishes, the food of the Indian subcontinent still remains elusive.
No matter how perfect my soufflés (and in all modesty they're Mary Poppins perfect) nor how tasty my moussaka, nor how crack-free my sponge-roll, my creations will never match the dhal and parantha of my boy's grandmother. Foolishly, after several requests from P, I attempted a "simple" chicken korma. After two hours spent in the grinding of herbs and the frying of oily pastes, I had what seemed to be a very decent curry.
P strides in, waxing lyrical on the heavenly scents in the corridor. Ego: up one. He walks to the stove, lifts the lid and smiles all over his face. Ego: up another one. He reaches for the spoon and prods at the chicken, frowning. Irritation: up one. He squeezes a piece of the succulent meat between his fingers, getting sauce on his cuff. Irritation: up two. He looks at me and says: "You should add some more water. It's too thick." Ego: down four.
Remind me next time to serve the food on a plate, looking wonderful. Remind me not allow any more back-seat chef's into the kitchen.
Gripe over, P actually loved the food. Despite his usually bird-like appetite, he ate enough for three or four decently sized people.
Intent on improving my Indian culinary techniques, I plan on a visit to the Indian Cookery School in Goa sometime in the near future.
See holidayonthemenu.com to join me there.
Playing nutmeg and anchovies
My mother and I always play the same game in restaurants. After tasting our own (and each other's) food, we start listing ingredients. Most of the time, there is a culinary discovery to be made, or at least some epicurean debate to be had. The most intriguing sessions of our game do not usually involve an extravagantly long list of ingredients. Rather, simple dishes that have slightly different flavours to what we have previously eaten usually provoke more entertaining discussion.
The obvious presence of some secret ingredient or the apparent use of some unknown technique is what really makes our game truly enjoyable. Our game has led us to provoke innocent chefs and bewilder (both hapless and helpful) waiters through tireless interrogation. In pondering the possibilities, nutmeg and anchovies are two of our usual suspects. Of all ingredients, the individual flavour of nutmeg or anchovy is often indiscernible, yet the depth that each adds to a dish often makes all the difference.
This blog is an extension of the game that my mother and I play. It is dedicated to culinary inquiry: the discovery of other nutmegs and anchovies. It is a record of my kitchen experiments, produce encounters, restaurant discoveries, pantry-gadget curiosities, bookshelf meals and all other food-related pleasures.
About me
- Kate Seymour
- I live with my partner in a small flat in Edinburgh. I have a very small kitchen, an even smaller window box of herbs and an ever-expanding collection of recipe books. I think about food a lot. At breakfast, I plan what I will eat for lunch. During lunch, I plan what I will cook for dinner. Over dinner, I talk about what I might have for breakfast. I write restaurant review emails to my friends and pester my mother (in Australia) with recipe requests. I started this blog in 2005 whilst studying for a Masters degree. My thesis took over and the blog only lasted for about three months. I recently started writing again and hope that my typing will keep up with my mouth.
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