Lahore. The city of my birth. The city of the humble samosa. That flaky, deep-fried triangular parcel stuffed with cumin-laced, spicy potatoes you buy from the dhaba; kiosk, from that little alley behind Liberty Market, where they sell glass bangles, twirled and twisted organza scarves and sparkly rhinestone-studded sandals. Greasy and stuffed into a khaki paper bag, you bring the samosas home and eat them hot, dipping them in a red, tangy-tart chili garlic sauce which comes out of that famous Mitchell’s glass bottle. And after that first bite, you slip your finger tips into the handle of your teacup and take a sip of cardamom-fragranced milky tea, to wash it all down. With each sip, the tannins burn your mouth even more.

That is my high.

And then we have Karachi. The city where they refer to the street hawker’s ‘pappu burger‘ with a more classy name- the ‘bun kebab‘. Us Lahoris know that it is essentially the same thing- a shami kebab tucked between two soft, pillowy buns, slathered with mint chutney, tomatoes, cucumbers for textural crunch and some onions thrown in for that extra edge.

Us Lahoris are quite particular about the provenance of our dishes, but we’ll let Karachi have their ‘bun kebab‘.

As long as they don’t call it a ‘pappu burger‘.

But more importantly, Karachi is the city where they whip up the best prawn masala. Prawns are flash-fried in an orb-like steel karahi with a heady punch of ginger and garlic; then they add tomatoes, stirring it all till they become sticky and jammy and start to cling to the glossy surface of the prawns; and finally, a pinch or two or three of secret spices.

This is the prawn masala from BBQ Tonight -pardon the cheesy website, it doesn’t reflect on the ‘I-want-to-eat-my-fingers-this-is-so-good’ quality of their dishes.

I don’t think it is possible to perfectly replicate BBQ Tonight‘s prawn masala. I think it has less to do with the saltiness of the ocean near Karachi’s border which seeps into the prawns; or the tartness of the tomatoes in Pakistan and more to do with the fact that I always have this dish when I land in Karachi at my sister’s home, surrounded by my family and friends. Scooping it up with a chewy, crackly paratha, I chatter away in my jet-lagged state with my sister, brother-in-law and best friends, AJ and KH, who gather around the table to meet me upon my arrival.

My fingertips all greasy from the paratha and spicy prawns, chugging  it down with some Diet Coke, I know and feel that I am home.

Serves 2-3 with rice or bread and a side dish

Ingredients:
*2 tbsp corn oil (or any other neutral oil)
*2 garlic cloves, sliced finely width-wise
*500g raw prawns, de-veined, shells and tails removed
*¼ tsp haldi (turmeric powder)
*1 tsp zeera (cumin) powder
*1 tsp sukha dhania (ground coriander) powder
*½ tsp red chili powder (or add more, to taste)
*2 medium-sized tomatoes, de-seeded and diced (1cm)- try to find tomatoes which are a bit firm
*2 tbsp chopped fresh coriander leaves and stalks

Preparation:
*Place a medium-size wok, or a 25cm (approximately 10 in) frying pan on medium heat.
*Add oil and garlic and sauté for two minutes, till fragrant. The garlic should not darken in colour.
*Add prawns, haldi, zeera powder, sukha dhania powder, salt and red chili powder and continue to sauté for three more minutes till the prawns turn opaque.
*Turn heat to medium-high and add tomatoes. Give the prawns a whirl with your spatula, and after one minute, turn the heat off. You don’t want to overcook the tomatoes, the skin should remain almost in tact.
*Sprinkle with coriander stalks and leaves and serve with crusty bread or steamed basmati.

I don’t have friendships which have lasted thirty-some odd years.

I don’t have friends from kindergarten that I grew up and stayed up late at night with around the bonfire during summer camp, singeing marshmallows till they were gooey enough to be sandwiched between graham crackers with some chocolate tucked in. I don’t have a collection of yearbooks on my bookshelf which I can share with friends and laugh over that nerdy Grade Two portrait, the one in which my hair is parted in the middle and swept up on both sides with a candy-pink barrette, (thanks, Ami).

But none of this matters, for the strong friendships I formed as a child of a wandering development economist cannot be valued by time.

Most of my friends were gypsies, like me, pottering about the world with their parents, from Lagos to DC to Islamabad to Nairobi to Manila to Yerevan, carting their Enid Blyton and Judy Blume collections and stuffed animals along with them (mind you, when we left Lagos, my parents gave away my beloved ‘Famous Five‘ collection to the SOS, which I’ve never forgiven them for). As I grew older, all the moving around just meant that amongst friends, we had to make more of an effort with that phone call, letter or postcard. My poor father, it turns out I mostly favoured costly phone calls over letters. And over the years we continued to meet in not-so-exotic-lands like DC, NY and London for our reunions.

Then one day I landed in Rome, where I thought I was finally going to hang my hat (only to leave, years later- but that’s another blog post). It was through work that I met Maria, a liquorice-haired, Bohemian Costa Rican beauty and Brandy, a jade green-eyed, soft-spoken, pretty girl from Vancouver.

Along with the rest of our gang, the three of us would start our weekends with a newspaper-thin crust pizza at Monte Carlo where the server never brings a bill but scribbles down the total on your makeshift paper tablecloth. Invariably, I’d argue with the server about this and invariably, Brandina, Maria and the rest of the gang would laugh and roll their eyes, “Ah, Shayma, there she goes again…” Then we’d take a walk through the Piazza Navona towards the raucous Campo de’ Fiori, as tourists in our own adopted city. We would go to Vineria Reggio to sip on some really bad sangria. In the land of €8 for a glass of Amarone, you ask, why the bad sangria? Can’t really say why, it’s just one of those quirky things that three close friends do.

I remember sitting at L’Insalata Ricca handing Brandina a silver bracelet, a farewell gift for her from our branch at work. While our boss did a cin cin, Maria and I wept quietly into our artichoke and rocket salad. Maria was a foreign service brat, and had lived all over the world, just like me. But we always cried when it was time to say goodbye.

Just before Brandina left, I prepared my mother’s rice pilaf for her and Maria at my home, made with sweet caramelised onions as a base, and intense, earthy spices like black peppercorns, cloves, black cardamom and a whole cinnamon stick. We ate this alongside cumin-spiced potatoes and a spicy chicken curry.

And then we took the camera and placed it on the kitchen counter, taking silly photos of the three of us with the self-timer.

Maria, Brandina and I haven’t been friends for thirty-some odd years, we cant reminisce about that Second Grade yearbook photo. But we haven’t forgotten the bad sangria, the walks through Campo de’ Fiori and the coffees and the lifelong relationship we formed on the rooftop cafeteria at the UN overlooking the pine trees lining the Terme di Caracalla.

Serves 4
The cloves are for fragrance and should normally not be consumed. Please note that there is no health risk associated with consuming them, but the taste is rather strong. The same goes for the peppercorns.

Ingredients:
400g / 2 cups Basmati rice, soaked in a large bowl filled with cold water for a minimum of 2 hours and a maximum of 24 hours
3 tbsp neutral oil such as corn or sunflower
75 g / ½ cup onion (this is about ½ of a medium onion), sliced vertically and as thinly as possible.
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
1 tsp whole cloves
1 whole black cardamom (optional, as it may be difficult to find unless you go to a Pakistani / Indian grocery store)
1 large cinnamon stick
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cayenne pepper (optional- or you can add ½ tsp if you want it less spicy)
750ml / 3cups boiling water

Preparation:
*Place a medium-sized heavy-bottomed pot on medium heat and add oil.
*Add sliced onions to this and sauté for 15-20 minutes till the white of the onion is no longer visible and the onions have turned a dark golden-brown colour. Be careful not to let the onions turn black-if they begin to do so, just remove the pot from the burner and lower the flame.
*Start boiling your water in a separate vessel at this point.
*Add peppercorns, cloves, cardamom, cinnamon stick to onions. Drain rice and add to the pot.
*Turn the heat to high and pour in boiling water. As soon as it starts to bubble, cover with a tea cloth and lid and turn the heat to low.
*Allow rice to cook for 15 minutes, do not open the lid before the total time has elapsed.
*Remove rice from the burner and allow it to rest for another 15 minutes without opening the lid.
*Serve with a meat-based curry or with borani kachalu/kudu.

Lago di Albano is shaped like an egg and glistens like lapis lazuli under the sun. When the sun starts to set, the shadows from the poplar trees in the Colli Albani above deepen the colour of the volcanic lake’s sleepy, glass-like surface.  It is at the edge of this lake that I have sat with my colleagues on Wednesday evenings after work, some of us swimming enthusiasts; their bodies cutting through two kilometres of the lake’s width, and others, like myself, sitting under the willow tree outside Ristorante I Quadri 2000, popping cherry tomatoes out of a paper bag from the Testaccio market into my mouth. That is the spot where everyone would gather after their swim for newspaper-crips pizzas with oozing mozzarella and a spot of fruity red wine from the Castelli. Not the best red in Italy, but with the lake facing us and a spoonful of that wobbly, sweet panna cotta in our mouths amidst the chatter of friends, it did not matter.

One particular evening as we were walking out, I asked the proprietor for un goccetto di Fernet Branca, my favourite digestivo-deeply intense with notes of liquorice. The proprietor offered a gratis glass to my Swedish pal Markus, too. But poverino Markus, his face curling with one sip, jumped over the bar to spit it all out into the sink. “Shayma, this is worse than rubbing alcohol.”

For the record: this did not adversely affect our friendship. We are still great friends. Even on Facebook.

And I am still allowed back into the restaurant.

So is Markus.

I took Ami and my sisters to I Quadri 2000 every year during their visits (don’t be discouraged by the photos of the dishes on their site- bad lighting, I say- the food is scrumptious).

Oh, and there were no Fernet Branca incidents during these trips.

We always sat at the terrazza, where the ledge was lit up with globe-shaped lanterns, like gigantic fireflies, glimmering against the lake while we ate plates of golden, perfectly crisped suppli- that triumverate of the Italian kitchen coming together beautifully: cheese, carbs and tomatoes.

This was followed by plates of pasta for us sisters, for me, always something reminiscent of the sea; a tomato sauce-glazed pasta with frutti di mare- salty clams, tender mussels and fresh prawns. And for Ami, plump grilled prawns lacquered with a saffron oil. Ami couldn’t bear to see the little heads and tiny eyes on the prawns, and there I sat, peeling the coral shells off the prawns for her, snatching a few bites for myself whilst licking that musky taste of saffron off my fingers.

And then we’d dust our dishes with a little bit of peperoncino from Southern Italy- just for that slight punch.

I remember those cool summer evenings with my Ami and sisters, when we sat there at the restaurant till late in the night, shawls wrapped around us as we were probably talking about what to do the next day. Our plans most certainly included a gelato from Bar Frattina with extra fresh panna and some shoe shopping at Pollini.

I used to meet the three of them after work everyday on the Via dei Condotti and from there we would make our way, strolling through the streets with a gelato, licking the melted drops off the sides of the cone, my arm hooked into my sister’s arm, not wanting her to leave.

Being with my sisters always reminded me of how incredibly lonely I felt in this beautiful city called Rome, without my girls.

Shoe shopping with your sisters has to be right up there with dark chocolate truffles.

Nah, it’s even better.

Perfectly charred prawns marinated in a saffron sauce with a bit of peperoncino heat reminds me of those nights on the Lake in Rome with my colleagues and my family. The garlic-scallion rice is a part of Ami’s repertoire, which I believe rounds off the meal rather nicely.

Serves 4

For the prawns, you will need bamboo or steel skewers. If using bamboo skewers, soak in water overnight to prevent them from burning when they are under the broiler.

Garlic-Scallion Rice
Ingredients :
*2 cups basmati rice
*3 tbsp oil (neutral variety, I use sunflower)
*4 cloves garlic, chopped finely
*6 strands scallions, chopped finely, keeping white and light green bulb portion separate from dark green portion
*1 tsp salt

Preparation:
*Soak basmati in water; minimum one hour, up to 24 hours;
*Place a heavy-bottomed pot on medium heat and add oil.
*When the oil is hot, add white and light green portion of scallions and garlic;
*Sauté for a few minutes till the scallions and garlic start to soften up and wilt. Do not allow garlic to darken.
*Discard the water the rice was soaking in and add to the pot;
*Add 3 cups water, the green portion of the scallions and turn the heat to low. Place cloth and lid on top to seal in the steam and allow the rice to cook for 20 minutes. Do not remove the lid before the total time has elapsed otherwise it will seize the cooking process;
*Remove pot from the burner, move the lid a bit (do not remove completely) so some steam escapes and allow rice to rest for 20 minutes;

Spice Grilled Saffron Prawns
Ingredients:
*600 g raw prawns, shell removed, tail intact
*1 tsp saffron threads, ground to a powder in a pestle and mortar
*2 tsp water
*1 tsp (heaped) hot paprika + 2 tsps for combining with olive oil to serve at the table
*1 tsp salt
*1/2 tsp turmeric powder
*olive oil

Preparation:
*Turn your oven broiler on to its highest setting
*Place prawns in a mixing bowl and add saffron powder, water, paprika, salt, turmeric powder and a few glugs of olive oil;
*Mix to combine;
*Allow prawns to rest in the marinade for 20 minutes;
*Thread prawns onto skewers and place on a baking tray;
*Place under the broiler for 5 minutes per side (unless your hands are made of asbestos like mine, to easily flip the prawns without burning your fingers, use kitchen tongs). Keep a steady eye on the prawns as each broiler’s heat intensity varies and therefore the cooking time may vary, too.
*Mix 2 tsp paprika with a tablespoon or more of olive oil to serve on the side and drizzle on the prawns at the table.

Serve prawns atop garlic-scallion rice

photo credit for Lago di Albano: Nobiwan’s picasa album https://picasaweb.google.com/nobbiwan/2008ItaliaRoma#5244450060224152610
photo credit for I Quadri 2000: restaurant’s website: http://www.iquadri2000.it/

My Ami’s brother, my eldest Mamoo, always takes me straight to Rahat Bakery after I land at the airport in Lahore in the winter. During my summer visits all one wants to do is go straight home and languish in the air-conditioned room, whilst slicing into the plump flesh of a mango. But in December, when Lahore is in its element and all you need is a mere shawl twirled around your silhouette to keep you warm, we stop for treats at the bakery. Mamoo knows I may want to select my favourite pastry from the display, maybe the lemon tart, which I don’t think is made from real lemon curd at all, but I have been devouring it for so many years that I don’t think it really matters what the ingredients are. Or I may choose the layered rectangular chocolate pastry. I don’t think it is made with fine cocoa, but it is the pastry my Nani Ami, my maternal grandmother and I used to love having together in the evenings sitting in front of the gas heater in the drawing room, sipping our tea.

Rahat also has the best chicken patties in Lahore (my bias, of course), and one must follow a strict method for eating these. Just like there are methods for eating an oreo, there are even stricter methods for eating a chicken patty.  First you gently and carefully remove the top crispy layer which reveals the softer, inner layers of puff pastry. Only once you’ve eaten the crackly top can you dip the softer portion into sweet chili sauce and inhale it in one-two-three-bites. My Mamoo and I leave Rahat with 12 chicken patties, encased in a box, with an orange or pink ribbon tied lazily on top in a bow. And just for old times’ sake I will pick up a small box of Shezan’s mango juice, sultry Lahore summers in that cliched box.

I was not able to go home to Lahore this winter, to have the lemon tart or get my fingers greasy by stuffing chicken patties into my mouth. I missed out on all the different citrus fruits which are in bloom in December, the ones we eat every morning, while the BBC news hums in the background. I missed out on spending time with my Mamoos, the youngest one who comes into our room at midnight with his dinner on a tray after a long day at work, “Hi Bruta“, he always quips, to which I respond, “Hi Bruto“, to which he retorts, “Hi Triple Ugly“. And there he sits with us till 2, sometimes 3 in the morning till we set the world right and talk about Sidney Poitier, one of his favourite actors.

I missed out on Siddique our cook’s morning ritual of coming into my Ami’s room asking me what to cook that day. My daily request for lunch, without fail is always dal with chapati. I don’t know if Siddique puts crack in that dal, but I could eat it every day for the rest of my life. And then the hardest part, what to have for dinner. Some days I request a spicy mutton curry with potatoes for my meat & potatoes fix and other days just a simple chicken roast which my Nani Ami taught Siddique to make.

And some days I yearn for kebab-e-dayg, a kebab dish prepared in a large pot; a dayg. A rich tomato sauce is prepared with a fragrant base of caramelised onions and garlic to which kebabs are added and simmered till the sauce has seeped into each tender piece. Mopped up with a light-as-air chapati or drenched over mounds of basmati rice, it is the taste of winters at home in my maternal grandmother, Nani Ami’s home. I still remember the swish-swoosing of her slippers as she would come towards my door every morning to ask me, her spoilt grandchild visiting from abroad, what I wanted for lunch and dinner that day. And some days I used to get miffed because I would want to continue sleeping rather than discussing lunch and supper menus.

How I wish for her to be there with Ami and I every morning. And not once would I get miffed with her question regarding what to prepare for lunch and dinner.

Serves 4 with a side of basmati chapati, or naan.

Ingredients:
(You will need green fresh chillies and herbs of your choice for garnishing the dish).

For the tomato base:
*3 tbsp oil
*1 small onion, chopped fine
*2 cloves garlic, minced
*28 oz / 400 ml can chopped tomatoes or tomato sauce (passata) or 4-6 large fresh tomatoes, chopped, skin removed.
*1 tsp cayenne pepper
*salt to taste

For the kebabs:
(You will need parchment paper)
*2 bushels scallions/green onions, (hairy ends cut off)
*1 large red onion (peeled, cut into small chunks)
*1 thumb-size knob of fresh ginger (peeled)
*4 whole cloves garlic (peeled)
*1 lb ground beef (not of the lean variety; we need some fat to help ‘bind’ them)
*2 tbsp besan, heaped (gram flour, found in all Indian or Pakistani grocery stores)
*1 egg
*1 tsp cayenne pepper, heaped
*1 tsp salt (or more to taste, remember, the tomato sauce they are poached in will also be salted)
*1 tsp coriander powder
*1 tsp cumin powder

Preparation:
For the tomato base:
*Place a large pot (at least 8-in diameter) on medium heat.
*Add oil, onions and garlic.
*Sauté till golden brown, then add tomatoes and cayenne pepper.
*Cover pot and turn heat to low. Allow to simmer for 20 minutes.
*The mixture will have reduced slightly and darkened in colour.
*Add salt to taste and set aside while you form the kebabs.

For the kebabs:
*Place scallions, onion, ginger and garlic in a food processor and pulse till all the ingredients are minced finely.
*Transfer into a mixing bowl.
*To this, add ground beef, gram flour, egg, cayenne pepper, salt, coriander and cumin powders.
*Mix to combine well.
*Form kebabs in your hands by placing a tablespoon and a half of the mixture in your palm and curling your fingers onto them. They should be wide and round in the middle and tapered on both ends.
*Place each kebab on parchment paper as you continue to shape them.

Final Step- poaching kebabs in the sauce:
You will need to keep boiling water handy.
*Place pot with tomato sauce on medium heat, when it starts to bubble, add 1 cup boiling water.
*Gently place each kebab into the tomato sauce with a slotted spoon. Make sure you don’t overcrowd them or they will break. Do not stack them on top of each other. Depending on the size of the pot you are using, you may have some kebabs leftover which will not fit in the pot. You can freeze these.
*Replace the lid and turn the heat to low. Allow the kebabs to poach in the sauce for 30 minutes.
*When the time has elapsed, allow kebabs to rest for ten minutes before serving, otherwise they may crumble.
*Serve with basmati rice, chapati or naan.
*Garnish with green chillies, mint, coriander or any other fresh herb of your choice.

Mirza Ghasemi

We kicked off our snow-covered boots and entered my friend B’s parents’ home through the side entrance. Our feet found their way onto the rose pink carpet from Tabriz, intricately woven, just like the delicately embroidered shawls my Ami wears.

The Hosseini home smelled like caramel. Sheets of sangak, an Irani bread dotted with white and black sesame seeds were lying in the kitchen, cloaked in a pink cotton sheet. They smelled nutty and of burnt sugar. Like a crème brûlée. B’s mum, Aunty Mehrnaz had brought this freshly baked bread from the Irani bakery for us. B and I tore off pieces of it, tucking some creamy feta and fresh tarragon leaves into it. Aunty Mehrnaz scolded us- we had a large meal ahead of us and we were not to spoil our appetities. Aunty Mehrnaz is from Gilan, a province in Iran, and she was going to teach us how to prepare some typical Gileki dishes.

Sangak

But first, we sat down to amber-hued cups of Persian tea, fragranced with cardamom. And there was even some milk chocolate from England. I had a chocolate caramel, which melted in my warm mouth as the tea went down…

While the snow settled on the trees and rooftops, softly outside…

B & Aunty Mehrnaz

Aunty Mehrnaz and B brought bushels of herbs to the kitchen table…liquorice-scented tarragon, verdant coriander, spicy mint, sweet curly parsley.

I stood there with Aunty Mehrnaz tearing off each leaf one by one for sabzi khordan…

For the Baghala Ghatogh, Aunty Mehrnaz had soaked some pach baghali; small white kidney beans, from the night before. It is difficult to find these outside of Iran, perhaps an Irani grocer may carry them. She had meticulously peeled each and every single bean, freeing it of its skin. I sautéed slivers of garlic in olive oil, adding a mound of a vermillion turmeric, and spoonfuls of dried dill; it was such a heady, beautiful fragrance. We added a little bit of water and replaced the lid, allowing the beans to steam and all the flavours to continue coming together.

And like in all Irani households, it was time for tea again…

Aunty Mehrnaz took out her book on the cuisine of Gilan, whilst B’s father, Uncle Bijan read us couplets from Nicholson‘s translation of Rumi’s Masnavi…

And then back into the kitchen to prepare Mirza Ghasemi, a Gileki dish. To prepare this, aubergine is slow roasted in the oven till it slumps, hisses and sighs, then it is scooped out from its skin. Mashed in a bowl, it is added to a frying pan with garlic…

You make a well in the middle and add chopped, blanched tomatoes and dustings of salt, pepper, turmeric and black pepper. Then some fried eggs with soft, pudgy yolks are added and mixed into the velvety aubergine.

You keep sautéing it for a few minutes (and turn to look into the camera for just a split second, as I did, here).

While Uncle Bijan continued to read and write Persian poetry…

in this beautiful home…

And then it was finally time to set the table…

Decant the tah dig; that rice with a crunchy base…

…which you douse with gravy and the oozing egg yolks from Baghala Ghatogh…

and Mirza Ghasemi, tucking pieces of fragrant herbs and bits of spicy radish into our mouths with each bite…

We gathered in the family room for more tea and dessert, but by that time the camera had been stowed away and we talked about Aunty Mehrnaz’s and Uncle Bijan’s family in Iran and the stories behind all the sepia photos I saw strewn in their home…

A huge thank you to Aunty Mehrnaz and Uncle Bijan for a beautiful weekend in their home.

Mirza Ghasemi:

Serves 4 with bread or rice

Ingredients:
*2-3 tbsps olive oil
*6 medium aubergine
*4 cloves garlic, sliced thin
*3 medium tomatoes; skin removed by blanching, chopped
*1 heaped tsp turmeric
*1 heaped tsp black pepper
*4 eggs, fried
*salt to taste

Preparation:
Heat your oven to 400F
*Pierce each aubergine with a fork, arrange on a tray and roast in the oven for 1 hour or till they look soft and wilted.
*Allow the aubergines to rest and come to room temperature, then scoop out the flesh and discard the skin.
*Mash the aubergine flesh with a potato masher.
*In a large frying pan, add olive oil, garlic and turmeric and place on a medium flame. Sauté the garlic for 2-3 minutes.
*Add aubergine flesh and turn heat to medium-high. Sauté till the liquid from the aubergines water begins to evaporate.
*Make a well in the middle and add tomatoes. Continue to rigorously sauté.
* Add the fried eggs and mix together. Chop the eggs into small pieces, incorporating them into the aubergines and tomatoes with your spatula.
*Serve with rice or sangak

Photo by my husband, Z.

Below is my latest published piece for Edible Toronto’s Winter Issue. You can also view it on their website here. See end of post for recipes.

I know, it’s long- but it’s a piece I wrote for a magazine lots of photos at the end

Where The Sun Comes From

Memories of My Grandmother

By Shayma Saadat

Shameem was the given name of my paternal grandmother. Her favourite drink was Crème de Menthe, which she always drank chilled, and she was the best tango dancer in Lahore. My father tells me that the band at the Lahore Gymkhana Club would strike up the tango as soon as my grandparents entered the ballroom. They had won many tango competitions and their favourite song was Bahía Blanca. With my grandfather in his tuxedo and my grandmother in her silk sari, they would twirl around the outside of the dance floor in true Argentine style – long, elegant steps – her sari’s folds sashaying with each move. I often wonder how she did the legendary gancho, or leg hook, in her sari. I wish I could ask her, but she passed away in our home in Nairobi, Kenya, when I was sixteen years old.

We affectionately called her Mader, which means mother in Farsi. Everyone called her that. My parents, my friends, the fruit-wallah in Lahore who would save the freshest neon-orange persimmons for her, and the owner of Ajmer Bakery who kept a dozen vegetable patties aside for her every Thursday. Even our cook, Lala Ashraf, who learnt to make lasagne verde from her, called her Mader.

Born in Lahore, Pakistan in 1916, Mader lived there for most of her life. Widowed when she was sixty, she came to live with us in Washington, D.C., but the pull of her homeland was too strong; she returned after two years. When I was thirteen I was sent to Pakistan to live with her for a few years. She taught me how to speak Farsi, paraphrased Shakespeare’s Richard II for me, and sat next to me all night when I studied for my final exams. She made sure the fruit basket in my room was always full and lunch was ready when I came back from school at one o’clock. I remember sitting with her for lunch and having our preferred dish of potatoes and aubergines made with roasted tomatoes and caramelized onions. We would chatter as our fingers scooped it all up with a chapati.

Mader had gone through a double mastectomy and had heart trouble, preventing her from standing up for long periods of time. On weekends my cousin Saadiya and I would go into the kitchen and, as Mader sat on her stool and instructed us, we would cook together. Mader loved making fresh mayonnaise. Lala Ashraf would set the mise en place on the marble counter. I would then begin to slice my knife through the tiny lemons that came from the Chinese dwarf tree in our garden and Saadiya would measure out the olive oil. Then eggs would go into the blender and Mader would guide us as oil was added, drop by golden drop, into the blender. Like alchemy, the ingredients would come together, transforming into a glob of pillowy, creamy lusciousness. And finally, we’d add Mader’s secret ingredient: a tiny dusting of brick-red smoked paprika. Lala Ashraf and Mader would spread this fluffy emulsion on soft, crustless slices of bread and add chunks of roast chicken and plump tomatoes. We would sit in our breakfast room and enjoy these sandwiches with the rest of the family, washing them down with glasses of mango squash. Saadiya was a talented baker, and there would be a slice of one of her spongy cakes with fresh fruit for dessert.

Mader’s father had passed away when she was a mere nine years old, leaving her mother with the responsibility of bringing up four daughters. Each piece of heirloom jewellery was sold so that her daughters could be educated. Mader was one of the first women in Pakistan to obtain an M.A. in economics. In addition to educating her daughters, she made sure they were also taught to cook. As a child, I always saw Mader in the kitchen with Lala Ashraf – cutting, chopping, and grinding on the marble counter from her stool. But the dishes she prepared didn’t seem like the ones her mother would have taught her. Back in the 1960s Mader had taken cookery classes from a Pakistani lady who taught Cantonese Chinese cooking, but her real interest lay in French food. She enrolled for classes at the French Cultural Institute in Lahore known as Cordon Bleu. I wonder if chefs were invited to Pakistan from this prestigious cookery school in Paris or if the instructor merely used recipes from the school to teach the students. Either way, she emerged from this school armed with recipes for Béarnaise sauce and how to make a perfectly airy chocolate soufflé.

As a wife, mother and civil servant, Mader took these classes in her free time. She would often make pommes au four with a cinnamon stick wedged in the middle of each apple and serve it to her husband and two sons with a good pour of crème anglaise; a dish my father craves to this very day. Some days she would request the chef of the U.S. Consul General to teach her how to make American-style pies and casseroles in her home kitchen. And from her American tenants who were in Lahore on a Ford Foundation scholarship, she learnt how to make a perfect pot roast with golden roasted potatoes.

All the dishes Mader prepared for me when I was a child were those that she had learnt from her cookery classes. Some days there would be a zucchini gratin with béchamel, the kind that comes out of the oven all bronzed and bubbly on top, or a lemon-yellow Victoria sponge cake sandwiched together with homemade apricot jam. And my favourite, a Cantonese chicken corn soup which was stirred and stirred for hours. I loved watching her perform the last step – the whisked raw eggs being poured in, metamorphosing into strands of silk floating lightly in the soup.

As for dishes from her heritage – Pakistani or Irani – I suppose that as a working woman who didn’t cook on a daily basis she felt those were best left to the experts, the cooks in her kitchen. I have heard stories of my grandmother’s Irani ancestry, but by the time I became keenly interested in finding out more about where her family had come from, Mader was long gone. My father tells me that Mader’s grandfather, Syed Nadir Ali Shah, was a Sufi Saint from Iran. He came from a province in the northeast called Khorasan, the land of saffron and zereshk – barberries. As a young adult, Syed Nadir Ali Shah migrated from his abode in Iran to present-day Pakistan to spread the Sufi word. Whilst there, he came across a beautiful girl with hazel eyes and hair as black as licorice, and married her soon after. This woman was Mader’s grandmother. He made a home for himself in Lahore and never returned to Sabzevar, the city of his birth.

Mader had taught me how to make a béchamel sauce, and to speak Farsi, but she never shared anything about her Irani heritage with me. I wanted to know more about Syed Nadir Ali Shah: did he miss his country of birth; how did he teach his wife and children Farsi; and did he tell them that the province of his birth, Khorasan, means Where The Sun Comes From in Farsi? As I became more curious about the land that Mader’s grandfather was from, I began to research Sufism in Iran and also delve into Irani cookery. The kukus: baked frittatas, some made with fresh, verdant herbs, others with roasted aubergine; the delicate polows: rice dishes with candied orange rind, zereshk and pistachios; khoreshts: the warm stews that are simmered on the stove for hours and eaten with mounds of steaming rice. I continued to cook Irani dishes as a tribute to Mader, my grandmother who was an enigma and a fascinating woman from that era, the lady who taught my father how to make ikebana flower arrangements and who passed away silently one night at our home in Nairobi.

 I would love to have been able to create tah-chin, a traditional Irani dish, with her. It is much like the Neapolitan pasta timbale I learnt to make when I lived in Rome, except that this dish is made with rice and chicken and has intense currents of saffron’s golden, musky aroma running through it. I would like to have been in the kitchen with Mader, at the marble counter in our family home in Lahore, grinding saffron threads in the mortar and pestle, adding drops of water and then seeing it all transform into a brilliant vermillion syrup. I would have watched her, seated on her stool, mixing steamed rice with egg yolks and yogurt. Then together we would add the saffron water into the rice mixture, watching the colour bleed slowly into it, a transformation from yellow to gold.

Finally, how wonderful it would be if Mader and I could sit down to have a meal together, like we did when I was thirteen years old, and say nosh-e-jan – bon appétit. Except this time I would pour her a small glass of chilled Crème de Menthe as a digestif.

Shayma Saadat is a Pakistani-Afghan of Irani ancestry and the author of the food-memoir-style blog “The Spice Spoon: Cooking Without Borders” (www.thespicespoon.com). She was born in Lahore and grew up in Pakistan, the U.S., Nigeria, Kenya, Bangladesh, and the U.K. Two years ago, Shayma moved from Rome, Italy, where she worked for the United Nations, to Toronto, where she is a Senior Policy Advisor to the Canadian government. She lives in Toronto with her husband.

Here is the recipe for tah-chin.

Here is the recipe for mast-o-khiar.

Kadu Bharta.

Two words which sent shivers down my spine as a child-that Pakistani roasted squash dish which I just could not abide as a child. I don’t know whether it was the nursery food-like texture on my tongue of the cooked vegetable or the sight of it; one amorphous mound on my plate. I remember my parents scooping it all up with a chapati and adding spoonfuls of piquant mint chutney to the equation. It wasn’t for me.

So on those nights, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese dinner was on my plate (I know, I know). As an adult now, I’d rather go hungry than eat ‘Mac&Cheese’, let alone any other sort of boxed meal. And, I have come to love kadu; butternut squash immensely now. Roasted in the oven till they are candy-like and blitzed with plump roasted garlic, some homemade herby chicken stock, a dash of cream and you have a soup. Sauted in the pan with roasted cumin seed and caramelised onions the way my Ami makes them. Served with a mango pickle on the side. On top of rocket, with some Iranian feta crumbled on top. Some walnuts for textural crunch.

And finally, my favourite, served as verrines in the Afghan manner: tossed in spices, roasted crisp along the edges, then layered with dense, creamy Greek-style yoghurt with a dusting of Irani mint on top to cut through the sweetness.

Gorgeous with a thick bread, freshly warmed in the oven.

Or you can serve it in traditional Afghan style as a borani, a slathering of yoghurt, topped with half-moon shapes of squash.

Serves 4 as a first course

Pre-heat oven to 400F

Ingredients:
*Large baking tray (cookie sheet tray) lined with parchment paper
*1 medium-sized butternut squash, halved lengthwise, peeled, de-seeded and and sliced into 1/4 inch slices (they will look like arcs)
*Olive oil for roasting
*1/4 tsp turmeric powder (haldi)
*1/2 tsp coriander seed powder
*1/2 tsp cumin seed powder
*3/4 cup thick Greek-style yoghurt
*sea salt to taste
*dried mint + extra for garnish

Preparation:
*In a large mixing bowl, combine sliced butternut squash with a good drizzle of olive oil (enough so it coats each piece), turmeric, coriander seed powder and cumin seed powder.
*Transfer to cookie tray, (spread evenly across it) and place in oven for 20 minutes.
*When roasted, sprinkle with sea salt and allow to come to room temperature- around 15 minutes.
*Spoon yoghurt into individual glasses and layer with butternut squash slices. Or you could slather a layer into individual small plates and place butternut squash slices on top.
*Dust with dried mint and a drizzle of olive oil.
*Serve with pillowy bread like nan-e-barberi from an Irani store. Or you could use pita bread.

It was our last summer in London. Post-graduate degrees in hand, we were going to leave the UK soon. I was to join my parents in Washington DC; S was to return to Karachi and Z was moving to Islamabad, her new home after having grown up in Manila. We spent our days walking around Covent Garden pausing to hear a street performer sing an aria, stopping at Caffè Nero for a creamy cappuccino, walking into Karen Millen to ogle the silk dresses (at that age, yes, Karen Millen was l’alta moda) or sitting in Z’s kitchen with her flatmates on the Pentonville Road in her uni housing, while she prepared a Pakistani scrambled egg dish of potatoes, cumin and green chilies for us. And there was tea, lots of tea, along with chocolate digestive biscuits for pudding.

Our dear friend A came from New York to visit us that summer. As we walked over the Embankment Bridge after attending a Sufi Festival at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, I don’t think we quite realised that it would be years before we would be together again. With all of us interspersed all over the world, that is the last time we spent together, the four of us. Whenever we meet now, it’s in configurations of two or three; we’ve never been able to manage that Lucky Number 4.

Before making it home that night, we stopped at the greengrocer’s on the Edgware Road, picking up potatoes, tomatoes and aubergine for a simple vegetarian dinner. Onto bus #16 and then off, across the street from home in Maida Vale. While chatting with S, Z and A, I made a Pakistani dish of potatoes and aubergine: aloo baingan. It’s a dish in which the potatoes and aubergine sort of meld together, each bite velvety and comforting. The tomatoes perfectly balance it out with its hint of tanginess.

We toasted slices of white bread in the toaster to scoop up the aloo baingain with, and spent the night talking, on the floor in an almost empty apartment. I haven’t made this dish since then and so, this post is for you, A- because you loved this dish. I don’t know if the dish was as good as you remember it to be, but that evening certainly was. Here’s to being together again, the four of us, in London again, sitting in Soho and having a cappuccino together, at some coffeeshop chain.

The venue never really mattered then, and it wouldn’t matter now.

Serves 4 with a side dish

Ingredients:
*1 tsp cumin seeds; known as zeera in Urdu
*a pour of corn oil (or other neutral oil)
*1 tsp ginger paste
*1 tsp garlic paste
*1 1/2 tsp black mustard seeds; known as rai in Urdu
*1 lb potatoes
*2 lb aubergine (that will be 2 medium aubergine)
*1/2 lb tomatoes of your choice, I used cherry tomatoes, halved
*1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
*salt to taste
*1/4 tsp turmeric powder
*fresh coriander for garnish

Preparation:
*Place frying pan on high heat, add cumin seeds, when fragrant (10-20 seconds) take off heat and set aside.
*Remove skin from potatoes and dice into 1/4 inch cubes;
*Cut off stem of aubergine and dice into 1/4 inch cubes, with the skin on;
*Place pan (approximately 10-in diameter) on medium-high heat and pour in a glug of oil;
*Add ginger, garlic and mustard seeds-careful, it will splatter, have your pan lid handy (or some aluminium foil). Let it splatter for 30 seconds so the garlic and ginger is browned.
*Carefully remove lid (I take the pot off the burner and let it rest for at least 10 seconds before I remove the lid) and add potatoes.
*Turn the heat to medium;
*Saute for five minutes and add a tablespoon or more of water to prevent the potatoes from sticking to the bottom of the pot.
*Add aubergine and continue to stir. Add cayenne, turmeric and salt to taste. Add a few more tablespoons of water (again, to prevent aubergine or potatoes from sticking to the bottom of the pan) and then add tomatoes.
*Turn the heat to low-medium, place lid on top and allow to steam for 15 minutes. Check at the 10 minute mark.
*When ready, sprinkle with roasted cumin and fresh chopped cilantro.
*Eat with rice, naan, chapati or toasted bread

I would like to thank Lucy Waverman whose staff helped me write this recipe. I had a loose recipe from my mother according to her andaaza, estimation method.

Ami and I usually sit in our breakfast room when we’re having an afternoon cup of tea. For her just a splash of milk, “pour it in with just a flick of the wrist, Sham,” Ami cautions me. And for myself, a cardamom popped in, no milk. We share namak paray, finger-thin crackly wafers spiced with cumin as we sip our chai. Ami used to bake buttercup-yellow dense cakes when I was a child, but she’s given up on baking now. But that’s all right, as my Aunty Shelly lives just down the road and I can steal a blueberry-banana bread loaf from her kitchen on most days.

My favourite chai-time treat is when Ami makes kebabs.

She plonks everything in the processor and blitzes it. Then it all goes into a mixing bowl and she tastes it, raw, just like that. “Mirch kam hai-this needs more chili,” Ami says as she effortlessly chops a few more green chilies between her index finger and thumb. They fall in bit by bit. Then she mixes it all again by hand and begins to shape the meat into small patties. She lines a baking tray with foil, and smears oil on it with her hands.

And right under the broiler they go.

We have them with a spicy, minty, yoghurt chutney.

And sometimes Ami doesn’t cut the chili small enough, which packs a surprising punch in my mouth.  I love that burning feeling as I wash the kebab down with tea.

Serves 4

Ingredients:

*1 pound minced beef (non-lean)

*1 medium onion, chopped fine

*2 cups coarsely chopped fresh coriander, stems and leaves

*1 cup coarsely chopped fresh mint leaves

*4 red or green chilies (optional)

*1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

*3/4 cup coarsely chopped green onions (white and green portion)

*2 tbsp coriander seeds

*1 egg

*2 tsp salt

*corn oil (or any other neutral oil) for shallow frying

Preparation:

*Combine meat, onion, coriander, mint, chilies, cayenne pepper, green onions, coriander seeds, egg and salt in a food processor and process untill well combined and onions, green onions and coriander are finely chopped.

*Form meat into 2-inch round flat patties, about 1/2-inch thick

At this stage you have two options- either fry the kebabs, or if you wish to employ healthy cooking techniques, broil them in the oven.

For frying:

*Heat 1/4 inch of oil in a pan over medium heat. Working in batches, add patties to oil and fry for 30-40 seconds per side or until golden brown and cooked through, adding more oil as needed (you may need to change the oil as it darkens).

For broiling:

*Line a cookie sheet with foil and brush with corn oil.

*Arrange patties on a cookie sheet and brush each patty with corn oil.

*Place under a hot grill/broiler 30-40 seconds per side.

Serve with a yoghurt mint chutney and naan or other flatbread.

 

French-Indian. Mexican-Japanese. Thai-Chinese. Fusion cuisine? Not really my brand of gin.

But when you have a family who is originally Afghan, now settled in Pakistan- invariably, there will be lots of ‘fusion-cuisine’ type of dishes prepared in the kitchen.

Baingan bharta is a soft, earthy and velvety mound of mashed aubergine; a typical Pakistani vegetarian dish. It has notes of cumin, caramelised onions and is spiced up with red chili pepper or fresh green chilies.

In this case , the bharta is crowned with yoghurt and savoury mince, like borani- a quintessential Afghan/Persian dish.

Instead of the traditional Pakistani way of adding fresh coriander leaves, we use mint to add another dimension of fresh flavour, just like with borani.

Eat with Basmati rice, naan or chapati.

Serves 4 with a side dish
You will need to pre-heat your oven to 425F

Ingredients:
*2 large aubergine
*2-3 tbsp olive oil
*salt to taste
*1 medium + ½ a small onion, minced
*1 tbsp whole cumin seeds (zeera)
*2 small green chilies chopped (de-seed if you want less heat)
*1 lb mince meat, beef, (not lean)
*1 garlic clove, minced
*1 tsp tomato paste
*7 oz tomato sauce/stewed chopped tomatoes/passata
*pinch chili pepper
*pinch turmeric
*Greek or other thick yoghurt like labneh
*handful of fresh mint, torn by hand

Preparation:

Step 1: Prepare the savoury mince:
* In a heavy-bottomed pan add meat, salt, 1 minced garlic clove, ½ minced onion, tomato paste, 7 oz tomato sauce, a pinch of chili pepper and turmeric, 1 cup water. Stir, cover and leave to cook on a low-medium flame for one hour.
*Stir/check every 20 minutes to make sure the liquid is evaporating and the meat is not sticking to the bottom of the pot.
*When the water has evaporated and the mince looks ‘saucy’, stir and turn the heat off.
*Set aside.

Step 2: Prepare the bharta:
*Turn your oven to 425F.
*Pierce aubergine with a fork and lay them on a tray lined with aluminium foil in the oven for one hour and twenty minutes.
*When they are almost ready, they will appear to be wilted and soft.
*Remove from the oven and allow to cool.
*Scoop out the flesh from the aubergines, discarding the skin.
*Set aside.
*Add olive oil to a large frying pan and place on medium-high heat.
*Add 1 medium chopped onion and stir, when the onions start to turn golden, add cumin seeds and sauté for one minute till fragrant.
*Add aubergine flesh, salt and chilies and turn heat to high.
*Sauté rigorously for 5 minutes, till you see that all the excess liquid has been absorbed.
*Turn heat off and set aside.

Step 3: Assemblage:
*The bharta and savoury mince should be warmed before serving.
*Spread a layer of bharta at the bottom of a large dish.
*Slather in the middle with yoghurt like in the photo above, allowing bharta to peek out from the sides.
*Arrange savoury mince on top.
*Garnish with fresh mint.
*Serve with chapati, naan or basmati rice.