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 loved those kaanch ki churiyaan; glass bangles you’d find right before Eid at the Anarkali Bazaar in Lahore’s Old City. The vendors had every colour you could imagine- neon lemon, bubble-gum pink, dark and light violets and shimmery silver ones like mother-of-pearl. I loved going to the Anarkali Bazaar with my Nani Ami to buy my Eid outfit with matching churiyaan. Of course I had to buy the dull bangles, the plastic ones, which didn’t even make that all important ‘clink clink’ sound with every hand movement. Unlike the glass ones, you could easily stuff your hand into them. Glass bangles were supposed to be slipped on after lathering up your hands with soap and water so they would slide on effortlessly. I spent most of my childhood in envy of my cousins who wore glass bangles every Eid. But then again, I had slit my wrist at the age of three after taking a fall whilst wearing them. I even have the scar of five stitches to prove it. So as a child, I just had to lump it and wear the plastic ones.

After churiyaan shopping I would grasp my grandmother’s hand and walk towards the sandal shop, passing the fruit chaat kiosk on the way. On a counter sat the fruit vendors, their hands ‘bloodied’ by juicing garnet-red pomegranates almost the size of my 6-year old head, and the man next to him chopping creamy textured guavas and tossing them in a large bowl with jewel-like pomegranate seeds, sliced bananas, coral-hued peaches and red orb-like apples. And then, adding with his fingertips, a generous dusting of chaat masala- that wonderfully tangy, earthy, hot, and salty spice concoction. In the end he’d add squirts of fresh lime juice to bind it all together.

It was that addictive and perfect combination of sweet, spicy, salty and sour that I craved.

But did I mention that I wasn’t allowed to eat that? Apparently, that kiosk had questionable hygiene conditions and I could get food poisoning, or typhoid, or some other disease which I thought Nani Ami was just making up. After all, there were ladies sitting there on the stools with their khaki bags of Eid shopping resting at their feet, whilst they ate their fruit chaat in glass bowls to take some respite from shopping, and ‘they didn’t seem to have typhoid’, I thought to myself. I wanted that chaat almost as desperately as I wanted those kaanch ki churiyaan.

But both were verboten. And because I loved my grandmother too much, I didn’t utter a word in response. My Ami would surely have gotten some foot stomping action from me with an, ‘It’s not fair!’, followed by a lot of endless whinging. But grandmothers? They are never mean and are always fair.

I suppose once we got to the sandal store, none of that fruit chaat business mattered anymore. Lined up against the wall were sandals with rhinestones and others with hand embroidery and some with glittery beads. But I knew exactly the kainchi chappal; thong sandals, that I wanted- they had two thin straps with a silver mini-pom pom to go with the Eid outfit Nani Ami had chosen for me.

When a little girl has her Eid ka kurta shalwar, silver shoes and bangles- fruit chaat sort of becomes less important.

Though now I think I may just choose fruit chaat over shoes. Especially the one Nani Ami made for me, with her homemade chaat masala.

My grandmother used to make a great chaat masala that really packed a punch, but I am still in the midst of finding that recipe from someone in my family who remembers the proportions of spices Nani Ami used.

So in the meantime, I make a fruit chaat of my own, with just a bit of chilli, salt and lime. If the fruit you use isn’t sweet enough, add some brown sugar to taste.

The Bullying. Stratford Landing Elementary School, Grade 2. In a suburb of Washington DC.

Ami used to make me sandwiches for lunch so I wouldn’t have to eat the horrid spaghetti in bolognese sauce from the school cafeteria. This “Italian” dish was usually made with meat which looked more like cat food, straight out of a tin. All the other children used to bring soft sandwiches smeared with peanut butter and grape jelly, and even though I pleaded for those sarnies, Ami said no. It wasn’t good for you- all that sugar and carbs.

So I’d come to school, carrying my red tupperware lunchbox with Ami’s Pakistani-styled sarnies. Some days there was a pulled-chicken toasted sandwich, layered with tomatoes and cucumbers, made from last night’s leftover murghi ka saalan; curry and other days Ami would make me kebabs and tuck them into pita bread. In all my sandwiches there would be a smothering of fresh mint and coriander chutney. There you had it- carbs, protein, and spicy tartness all wrapped into one.

Except the kids, egged on by the popular red-head in our class, used to sit miles away from me in the cafeteria, making faces at my food, and asking me, Is that green stuff shit your mom makes? or Are you eating mould? or Stay away, we might catch the foreign mould, they’d say. I was one of the only foreigners in the school. I didn’t have a heavy American accent, I didn’t celebrate Christmas and I didn’t go to the community pool during the summer. My family and I would travel to new countries for a portion of the summer and then spend the rest of it at home in Lahore or with our family in London.

Yes, I was different, I was weird. I didn’t eat peanut butter and jelly sarnies for lunch.

Saddened by the ridiculing, some days I’d eat in the library, behind the bookshelves, so as not to suffer the wrath of the kids. After all, I was eating foreign food. Plus, I spoke with an accent. Apparently, if one didn’t speak in an American accent, one had an accent. That one, I could never get my head around.

I still remember those years from Elementary School, and I know that if I had to do it all over again, go back in time, I would still ask my Ami to make those scrumptious chutney and kebab sarnies for me. And I would ask her to give me some extra chutney on the side.

I have no regrets about the Pakistani girl my parents brought me up as- eating kebabs, spending summers with cousins in Lahore, trying to knock down that raw mango from the tree to eat with lime and salt and chili pepper, learning Urdu calligraphy on Sundays when all I really wanted to do was read my Grimms Brothers Fairy Tales- and I thank both my Ami and Baba for that.

Ami’s chutney was a green one, but this is a chutney my paternal grandmother, Mader used to make, which I loved and is summer appropriate. Ami’s chutney recipe shall be “forthcoming, Fall 2011″.

This keeps for 2-3 weeks in the fridge
The texture is dense, but liquid-like.

Ingredients:
*4 large red capsicum / bell peppers
*4 garlic cloves (if you are using large cloves, use 2)
*4 tbsp (approximately 60 ml) white vinegar or you can use apple cider vinegar, too
*3 tbsp sugar (approximately 40g)
*2 small fresh, hot red chillies
*salt to taste

Preparation:
*De-seed and chop capsicum into small cubes (these are going into the blender so the size does not matter).
*Chop garlic into small pieces (this is also going into the blender so the size does not matter).
*Transfer capsicum, garlic, vinegar and sugar into the blender.
*Add one chilli by chopping it with kitchen shears directly into the blender. Test for level of heat. If you are ok with it, add second chilli.
*Add salt to taste.
*Pulse in the blender till everything is minced, you want it to look slightly chunky, you dont want it to be completely smooth.
*Serve with kebabs, rice, smear on bread for a sarnie, or enjoy atop your favourite cheese and crackers.

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.

Blog post is in response to a request from my friend AFC- who loved his masala omelettes during his business trips to India.

I like to eat my masala omelette placed between two pieces of soft, untoasted bread and eaten like a sarnie with some sweet chili sauce. It’s a childhood thing, you know, that ‘nursery food’ texture we all remember. The masala omelette is to the Pakistani kitchen what pancakes are to an American kitchen. The only pancakes I ever had as a child were out of a box, and that too, slathered with Aunt Jemima’s Kitchen syrup.

As a child, the only cooking Ami and I did together in the kitchen was when she made eggs or French Toast. Our housekeeper, Amma Parveen used to have the weekends off and that’s when Ami and I’d get deep into the kitchen.

Well, not quite in the way you think…

Please erase that vision of Ami and I standing in the kitchen in our matching pink pinnies. Nope. I was a brat, and that’s why I was in the kitchen with her: “Ami, the edges of the omelette aren’t dark enough…” or “Ami, you didn’t put enough dhania (coriander) in the omelette.” And then there was, “Ami, you overcooked the egg yolk, now I shan’t eat it.”

What a nightmare I was. I’m sure Ami wanted to smack me and make me watch Fred Flinstone or something else mind-numbing instead of annoying her in the kitchen during breakfast time. But she didn’t.

Ami always made everything perfectly right- she knew I liked my French Toast a little bit soggy in the middle, crisp around the edges and my Masala Omelette without tomatoes and sandwiched between two pieces of bread. And she always put just the right amount of sweet chili sauce on it, too.

There I sat with Ami, in front of the telly, watching the Flintstone’s, whilst washing the masala omelette down with a tall glass of Nesquik strawberry milk. (I know, I know, but now I drink grown-up strawberry milk- here’s my friend’s recipe.)

Only a mother can tolerate such bratty behaviour, and it’s not just on Mother’s Day that I think of this…

Here is her recipe, I’ve added the pinch of haldi in it, which she wouldn’t approve of, but I know she’ll forgive me for being fiddly with it.

A similar dish is called khagina- which is a spiced scramble egg- please forgive me for the bland photos, it was my first ever post – I now cringe when I look at those earlier photos.

Serves 1; this recipe can easily be doubled.

Ingredients:
*2 medium-sized eggs
*half a small onion, minced
*¼ cup fresh coriander, chopped finely
*½ green thai bird chili minced. If you’re a chili-head like me, add one whole chili. Use shears to cut this straight into the bowl, so you don’t burn your fingertips.
*pinch haldi; turmeric powder (found in most Pakistani/Indian/Persian grocery stores)
*½ tsp cayenne pepper
*½ tsp salt
*1 tsp ghee or 1 tbsp neutral oil (sunflower or corn)

Preparation:
*Pre-heat your grill/broiler.
*Beat two eggs in a small bowl and add onion, coriander, green chili, haldi, cayenne and salt. Whisk well.
*Place a small frying pan on medium heat and add ghee/oil.
*Pour egg mixture into frying pan and keep swirling till the egg mixture is well distributed. Don’t touch the mixture with your spatula.
*After 2-3 minutes, you will see the edges begin to crisp up. At this point, you can either flip the omelette over, or if you want to be cautious, place it under the grill till golden, about 2 minutes.
*Serve with bread of your choice.

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.

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.

 

Pray, Love and Eat

Guest Post written by Baba, my father.

Every child has a lucky day; mine was Thursday. It was the day Agha, my father, would take my brother and I to meet our grandparents and cousins inside Lahore’s Old City.

Agha

The evening would commence when our Morris Minor headed towards the mazar (shrine) of the renowned 11th Century Sufi Saint Ali Hajweri, lovingly known as Data Ganj Buksh, the ‘Bestower of Spiritual Treasures’. The shrine lay just outside the famous Bhatti Gate. Lahore was built as a walled City with 13 ancient gates as a protection against invaders. Thursday is always a festive occasion at the Data Ganj Buksh’s shrine with thousands of devotees milling around, buying flowers for offering, eating spicy deep fried fish or jeelibis-sweet syrupy pretzels, or negotiating the price of food meant to feed the devotees.

The Shrine of Data Ganj Buksh

Agha would take off in the tomb’s direction after installing us in the outer courtyard where the qawals (devotional singers) rendered Sufi poetry, celebrating the oneness of religions and humanity, while fakirs performed pirouettes to rhythmic music and drums.  After his supplications, Agha would lead us to the tomb so that we too could pay respects and make a wish. Invariably, my little secret prayer was to receive the maximum amount of sugar coated almonds which the sajjada nasheens-the hereditary shrine mangers, would hand out to kids, at the exit.

Tragically, the edifice of my childhood mystical experience was recently shattered when heartless terrorists blew devotees to smithereens at Data Ganj Buksh’s shrine earlier this month.

After this spiritual cleansing we headed for Lahore’s Inner City through its Roshani Gate located in the NorthWest corner of the City, famous for the “Dancing Girls of Lahore”. Our car meandered like molasses through the city’s narrow alleys, reaching Choona Mundi in the precint of Sheranwala Gate, where my grandparents had built a haveli known as Bangla Ayub Shah.

My great-grandparents: Shahzada Muazzam Jan &  Shahzadi Fatima Begum

In the ‘50s there were no cell phones, not even that many landline connections, but fortunately Bibi, my grandmother had developed a perfect sense of our arrival time. She would always anticipate it, squeeze us warmly and have on offer a plate of sizzling pakoras- spicy tempura, prepared by the famous Boota who had set up shop in front of our ancestral home.  Actually, it’s only after the passage of decades that it dawned on me that city life styles are universal. Whether one lives in Manhattan or Inner City Lahore the most delicious foods are accessible 24/7 and at stones throw, from anywhere.

Spicy Tempura: Vegetable Pakoras

As if to prove this phenomena, Bibi would order succulent lamb kebabs and fresh nan from Kalifa Kebab joint, adjacent to our home. The kebabs had earned a reputation across the entire City, since Kalifa (Caliph) had developed and mastered the art of producing the highest quality kebabs, defined by their near-zero fat content and exotic condiments which made them light and silky smooth-the kebabs would crumble even with the most tender touch, while its aroma would latch on to one’s memory forever!

Regrettably, Khalifa took the kebab recipe with him to the grave leaving only a few assistants with the technique, but what good is technique without secret ingredients?

The Thursday visits would end with a stroll to Bibi’s sisters’ home in the adjacent compounds, each with its own bubbling fountain, colored window panes, ornate mirrors in the living room and an “improvised heater” (known as a sandali in dari): coal embers placed under a wooden table and covered with the largest duvet. Bibi’s eldest sister Khawar Jan would be sitting upright aided by a bolster pillow and dragging at her nargile. Her stern husband our senior grand dad Shahzada Saleh Jan seemed perpetually  glued to a radio with a green tweaking magic eye-it resembled a Cyclops, which sent a slight tremor in my still infant heart.

After  receiving our blessings we rapidly retreated to Bibi’s domain where the farewell dessert awaited us. There were choices: kheer (rice pudding) or gajarella (a milky carrot and rice pudding), even heavenly diamond shaped burfi (made of the purest milk). All these were procured in a flash from the next door Milk and Sweet Meats vendor, Ilim Din (the Knowledgeable One). Since there were no refrigerators in those days the dessert plates were placed and cooled on ice slabs. The pudding was embellished with slivered almonds and saffron/pistachio dust, mouth watering to the extent that I would polish it off with my little fingers.

The dessert gorging event marked the end of another memorable circle of our own version of “Pray, Love and Eat“.

Pakoras with paudinay ki chutney (mint and yoghurt)

There is no set / precise recipe, as such for pakoras. But I shall try to give a general recipe.

You will have to deep-fry the pakoras. Place oil (2-3 inches of it) in wok on medium-high heat. Select some vegetables of choice, I used aubergine, potatoes and onions. Slice them very thinly. Roast some zeera (whole cumin seeds and set aside). In a mixing bowl, combine besan (gram flour) with salt, baking powder (a tsp should do), roasted zeera (cumin seeds) and red pepper flakes. Slowly add in water, a few drops at a time, and stir till it becomes a thick mixture, a bit like cake batter. Dredge your vegetables in the batter and test one in the wok. It should slowly turn golden. If it burns, turn the heat a tad bit lower-you don’t want a crisp crust with raw vegetables inside. You will have to play around with this through trial and error. Continue to drop dredged vegetables into the wok one by one. They should take about 1 minute per side, to become a golden brown. Serve with a mint-yoghurt chutney and piping hot builder’s tea- a Pakistani version of  ’afternoon tea‘.