That coral pink sludge we used to buy from the Sainsbury’s closest to our dorm was usually scooped up with salt and vinegar crisps. Taramosalata it was called. My Greek friend MM had introduced me to it, but I am sure it was quite different than the real stuff she was eating back home in Athens. We all loved it, we thought we were the ultimate gourmandes, eating in the common room together, bitching about that Italian Econometrics professor who didn’t really know what that damn Monte Carlo algorithm test was- and neither did we.

Then there was tzatziki, a Greek yoghurt and cucumber dip, also bought at Sainsbury’s. It was probably thickened with gelatin and how they kept the cucumbers ‘fresh and crunchy’ for so many days, well, that would be thanks to the chemistry of preservatives galore. Anyway, we ate that, too. We were proper gourmandes, after all. And with the salt and vinegar crisps to go with the dips, we were really on to something new.

Ah, life in our twenties, when we were so easily pleased. A trip to London on the train to have a coffee at Cafe Nero (ultimate symbol of cool-ness), a meal at some shady Chinese restaurant in Soho where noodle dishes were ample and the stir-fried beef was questionable. Sugared melon juice at a Lebanese place on the Edgware Road and a carb-laden-oily dim sum at Poon’s. A walk through the Covent Garden and finally a film in Leicester Square before taking the train back to our uni town, whilst eating packets of Quavers (don’t judge, please) or some other delectably greasy bag of crisps.

I miss those days not because I yearn for that tzatziki or that awful packaged taramosalata, but because it took so little to make us deliriously happy.

My husband is taking me to Montreal this weekend to celebrate my birthday, and we plan to walk around the alleys of the city, visiting the Montreal bagel bakeries and lazing around at bistros sipping wine. To be deliriously happy with the simplest of pleasures in life.

For those of you who like to work in cups, my recipe is in print in Edible Toronto, here.

Serves 4-6 as an hors d’oeuvre with bread or crisps

Ingredients:
*500g full-fat yoghurt (Greek-style or Balkan-style)
*2 English cucumbers (small cucumbers), peeled and diced into small pieces
*50g chopped walnuts
*1 clove garlic, minced
*1 tbsp dried mint, plus extra for garnish
*salt of your choice to taste (I use fleur de sel or maldon)
*dried rose petals, optional, available in Persian grocery stores
*extra virgin olive oil for drizzling

Preparation:
*In a medium bowl, add yoghurt, cucumber, walnuts, garlic, mint and salt. Stir well to combine. Transfer the mixture to a serving dish. Lightly sprinkle with dried mint and dried rose petals (if using). Drizzle with your best extra virgin olive oil.

NOTE: When preparing this recipe in advance, do not add cucumbers to the yoghurt. Keep the diced cucumber and the yoghurt mixture in separate containers, covered, in the refrigerator. Drain the cucumbers in a sieve prior to stirring the solids into the yoghurt mixture.

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.

Her name was Bridget but we called her Aunty Brige. Not pronounced ‘bridge’, like the one which connects two points across a river, but Brige, with a long ‘i’, as in liege. She was tall and wore lots of white, flowing dresses which looked beautiful with her crown of wavy, strawberry blonde hair. One could imagine her sitting elegantly next to a harp, with her fingers plucking at the strings. Aunty Brige had light eyes; I cannot remember if they were green or blue or hazel, and they were always hidden behind large spectacles.Aunty Brige was the wife of the Irish Ambassador to Nigeria, and became my Ami’s dear friend when we lived in Lagos. On weekends, Aunty Brige and her husband, Uncle Aidan would invite us to go motoring through the Lagos Lagoon in their boat, towards the Tarkwa Bay. The boat would sometimes rock up and down and Aunty Brige would squeeze my hand and say, “Ah, it’s very choppy today.” Terrified, I just wanted to cry and get the hell off of that boat and build my sand castle at the Bay. She loved little girls, especially since she had six boys of her own and just one daughter. She told my Ami that when her last child was born, while the nurse swaddled the newborn baby, she asked Aunty Brige what she would like the name to be. Exhausted after labour, she simply waved her hand and said, “Oh, anything, Tom, Dick or Harry.” The nurse laughed and said, “Mrs. Mulloy, I don’t think your daughter would appreciate those names.”

It was during our years in Lagos that my youngest sister was born. Ami was away in Washington with my younger sister for the delivery, whilst Baba and I stayed back. Knowing I was feeling lonely without my mother, Aunty Brige would bring me soft cakes made with marzipan, which she knew were Ami’s favourite. On weekends they would invite us to their home for lunches. Uncle Aidan, a gourmand, loved having chilled soups during lunchtime; he found them particularly cooling in the tropical heat of Lagos. It was my first time trying a cucumber-yoghurt soup and it was unforgettable: mainly because I couldn’t drink more than a few spoonfuls. My childhood palate never let me forget how awful it tasted back then. It was cold, and I couldn’t understand why we were drinking cucumber juice mixed with yoghurt, out of a bowl, and that too, with a spoon.

After we left Lagos for Washington DC, Aunty Brige continued to send me birthday cards every year, but soon after that I moved to Lahore to live with my grandmother, and we lost touch with them all together. I heard from a friend, many years later, that Aunty Brige had passed away from cancer. Sweet Aunty Brige, who took photos of me building sandcastles in Tarkwa Bay.

All these years later, I came to appreciate cucumber-yoghurt soup, which always reminds me of Uncle Aidan and Aunty Brige. Especially that time in my childhood when not many things tasted very good, don’t forget, I was drinking a lot of Campbell Chicken Noodle Soup back then. My tastebuds were almost ruined.

This is just the sort of soup I would make for my Aunty Brige, but with my own Persian spin on it- chilled, with beads of crunchy cucumbers, fragrant with mint and a bit of earthiness from the walnuts. And finally, topped off with crackly fried shallots which melt into the cool soup as caramelised ribbons.

Serves 4-6 as a first course or 10-12 in smaller portions for a cocktail party

Ingredients:
*1 shallot, sliced thin
*1 tbsp olive oil
*6 English (mini) cucumbers (approximately 300g)
*handful mint leaves (no stalks)
*1 garlic clove
*salt to taste
*1½ cup or approximately 350 g Greek or whole milk yoghurt
*½ cup or approximately 60 g walnuts, plus some more for garnishing, crushed and chopped by hand
*Dried rose petals for garnish- found in most Persian grocery stores (optional)

Preparation:
*Slice shallot thinly;
*Place a small frying pan on medium-high heat and add one tablespoon of olive oil;
*Add shallots and fry till a dark golden colour;
*Transfer to a newspaper or paper towel and allow to dry.
*Set aside;
*Peel the skin from cucumbers;
*Slice each cucumber lengthwise and with a teaspoon, gently scoop out the seeds. Divide cucumbers into two separate batches;
*Take the first batch of cucumbers and slice into very thin strips lengthwise. Then dice into very small pieces, approximately less than ½ centimetre and 1/8th of an inch. (See photo above).
*Set first batch of cucumbers aside.
*Take the second batch of cucumbers and garlic clove and place in a blender or food processor. Blend till completely smooth.
*Add mint leaves to the blender or food processor and pulse just so the mint leaves are shredded but not completely blended in. You want to be able to see small specks of the mint leaves.
*Transfer the puréed cucumber and mint to a mixing bowl. Add Greek yoghurt, walnuts, the first batch of diced cucumbers and gently mix to combine. Add salt to taste.
*The consistency should be like that of a thick soup. If it is too watery for your liking, you can add more Greek yoghurt, if it is too thick, add some ice cold water, tablespoon by tablespoon till you get the desired consistency.
*Place in the fridge and allow to chill for 2-3 hours.
*Serve in a soup bowl or in tiny glasses and just prior to serving, garnish with crunchy shallots, crushed walnuts and (optional) dried rose petals.

Ami and Nani Ami in Murree, Pakistan

It’s dreadfully difficult to find ice in Rome. It’s considered an American thing- ‘ma, tu sei Americana?‘, the server joked with my sister when she requested ice in her coca-cola. It was May, and my dear friend A and I were hosting a party on her terrace and we needed ice for making those sweet, tart mojitos. We were in a crisis- we had no idea where to get it from in Rome- and we needed lots of it.

A and I got together at her place two nights before our party to organise the ice- after all, that was the most important element for the party. When you have mojitos, who needs food? And that’s when my Ami called from Lahore- to tell me that my Nani Ami’s condition was not improving; it was merely a matter of a few days.

A and I canceled the party.

I walked back home that night, along the pine tree-lined avenue of Terme di Caracalla, thinking of the candy-coloured bangles my grandmother sent me every Eid throughout my childhood, with a matching gota kinari kurta shalwar and dupatta. And the tiny packets of mithi saunf, sugar-coated aniseed with a treat inside each of them, either a ring with a “ruby” or a watch made from an elastic band. But the biggest treat were the packets of Rafhan’s strawberry flavoured jelly she used to send, which she knew I loved and made for me every night when I was in Lahore on holiday. And let’s not forget the volumes of Cassette Kahanis, those cassettes every child loved, relaying stories about ethereal beings and dragons and serpents.

Eid was complete with a gold trim outfit, matching bangles and sugar. All a child needs, really.

Nani Ami passed away the morning after. It was that 6 am phonecall which everyone dreads. The time when the phone really shouldn’t ring- unless your best friend has woken up with a stranger after a drunken night of clubbing. Or, if someone you love has died.

I go back to Lahore every year and though my Uncles and their families live in my grandparents’ home, it’s not the same for me. I miss waking up in the air-conditioned room with the smell of motia, the night blooming jasmine on my side table, which Nani Ami used to bring in for me from the garden after her 6am walk. And I miss being asked again and again, ‘aur sunao.’ Smelling of Diorissimo, she would sit at the foot of my bed, asking me to tell her more, even when my eyes would be closing from jetlag.

I dedicate this post to her, to Nani Ami, a wonderful mother and grandmother.

This is her recipe for aloo tiki; potato cutlets.

Serves 4 during teatime or as an appetiser.

Ingredients:
*500 g white potatoes
*Cumin seeds (zeera), roasted.
*2 tbsp minced white onion
*salt to taste
*red pepper chili flakes to taste
*small handful fresh coriander leaves, chopped fine
*1 egg, beaten
*neutral oil (such as sunflower or corn) for shallow frying

Preparation:
*Wash, scrub and quarter the potatoes.
*Bring a large pot of water to boil.
*Cook potatoes in pot of boiling salted water for 10 to 15 minutes or until potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork.
*In the meantime, place a small non stick frying pan on high heat, add cumin seeds and swirl the pan gently, in order to make sure the seeds are roasted uniformly. When you can smell the aroma and the seeds begin to darken, immediately remove the pan from the burner. Transfer to a plate to stop the cumin from cooking further.
*When the potatoes are fork-tender, drain them, and when cool, remove the skin, (which will come off very easily).
*Mash potatoes with a masher and then with a fork, some lumps may remain, but don’t worry, as this will give a nice texture to the end product.
*Add roasted cumin seeds, minced onion, salt, chili flakes and coriander leaves.
*Shape into small patties as in photo above. (You may want to wet your palms a little bit to prevent the potato mash from sticking to them).
*Place a large non stick frying pan on medium high heat and add a few tablespoons of oil for shallow frying.
*Dip each patty into egg mixture (see photo above) and carefully transfer to frying pan. Fry about 40 seconds on each side, (be careful when flipping patty), till golden.
*Serve hot with a mint chutney or Thai sweet chili sauce.

Carb on carb is considered very naughty.

But we, the Afghans do it, the Pakistanis do it with our spiced potato sauté mopped up with pillowy naan; the Poles do it with their pierogies and you haven’t really lived yet if you haven’t been to that trattoria in Baschi, Umbria and had a silky raviolo stuffed with a velvety potato mash, served with a fruity olive oil and shavings of that musky, sweet, intense black truffle. That dish is called “i-want-to-lick-my-plate-and-the-person-who-created-this-combination”.

This is before I was married, of course.

Now licking of a random chef in a restaurant is verboten.

Afghan boulani have that sort of effect on you- you want to lick the plate and the paper they are on.

And the cook.

They are utterly moreish, the perfect combination of crispy, chewy, hot- like a samosa. You have to eat them when they’re hot, straight out of the pan. Well, you don’t have to, but for those of you who have peered impatiently over your mum’s shoulder as she’s frying something and eaten it right off the newspaper-lined plate whilst burning your fingers-you lot know what I mean.

Eat these standing in the kitchen, dipping them deep into a bowl of mint and yoghurt chutney whilst burning your mouth and fingers as the steam pours out with each bite.

It’s well worth it.

Makes 8
You will need a rolling pin and a 15cm pastry cutter (or you can use the lid of a small saucepan).

Ingredients:
For the pastry:
*300g flour, sifted
*1 1/2tsp salt,
*200-250ml of cold water

For the potatoes:
*1kg potatoes, halved (I use medium-sized yellow ones)
*6 stalks scallions, sliced into thin disks
*salt to taste
*1/2 tsp black pepper
*1/8 tsp white pepper
*1/2 tsp pink pepper berries + more for garnish, crushed in a spice mixer or with a pestle and mortar
*oil for shallow frying

Preparation:
For the pastry:
*Combine flour and salt in a mixing bowl and slowly, tablespoon by tablespoon, start to add water and knead till it forms a dough.
*Knead for 10 minutes and then divide into 4 balls. Cover with a teacloth or plastic wrap and allow to rest for 1 hour.
*In the meanwhile, prepare the potato filling.

For the potato filling:
*Bring a large pot of water to boil and add potatoes.
*Boil till fork tender, about 15 minutes, depending on the potato you are using.
*Drain potatoes and when they have cooled, remove the skin.
*Transfer to a large bowl and mash with a potato masher. I like the mixture to be chunky (versus completely smooth).
*Add scallions, salt to taste, black pepper, white pepper and pink pepper berries.
*Mix to combine.
*Set aside while you roll out the dough.

Assemble:
*Roll out one of four portions of dough on a floured surface with a floured rolling pin till dough is half a centimetre thick.
*With a pastry cutter, approximately 15cm or a saucepan lid, cut out circles.
*Place on parchment paper as you shape them and cover with a teacloth.
*Repeat the process of rolling out the dough and cutting out circles, for all four portions of dough. Use the scraps of dough, too.
*On half of each round, place 2-3 tbps of the potato filling. Moisten the edges of dough with a finger dipped in water and fold dough over the filling to form a half-moon. Pleat the edges shut (you can also seal them with a fork).
*Press down around filling to force out any air.
*Place boulani on parchment paper and cover with a teacloth till ready to fry.
*Place oil in a large frying pan or skillet for shallow frying on medium heat.
*Fry 2-3 boulani at a time, 1-2 minutes per side or till golden brown.
*Transfer to a newspaper or towel paper lined tray to absorb the oil.
*Garnish with crushed pink pepper berries and some scallions.
*Serve with a green chutney 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

Recipe created by my dear friend BH and myself. BH adores spelt flour and has shown me how to incorporate it in my repertoire.

I could never understand why we didn’t eat Uncle Ben’s rice at home; the kind that Mrs. Ferris, my friend Sarah’s mum boiled in its own bag and served us alongside roast chicken. Each grain was plum and served slightly watery.

Why did we have to have basmati rice all the time? Sometimes laced with cumin and sometimes cooked in a cinnamon, cloves and cardamom-infused chicken stock.

I could never understand why I couldn’t eat Fig Newtons as a child. So what if there was animal (pig) fat in it?

Why didn’t we have a ‘station wagon’ like the one my friend Carrie’s parents drove? Why did we have to have a German car?

Why did we have to go to Europe and Pakistan every summer when the rest of my friends were staying in Washington DC and going down the slide at the pool near our home whilst sipping grape juice out of small boxes with straws attached?

And most importantly, why did we eat spicy masala omelettes or crêpes for breakfast and not pancakes and waffles like everyone else in my neighbourhood? I wanted to eat those Eggo waffles which came out of boxes and were slathered with Aunt Jemima’s sugary syrup. The kind that bores holes into your molars.

There was no boxed food in our home, no Eggo waffles and no Chef Boyardee. I had to go to my friends’ homes to have that.

It’s only when you’re older do you understand that having spicy baked eggs, the kind your Ami always makes, are better than Eggo waffles…

And that a platter of elongated basmati rice perfumed with roasted cumins seeds is better than Uncle Ben’s sloppy mess…

And that the mangoes we ate every summer at my grandmother’s home in Lahore; the ones which were so decadently sweet and juicy that the nectar would run all the way down your arms to your elbows…could never compare to the boxed juices my friends were having at the pool in DC…

And nutty spelt flour pancakes made at home…

Dressed with caramelised apples; candy-like and crisp around the edges…

Drizzled with maple syrup like molten amber…

Are better than any Fig Newton you were deprived of as a child…

Especially with a dusting of confectioner’s sugar on top, and washed down with cups of jasmine tea…

Serves 4
You will need two 8-9 in non-stick frying pans and maple syrup.

Ingredients:
For the pancakes:
1 1/2 cups spelt flour
1 tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 tsp baking soda (sodium bicarbonate)
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
2 eggs
2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
extra butter (unsalted) for the frying pan
confectioner’s sugar

For caramelised apples:
2 tbsp salted butter
1 large apple (preferably Granny Smith), peeled, cored and sliced thin
1 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 tsp nutmeg powder
1/2 tsp cinnamon powder
2-3 whole cloves
1 cinnamon stick
2-3 cardamom pods
pinch white pepper (optional)

Preparation:
For the pancakes:
*Combine the flour, sugar, salt, baking soda and powder in a mixing bowl.
*Separately combine buttermilk, eggs, unsalted butter.
*Slowly, add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and stir. The resultant batter should not be completely smooth; allow for some lumps.
*Place a non-stick frying pan over medium-high heat and brush with butter.
*When butter starts to bubble, add a 1/4 of batter into the pan. You can add two portions at a time like I do.
*You’ll see the sides of the pancake begin to turn golden and the top will start to bubble. At this point, flip the pancake over. You may have to adjust the heat down from medium-high to medium.
*Place in a warm oven at 200F till ready to serve.

For the caramelised apples:
*Place a non-stick frying pan on medium heat and add butter.
*When it starts to bubble, add apples, brown sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon powders, cloves, cinnamon stick, cardamom pods and white pepper. Stir every few minutes as they caramelise slowly over the next 10-15 minutes.
*The apples are ready when they turn a nutty golden colour and a sharp knife can be easily inserted.

Assemblage:
Serve pancakes with a dusting of confectioner’s sugar and some caramelised apples on top. Smother with lots of butter and drizzle with maple syrup.

I am featured on my favourite website this morning- The Kitchn. Click here.

Zain, my husband and I never go out for brunch on weekends — because Saturday and Sunday are the two days when he gets deep into the kitchen and prepares all sorts of omelettes for us. We call them “farmers’ omelettes” because they are prepared with whatever is in our fridge that particular morning (no farm here, sadly). Some days it is caramelised shallots and roasted tomatoes with brie folded in, which softly oozes out with each bite; other days it is mushroom, thyme and Swiss cheese. And there is always a little bit of caramelized garlic in them.

One morning, in the mood for an omelette in the Italian manner — a frittata, I entered the kitchen with Zain to prepare it. He took out Roma tomatoes, Irani feta and the fresh herb of the week, tarragon. Zain peeled the roma tomatoes with a potato peeler while I whipped the eggs. After pouring a few globs of olive oil into the frying pan, I added the chopped Roma tomatoes. Over a slow flame, as we sipped our cardamom tea, the tomatoes slumped and yielded, becoming soft and jam–like. In went the eggs and as Zain swirled the pan with a flick of his wrist, I added lots of soft, creamy, crumbled Irani feta. As it began to come together along the sides, we transferred it under the broiler for ten minutes. Flipped over onto a plate was a thick circle of eggy goodness—a sort of savoury custard, garnished with strands of fragrant tarragon. And since we had just returned from Istanbul, we had to give the frittata a dusting of pul biber, the prized semi–moist, red chili flakes from Turkey. We scooped up the custard–like frittata with our favorite pumpernickel bread using our hands.