‘On Exile’ (to borrow Edward Said’s phrase)

My post is inspired by an evocative piece entitled, ‘York’, by Belgian Waffle, a fascinating blogger who has written about the things she misses whilst being away from the city of her birth and her homeland. And so, I wanted to write something about my city of birth, Lahore. My homeland, Pakistan.

I was born in Lahore, Pakistan and left my homeland when I was two years old. My life, if sketched as a path on a map, would be a series of zig zags, going from Pakistan to America, to Nigeria, to America, back to Pakistan, then to Kenya, to Bangladesh, to the UK, back to America again, to Italy and  finally, Canada. At the age of 13, when we were living in Washington DC, Baba, my father, decided to send me to live in Pakistan with Mader, my paternal grandmother,  because he didn’t want me to become “Americanised”. I didn’t want to leave my parents, my sisters, and I especially didn’t want to leave my Ami; my mother, my best friend. But I didn’t resist or fight back; racist children in school had made my life miserable beyond comprehension, and all I wanted to do was to run away from them. 

I remember the day I left. Even though I was dying to cling to Ami and sob on her breast, wet her sweater with my tears and smell her perfume for the last time before getting on that plane to Lahore, my face remained straight, my eyes strained and cold.

I lived with Mader, and my father’s brother- Kaka Tarik’s family. By the time I was 16, my parents were being transferred to Nairobi, Kenya, and Ami and Baba wanted me back. But I didn’t want to go to Nairobi, I was too happy living in Lahore with my new friends, uncles and aunts, cousins and grandparents. But I did leave, and I most certainly left kicking and screaming. And this time, there were a lot of tears that were shed at the airport. I arrived in Nairobi scared and apprehensive, but left it soon after, for uni, with wonderful friends and memories.

The daughter of an expat, moving around all my life, home was always Lahore, my birthplace, and the city where my parents were born.

Androoneh Shaihar-inner city, Lahore. If anyone knows the name of this artist, please let me know. Photo by my cousin: Sara Patel.

That Spring day when I got on the flight to be with my parents and sisters again, I didn’t want to leave. And every time I go home to Lahore, I still don’t want to leave.

Back when I was a young girl, I wanted to stay in Lahore and continue going to Nani Ami, my maternal grandmother’s house every weekend, when she would make yakhni-chicken broth for me. And a stewed apricot pudding she served with malai-clotted cream.

I wanted to run to the tuck shop during recess with my best friend Ayesha Nabi, and have a five ruppee naan kebab and bottle of RC cola.

I wanted to celebrate Chand Raat, the night when the new moon is sighted, marking the end of Ramadan, with my maternal uncles, Mamoo Mamoon and Mamoo Tariq, driving along the Mall Road, past the Aitchison College, all lit up in candy-colours for Eid celebrations. Before returning home, my Mamoos would take me to the bazaar and buy me sparkly bangles.

I wanted to sit in the garden with Mader, Kaka Tarik and his wife, Aunty Shahla and have tea with samosas bought in Mini Market. The pedestal fan would be blowing from left to right as we would bite into the crisp samosas, the cumin-laced potatoes falling out onto our plates.

Samosa-wallah

I wanted to go with my cousins Saadiya and Ashi to Liberty Market to buy ribbons, lace and adornments for our kurta shalwars, the ones we would wear on Eid.

I wanted to sit with Daddy, my maternal grandfather, in the terrace, during the winter months having khatai biscuits from the androoneh shaihar- inner city. Each buttery disc was formed by hand, brushed with egg wash and baked till a mahogany crust formed on top. With each bite it crumbled, disclosing roasted almonds and specks of musky cardamom embedded in the soft biscuit.

I wanted to be in my family home.

My home in Lahore, lit up for my sister’s wedding.

And I wanted to be in Nani Ami’s bed on days that I were feeling poorly, waiting for her to bring warm, milky tapioca pudding for me.

Tapioca pudding with roasted apricot.

These are the things I knew I would miss about Lahore, and I still miss today, so many years later.

Lahore Fort

The chaunsa, sindhri, anwar ratol: Pakistan’s mangoes. Oh, and the dohsehri. That’s the one you soften with your fingers, till it feels like soft pulp and then you pierce a tiny hole at the top. You suck out all the juice. And that’s how you eat that mango. But my favourite, which appears in late July, is the langra- with a thick parrot-green skin. And when you cut into it, the juice starts to ooze out-like perfect yolk from a softly poached egg-and forms a puddle in your plate. The flesh is fibrous and honeycomb-sweet.

It’s the kind of mango you want to eat privately, tilted forward into your kitchen sink, your back towards everyone else, the juices running down your hands, the side of your arms, sucking each piece of flesh off of the green skin and the seed. The seed, that’s the best bit. And I never share it with anyone. Somehow, the best time of day to eat a mango, is after lunch. There is something decadent and naughty about it; right after you’re done, you’re going to dive into bed for a siesta. Not a calorie burned off.

Chaunsa Mango

But just before having that siesta, jugs of doogh are brought to table. To cool us down before we retreat to our bedrooms while the temperatures outside peak at 42C. They say milk induces sleep. After a meal of puffed chapatis with a spicy chicken karahi, rounded off with mango gluttony, I dare say that we need anything to induce sleep.

Madhani for twirling

The doogh is made with creamy yoghurt and topped off with bubbly water, so that with each sip it tingles on the tongue, while the ice cubes clink and clank against the frosted glass. The mint is fresh and welcoming against the creaminess of the doogh. With both hands, my Aunty Shahla twirls the madhani in the jug, making sure that the milk doesn’t settle at the bottom, and then continues to pour the doogh into glasses for us.

“Beghi, een bisyaar khub ast,” Aunty Shahla says, in Dari, take it, it’s wonderful.

Wonderful indeed. Salty, verdant, cool deliciousness.

Serves 4
*1 cup whole milk yoghurt
*8-10 large ice cubes
*club soda
*salt to taste
*1-2 tsp dried mint

*Whip yoghurt till it is creamy and transfer to a 1 litre jug.
*Add ice cubes.
*Slowly add club soda and stir.
*Add salt to taste and dried mint.

Dates filled with nuts & ‘sar shir’, a Persian-style cream; the ’skin’ from boiling milk.

Switzerland? No, this is the Naran Valley in Northern Pakistan. Photo taken by my husband’s cousin, Suraiya Khalid Anvery this summer.

One of my favourite memories of Ramzaan (Ramadan, in Urdu), are from uni days when my best friend Shameen and I would take the train to London to stay with our Aunt, Nadia Khala on weekends. We’d be perched up on our stools in the kitchen during iftar time, when the fast is broken, while Nadia Khala’s housekeeper, Bano would be frying coriander and green chili pakoras in the wok. Watching them bob up and down in the oil, we’d wait impatiently to have a pakora before Bano could transfer them on to the plate lined with a paper towel. Too keen to break our fast, we’d grab a piece straight off the spatula, whilst burning our fingers. We were supposed to break our fast, as per tradition, with a date, but this hot savoury tempura was more tempting. Nadia Khala would chop soft dates for us and mix them with Marks & Spencer double cream. Toffee flavours slathered with creaminess. That would be our dessert. And then mugs of hot, milky tea would be passed around. We hated leaving Nadia Khala every weekend. Ramzaan just isn’t the same without family.

A village in the Sindh province. Photo by Daniel Berehulak/Getty Images, from Boston Globe.

Ramzaan is not the same this year given the devastation which has taken place in Pakistan recently. The number of those suffering from the floods exceeds 15 million- a number far above those affected by the tsunami, Kashmir and Haiti earthquake.

My two preferred organisations are Behbud and Unicef, for those who would like to donate. Relief4Pakistan is also running a fantastic campaign, donations will be channeled through MercyCorps. For any donations, we would be very grateful…

Men and livestock wade together. Photo by REUTERS/Akhtar Soomro, from Boston Globe.

Flood survivors. Photo by A. MAJEED/AFP/Getty Images, from Boston Globe.

Children. Waiting. Photo by Daniel Berehulak/Getty Images, from Boston Globe.

Naran Valley, July, 2010. Photo by Suraiya Khalid Anvery.

I am utterly excited as I have taken these photos with my brand new lens.

Ami made sure there was always a kulfi popsicle in our freezer for me, for an after-school snackette. The equatorial temperatures soared above 40C in Lagos, Nigeria and on a day like that, a kulfi popsicle was just the ticket. No tea and biscuits, just something cool, milky and creamy.

From the driveway, I would walk past the papaya trees in our garden, the fruit swollen and ready to be picked right off. Then into the kitchen, next to the banana trees, the little yellow crescents peeking out from between the emerald green glossy leaves. We used these bananas to  make milkshakes on Sunday mornings. I was 8 now, but I still wanted to drink it in my Peter Rabbit glass. Entering the kitchen, I’d open the freezer and pluck out the tupperware popsicle container, milky-white with cherry-red sticks. Jazaya, our cook would run it under warm water and slowly the kulfi popsicle would emerge.

The cream melting and oozing down the side, each bite was full of toffee-like flavours and the crunch of almonds and pistachios…

And the fragrance of musky cardamom…

Serve these with a dusting of shattered jade-green pistachios…

Serves 10-12 if using shotglasses.

Ingredients:
You will need a heavy-bottom pan to prepare this, otherwise the cream and sugar will stick to the base of the pan and burn. I use a 6-qt stockpot like this one.
*50 g (slightly less than 1/2 cup) almonds, skins removed; unsalted
*50 g (slightly less than 1/2 cup) pistachios, shelled; unsalted
*1 litre half-and-half (half whole milk; half whole cream)
*1 tsp cardamom powder
*8-10 green cardamom pods
*300 ml condensed milk (not evaporated milk)

Preparation:
*Grind almonds and pistachios in a blender (not a food processor) by pulsing a few times. At the base- where the blade is- some of the nuts will turn to a flour (powder). This will help thicken the kulfi.
*Remove cardamom seeds from their pods. Discard pods and crush seeds till they resemble freshly cracked black pepper. Set aside.
*Place pan on medium heat on the stove. Pour in half-and-half.
*Separately mix cardamom powder with a tablespoon of the half and half and pour into pot.
*Add almonds, pistachios and crushed cardamom seeds.
*As the temperature of the half-and-half rises, start to slowly add condensed milk. You will have to do this by a taste test. I find the optimal amount is 200 ml.
*Once the mixture starts to steam and bubble, turn the heat to low.
*A skin will form on top, just keep stirring it in. You will continue to stir for one hour every five minutes till the mixture thickens and reduces by half.
*Allow to cool for 15-20 minutes.
*Pour slowly into popsicle moulds or shotglasses.
*Place moulds/glasses in freezer.
*At the 30 minute mark when the kulfi has started to form, place popsicle sticks in each mould/glass.
*Freeze overnight or for at least 8 hours.
*To unmould, dip quickly in warm water.
*Serve with a scattering of pistachios and almonds.

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‘.

My first published article came out in Edible Toronto’s Summer Issue. Edible is a magazine based on sustainable food and the farm scene with over 65 chapters across the United States. The inimitable Gail Gordon Oliver is the founder of the Edible Toronto chapter in Canada. The article was about my move from Rome, Italy to Toronto, Canada a year and a half ago, and the aromas of my childhood which made me feel at home in a new city.

Here is the link to the article, which I have also pasted below, with the recipe and a video of myself talking about kheer.

Here I am talking to my friend Jodi about the kheer I brought to the Mother’s Day Brunch. Kheer is known as sheer berenj in Afghanistan.

The text from the Edible Toronto article:

Kheer: A Milky Spoonful Of Home

I swirl my wooden spoon in a pool of rose-hued rhubarb, soft and glossy, gently bubbling away. In go the strawberries, deepening the colour and spreading their bubble gum-sweet smell through the kitchen. Soon the guests in our home will be drizzling this coulis over kheer, a Pakistani dessert of cardamom-spiced rice pudding, each spoonful milky and sugary, with the crunch of flaky sliced almonds. And the fragrance of cardamom, the smell I associate with childhood and home – my mother’s creamy vermicelli puddings on Eid day marking the end of Ramadan, scented with whole cardamom pods. Or maybe a pod or two steamed with the basmati rice my mother’s sister – Khala Neelo – makes especially for me. The kind of rice you eat with a mere dollop of Greek yogurt on a rainy afternoon.

As I remove the coulis from the flame, I turn to my window. I can see the summer sun hanging in the sky like a plump apricot. It has been a year-and-a-half since my move to Toronto from Rome, Italy, as a new bride.

On that January day – my first morning in my new home – I stood there alone staring out the window, looking at the snow particles whirling around outside. Turning towards the fridge, I found it barren and cold, just like Toronto on that wintery morning. With my husband at work and no friends in the same time zone to call, I stared at the suitcases lying in the hallway flaccid and empty, waiting to be stored. After two weeks of traditional wedding celebrations in Pakistan: silence.

No leftovers in the fridge from the night before. No dahl, that Pakistani-style lentil dish I love, infused with fresh ginger and garlic and tempered with a spiced cumin oil; the cold, congealed dahl that I smear on a piece of hot toast some mornings. Alongside a cup of milky tea with a fragrant cardamom pod popped in.

Every morning before my wedding in Lahore, I would sit in front of the gas heater in my grandmother’s home, watching the BBC news. Our cook would bring in the fruit basket on a tray with my grandmother’s paring knife, the one with the ivory handle. Fragrant lemon tinted guavas, with an interior like soft-ripened cheese; mandarins with oily flesh, the kind that clings to your fingertips as you peel them; and petite bananas, their yellow skin soft, with black flecks. My mother would peel a mandarin for me and steal a few slices for herself.

We would come together every night in our home for the dholki –a pre-wedding dance and song celebration of family and friends: I, in my traditional pre-wedding citrus yellow cotton kurta shalwar and the girls in their silk attire in lollipop-like colours of grape, cherry and lime. They would gather around in the drawing room and sway in unison to the beats of the current Bollywood tunes as we clapped and watched on.

Food would be served every day on the terrace under a magenta and green enclosed canopy. Fresh chicken tikkas impaled on iron skewers, cooked over coal embers, charred perfectly on their edges; beef seekh kebabs lacquered with oil, glistening and ready to be dunked in a cool mint raita. From the dome-shaped earthen tandoor would emerge some fresh naan, small sesame seeds pressed neatly into each one. And in a bain-marie, a heady mutton biryani – braised meat layered and steamed with basmati rice, its notes of saffron, cardamom, clove and cinnamon mingling with the smell of that crisp Lahore winter night.

Everyone would enter the drawing room again, lean against the burgundy velvet cushions on the floor and tear away chubby pieces of naan, wrapping them around spicy, unctuous pieces of chicken tikka and seekh kebabs. Shortly thereafter, the dinner plates would be replaced with dainty crystal dessert bowls filled with kheer, this particular one infused with rosewater and adorned with chandi ka varak, edible real silver, a specialty at weddings.

My youngest sister, Maria, in the midst of her dancing and too busy to eat, would steal a spoonful or two from my bowl. Nearing the end of my kheer, I would greedily smear my finger across the bowl for that last drop of creaminess. It didn’t matter if someone was watching. I was the dulhan after all: the bride.

The dinner would be rounded off with cups of a dusty pink tea – Kashmiri chai. Sitting there sipping this salty spiced tea, I’d swallow the crushed jade-green pistachios floating atop the chai, family and friends around me, the beats of the Bollywood songs going on till our eyelids would begin to wilt, the clinking sound of the cup against the saucer being the familiar sound of home.

Back on that first January morning in Toronto, I needed to be comforted. I opened the fridge again and took out a carton of milk. From the pantry, some sugar, and then a sack of basmati rice from under the sink. I had entered the home of a former bachelor with a sparsely stocked pantry, but marrying a Pakistani has the advantage of knowing there is always basmati to be found. I reached into my purse for cardamom pods, which I always keep for an after-meal breath freshener.

I wrapped the cardamoms in a newspaper and crushed them into smaller fragments with the back of a frying pan, discarding the tough, green skin. In a large pot on the stove, I threw in the crushed black seeds along with a generous pour of milk, spoonfuls of sugar, and a handful of basmati rice. The milk started to gently roll, like soft cotton cloth. I stirred and stirred in silence as the cardamom’s sweet and musky smell filled the kitchen. The steam from the milk turned the window opaque, with the snow continuing to fall outside silently, now hidden from plain sight.

Slowly over the year I learnt things about Toronto: that wearing 5-inch-heel boots out in the snow is probably not advisable; that a small gourmet shop, Pusateri’s, has a café that serves my favourite Illy caffé macchiato; and most importantly, that summer comes late. But when it arrives, I can walk down with my friends to Summer’s for homemade frozen yogurt – a tart and sweet strawberry-banana flavour, a small powder pink snowball. And when my family comes to visit I can take them to Harbourfront to show them how Toronto throws its arms around Lake Ontario. I also learnt that in the summer I can travel with my husband on snow-free roads to the north of the city to find a Persian bakery that sells gosh-e-feel – elephant’s ear – a fried, puffy pastry with powdered sugar that spreads all over your mouth with each bite.

Entering my second summer in Toronto, on this particular day I recreate for my guests the dish that has always made me feel I am home: kheer. And combined with those flavours of my childhood are new flavours of Toronto, my adopted city – summery rhubarb and strawberry. The coulis on the kitchen counter and the kheer resting in the fridge, my guests arrive and we tuck into supple roasted red peppers dressed with pomegranate molasses and sprinkled with crushed walnuts, served alongside barbecued saffron-infused chicken tikkas. To cleanse the palate, some heirloom black cherry tomatoes atop spicy arugula anointed with olive oil and tiny pinches of fleur de sel.

Finally, out comes the kheer. A ladle of it into each bowl, and then a drizzle (or a drench) of the sweet-and-sour, candy-pink sauce. A scattering of sliced almonds, rounded off nicely with a dust of freshly cracked black pepper. And in every spoonful of kheer, soft and pillowy on the tongue, some bits of cardamom. The aromatic smell and sweet taste of home. In a new home.

Shayma Saadat, a Pakistani-Afghan with Persian ancestry, is the author of the food-memoir-style blog “The Spice Spoon: Cooking Without Borders” (www.thespicespoon.com). She is a Senior Policy Advisor for the Minister of Energy and Infrastructure, Canada. Shayma lives in Toronto with her husband.

Recipe

This rice pudding (known as kheer), made with basmati rice, should not be a mushy dish; each rice grain should be visible and remain intact. If you feel the rice is undercooked and the milk is being absorbed too quickly, just use some of the warm milk being heated in a saucepan on the side and add in small quantities to loosen the pudding.

I have added only ½ cup of sugar because the coulis adds sweetness; however, if you have a sweet tooth, feel free to add up to a whole cup of sugar to the kheer.

Makes 4 to 6 servings

Kheer
6 whole green cardamom pods
4 1/2 cups whole milk
3/4 cup basmati rice
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup slivered almonds
1/2 cup sliced almonds, for garnish
freshly ground black pepper

Rhubarb Strawberry Coulis
1 pound rhubarb, chopped into ½-inch pieces
1 cinnamon stick
2 tbsp water
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 pound strawberries, hulled and chopped into ½-inch pieces

Make the kheer: Wrap the cardamom pods in a newspaper and crush with a rolling pin. The seeds should not be crushed to a dust. The result should look somewhat like freshly cracked pepper. Discard the green skin of the pods.

In a small saucepan, heat 1½ cups of the milk over medium-low heat; do not bring to a boil, but keep warm while you prepare the kheer. In a large heavy-bottomed pan, add the remaining 3 cups of milk, the rice, crushed cardamom seeds, sugar and slivered almonds. Turn the heat to high. As soon as the milk starts to steam, turn the heat to low and cover with a lid.

Every 7 to 10 minutes, remove the lid and stir gently, from the bottom up, to ensure that the rice is not sticking to the base of the pan. After about 40 minutes, the milk should be thickened but not entirely absorbed. The pudding should have a soft, velvety consistency and not look congealed.

Taste the rice. If it seems undercooked, add some of the reserved warm milk, replace the lid and continue to cook for 7 to 10 minutes. When done, the basmati rice grains should be intact. Transfer the kheer to a container and allow it to come to room temperature before covering and refrigerating at least 5 hours, but preferably overnight, to set.

Make the coulis: In a medium saucepan over medium heat, add the rhubarb, cinnamon stick, water and sugar. Stir well. Allow the mixture to bubble away until the rhubarb looks soft and has melted down into a sauce, about 20 minutes. Add the strawberries. Continue to cook until the strawberries have softened and melted into the sauce, about 10 to 15 minutes. Turn off the heat, discard the cinnamon stick, and allow the coulis to come to room temperature. The coulis can be prepared in advance, kept refrigerated, and brought to room temperature or warmed up prior to serving with the kheer.

To serve: Ladle chilled kheer into individual bowls and drizzle with coulis. Top with a sprinkling of sliced almonds and a dusting of fresh black pepper.

Baba tells me that Bobby Darin’s Dream Lover would play repeatedly at picnics with his friends in 1960s Lahore. But for real affectation, there had to be some Françoise Hardy. Baba also tells me that if you didn’t know her hit La maison où j’ai grandi, or at least pretend to know it, then you were essentially a nobody.

And there were no picnic invitations for nobodies.

Françoise Hardy

For a March picnic in Lahore, the dastarkhan would be laid out under the shade of the mango trees, and everyone would tuck into spicy beef kebabs, dipping them into a verdant yoghurt and mint sauce. The girls, with their Twiggy-esque hairdos and aquamarine dusted eyelids, would take delicate sips of coca-cola with the straws bobbing up and down in the small bottles. There would be finger-thin cucumber sandwiches with just the right amount of slathered butter and a waxy, creamy potato salad made by my grandmother, Mader with her homemade mayonnaise.

As the kebabs and sandwiches disappeared, a bowl full of chikoo and a paring knife would be placed on the dastarkhan. Brown and potato skin-like on the outside, the knife would slice through each chikoo revealing its malty sweetness. Everyone would take a half of the chikoo and suck out the caramel-sweet flesh.

The flasks containing sabz chai-green tea- would emerge, poured into small glass mugs, the fragrance of cardamom mingling with the Spring air of Lahore. Everyone would drink the tea while biting into thumb-size pieces of dried apricot as Bobby Darin played on in the background.

Wishing my Baba a very Happy Father’s Day.

Borani is a a cold yoghurt-based Afghan dish. Borani Kachalu is a dish of potatoes sautéed in a garlic and ginger-infused tomato sauce. A creamy yoghurt with aromatic dried mint is poured over and mopped up with naan. I find this to be the perfect picnic food- a sort of Afghan-style potato salad if prepared with small fingerling potatoes (or other small boiling potatoes), slathered with yoghurt instead of mayonnaise.

Photo credit of chikoos: The Famous Tourist Destinations

Serves 4 as a side dish

Ingredients:
*1-2 tbsp olive oil
*1/2 tsp fresh minced garlic
*1/2 tsp fresh minced ginger
*1/2 cup (8 tbsp) tomato sauce/passata or crushed tinned tomatoes
*1lb fingerling potatoes, sliced into 1/8 of an inch thick disks
*1/8 tsp turmeric powder (haldi)
*1/8 tsp cayenne (add up to a 1/4 tsp if you so like)
*3/4 cup yoghurt thinned with 2 tbsp water (not of the thick Greek genre)
*1 tsp dried mint + extra for garnish
*Salt

Preparation:
*Place large frying pan on medium heat and add olive oil.
*Once the oil is heated through, add garlic and ginger and sauté 30 seconds till fragrant.
*Add tomato sauce, turmeric and cayenne and stir for one minute and add potato disks.
*Stir for 2-3 minutes, ensuring that each disk is coated with oil and tomato sauce.
*Sprinkle some water on top of potatoes, and cover pan with a lid or with foil and turn the heat to low.
*Allow potatoes to cook in their own steam for 15 minutes. At the 10 minute mark remove the lid/foil and insert a knife into the potato to test for doneness.
*When done, a knife should slide through freely. The tomato sauce should look thick, coating the potatoes.
*Allow potatoes to come to room temperature. In the meanwhile, prepare the spiced yoghurt.
*Add 2tbsp of water to yoghurt and whip. Add dried mint and salt to taste.
*When ready to serve, arrange potatoes in your dish and drizzle with yoghurt. Dust with dried mint.

I was in the 7th grade when I baked my first cake. At school, we had been reading Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird, in which Aunt Maudie bakes a Lane Cake for Aunt Alexandra’s homecoming. Our extra credit assignment was to prepare this cake.

I arrived at my Aunty Shelly’s to find she had measured out the ingredients and placed them along the wooden counter with the recipe in her Arabesque-like penmanship on a notecard. We were going to bake Lane Cake together; tall and ivory frosted, belying the four layers of neatly stacked sponge beneath. Each layer sandwiched together with a sweet, dense filling of buttery pecans, plumped-up raisins and aromatic coconut, held together with egg yolks and butter.

The kind of filling you lick off the spoon because it tastes even better than the cake itself.

Over the next half and hour Aunty Shelly taught me how to whip egg whites with a hand mixer, slowly transforming the gooey transparent liquid into soft cloud-like forms. “Stop now,” she directed me, “We don’t want the egg whites to get too firm.” She took each snowball of egg-white and showed me how to fold it into cake batter. Poured into baking tins and into the oven the soft batter went.

We placed the saffron-yellow egg yolks in a bain marie. “Whisk the eggs yolks like you scramble an egg,” Aunty Shelly instructed me. That was easy, I knew how to do that. By the spoonful she added in sugar, then butter. The yolks, as if by alchemy changed shades to become a lemon-hued custard. “Keep stirring, don’t stop,” Aunty Shelly said, as she flicked in bronze pecans, fat raisins and fragrant coconut. I dipped my finger into the creamy mess for a brief moment, popping it into my mouth to taste the candy-like flavours.

The cakes now out of the oven and cool, I held my hand on top of the sponge as Aunty Shelly carefully ran the knife through it. She cut it like butter, in one swift movement. We dipped our spatulas into the filling and started to smear it on top of the cake, layer after layer. With each slathering I stole some globs of filling for myself. “Sham ji, you’re going to finish all the filling,” scolded Aunty Shelly, “don’t you want that A+?” We laughed as I saw her glide her finger into the bowl for a taste.

Aunty Shelly was my mother’s first friend when she came to the United States from Pakistan as a young bride. Their husbands both young professionals starting a new life in a new country, Shelly and Sarosh- my Ami, rode the bus with me as a two-year old, tucked into a pram, to the nearest mall, to buy themselves gold studded sandals. Or maybe silver ones. Something shiny to remind them of Lahore; their home. Asleep in my pram, Shelly and Sarosh would steal a moment to sit at the Baskin Robbins in the mall, sharing a banana split sundae. As the muddy fudge slithered its way down the top of each ice-cream scoop, the two girls would dig their spoons in and talk about booking their next phonecall to Pakistan.

Ami tells me that Shelly would always let her have the sugary maraschino cherry.

Every trip I made to Washington DC from Rome to visit my family would end with a visit from Aunty Shelly bearing two rectangular loaves, wrapped in tin foil. Inside would be her banana blueberry bread- moist, sweet and tart. I’d share slices of it with friends in Rome, serving it with dense, milky tea. Sometimes I would exchange my flaky morning cornetto for a slice of Aunty Shelly’s blueberry banana bread. The cappuccino foam touching my lips, I’d take a bite of that cake, made for me with love.

Aunty Shelly was with me in Pakistan when I got married, as was her son. As my eyes grew damp before saying goodbye to my parents on my wedding, her son tied a silk and gold dupatta around my waist, an Afghan rasm- ritual / tradition- in which the bride leaves with a memento- a piece of her family- tied around her waist by her brother.

I have slowly started to bake and in this particular cake I mix some cardamom, my favourite spice, with almond-  folding in the fluffy egg whites the way my Aunty Shelly taught me to do that day back in the 7^th grade.

Serves 6-8

Ingredients:
*100g almond flour (I just peeled blanched almonds and whizzed them in a blender-make sure you don’t over-blend, as the almonds will turn to butter).
*120g+ 2 tbsp granulated sugar
*120g unsalted butter at room temperature
*2 eggs, separated
*75g flour
*8 cardamom pods, seeds removed and crushed, pods discarded
*1 tsp baking powder
*pinch salt
*150ml milk (I used 2%; best not to use skim milk)
*300 g raspberries
*1 packet flaked / sliced almonds
*confectioner’s sugar for dusting

Preparation:
Pre-heat your oven to 180C / 350F
Line a Springform tin with parchment paper and butter the sides

*In a large bowl, cream the butter and 120g sugar and slowly add in egg yolks, mix on high speed till pale yellow.
*Add flour slowly, bit by bit and mix on medium speeds.
*Add crushed cardamom, baking powder, salt and milk and mix on medium speed.
*In a separate bowl, whisk egg whites till soft peaks begin to form, around 5 minutes on high speed.
*Slowly and carefully fold egg whites into the batter. Pour into Springform.
*Place in oven for 35 minutes- since oven times vary keep an eye on the cake at the 30 minute mark- if it looks golden, it is ready. Insert toothpick to verify.
*Sprinkle with flaked almonds till the surface of the cake is completely covered. Dust liberally with confectioner’s sugar using a sieve.

For the Raspberry Coulis:
*Place raspberries in a saucepan on medium heat with 2 tbsp sugar and allow to melt into a sauce.
*When the raspberries have transformed into a sauce, sieve to remove seeds and serve alongside cake.

Asghar squats on top of a wooden table and fans the coal embers as the chicken tikka, impaled on steel skewers, turns a carbon-black around the edges as it plumpens and becomes amber-hued in the middle. Asghar has worked at Punjab Tikka House in Main Market, Lahore for as long as I can remember. As I sit watching from the car, he effortlessly slides off the bite-sized pieces of chicken tikka with his bare hands. Onto a newspaper. One fold, two fold, then a third, just like fish & chips in England. Then into the plastic bag they go.

He calls out to his helper in Punjabi, “Chotay, naan leyya,” ordering his “Chota” ; understudy / helper to bring the fresh naan; white and plump. Chota inserts a long steel rod into the clay tandoor, and hooks it into the naan. Out comes one, then another, then another. Into a newspaper they go, too.

Asghar’s chicken tikka; chicken brochette, are as legendary as the inlaid semi-precious stones and as intricate as the precious marble carvings you will find inside the Lahore Fort.

Asghar knows his clients’ preferences. He does not offer me any raita on the side, even though I love the small bits of herbs blended into the cooling yoghurt, giving it a pungency incomparable to the raita served in our home. But it is verboten. I am visiting Lahore for a few weeks and Kaka, (paternal uncle, in Dari), has made it clear I am not to eat or drink anything which is served at room temperature, for fear of food poisoning. Living abroad makes one vulnerable to bacteria and parasites, unfortunately.

Once home, we open the plastic bag, all soft and flaccid from the steam of the chicken tikka and naan. Onto our plates it goes, then we douse it with homemade, creamy yoghurt and mint chutney. Even a few squirts of lemon, fresh from the dwarf Chinese lemon tree, lemon with the thinnest skin, seedless and juicy till the end. Some slender slices of cucumber, for textural contrast against the silk-like pieces of chicken; offering a cooling effect against the fiery spices Asghar uses.

And then a glass of salty, creamy lassi as a chaser.

A perfect summer meal in Lahore.

Living in Toronto, I have used some of the local herbs for the raita, which we don’t find in Lahore- feel free to throw together any of the herbs you find in your farmer’s market. I have used tarragon, chives, mint, coriander and thyme. Chop them fine, mix them in with some greek-style yoghurt or Syrian / Lebanese labneh (or even regular yoghurt, if you can’t find the thick style), and serve the chicken brochette on top with heirloom tomatoes, adding some sweetness against the hot punch of the spices.

Serves 4
You will need 8 short metal skewers. If you do not have these, you can use wooden or bamboo skewers, be sure to soak them in water overnight so they don’t burn when they are under the broiler.

Ingredients:
*Corn oil or any other neutral oil
*2 lbs boneless chicken breast or thigh, cut into small cube-like pieces
*3/4 tsp salt
*1/4 to 1/2 tsp red chili pepper
*1/4 tsp haldi (turmeric powder)
*1/2 tsp zeera (cumin) powder
*1/2 tsp dhania (dried coriander) powder
*1 tsp minced garlic (or garlic paste; available in jar)
*1 tsp minced ginger (or ginger paste; available in jar)
*1/4 cup whole natural yoghurt (for marinade)
*1 cup greek-style yoghurt
*a mix of fresh herbs- tarragon, coriander, chives, mint- whatever you find at your farmer’s market or in your grocery store
*2 heirloom tomatoes, sliced thin
*2 fresh limes, quartered

Preparation:
*Cut your chicken into small cubes (approximately 1in)
*Add salt, haldi, chili, zeera powder, dhania powder, garlic, ginger and yoghurt and mix well.
*Allow the chicken to rest in the marinade for at least 5 hours, preferably overnight. The yoghurt serves to tenderise the chicken.
*Prepare your herbed yoghurt by chopping all the herbs and mixing then in with the yoghurt with a pinch of salt.
*When ready to prepare the chicken brochette, bring the chicken to room temperature and pre-heat your broiler.
*Thread chicken onto 8 skewers (shaking the excess yoghurt off as it will burn in the oven), and place on a tray lined with foil.
*Drizzle some oil on top. Turn the skewers over and repeat; ensure they are coated well with oil.
*Place directly under the broiler in your oven.
*Each side will take approximately 5-7 minutes to cook, depending on the intensity of your broiler.
*Once the first side is done, carefully flip the brochette.
*Allow the other side to broil now.
*Remove from the oven and serve with herbed yoghurt, slices of heirloom tomatoes, lime wedges and naan.

The silver filigree antique jhumkas you see in Ami’s earlobes- she gave them to me when I was 18- and the irresponsible teenager that I was, I lent them to a dorm mate who lost them. It didn’t even occur to me that they were missing till I saw this photo recently.

Andaaza

I watched Ami, as she stirred the pot in a circular motion. Round and round her arm circled, the gold bangles glistening on her wrist. Clink, clink, they went as she stirred and stirred. The same gold bangles given to her by her Ami, when she married my father in her China-red and gold brocade gharara.

All twelve of them, 22kt gold, passed on to me as part of my trousseau. I don’t wear mine when I cook. They lay wrapped in muslin and velvet, in a safety deposit box.

I stand in my kitchen alone, making Ami’s Pakistani Ginger Chicken, and I think of her milky arms and hands, as I stir the pot.

And I hear her.

“A small pour of oil, just enough to make the bottom of the pot glossy,” she says as she tilts the bottle into the pot.

She chops an onion through its crisp layers. Not like a chef, but like a mother.

Meticulously, slowly.

As my eyes start to water, she says, “Sauté them till reddish-brown. Then add some ginger for khushboo (fragrance).”

“But for how long, Ami?” I ask her.

She does not know.

“Just keep watching as the colour changes,” she casually says.

She’s chopped some blanched tomatoes.

“But how many?” I ask her again.

She still does not know.

“Enough for double the amount of people we’ve invited,” she laughs, and adds the mound of chopped tomatoes into the pot, the fresh red juice dripping down the sides of her hands.

I tilt my head and try to imagine the number of tomatoes she’s used.

Ami stirs the pot till the tomatoes become jammy and candy-like. She adds some salt, and a heaped spoon of brick-red chilli pepper. Then a smidgeon of turmeric, staining her fingertips yellow; the colour of the robes of Buddhist monks. Without ever tasting the contents of the dish, she continues to stir with brisk movements.

Clink, clink.

The steam from the pan turns the window above her stove opaque. The window which looks out into the lawn with the trees, the same kind of trees whose leaves used to turn a garnet-red by the time it was my birthday every Fall.

Now the chicken goes in. She slathers it with the tomato sauce reduction, and continues to stir. “You’ll see. The oil will start to separate from the sauce. It means it’s almost done,” she tells me. “Maybe a little bit more chilli powder,” as she reaches for the jar. She adds a pinch of red dust. She then turns to the sink, cups water in her hands and lets it seep onto the chicken.

“It’s almost done,” she says, decidedly.

“But how long has it been, Ami? How will I know?”

“You’ll just know, the way I know, the way my Ami knew. By andaaza, it’s all estimation.”

She covers the pan, places the wooden spatula in the sink and asks, “Tea with milk and cardamom?”

I nod and reach for the cumin-spiced wafers to go with the tea.

When I am in my kitchen chopping fresh coriander for ginger chicken, I remember the clinking of Ami’s bangles, and her arms as she stirs and stirs.

Clink, clink.

Ami’s Pakistani Ginger Chicken

Serves 4, with a side of chapati (a flat wholewheat Pakistani bread) or naan.

Ingredients:
*3 tbsp corn oil (or any other neutral oil)
*1 very small onion, chopped fine
*2+2 inch knob of ginger; 2 inches cut into small cubes + 2 inches julienned
*4 vine-ripened tomatoes, blanched, skins removed and finely chopped
*Pinch turmeric (haldi)
*1 tsp coriander powder (sukha dhania powder)
*1 tsp salt
* ½ tsp red chilli pepper
*2 lb boneless chicken, cut into 2 inch long strips, (or you may cube them if you so like). I use chicken breast, but you can use thigh meat, too.
*Handful fresh coriander / cilantro leaves and stalks, chopped like confetti. The stalks of coriander are as fragrant and sweet as the leaves; use both.

Preparation:
*Place large pan on stove on medium-high heat. Add oil.
*Add onions and sauté till a golden-nutty brown, this will take 5-7 minutes. Don’t worry if the onions become a golden-dark brown, this will only add to the flavour of the sauce.
*Add the cubed ginger and continue to sauté for 1 minute till fragrant, (the ginger should not caramelise).
*Add chopped tomatoes, turmeric, coriander powder, salt and chilli powder and keep stirring till the tomato sauce reduces and becomes thick. This will take approximately 10 minutes.
*Add the chicken and stir-fry for 10-15 minutes with a handful of water- (approximately ¼ cup). You should begin to see some of the oil leak onto the surface of the tomato sauce.
*Add the rest of the julienned ginger and remove from heat immediately. (Keep some of the ginger for garnishing.)
*Garnish with lots of fragrant, fresh coriander/cilantro sprinkled on top like confetti and some fresh julienned ginger.
*Serve alongside chapati or naan. You could also have this with Pakistani Basmati rice, though we tend to have rice with sauce-based dishes like lentils or curries. Chapati and naan is for the more ‘drier’ dishes such as this one.