The inscription on the flyleaf says : “Christmas ‘82. To Julie, with lots of love, Rory x”.
My younger brother, home from Australia. And the book, Madhhur Jaffrey’s collection of marvels that introduced me to a new way of cooking and eating.
I’d watched her TV programmes on a battered TV in a flat in Ranelagh. I could cook, but with no real interest or enthusiasm. The 1980s were long before the days of celebrity cheffing and shelves crammed with ingredients from around the world. Indian food was from the takeaway. It was gooey and smeary, and very, very hot. The colours were off-putting. Startling yellows and dangerous reds. Not for me.
So I watched Madhur Jaffrey with scepticism. But she won me over. A list of ingredients that wouldn’t break the bank. A clear list of instructions. Soak these, chop this, fry these, add this, stir together, cook for a specified time. And hey presto: the smells, the tastes, the goodness.
A year in America had taught me about “whole foods”. I ate brown rice, stodgy and sticky; lentils and red beans. I knew the benefits of vegetables. The food was worthy but dreary, healthy but boring. Jaffrey’s Indian cooking conformed to the “whole food” strictures. It was fresh, unadulterated, good for you. And above all, it was delicious. She explained: the food didn’t have to burn. “(L)eave out all the chillies. . . Your food will still be authentically Indian, superb in flavour and not at all hot”.
So, I cooked my way through the book. Chicken with lemon and fresh coriander, still a family favourite. Cabbage and peas, spinach and potatoes, hot and sour chickpeas, the wonderful carrot salad. Grate the carrots. Heat some oil, add mustard seeds. Pour over. Add lemon juice. And eat.
I’m not really a good cook. I’m just good at chopping. The book propped open on the counter top. And a Madhur Jaffrey feast in preparation.
