Cooking Like Mummyji: Real Indian Food from the Family Home

THE SECRET TO COOKING LIKE MUMMYJI

Our home food is much simpler, lighter, fresher and healthier than that which you find in a typical Indian restaurant and has a vibrant breadth of flavours. On a daily basis, we generally use very few spices. The same good, honest ingredients are often used but, like musical notes, can be combined in many different ways to create beautiful melodies.

The main element missing from restaurant food is the family energy. The kitchen is always the best place to be in an Indian or British Asian household. Always filled with joking, laughing, gossiping, telling tales, confiding…all this whilst cooking, and this is the magic ingredient, which cannot be replicated. The wisdom, love and culture rubs off from their hands into the food for that special taste, of home.

This is why two Indian women who start off with the same ingredients, following the same method, never produce the same results. It is this alchemy, turning the simplest of ingredients into gold, which you will learn by making the recipes in this book.

I was drying up the dishes in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. It was a particularly blustery and sodden Saturday in April 2002, the kind of grey day when all you want to do is shut out the dreariness and dozily curl up in the warmth of the living room. I was at my parent’s house in Norfolk for the weekend, a welcome break from the relentlessness of life in London where, as a graduate I was working as an advertising executive. My Pooiji and Phupherji (Dad’s older sister and her husband) had arrived from Derby. They had endured a three-hour journey through twisting country roads to bring us ladoo (Indian sweets) to celebrate the birth of their second grandson, Jasneal.

After we had all had some elaichi chaa (cardamom tea), my Mum and I set about making roti (the evening meal). I was making a tarka (the onion-garlic-and-spice-fried base for the sauce) and my eyes were still moist from the sting of the onions. My Mum and Pooiji were enjoying an animated conversation at the kitchen table. My Pooiji got up and peered into the pan; with a wideeyed enthusiasm like that of a young child about to impart a great secret, she turned to me and said in Punjabi, Vicky, do you know how to make this really delicious? Sprinkle a tiny bit of zeera (cumin) in at this stage and it will make all the difference, trust me. Blinking back tears, I turned to grab the jar of cumin.

We started talking about recipes and methods we had both tried and then she said "it is such a shame that so many Indian girls of your age don’t know how to cook or share your enthusiasm. Nowadays, girls are so busy studying or going out or they have no interest. Gone are the days when they used to stay in the kitchen by their mother’s side and were able to cook for the whole family by the age of ten. Now it’s ‘I’m going here’, or ‘I’m going there’, or ‘I’ve got exams!’ Soon, no-one will be able to cook proper roti anymore and we elders will be fed chilled supermarket chicken biryanis, a twin-pack of frozen naan and a jar of mango chutney!"

I thought about this long and hard that evening. The conversation had left me with a deep sense of sadness. I lay in bed and thought about how times had changed. Was the culinary future bleak for my generation?

Sure, it was true that the lives of many British Asian girls had changed, but that was no bad thing. And I specifically mean girls. When I was growing up, my experience was that I never saw any men or boys show a glimmer of interest in cooking aside from the occasional meat dish, or some butchering, as that was manly. My dad enjoyed cooking but he was a true exception and before his time, but even he would never enter the kitchen if relatives or guests were over. No, the men sat in the front room drinking ‘shorts’. This was the opposite of restaurants, where the chefs were male, largely down to the fact that generally women didn’t work and, in India, rarely left the home. Only girls would cook at home as the sons were deemed too precious, clever and superior. And the men were always fed first. Then children, in increasing ages. Then finally the women. Enter Jamie Oliver. Boom. Thanks to him, cooking was suddenly ‘cool’ and Asian men, teenagers and boys started showing an interest and began to get involved, free of the fear that they would look like pansies. Thank the Lord for that.

But back in 2002, this hadn’t fully caught on yet in British Asian households. But it was a good thing that the lives of British Asian girls had changed. Times themselves had changed.

In previous generations, girls in India had no other fate but to help their mothers with the cooking and cleaning from the moment they could walk (unless, of course, they were rich and had servants). Their daily village routine revolved around mealtimes. They stayed at their mother’s side, carefully watching as each spice was added to the magic mix, as rice was washed of its milky starch, as roti (bread) was effortlessly puffed up on the thawa (cast-iron griddle) and as deft fingers gently placed pakore (vegetable fritters) into hot oil bubbling hungrily away. By the time they had reached double figures they could measure quantities with the naked eye; cook seven dishes simultaneously; chop piles of onions without shedding a single salty tear; roll rotia that were all exactly the same size; use their bare hands as human tongs, plunging them into open flames to flip rotia over; and – like a salwar-kameez-wearing unflinching David Blaine – emerge without a single burn.

All this in preparation for their years of marriage. Back then, high-quality marriage offers came to girls who were of good family, had fair skin, were young, could provide a substantial dowry, and could cook delicious food. Women wanted their daughters to be knowledgeable in all matters of cooking and household duties, so they would hopefully not receive quite as much grief from their mother-in-laws as they did, or bring shame upon them for failing to teach them well.

With my parent’s generation, things began to change. Some of them were born in Britain whilst the rest came over as children or teenagers, sometimes via living in East Africa. Their parents came here blinded by the promise of a life of prosperity. England was a dream destination, the land of the Raj, the heart of the Empire, Wilait. It seemed to offer hope and modernity. They were wooed by myths that this was a land where every man who stepped off a ship onto England’s pebbly shores could become an umbrella-carrying gentleman and amass wealth beyond his dreams. In fact, my father clearly remembers that, when he was young in India, he would endlessly wish to visit this magical place. It was as though the streets were paved with gold and, like brown-skinned Dick Whittingtons, families gathered their belongings and embarked upon this adventure.

From here on, families suffered from the conflict of trying to remain true to their traditional values and customs whilst adapting to a new way of life in England. Going back would mean failure and many had nothing to go back to, having sold what they had to finance following their dream.

Although a lot of the girls who came over as children or who were born in Britain around that time stayed at home beyond basic schooling and were married by their early twenties, it became increasingly clear that to survive here, you needed education. Education was quickly seen as the means by which to achieve dignity and equality. Even for girls. Over time, families increasingly needed the daughter or daughter-in-law to contribute to the family income. The higher the education, the higher the salary brought in through the front door.

Gradually, the ideal bride became someone who was still fair and beautiful and from a respectable family, but now she needed to be as good kicking butt in the courtroom or performing a triple-by-pass as she was at making a perfect crispy samosa. Talk about being a superwoman.

Therefore my generation grew up with a huge emphasis on education and with constant homework to do. We were still expected to help out with household chores and cooking, but it was a tiny amount in comparison with generations gone by.

My generation also grew up with a sense of rebellion and a greater need to fit in with the surrounding culture. Freedom became a desire and the word was often regarded by our parents as an expletive with its connotations of unruly Western ways – not at all appropriate for well-brought-up Indian girls. Often, after a number of battles, strict parental rules were relaxed a little and some girls were able to go shopping with appropriate female friends, watch films at the cinema with appropriate female friends, and visit appropriate female friends’ houses to watch videos (but not stay over). Learning how to cook featured low on the list of priorities.

But back in 2002 when I wrote the first edition of this book, there was still an expectation that girls ought to be able to cook. Women would despair when their daughter-in-law couldn’t cook and mothers would worry about their daughter’s ease of life after marriage. Cue endless nagging because, even though they wanted an A star student, their old priorities and values still ran deep, and occasionally reared their disapproving heads.

Today, there is much less anxiety and concern about girls being able to cook and it is no longer the stigma it used to be. Many women don’t live in extended families anymore, so there is less scrutiny. However, interestingly, it seems many of those same women who became high-flying career women are now interested in learning the traditional dishes, for its own sake, for pleasure and enjoyment, not necessity or approval or even for everyday, but just to discover and explore in their own time.

This is also due in part to the fact that, happily, lots of British Asians are now getting married to people they love, whether that be someone from the same community as them or a different religion, caste, country or ethnicity, and has certainly been the case within my own family. In 2002, it was still the norm for marriages to be loosely arranged and the focus was suitability, not emotions. By this I don’t mean forced or formally arranged (as was the case with my parents: my Mum still remembers when she was in her bedroom one Saturday afternoon in Nottingham and her younger sister, peering out the window from behind the net curtain said to her, See that man on the pavement over there? That’s who you’re marrying soon. Oh, right then.) but more ‘introduced’. A sort of network of Auntyjis across the Diaspora that was a cross between MI6 and Cilla Black on Blind Date. Nowadays the internet has stepped into those well-worn sandals.

When this book was first published, I used to receive lots of letters from women who had bought it for their daughter or daughter-in-law. Now I receive letters from young men and women who are enthusiastic and keen cooks in their own right, who want to explore their recipe heritage and share it with their own children.

But back on that evening in April 2002, I had arrived at the conclusion that there must surely be a way to resolve things so everyone is happy. Understandably, young British Asian women were enjoying their independence and put off by the thought of standing in the kitchen for years on end until they knew the recipes backwards, the measurements become innate and the techniques ingrained in their muscle memory. Indian mothers do not use measurements, you see. (By the way, when I refer to British Asians I mean those who were born here such as myself. When I refer to Indians or Indian things I mean all that originated in the motherland.)

Once, when I was in my early teens, I asked my mother how much salt was needed for a dish I was half-helping her to prepare. She replied, We don’t use measurements. That’s for English people. We don’t do things that way. If you stand here long enough and cook it over and over again, you will soon learn how much salt to put in. That was the point where I began to be put off. I just wanted to know how to make it, not move permanently into the kitchen at the sacrifice of ‘Top of the Pops’ and listening to New Kids on the Block in my bedroom on my Walkman.

Years later when I went to university I thought I had learned enough to get me by, but I craved my Mum’s food. There were many dishes I hadn’t learnt and the ones I could vaguely cook weren’t a patch on what they should be. So I learnt to cook properly, and practised. Some girls at uni did not know how to cook. At weekends they would often bring back a week’s supply of their Mum’s food packed into foil containers ready for the freezer. When I showed some of them how to cook in my final year, they marvelled at how simple it was and exclaimed, Why couldn’t my Mum have explained it like that? Often they scrambled to find a pen to write recipes down.

Remembering these times led to the light bulb moment that became the first edition of this book. The old methods of learning were becoming impractical. I thought it would be great if there were some sort of fun guide which tells you how to make everything exactly as our mothers did, not a dumbed-down version. A book which could teach you the dishes from scratch but which you could also refer to if you’re stuck, if you have, say, forgotten the measurement of masala or haldi? Like, for example, when you have relatives over, or have just gotten married, or are in halls and would give your laptop away for a plate of pakore.

So on the morning of that Sunday in April I decided that I was going to write this book so that young women could get to keep their hard-won lives, grades and emancipation but also manage to satisfy themselves and dazzle others with their culinary skills too.

But this is not just a book for other British Asians. I have often thought it such a shame that the Western world is not let in on the secret of real Indian home-cooking, as though it is a sort of long-standing trick, our last remaining jewel. I have cooked for many people and my friends have always been amazed by how different the food is from typical restaurant food, that it has all been cooked fresh from scratch and that it can be very healthy (the deep-fried snacks and sweets notwithstanding! Anyone who eats those more than occasionally is just asking for trouble and diabetes). There is much less oil involved and it can be quite mild. They always demand to know why they have never tasted such food before. In fact, a few of my friends hated ‘curry’ but, after a cautious forkful of my food, proclaimed themselves converted fans of Indian cuisine. They are always interested to know how to make the dishes and never fail to be shocked at the simplicity and speed with which they are rustled up. A proper Indian meal also provides perfect balance, based on ancient Ayurvedic principles and is all you need to keep energy levels up. And it is much more interesting and delicious than steamed alfalfa sprouts with a shot of wheatgrass.

So back then, I decided it was high time we opened the door to let non-Asians into our secrets. It is not fair to have denied them, albeit unintentionally, for so long. There were already plenty of cookery books out there that focused upon Indian restaurant-style dishes, but these weren’t able to help me recreate the home-cooking specialities and I would often get a reprimanding word in my ear about instead learning how ‘we’ make it.

Now, when I say ‘we’, this is where it gets quite specific. I am from a Punjabi family, so the style of the majority of dishes is that which pertains to this region in the north of India. Punjabi food is rustic and hearty as most people there have a hardworking, rural lifestyle. As plenty of manual labour is involved, the dishes tend to be simple, filling and wholesome but full of seasonal flavour. Indians cook very differently from region to region, after all, different things grow in different places, and this is then also divided up by religion and caste with factors such as prohibited ingredients and affordability. But, really, even each household does things slightly differently. This is why any squealing about recipes being right or wrong is a bit futile, as often it is a matter of tradition and preference.

So this book is simply filled with the recipes of my upbringing in my Punjabi culture that have shaped my life, a lot of which overlap the communities, and a smattering of dishes I have come across from other Indian styles through friends. There are also the fusion dishes I grew up with, as our parents made use of new ingredients they found at the supermarket and were influenced by new cuisines around us, and given an Indian twist. This is not a book of everything to do with Indian food, there are plenty of other tomes out there for that.

It is also a book that is specifically about the food we have eaten as Asians living in Britain. For, just as much as I treasure my Indian and Punjabi heritage, I am also British, and deeply proud of that. It is part of the reason the book was called Cooking Like Mummyji, as ‘Mummyji’ itself is a hybrid British Asian term. Growing up, we used the English term ‘Mummy’ but stuck ‘ji’ on the end as our one-size-fits-all suffix to denote respect. Not to be confused with Ali G.

The relationship between England and India is a long, complex, rich and fascinating one and, although there is conflict when the cultures collide, there is also such beauty where it intertwines. Woven between the recipes are my memories, of childhood, of growing up in Britain, of British, British Asian and Sikh culture. I am not religious, but I was born into a Sikh family and the traditions formed the backdrop of a lot of my upbringing, so I explain some of those aspects.

Although real, old-skool Indian cooking is instinctive, intuitive and has no measurements, the main point for me was to include some version of them. They say food is made with love, but sometimes it can be made with stress and frustration instead, especially when you can’t get a straight answer as to how much of something to put in. I have included cup / spoon measurements so you can start to train your eye and eventually not depend upon scales, except in places where it doesn’t equate to a cup measurement or where the quantities are large or the size of the whole packet, for example. After you have tried the dishes even once, you will begin to get a feel for how much