goodbye twenty-twenty one

ottolenghi in islington

and just like that the year ended, more a whimper than a bang. not that it matters. new year is an artificial construct which almost never lives up to the expectations of it. it offers no neat endings or clear beginnings. it is really just another day, arriving with certainty, unbidden and uninvited. the pandemic on the other hand is a keeper of its own time, and is particularly adept at being mean spirited during the holiday season. two years of pandemic life brings with it two certainties - that the year will end and that new variants of wild character will come along just when communal time is having its moment. 

goodbye twenty-twenty

it is time that 2020 is put to bed. i say this knowing full well that its happenings have consequence for years to come. 2021 will bring more of the same. history rhymes and the stories of pandemics past tell us that this will be the worst of the season. when i shared my fears with omair a few days ago, he reminded me of the old proverb that the darkest hour is before dawn. 

here is what i want to remember of a year where there was so much to grasp at attention and so little luxury for it. omair and i welcomed this year at alexandra palace. it was a cold cold night. we had layered up and carried a thermos of chai to watch the skyline burst with spark and colour. i still remember the smell of gunpowder, the hiss, cackle and boom of the fireworks and the steam rising from our thermos. on the first day of the year omair told me that he was ready to make the move to bank vontobel in zurich. 

the season of change had begun.

the limits of uncle ben's rice, vittles 2.9

stir fried brown rice with smoked tofu

i wrote a short essay for vittles, a food newsletter for these novel corona times. it is about uncle ben's. when i shared it with family, baba wrote back telling me that he had never been able to develop a taste for it. i must admit that i had assumed as much. he is very particular about his rice and prefers for it to perfectly steamed so that each grain is discrete. he is not keen on risotto for instance. 

he told me that the first time he ever had uncle ben's was in 1977 during his first trip to europe. it was hunger and a tight financial budget that compelled him to eat it. later on, frequent visits to the united states must have led him to eat it again. i did however learn that he has a developed a great taste for sticky rice (the way the japanese and south korean's eat it). what i loved most though was his closing line which reads, this is despite the fact that 'i live and was born in the land of basmati and god awesome seyla'.

head over to vittles to read 'the limit's of uncle ben's rice'.

algiers | words and visuals

roman ruins at tipasa, algeria

a saturday in early march found us at the algerian consulate in london. finding it took some effort since it is located near a business park and there is little by way of markings for direction. it was a metaphor for the application process itself because the links on the visa section do not direct one to the required information and often refused to work. when i called the consulate, i was informed that the volume of application traffic could be the reason for this.  a combination of advice from our friends l and a and some persistence led to completed applications. our passports were returned to us in ten days with a tourist visa for single entry in april.

goodbye twenty-eighteen

brunch at home on the first of january

i often found myself wishing that twenty eighteen would hurry itself up and end, despite knowing that a new year does not mean a neat and definitive resolution of the one past. how is it, that an even numbered year can have so odd a character? (see shake to remember if you need a reminder about the absurdity and the seriousness). the political flavour of the year was toxicity, at least as determined by the oxford dictionary which picks its word of the year as a reflection of the ‘ethos, mood, or preoccupations of the passing year, and have lasting potential as a term of cultural significance’. frankie boyle’s satirical stock-taking of the year reflected the very same sentiments, so i thought of recommending a ‘year in stuff’ as an anti-dote. but even in its materiality, it is inherently pointing fingers at the unevenness and peculiarity of the world we live in. 

a rose is a rose is a rose, the aleph review

god gave us memory so that we might have roses in december

j.m.barrie

we made gulkand for the first time in the house in bani gala. the trio of rose bushes in our little but flourishing garden were alive with blooms and thorns. the petals had been used to perfume homemade strawberry jam and steeped in boiling water with fresh lemongrass or green tea as a tisane. our cat zubeida has a penchant for roses and she too feasted on the petals. despite all this, the roses kept giving. it is baba’s memories of his mother’s preserves and a profusion rose petals that led to the first jar of the gulkand. trial, memory and recipes from the virtual world informed. rose petals combined with coarse sugar were crushed using a mortar and pestle and placed in a glass jar. the jar was left in direct sunlight to trap the heat of the sun. this greenhouse effect warmed the contents, encouraging the roses to release their essential oils. it also melted the sugar, the syrup of which is essential to keep the roses from spoiling.

this is an excerpt from my essay titled 'a rose is a rose is a rose' which recently appeared in the aleph review. the aleph review is an annual anthology published by broken leg publication, lahore, pakistan. it is a print only publication and due to copyright reasons, i am unable to share more than an excerpt. for those of you who are based in pakistan, the aleph review can be bought at saeed book bank and london books in islamabad and liberty books in lahore and karachi. it is for those who love art and literature so please do head out and buy it.  

goodbye twenty-seventeen

christmas lights on regent street, london

december arrives with certainty, irrespective of the tempo of the year. it cares not whether there are loose ends or unfinished business. i have come to love the closing days of the year. the turn of the seasons is a time to gather thought. it is to hold the past, present and future in hand (momentarily).

i was never one for winter. even on days of utmost brightness, i was aware that darkness would come early, culminating in the winter solstice. but following the shifts of the earth and trying to understand the seasons has changed this for me. i am drawn to winter solstice festivals and particularly love the persian ritual of shab-e-yalda when mithra, the angel of light was said to be born. it recognises the triumph of love, knowledge and light over evil. the longest and darkest night is seen out with storytelling, poetry and food with loved ones. i stretch this philosophy across december so that omair and i make the most of it feasting with friends and family.  

on crumble in times of grief and loss

strawberry crumble 

i hold the word loss in my mouth. it feels full and heavy. when babcia died on the last day of july, i realised that loss had crossed a boundary. until then, it had described the process of losing her. afterwards, it took to grief.

the truth is i lost babcia slowly.

over the last few years, dementia affected her memory and eventually cancer and age stole her body. when i saw her in march, she was a fraction of herself -  her bones so prominent that one could study anatomy through them. it is hard enough to lose a loved one, to do so over a protracted period of time from afar was excruciating. my grief was complicated because as i lost my grandmother, mama lost her mummy and daddy, his love and companion and whilst they were together, i was several thousand miles away.

edible seville, cordoba and malaga

pestiño; pastry fried in olive oil and drizzled with honey and sesame seeds.

we arrived in malaga on a balmy and breezy april morning. our spanish sojourn took us to seville, cordoba and malaga mostly in search of a moorish past. the roads connecting each of these cities were curvaceous, the carriageways separated by oleanders. the landscape is one of low rolling hills populated in turn by olive trees or fleeting glimpses of towns. the towns were made up of rectangular buildings save the sharp triangular points of church steeples (of which there are many). we saw a small pueblo bianco (white village) that andalusia is famed for.

edible islamabad and lahore

samosa chaat, mashallah chaat house

islamabad is no longer the sleepy metropolis of my girlhood. its boundaries have stretched into new sectors, swallowing land between the garrison town of rawalpindi and outwards towards the hill station of murree. i feel the change palpably on each annual visit. there is a new network of roads and a shiny new mass transit system that commands its own lane. the metrobus stations are wavelike in design and constructed of glass, allowing a clear picture of the commuters. i imagine they must be boiling in the summer when the sun shines mercilessly and the mercury is high.

there is a proliferation of malls too.

what i love of the city are the green hills that border it. march is a lovely time to visit. the days are warm coaxing flowers to blooms and leaves to appear on the trees. in my parent’s garden, the roses revealed themselves in hues of bridal red and rhubarb and custard. there were fuchsia geraniums and lines of pansies. trumpet flowers hung heavy with their fragrance. we had many cups of afternoon tea and late lunches in the garden.

bread, butter, books | an essay for papercuts

plump pierogi fried in goose fat, krakow

my essay on 'bread, butter, books' was published in volume 17 of papercuts magazine with the theme 'appetite'. it is about first tastes and travel and about how real and imagined foods coincide in experience. papercuts is a biannual literary magazine established by desi writers' lounge. desi writers' lounge provides a platform for aspiring south asian writers. volume 17 of the magazine explores 'appetite' and is guest edited by novelist and playwright anita nair. this is an excerpt - 

"the discovery of fictitious worlds and meals coincided with an awareness of how my family was different. my maternal grandparents, who have polish and kashmiri origins with english leanings, met in london at university and spent the first decade of their marriage in wales. i realised that there were stories and memories associated with the things that i ate. it was our kitchen table that gave colour and substance to my mixed heritage. my school day breakfasts of a soft boiled egg cradled in an egg cup to be eaten with buttered toast or pancakes drenched in orange juice and dusted with sugar were very different from the ‘fried anda and paratha’ of my classmates. my school lunch of soft white buttered bread with crimson strawberry jam contrasted with the meaty whiff of their shami kebab sandwiches."

read the full essay along with visuals of my food memories in volume 17, papercuts

goodbye twenty-sixteen

clock tower park, caledonian road

the closing days of the year have you been revealing and concealing in equal measure. there has been glorious sunshine that has coloured london rose gold at sunset. and then there has been fog so thick it has consumed everything in its wake or made apparitions of architecture and moving figures alike. the weather echoes my sentiments on the year.

2016 has been uneven at best. it has revealed some very uncomfortable truths about humanity. many say that it is the worst year ever. but to say that is to repeat a phrase that has become common at the conclusion of each year. one observation that struck a chord with me deeply is how many of us reverted to parallels with history. we returned to familiar binaries, those of the haves and have-nots, of power and powerlessness and of the liberals against the conservatives to mention a few. i am not convinced by the readiness of these rehearsed debates. reality is complicated. life is untidy. experience and events rarely colour within the lines.

a manifesto for preserving + a recipe for raspberry chambord jam

raspberry and bayleaf 

it is not enough for jam to just be sweet. a good jam is one where the fruit tastes more of itself, making it a true expression of the word preserve for jam is really the essence of a season in a jar. this is true even in this time of plenty when one can get strawberries in winter and oranges in summer. there is nothing quite like the taste of strawberries in high summer, when their plump little bodies and scarlet flesh is sweet with sunshine. or bright skinned oranges on a damp winter day that gently perfume the air around the fruit bowl. fruit outside its season is a fraction of its flavour, much like a watered down memory, scant on detail.

on white + a recipe for pasta with labne, spinach and almonds

conchiglie with labne, spinach and almonds 

white is known for the absence of hues that are visible to the naked eye. this explains why some argue that it is not a colour at all. a (my sister-in-law) disagrees. she is an artist. she says that white is like light. it contains the full spectrum of colours that are sometimes visible, like when a rainbow appears in the sky.

gaajar halva; a cardamom laced carrot pudding

gaajar halva with a squiggle of milk pak cream

winter is the season of indulgence. it calls for the richness of butter and cream; of dark meats and root vegetables.

in england, my adopted home, winter is the time to eat roast meats with potatoes to sponge the juices. soft cheeses high on fat are eaten with sharp chutneys made from apples, quince and beetroots. desserts feature steamed puddings, deep dark ones heavy with vine fruits or soft sweet ones with delicate constitutions. both love a little cream or custard to mellow the heat and sweet. in pakistan, my erstwhile home, december is wedding season, so alongside the kormas, paalak and fragrant pilaus are trays of my favourite dessert. gaajar halva (carrot halva) is made from laal gaajar (literally red carrots). these are particular to the sub-continent. they are distinct from the orange ones that i use in england. they are crisp and sweet and an almost transparent red in hue.

the original plum torte and more

marion burros' original plum torte

autumn has begun to show face. she is plums the colour of dark bruises and apples like rosy cheeks. she has come to replace peaches with sun gold flesh, nectarines, glossy strawberries and blackberries. there was so much sweetness and warmth in the soft fruits this year, nurtured by a strong summer sun and plenty of heat. i have polished punnets of raspberries and strawberries with little embellishment. the peaches were at their best eaten leaning over the sink. their sticky juices running down my arms and chin. the kentish cherries this year were as if they had been candied, such was the texture of their flesh.

choti eid + a recipe for channa chaat (chickpea chaat)

ilona's channa chaat

ramazan (the month of fasting) concludes this weekend. around the world, muslims will celebrate the festival of eid. in pakistan, the country of my birth and early adulthood, a committee of old men with compromised eyesight will be tasked with sighting the crescent moon that heralds the celebration. the politics of the sighting of the moon are such that celebrations will vary, with some parts of the country celebrating a few days later. 

choti eid always makes me miss my family palpably. i find that its festive nature and tradition of giving is much like christmas in the christian calendar. in pakistan, the nation stirs into jubilation after of a month of austerity and fasting. celebrations begin on chaand raat (literally moon night). even the buildings wear garlands of lights. families rush to the bazaars which remain open late into the night. there are bangles to be bought and clothes to be collected from the tailor along with the last minute rush to stock up on ingredients such as milk, bread, cream and yoghurt since most of the shops will be shut over the holiday.

aloo bukharay ki chutney

aloo bukharay ki chutney

there is a colony of jars in my kitchen. they come in assorted sizes with gingham patterned screw tops, clip tops and embossed glass surfaces. they are home to all manner of pickles and preserves, both sweet and savoury. i have been preserving in earnest since that first jar of diana henry’s fig and pomegranate molasses jam. there has been marmalade in tones of amber and caramel, strawberry jam with the fragrance of rose petals and maroon tomato jam to be had with cheese and eggs. to these i added the more familiar condiments of my childhood like achaar.

bergamot marmalade

bergamot marmalade

marmalade is the beloved preserve of my favourite childhood storybook character. i am of course talking about paddington bear. it is also my father’s favourite. as a child i preferred sweet jam. the pale emerald mitchell’s rose’s lime marmalade was marginally bitter. i loved its citrus fragrance but did not care for it on toast. two years ago mama sent me a jar of her kinnow marmalade. kinnow is an easy peel citrus cultivated in the sub-continent’s punjab. i loved eating dollops of it with strained yoghurt and a scatter of flaked toasted almonds. it was what piqued my interest in marmalade making. since then, i have made the classic seville orange marmalade as well as experimenting with different citrus with herb and tea infusions. this year’s flavours include seville bay leaf, screwdriver marmalade (blood orange and vodka) and treacle marmalade. i loved making all of them but the real treat was a pale amber bergamot marmalade. 

spiced pumpkin pecan butter

spiced pumpkin pecan butter

i recently became part of the editorial team of foodand_; an on-line food journal that provides a community for talented individuals, creatives and cooks to collaborate and share their skills and stories with a wider audience. with thanksgiving round the corner, it seemed appropriate for the editorial team to work together on a series of recipes and features. we agreed that what we wanted was for to take traditional ingredients like pumpkin, cranberries and sweet potatoes and transform them into not-so-traditional recipes. this spiced pumpkin pecan butter was created in that spirit. 

i am unfamiliar with the tradition of thanksgiving, as i have not celebrated it. however, its theme of giving thanks for the blessings of the harvest is one that resonates across cultures. in pakistan (which is where i grew up), the festival of basant shares roots with thanksgiving, as it too celebrates seasons and their bounty. basant marks the beginning of spring. in the flatlands of the agricultural punjab, the horizon is marked with fields of mustard flowers. friends and family come together to fly kites in the narrow streets of the old walled city in lahore. there is music, merriment and of course food. the traditional menu celebrates the crop of the season. sarsoon ka saag is a vegetarian dish made with mustard and spinach leaves cooked in a delicately spiced clarified butter and thickened with wholemeal flour. it is eaten with makai ki roti; a thick unleavened flat-bread of crumbly constitution made of maize flour and brushed with plenty of ghee.