Worm Chips and Cockroach Chutney

I started Edible Heirlooms as a means of digging to find my own roots, hoping it would keep me grounded and along the way, I realised, it became a way for me to express love for those I hold close. Each recipe became a small letter and this brought me a lot of joy. Unexpectedly, it let me connect with a lot of people meaningfully, over long emails rather than short, abrupt Whatsapp texts. This was a bonus.

Then the pandemic hit.

As someone who was struggling enormously with grief and loss, the pandemic and everything that it brought with it, knocked me off my feet. The void I felt in my dad’s absence became larger and deeper. Over the course of that year we lost my uncle too and I realised that there was no instant bounce-back. I had to acknowledge that I was in survival mode and things like passion projects seemed at times superfluous and at other times I felt no motivation to get back to them.

Over the course of the last year or so friends and family asked about Edible Heirlooms often and though I felt some inclination, I also felt a lot of hesitation. I’ve wrestled with this for some time, but the more I had real conversations with people around me, the more I realised that everyone was struggling. In a world that tells you to ‘be strong’ and ‘be positive’ or calls you ‘fragile’ in the face of crippling loss, it was nice to be able to have conversations where you could say, ‘Hey, you know what? Me too. It’s okay.’ And that was enough.

Most people don’t want pity, or sympathy or advice. They just want to be heard and maybe feel a little less alone. And this is what it’s about for me - Edible Heirlooms wasn’t just about recipes and illustrations, but about food as an experience and the sense of genuine connection it affords me and I would guess, half the world too.

So as I conclude this little introductory note, I want to add that I’m still going to grieve when I need to, sit with my sadness when I have to, acknowledge that I’m struggling when I have to. But I’m also going to ask for help when I need to, ask for a hug when I need one, express myself without feeling the need to edit or mask, laugh loudly and wholeheartedly, love deeply and look for small joys in places I least expect to find it.

Here’s to celebrating those that aren’t with us (without doubt), but more importantly, those that still are - through food and otherwise.

This brings me conveniently to my latest post because after a very long break I kept thinking what it is I should start with. It had to be something that made me feel enthusiastic again and as I sifted through the my childhood (that’s always ensconced in the warmest glow), I knew I had found what I was looking for. Just thinking about it made me laugh and well, it fit.

Worm chips and cockroach chutney!
I didn’t accidentally copy-paste that from another document, you read right. But don’t be alarmed (yet anyway).

The joy of being in Bombay was being with my cousin, Aarti, and I went wherever she went. Through the day we inhabited different houses and basked in the attention of Nana-Nanis (grandparents), Masis (aunts) and Mama (uncle). One such evening, Mama came out of the kitchen holding a plate of french fries and some chutney alongside. He announced to us that this was ‘worm chips with cockroach chutney’. A split second of abject horror turned into fascination, followed by giggles and absolute delight. The adults of course were grossed out, which made Mama laugh even more and the more the adults squirmed, the more Aart and I seemed to delight in saying it over and over in between stuffing our faces.

What we had was essentially french fries with seasoning on them and a very dark coloured delicious chutney, which to be fair would’ve been a tough sell otherwise. I honestly don’t remember what it tasted like, but I do remember the whimsy, the wonder, the laughter and the sheer delight from that evening. In fact there’s an involuntary smile on my face as I write this.

I feel like this is right up there with Roald Dahl’s Snozzcumbers. Most other adults saying ‘worm chips, cockroach chutney’ might’ve felt contrived, but you see Mama himself inhabits the space between whimsy, weird, humour and nonsensical and I’m so grateful he brought that to us even through food.

Mama is in fact one of the best Paediatric Surgeons in Bombay and for the longest time I could never square it off; how could someone who deals with children, sickness, life and death have this disposition? But as I got older, I realised that it fit. Perfectly, actually. To spread laughter and bring a certain lightness where there is little, is perhaps what it is to really heal. I know this from having been at the receiving end of this warmth and kindness more than a few times and from having smiled on days that I never ever thought I would. I suspect that his patients are actually pleased to see him and probably even burst into giggles the same way we did.

There is no recipe today. Fry some frozen french fries, put some seasoning on them, make some sort of dipping sauce and use your imagination. Delight yourselves and your kids or your nieces and nephews with something completely ridiculous. Eat and laugh. What could be nicer really?

This post is here today of all days because Mama turns 60 today! Here’s hoping he has 60 more to spread joy, whimsy and laughter like he’s always done. Here’s taking a leaf out of his book and never taking ourselves too seriously, always playing with food and finding humour in everything.

Cheers Mama, thank you for showing up unfailingly and for the laughter, on the good and not so good days. Thanks for indulging us even today like we’re 6 :) It’s the best.

Date and Walnut Cake

A cake is such a fascinating thing. It is a celebration.

For me, it is in itself a celebration even if there’s no occasion. The store bought ones certainly look the part and they’re nice, but there’s just something about a homemade cake - just the act of making one and then consuming it, is most joyful. Whether it is trying to run your fingers over the beater to lick the remnants of batter, or following the intense aroma all the way to the oven as it bakes, whether it is anxiously peering in through the facade of the oven as it starts to rise or just cutting into that first slice - it is positively enchanting.

As a child, on my birthdays (and maybe even other people’s birthdays) the thing that I was most excited about, was the cake. I still remember going to my friend Rhia’s birthday and witnessing the most beautiful butterfly shaped cake (the antennae were made of candy canes) made by her grandmother - the memory just never left me! And it would have gnawed at me, but for the fact that my mum and her side of the family are phenomenal bakers. All cake cravings were more than satisfied.

This baking aspect has intrigued me for a while now and made me wonder about food and its relationship to history and politics even. In a time that most people neither had the knowhow, the equipment or the resources, how did baking and cakes make its way into a Kutchi family? I have images of a colonial India and some theories, but I’d love to know exactly how it happened.

I’d love to be able to trace it back some day, but for now, I’m going to talk about my Nani’s Date and Walnut Cake. Whether it was at home, or while we traveled, she’s always been super resourceful and generous with food and feeding people. Somehow, she’d always pack it in a reused orange mithai box. The minute you opened it, there was a caramel-y aroma, as a sheet of butter paper concealed it from view. The crinkle of the paper as you pulled it back to reveal the cake only added to the excitement. Sitting there in this humble little box was this cake with a caramelised top - both crunchy and chewy, but with a light, moist crumb. Every bite has hits of caramel, pops of sweetness from the dates and then bits of walnuts to provide relief from all the sweetness - basically prepping your palette to start over again with the next bite.

What I love about this cake and homemade cakes in general is how forgiving they can be. Even if they don’t look the part, they’re basically flavour bombs. Sometimes the more imperfect they look, the better they taste!

This cake in particular is great for someone who doesn’t bake much because it’s one of those, throw-everything-together kind of cakes and it isn’t daunting in the least.

Make it without an occasion and like my dad said to me once, ‘just celebrate’.

---

I personally prefer measurements in grams, but this one is in cups - you can’t really go wrong though.

Ingredients
1 cup (deseeded) dates, chopped
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup boiling water
1 and 1/2 cups flour
1 egg
1/4 cup butter
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp soda bicarb
1 tsp vanilla extract
Pinch salt

For the glaze
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup light cream
1/3 cup butter
Pinch salt

Method
Preheat oven to 180C and prepare an 8in x 8in baking tin.

In a bowl, sieve the flour, soda bicarb and baking powder. In another bowl pour the boiling water over the dates and let them sit till soft and squidgy. Combine the walnuts, egg, sugar butter and dates. Lastly, fold the dry ingredients into the wet a tablespoon at a time and spread evenly in the baking tin.

Depending on your oven, baking times will vary anywhere between 30-40 minutes.

For the glaze, bring the cream, sugar, butter to a boil and then add the chopped walnuts. When there’s ten minutes left on the cake timer, pour the glaze over the cake and let it bake for the remainder of the 10 minutes.

The result will be a caramelised, chewy top with a soft, moist crumb. Best served warm and with good quality ice cream or cream, if you’re feeling indulgent.

Peripheral tips
- All of the ingredients in this recipe can be combined by hand, you don’t need a beater, but a whisk and a silicone spatula are very helpful.
- To prepare the baking tin, I grease it with butter, then coat it with a thin film of flour and but a sheet of butter paper at the bottom just for insurance.

Curry-Rice

While the world goes through this very strange time together (but in varying degrees), we have been witness to the fact that so many of us have been seeking comfort in food. There’s a joy in cooking, eating and sharing, that for a few hours a day can drown out the chaos that can’t otherwise be ignored. It is in this vein that I write this post and it really has been a long time coming.

There are three things I’d like to say before I start this post -
One, that if there ever was a Santa Claus like figure, she is a woman. Two, her generosity is unparalleled and she works year round to make those around her supremely happy. Three, she is my aunt, Nilu. Or as I call her, Nilufui.

Her workshop is a small kitchen, tightly packed with ingredients and utensils and it is hot at the best of times. In summer however, it is literally a little furnace, but that never stops her. She still moves around with the ease and efficiency of a seasoned pro, infusing bags of flavour into anything she touches. You’d think she was a wedding caterer because there are always larger than life cauldrons bubbling over on her stove. In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen a small pot or pan in that kitchen. Cooking for a herd gives most people anxiety, but not Nilufui. She cooks in anticipation of feeding a flock … three times over. But this is just her, or them, rather - as my dad would say, my uncle and aunt are the most large hearted people in the world. They’ve hosted just about everybody and it’s always, always a feast. Even when you leave their place you walk away with about 50 boxes of food. How I have two thin cousin sisters always beats me.

For me however, some of the best times have been when their house wasn’t brimming with people and it was just ‘us’. My uncle, Vispi, would engineer the most marvellous fruity concoctions, which were consumed sprawled on the bed. These were accompanied by lots of laughter which was the result of my dad and uncle engaging in the best kind of banter, generously peppered by every Parsi expletive imaginable (or unimaginable). Nilufui was always in and out of the room pulling out even more stuff to eat and heating the large pots of food to volcanic levels.

When there was nothing but the ice clinking around in our glasses, it was already 11:30 pm or 12:00 am and we were positively ravenous. Curry, rice and kachumber (a sort of well seasoned salad made of finely diced onions, tomatoes, green chillies, coriander, with a squeeze of lemon) were brought onto the table and everyone took their respective spots. Even after everyone had served themselves, Nilufui hovered around to see if everyone got the best bits, putting a piece of chicken or egg or potato into your plate because she’s always worried you’re not eating enough. At long last, she’d make herself a plate and settle into her spot at the table. And this is one of the reasons why I loved it when it was just ‘us’. She’d actually eat with us instead of fussing over everyone else. It truly was a family meal.

I can still hear the ‘too good, Nilu’ in my dad’s voice, as all of us attacked our own portions of the curry-rice. The curry was deep golden, molten and spicy and even through sweat and sniffly noses you could not stop eating it. The rice was always fluffy with unbroken, long grains and just so well seasoned - you could smell aromats like cinnamon, cloves, star anise and cardamom wafting through as you uncovered it. This curry has incredibly complex flavours, but it is so smooth and eats so beautifully that I never once thought about the long list of ingredients and process that go into making it. The kachumber (or kachubur) punctuates every bite with the right amount of acidity and the zing of onions, making you salivate and reach back for more almost as a reflex.

Clean plates in hand, again I can hear my dad’s contented voice saying, “bau khavai gayu” (ate too much) and that, actually sums it up really well.

Curry-rice is a childhood favourite, the stuff glorious Sundays and family meals are made of and I’m sure just about everyone I know has a curry-rice story or memory. This post is of course about curry-rice because it is one of the best things I have ever eaten, but it is just as much about Nilufui because she’s responsible for a majority of our most joyous memories involving food and family. Without her, I’m afraid we wouldn’t have been so fortunate. She’s genuinely the most large-hearted, selfless person we know and Edible Heirlooms would be incomplete without her and her food … and frankly, so would we.

Thank you Nilufui, for the curry-rice and everything in-between, but mostly for letting us be children even in our 30s and for spoiling us silly. We love you.

---

Ingredients
1 kg chicken/mutton or 1 dozen eggs
30-35 red chillies (a mix of Kashmiri and deshi)
100 gms broken cashews
50 gms coriander seeds
50 gms white sesame seeds
50 gms poppy seeds (khus-khus)
5-6 onions, chopped (medium to large onions)
4 heaped tablespoons desiccated coconut
2 pods peeled garlic
15 stems of curry leaves (atleast)
400 ml tin of coconut milk
3 tablespoons chickpea flour, sieved (besan)
3 tomatoes, pureed (medium sized)
50 gms tamarind (sqoaked for 5-6 hours and then sieved)
2 teaspoons chilli powder
1/2 teaspoon turmeric powder
50-60 ml sunflower oil
1 to 1.5 litres water
Salt to taste

Method
In a large frying pan, roast the red chillies, cashews and coriander seeds on a low flame. Once it is about half roasted, add the sesame seeds and poppy seeds (khus-khus) - complete the roasting process and set aside to cool. Once cooled, grind the red chillies first and then add the remainder of the roasted ingredients. Grind till it becomes a fine powder. Then add the chopped onions, garlic, desiccated coconut, half of the curry leaves and grind to a fine paste, adding the coconut milk periodically.

In a huge pot, add the oil and the remaining curry leaves and let them splutter, before adding the prepared curry paste. Keep stirring over a medium flame, until there are small bubbles indicating that the masala is fried to perfection. Then add the sieved chickpea flour (besan) and let it assimilate. Add the tomato puree and let it cook for about 5 minutes. Next comes the chicken or mutton - add it to the curry and for about 10 minutes, let the chicken/mutton absorb the curry paste.  Once the chicken/mutton is properly assimilated, add water and let the curry cook - first on full flame till it comes to a boil and then on a low flame, till the chicken/mutton is cooked. Finally, add the strained tamarind paste/water and let the curry boil for another 10 minutes.

If you are making egg curry, then add the eggs about 15 minutes before you put in the tamarind paste/water, else the eggs will be overcooked. Remove the shells just before serving, and put the peeled eggs back in the curry after cutting into two halves. This is so that the eggs absorb the flavour of the curry.

This curry needs to be served with plain white basmati rice (with just aromats) and a Parsi kachumber. The kachumber is made with two onions, one green chilli, some coriander leaves and one firm tomato. All of it is as finely diced as possible and mixed together. When raw mangoes are available, add one small raw mango to give the kachumber an added zing!

Best consumed on Sundays, followed by a long nap.