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’.

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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.

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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.

Khichdi

Before I begin this post, I hope that you are safe and well. And I hope that you continue to be so in this very strange time. I’m sorry about not getting a post out last week, but things have been fairly chaotic and left me with very little time to work on anything. I’m happy to finally have this up though!
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As a child, a large part of my school vacations were spent in Bombay. The excitement started right from the time we started packing. It’s hard to believe now, but I actually remember jumping on the edge of the bed while Ma packed, because I was excited I was going to have Nani’s cake. The excitement lasted only half a minute because I fell pretty badly, and haven’t jumped for cake since. Not outwardly at least.

The whole experience started with one very punctual grandfather dropping us to the station (in Ahmedabad) even before the train had come to the platform and ended with a very laid back grandfather dropping us to the station (in Bombay) just as the train was leaving the platform. We’ve chased our share of trains, running and climbing into any compartment with me and the bags being passed over.

The highlights of my vacation in Bombay were seeing my cousin Aarti and all the food that awaited me at my Nana-Nani’s house. My Nani’s way of showing love has always been to stuff you till you actually have to retire your current pair of pants. She would always labour over making special snacks, cakes, mithai and every other delicious thing you can think of, days before we were to even arrive. She’s always been indulgent with food and took great pleasure in feeding me. I’m sure a part of my love for food, cooking and feeding people comes from her and I’m grateful to her for that.

Meals at their house have always been quite an affair - not in terms of fancy food, but just in terms of the fact that they were delicious, slow, deliberate and to be enjoyed immensely even on a weekday afternoon. Nani did all the cooking and my Nana was the equivalent of Matt Preston (without the cravat). He had a remarkable palette and often she’d ask him what adjustments were needed. He was always bang on.

The family owned a very old, beautiful building called Jadavji Mansion (named after my Nana’s father) at Cuffe Parade. Nana-Nani occupied a spacious apartment on the first floor and my Nana’s brother occupied one on the third floor. My enduring memory is running up and down the grand, wooden staircases with Aarti, with a sense of adventure almost. And while we scuttled between the two houses, we were continually looked after, entertained and fed by doting grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts and uncles. Occasionally we’d stumble on a narrow passage or balcony that we had never seen before and decide it was a ‘secret passage’. The building was positively charming and fascinating to me as a kid. In the evening we’d play on the tar laden terrace, where the sea breeze hit our faces and the tar blackened our clothes. Sudhanani (my Nani from the house upstairs) would make these amazing Swiss Rolls and every now and then we were given a slice. They’re etched in my memory not only because of how fantastic they tasted, but because I couldn’t wrap my head around how a cake could possibly take that shape. I was so captivated and bewildered by this thing of beauty, I could’ve sworn it came right out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. If there was ever a cake I was to jump for again, that would be it.

After a day of running around, playing and eating the most amazing things at two houses, a Khichdi dinner could potentially have been considered anticlimactic. Perhaps to make it less so, my Nani called it ‘Kuva vali Khichdi’ (Khichdi with a well). She’d put the piping hot Khichdi onto my plate, then make a whole in the centre with her titanium fingers to form a well and then fill it with ghee. It was supremely delicious and far from anticlimactic. In fact all these years later when I’m eating alone, I still stick my finger in and make a small well. It has always made me smile.

It would seem that my association with this Khichdi is still one of old, beautiful Jadavji Mansion and of being surrounded by and doted on by a large family. I suppose that really is comfort, in a nutshell.

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Ingredients
1 tbsp ghee
1/8 tsp hing (Asafoetida)
60 gms rice (I use Daawat Rozana Basmati Super)
60 gms split mung dal (with chilka), also known as split mung bean lentils
1/4 tsp turmeric powder
375ml water
Salt to taste
1/2 tsp whole black peppercorns (optional)

Method
Combine the rice and lentils, wash thoroughly two or three times and soak for about half an hour. It is ideal to let the rice and lentils soak for a while, but if you’re in a hurry you can skip this. I do, sometimes.

Heat ghee in a pressure cooker on a high flame. Once it comes up to temperature, add the hing and then the peppercorns (optional). Once it sizzles and becomes aromatic, add the soaked (and drained) rice and lentils. Add water, then the turmeric and salt. Give everything a quick stir and seal the lid shut.

After the first whistle, reduce the flame to low and wait for two more whistles. Open the lid after about 7-10 minutes, once some of the steam has escaped. With a wooden spatula, stir vigorously so that the rice and lentils are all mashed up and have a gluggy consistency. If you’d like it slightly more loose, add more water at the cooking stage. Serve piping hot with a generous dollop of good quality ghee.

Serves two, with a couple of accompaniments. If you’re doing just Khichdi, I recommend increasing the quantity.

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The kind of cooking I seem to enjoy most is the spontaneous sort, where you do a small recon mission of your fridge and pantry, and whip something up. It’s the unglamorous sort of cooking, but I find it extremely satisfying because it is like solving a little puzzle - figuring out what elements might work together and running through permutations and combinations, even if there are only three or four ingredients.

Khichdi is my go-to when my fridge is rather bare or I’m too tired (or lazy) to actually make an effort. The ingredients are few and always handy in most kitchens, it’s a one pot dish (which means hardly any washing up), it takes literally 10 or 15 minutes to cook, but most of all, it’s wholesome and comforting. A lot of people think of Khichdi as rather blah, sick-person food, but to me it is honestly the ultimate comfort food. It can be a meal in itself.

We’re going through some very strange and trying times and I thought we could use a little comfort and something that’s not demanding on us or our pantries during this long, anxious lockdown.

Useful peripherals
The proportion of rice to lentils in this recipe is 1:1 and my measure is generally 3 fistfuls of each. Since I’m aware that palms aren’t a form of standard measure, I’ve tried to convert my proportions to grams. It’s a very simple recipe so you can always use the ratio to adjust the quantity you want.

I personally think hing is what gives this Khichdi its character and I like its subtle hum through everything. If you’re not as much of a fan, you can always reduce the amount that goes in.

I’ve tried making this with shorter grained rice, since it’s all mashed up anyway (and the point of a long grain is lost), but we all agreed that we didn’t enjoy the taste or the consistency quite as much.

Peppercorns add a subtle heat to this Khichdi and I actually enjoy the punch when you bite into one that has softened, but no one at home ever enjoyed it, so I don’t end up adding them now. However, Nani’s Khichdi always had them.

For this quantity of Khichdi I use a 3 litre pressure cooker and it works really well. You can even make this in a vessel on the stove top, but the amount of water and cooking time will differ and you will have to stir constantly. I’ve never tried it this way, but I’ve had it at Nani’s and it is even more delicious!

We have a few favourite accompaniments with this Khichdi - Raswalu Bataka nu shak (Potato sabji with gravy), Raswalu Tameta nu shak (a sweet-sour Tomato sabji in gravy), Kachi-paaki dungli (onions sautéed with mustard seeds and green chillies that still have a bite to them) and of course, Chaas (buttermilk) and Papad.

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Since Edible Heirlooms is about food and celebrating it, I can’t help but think about people who absolutely no food security during this rather strenuous 21 day lockdown to fight COVID-19. I cannot even begin to imagine the hardship and anxiety that they must endure. There are people and organisations trying to raise money to provide food for the poor, migrant labourers and daily wagers, if you’d like to make any sort of contribution. 

Human beings are the only ones suffering as animals and animal welfare organisations are also having a very hard time. Please consider donating to them too. If you’re out to buy essentials, please also consider feeding the animals on your route.

Here is a list of organisations you can donate to -

Zomato Feeding India https://www.feedingindia.org/donate

Goonj Rahat COVID-19 https://goonj.org/support-covid-19-affected

Saath https://saath.org/donate-now/  (Maybe mention that it is for COVID-19)

Jivdaya Charitable Trust https://www.jivdayatrust.org/donation-form/

P.S. In all of this doom and gloom, it made my day when some of you actually tried the Papeta Par Eedu and shared pictures! Thank you <3
As always, if you give this a shot, please share pictures! I’m always thrilled to receive them.