More on cooking
I had a weird emotional moment last night.
I cooked a decent curry.
I am trying to find words for why and how that was important to me. First of all, I want to be clear, it was an exceptionally good curry. I take no credit for this; my sole part was providing the hands that moved stuff around in accordance with the recipe given to me by Gousto. It was a coconut prawn curry, served over cinnamon rice. I cooked it and jez said it was the nicest thing I’d ever fed him and he’d not be ashamed to serve this to his father.
Jez’s father is a Sri Lankan gentleman with a very strong curry game. That was high praise indeed.
I wouldn’t have been ashamed to serve that to my family either. Not even my mother (who was born and raised in Sri Lanka) or my grandmother (who lived 50 years there and had an exceptionally strong curry game indeed). It was a good curry.
I almost wanted to cry. For some reason, a decent curry (I scorn anything that is mince, tomatoes and chilli) feels like it should be beyond me - balancing spice with complex flavours, making sure it’s not too oily or wet, using all 11 hands to do the multiple things you’re meant to do at once, not being too hasty or too slow - was just not something I could do. Until I could.
And I think more so because most of the people I know who cook decent curries are of the older generation, a generation who really knew this shit. I never thought I’d be within breathing distance of them.
But I cooked a good curry.
I am very proud.
I cooked a decent curry.
I am trying to find words for why and how that was important to me. First of all, I want to be clear, it was an exceptionally good curry. I take no credit for this; my sole part was providing the hands that moved stuff around in accordance with the recipe given to me by Gousto. It was a coconut prawn curry, served over cinnamon rice. I cooked it and jez said it was the nicest thing I’d ever fed him and he’d not be ashamed to serve this to his father.
Jez’s father is a Sri Lankan gentleman with a very strong curry game. That was high praise indeed.
I wouldn’t have been ashamed to serve that to my family either. Not even my mother (who was born and raised in Sri Lanka) or my grandmother (who lived 50 years there and had an exceptionally strong curry game indeed). It was a good curry.
I almost wanted to cry. For some reason, a decent curry (I scorn anything that is mince, tomatoes and chilli) feels like it should be beyond me - balancing spice with complex flavours, making sure it’s not too oily or wet, using all 11 hands to do the multiple things you’re meant to do at once, not being too hasty or too slow - was just not something I could do. Until I could.
And I think more so because most of the people I know who cook decent curries are of the older generation, a generation who really knew this shit. I never thought I’d be within breathing distance of them.
But I cooked a good curry.
I am very proud.