17/01/2020
It’s not that I’ve never cooked before. And I’m sure I’ve demonstrated an ability to follow instructions in other spheres. But this attempt to cook something nutritious for our tea left a little something to be desired. Rather like my mother, who used to blame her deafness on everyone else mumbling, I think the recipe may have been faulty or made too many assumptions about my skill levels, in spite of the rave reviews it has received.
The dish was to be a simple and quick chicken curry.
Now, I know that it’s possible to buy jars of curry paste which have been specially blended to achieve a desired effect, and their use would almost certainly speed proceedings up. But the idea of blending my own herbs and spices seemed to me to get right to the heart of the matter.
As probably everybody else in the world already knows, the process begins with the cooking together of the spices in a hot oil. So, in go cumin seeds, fennel seeds, chilli flakes and a cinnamon stick. Then a paste made from a whizzed onion, whizzed root ginger and six whizzed garlic cloves. And finally, garam masala and turmeric.
In most hands this probably results in a beautifully aromatic paste which will delicately flavour the tomatoes and chicken waiting to be added. But the danger signs were already apparent. The spices in the oil were emitting noxious fumes which induced a coughing fit and caused me to fling open doors and windows. The whole house smelt like a tandoori restaurant and the resulting dish, although looking like a curry, was something akin to a tindaloo – a dish normally reserved for sado-masochists.
Ann doesn’t normally like strong curry, but this was the fieriest of acrid products and caused her to invent a series of fanciful motives which might have caused me to produce it. Although a novice, perhaps I had sabotaged my own dish in order never to have to cook again. And, worse, given that I seemed to be able to eat it (since it was the only way I could think of disposing of the toxic waste) then this was clearly what I like, and by implication I’ve hated everything she’s cooked over the last forty-odd years. The curry had clearly gone to her head, the reverse of where it went for me the next day.
I’m guessing that the amounts in the recipe are merely indicative – so I will be making this again, but erring on the side of caution this time.
As an aside, I certainly didn’t curry any favour down at the snooker hall that evening where my jumper was still heavily aromatic after its experience in the kitchen.