I’m looking for a support group. One at which I can introduce myself upon arrival with the words: “Hi. My name is Sukasha, I’m an Indian woman and I can’t cook.”
I’m looking for a support group in which I could recount the drama of how I betrayed my culture and how I’m doing my best to make amends by learning to make perfect rotis.
Saying that food is important in my family is a bit like saying Paris Hilton is a vacuous twerp — it’s an understatement. Most family gatherings and religious occasions are judged on the quality of the food and there are always great debates about whether a dish was properly spiced.
One of the reasons why I’ve never gone out of my way to learn how to cook Indian is because my Mum, Surya Singh, is a perfectionist and arguably the best cook in our family. Her talent is nothing short of spectacular and I knew I could never be as good as her.
My earliest childhood memories almost always involve food. I have fond reminiscences of a time when my family lived in La Mercy in Durban north where my Dad, a fisherman, would arrive home on Sunday mornings with several huge shad in tow. Mother would scrape off the scales, gut them, chop their heads off and give them a thorough wash.
The shad would be cut into thick slices and masala massaged into the flesh. A dash of this, a smidgeon of that would precede a flick of delicate yet strong fingers over the fish, which was frying in a shallow pan. She moved in an almost magical way, wafting effortlessly across the kitchen while rolling roti in perfect circles and throwing each on to a hot tawa (flat griddle pan). It was as if her hands had a memory of their own and years of tossing flaming-hot rotis also meant she barely had any feeling in her fingers, so on the rare occasion when I was naughty enough to have been deservedly slapped across the face, her hand would usually leave an embarrassing cartoon-like imprint on my cheek.
At precisely the right moment the fish would be turned over (she never overcooked anything), ghee (clarified butter) would be dabbed on to the roti — and even the presentation at the table would be flawless.
We’re both vegetarians now, but if there’s one thing I do miss from my carnivorous days, it’s masala-fried shad and roti. I’m lucky — I don’t know many people who know what fresh fish tastes like. The pallid stuff that comes out of a box would never have been accepted in our home where crab curry, crayfish in chutney and masala-fried lobster had to have been recently hauled out of the ocean before they could be popped into a pan.
When I handed Ramola Parbhoo’s new cookbook, Traditional Indian Cooking in South Africa (Struik), to my Mum and asked her to tell me what she thought of it I expected her to be critical. She tends not to dish up too many compliments to other cooks, yet surprisingly she liked the book.
“This book is perfect for people like you,” she said to me. “People who don’t know anything about Indian food.”
According to my Mum, Parbhoo’s 170-odd recipes are not only detailed, but they’re rather accurate too. In addition to the recipes and menu suggestions, Parbhoo explains how to identify spices and make your own masalas, which is essential information for those wanting to create real Indian food.
Parbhoo, who started learning about Indian cuisine at age six at her mother’s feet (where else?), is an accomplished chef who runs a cooking school in Cape Town and has owned her own restaurant, so it’s safe to say that her love affair with Indian culinary traditions is a substantial one.
In the introduction Parbhoo talks about how she would practise for hours as a teenager to prepare perfect rotis as she was being groomed for marriage at 18 years old. As I read of her reminiscing about how her family name would’ve been frowned upon if she wasn’t able to cook perfect meals for her husband, I felt very thankful for not having grown up in the previous generation as I would’ve inadvertently tied my family name to the back of a Hummer, dragged it through the mud, across razor-sharp rocks and left it lying at the bottom of a murky riverbed. Not that I haven’t damaged it substantially already by being a singleton who can’t cook.
Traditional Indian Cooking in South Africa is for anyone curious about Indian food — from beginners to those who think they’re experts. The recipes cover an assortment of vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes, breads and desserts including recipes for sweetmeats. In addition there are menu suggestions, travel anecdotes, a spice and herb guide and guides to utensils and techniques.
As its title suggests, Traditional Indian Cooking takes us back to the roots of our fascinating cuisine. For young South African Indians any information about our culinary journey is priceless and I am prepared to admit that here is something worth pursuing.
Not for the purposes of attracting a man, though.