My father speaks almost exclusively in the form of food. His green, coconut curry with marlin means ÔÇÿI love youÔÇÖ. We were a basmati rice household, but I didnÔÇÖt like basmati rice, so he broke out the jasmine rice just for special occasions. The curry was always simmering far before I would come home from school. Little tidal pools of chilli oil accumulating in the heat. Primordial. I watched my father make the rice. It was ritualistic. Rinse, add a pat of Kerrygold, a few pinches of Adobo, cold water up to the first knuckle, bring to a full boil until sheet white, starchy bubbles creep out from under the pot cover, then reduce to a quiet simmer. I doused my rice in the gravy and my father would cautiously count out the three pieces of marlin included in my serving, swimming between bright red tongues of bell peppers. Since IÔÇÖve moved away from home, I have spent almost 4 years trying to say ÔÇÿI love youÔÇÖ like my father. He never wrote down a recipe. He never remembers that IÔÇÖve asked for one when I am momentarily back home. I muddle through a ratio of garam masala to coconut cream and translucent onions versus caramelised ones. I try and it splits. I try and itÔÇÖs not quite right. IÔÇÖll keep trying, with fresher fish and the right brand of Adobo, but I donÔÇÖt know if IÔÇÖll ever nail it. Only my father knows how.  

words by Alanna Sabine

My mum is from a small Balkan country off the Black Sea called Bulgaria. When I share this with most people, I can tell that they donÔÇÖt know a lot about the country, except the admittedly questionable Sunny Beach and possibilities for cheap skiing holidays.

It saddens me that my country is not one that many people here know much about, specifically because of the joyous memories and traditions we uphold. For example, on Christmas Eve, we have a spread of 7 vegetarian dishes as our dinner.

But my favourite cuisine associated with Bulgaria is Banitsa, a pastry dish my grandmother (or Buba in Bulgarian) and now my mum have perfected. The dish is made up of multiple layers of thin filo pastry separated with feta cheese and a mixture of egg and milk. This allows the pastry to rise into soft layers. Before baking, the pie is covered with hot olive oil, giving it a nice crisp.

We have this periodically in my house, but always on midnights of New Years. This is a tradition where we put ÔÇÿpredictions’ for the year in each slice of the pie wrapped in foil – such as love, happiness or even a new car (my mum might be hinting with that one). Every year, it is so exciting to get a prediction, and I am for sure looking forward to carrying on this tradition with my future family. I also hope you all finish reading this knowing a little more about Bulgaria!

words by Sofia Mallia

MumÔÇÖs Schezwan Idli Fry: Idli is a popular South Indian breakfast food. Essentially a savoury rice cake, it is typically eaten with a spicy, tangy stew, Sambar or with a chutney. My mum was raising two South Indian children that had long grown tired of the same idli-sambar combination for breakfast every morning. We longed for a change, something new, something to tantalise our taste buds, so we demanded of our 24-hours-a-day-doctor mum, a new breakfast menu, ignorant in our young age of her already busy life and the strain this would bring her. However, my mum, in her all her enthusiasm and promise to nourish us with something other than cocoa puffs, wittingly fashioned a breakfast that was quick enough for her to whip up before she rushed to the operating theatre, and yet left us healthy, satiated, and happily uncomplaining with the deliverance of culinary newness. 

Idli in itself is an easy dish to make, the only additional equipment required being ÔÇÿidli platesÔÇÖ and a steamer. Steamed round cakes made of ground fermented rice and lentils, the raw batter lasts in the fridge for up to 5 days, which meant for 5 days at least my brother and I had ÔÇÿSchezwan Idli FryÔÇÖ in our school lunches. Once you have freshly steamed idlis, the rest of the cooking process takes no longer than 5 minutes. My mum would chop the idlis into bite size pieces, so they would further be disguised as something ÔÇÿnewÔÇÖ. To a frying pan, one would then add a generous dollop of butter or ghee (clarified butter) and fry off the idlis until they were crispy and golden. Then, she would add a decent amount of readymade Schezwan Sauce (an Indo-Chinese sauce made with red chilies, garlic, soya sauce, vinegar and Sichuan peppers), always more than required for her spice-loving children and saut├® until all the flavours had familiarised and the idlis were an unrecognisable fiery orange red.

A fan favourite, it took my friends and I collectively about three minutes to polish off my lunchbox. It has been a few years now since I have had Schezwan idli fry, since I am twenty and capable of cooking myself a (albeit measly) breakfast, but I can still remember the spicy garlicky taste and the unique South-Indo-Chinese nature of my mumÔÇÖs breakfast classic ÔÇô a spicy warm testament of her commitment and love for us.

words by Gargi Shetty