Cooking is one of my two masteries — decades deep, and hers before it was mine. My mother cooked at a level I'm still unpacking twenty years later, and I learned it beside her, hand to matching hand.
I've never cooked for a market; commercialising it would ruin it. I cook the way my family always made things — for someone. A hundred and fifty rasmalai by hand. Makhani demoted from a gravy bath to a sauce layer. The whole plate re-architected for one hand, because the other is always holding a toddler. Indian flavour in someone else's grammar — fusion by architecture, not gimmick. It never really stops.
The story behind my cooking
What the kitchen has always been for me — in my own words.
Pastry, as a canvas
I compose a tart the way I'd compose a plate — colour first. Pastry is just a surface; the arrangement is the painting.
Savoury meets sweet
The tomato over a savoury base, and the apple folded into roses.
The sweeter tarts
Citrus curd, and almond cream set slow.
The everyday tin
Cookies, bars, brownies — the things that fill a jar. Not for an occasion; for a Tuesday.
The tin, opened
The default cookie, the nutty one, and something sensible.
For the day itself
Mirror glaze, fondant, a poker table for a birthday. The cakes that had a reason.
The showpieces
A poker table in cake, fondant tiers, a tiramisu.
Softer sweets
Alphonso folded into cream, and a one-tin bundt.
Slow
Bread, when you let it take its time. The one thing in the kitchen that refuses to be rushed.
Braided
The herb plait, and the enriched loaf.
Crust and crumb
A seeded loaf, and rolls made to pull apart.
The Indian table
Home — the sweets first, then the whole spread. The food I didn't learn from a book.
The savoury spread
Dosa, pav bhaji, poori. The plates from home.
The mithai
Jalebi in syrup, laddu rolled by hand.
Borrowed tongues
Indian flavour in someone else's grammar — fusion by architecture, not by accident.
Borrowed
Mezze, a borrowed bowl, and the everyday toast.