There are a million good reasons to visit South India. The people, for one, are amazing - warm-hearted, generous, and absolutely vibrant in culture. Then there’s the setting - think, the most amazing beaches you have ever seen. Tropical trees heavily laden with sweet fruit. Winding waterways through villages, making it a “Venice of the East”. But even if none of that existed, I would still make the trek for one inimitable pleasure - flakey, buttery parotha and a creamy curry, consumed without such complications as plates or cutlery, but rather with a banana leaf and bare fingers - and a good dose of utter, shameless delight.

If I had to choose just one food to eat for the rest of my life, this flatbread would be a sturdy candidate. I really don’t think I could get tired of pulling apart buttery layers of chewy bread - with or without a blazing hot curry to for dunking. Quite frankly, it blows my mind that Kerala Parotha, known in some circles as Malabari Parotha (and can also be spelled Parotta, or Paratha - just to complicate things) has not yet taken over the world. Because, in my opinion, once tasted, it is impossible to go back to life without it. And there are quite enough Indians on every corner of the globe to introduce it around… so why it hasn’t spread like wildfire? I’m baffled. Maybe it’s just meant to be one of life’s little secrets, that only a select few outsiders come to know of. Well, now you’re in on the secret! Now go make it and see what I mean about never going back. Read More

Pineapple Pie with Brown Sugar Meringue? It just kinda happened to me. See, I was in need of a recipe to use up my egg whites after making this. So I did what I do when I need to think through a big decision: I hitched Oliver into his harness, laced up my sneakers, and hit the seawall. Loping along the dusty trail that flanks the Vancouver shoreline, my thoughts darted through all the important things I had to consider. Like pavlova… and dacquoise… and homemade marshmallows… and seven-minute frosting. But all I really wanted to become of those whites was a pile of soft, billowy meringue to top something gooey. So I moved on to the next important decision. What kind of gooey did I want to sit beneath my meringue? (Yes, this really IS what I think about while I run - call it the carrot that drives the horse).

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One of my favorite Vancouver outings is a late weekend lunch in an adorable little restaurant aptly named Fish. It is a small place so close to the ocean that you can smell the salinity when you dine on their quaint, cramped patio, and the fish is cooked to such perfection that it melts on your tongue like butter. Adarsh and I have become predictable to the staff there - they don’t have to ask before lavishing us with our favorites - cajun-spiced blackened salmon burgers, baby green salad with corn and red onions, and a couple of Coronas.

It’s nice to be predictable sometimes. I find comfort in repetition. I like to read my favorite books over and over again, watch my most-loved movies till I have the lines memorized, visit the same ice cream shop with my sister every time I go home in the summer, etc. And I really love to order blackened salmon when I go for lunch with my sweetheart on an breezy Saturday afternoon.

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Could I tempt you with ribs that are simultaneously fiery and sticky sweet, falling tender off the bone, slightly charred, and richly meaty? I have a hunch it would be easy. Like tempting a duck with water.

This is the recipe for the most excellent sticky-faced, dripping-fingers, don’t-wear-a-white-shirt, ribs. They pack enough heat to make you want a limed Corona, but they aren’t so tongue-numbing that you will be left crying “Pleath, pleath! Wada! Would thum-wud pleath path me thum wada!”. (*I think I just qualified myself as a nutter among my fellow coffee shop patrons - it took me several minutes muttering to myself with my tongue out to figure out those phonetics).

I served them last night with a puree of celery root, and a side of mixed greens sauteed with olive oil, garlic, and crushed red pepper. You could also do mashed potatoes. But my hands-down favorite way to soak up the sticky sauce is with a big scoop of creamy soft polenta. You might have to put aside your fashion instincts and tuck a makeshift paper-towel bib into your collar. But it will be so worth the sacrifice in pride, to eat these ribs without utensils or inhibitions. Read More

I bought myself a new toy! An ice cream maker. It really actually looks like a toy, too, in all its hard plastic glory. But despite its rather un-extraordinary appearance, with its moving parts that snap together like a tonka truck, I have to give it credit. My new toy produces eye-widening, silence-inducing ice cream.

I must admit that my first attempt was less than impressive. In my naive, if enthusiastic, efforts, I didn’t follow a recipe. With what confidence did I think that I was born knowing how to make ice cream? I don’t know. To my credit I began by loosely following a jumble of ideas I nabbed from a variety recipes, but decided half-way through making the custard that I would split it in two and make two flavours. (Mango and White Chocolate). The White Chocolate ended up being far too sweet, the Mango not nearly mango-y enough, and only the first was frozen because I didn’t realize you needed to re-freeze the bucket between batches. Lessons learned.

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