This article is from the source 'guardian' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.
You can find the current article at its original source at https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/dec/23/roast-tandoori-christmas-chicken
The article has changed 6 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.
| Version 4 | Version 5 |
|---|---|
| Making Mum’s roast tandoori Christmas chicken three months after she died | |
| (35 minutes later) | |
| Three months after Mum died, it was really important that we observe her Christmas traditions. As part of a non-Christian, immigrant family, I found Christmas tense as a child. You built up a set of cards from classmates that went unreciprocated; your parents grumbled at having to buy gifts for teachers paid to educate us; presents were a waste of money. And Diwali was always referred to as “Indian Christmas”. | Three months after Mum died, it was really important that we observe her Christmas traditions. As part of a non-Christian, immigrant family, I found Christmas tense as a child. You built up a set of cards from classmates that went unreciprocated; your parents grumbled at having to buy gifts for teachers paid to educate us; presents were a waste of money. And Diwali was always referred to as “Indian Christmas”. |
| But we had our traditions, and Mum made us observe them. From my uncle staying over then driving to his house to shower (and us waiting for him in order for the festivities to start) to my best friend, Junaid, coming over for the meal and games, and phoning my ba (grandmother) and bapuji (grandfather) to say to them in a problematic Indian accent: “Merry Christmas.” The best, though, was Mum’s roast tandoori Christmas chicken. She made it once a year, and it was, without fail, delicious. | But we had our traditions, and Mum made us observe them. From my uncle staying over then driving to his house to shower (and us waiting for him in order for the festivities to start) to my best friend, Junaid, coming over for the meal and games, and phoning my ba (grandmother) and bapuji (grandfather) to say to them in a problematic Indian accent: “Merry Christmas.” The best, though, was Mum’s roast tandoori Christmas chicken. She made it once a year, and it was, without fail, delicious. |
| On our wedding day my wife and I were presented with a book of recipes crowdsourced from our families. Pride of place was the recipe for Mum’s roast tandoori Christmas chicken, written in her handwriting. It’s the item I’d run back into a burning house to rescue. There’s something powerful about seeing her handwriting. | On our wedding day my wife and I were presented with a book of recipes crowdsourced from our families. Pride of place was the recipe for Mum’s roast tandoori Christmas chicken, written in her handwriting. It’s the item I’d run back into a burning house to rescue. There’s something powerful about seeing her handwriting. |
| The year she died, I took the recipe back to our childhood home so we could prepare for Christmas. My sister, wife and I were going to make the roast tandoori Christmas chicken, and in that first taste my sister and I would be transported back to Mum’s kitchen, with the sound of sizzling onions and popping mustard seeds, the smell of garlic and garam masala and ginger and coriander, and the familiar sight of Mum, standing with one flip-flopped foot resting on a bench, cutting potatoes into the palm of her hand with the blunt, serrated, black-handled knife she used to cut everything from onions and chicken to garlic and fruit. This would be our time machine. If the kitchen looked and sounded like the kitchen I grew up in, it would be like she was there with us. | The year she died, I took the recipe back to our childhood home so we could prepare for Christmas. My sister, wife and I were going to make the roast tandoori Christmas chicken, and in that first taste my sister and I would be transported back to Mum’s kitchen, with the sound of sizzling onions and popping mustard seeds, the smell of garlic and garam masala and ginger and coriander, and the familiar sight of Mum, standing with one flip-flopped foot resting on a bench, cutting potatoes into the palm of her hand with the blunt, serrated, black-handled knife she used to cut everything from onions and chicken to garlic and fruit. This would be our time machine. If the kitchen looked and sounded like the kitchen I grew up in, it would be like she was there with us. |
| The recipe listed the things we needed for the marinade: yoghurt, ginger and garlic; tomato puree, chilli powder, turmeric, cumin and coriander powder; garam masala, fresh coriander – finely chopped – two serving spoons of oil. | The recipe listed the things we needed for the marinade: yoghurt, ginger and garlic; tomato puree, chilli powder, turmeric, cumin and coriander powder; garam masala, fresh coriander – finely chopped – two serving spoons of oil. |
| We didn’t have any tomato puree. Only four cherry tomatoes. My wife suggested we chop them up finely and add them in with sugar. I said no. We had to do this properly. After 15 minutes of argument, my sister called a truce by placing Mum’s metal marinating bowl in front of us. “Now what?” she asked. “There’s no measurements to go on.” | We didn’t have any tomato puree. Only four cherry tomatoes. My wife suggested we chop them up finely and add them in with sugar. I said no. We had to do this properly. After 15 minutes of argument, my sister called a truce by placing Mum’s metal marinating bowl in front of us. “Now what?” she asked. “There’s no measurements to go on.” |
| I said: “We start with two serving spoons of oil.” | I said: “We start with two serving spoons of oil.” |
| “That’s too much,” said my wife. | “That’s too much,” said my wife. |
| “We stick to the recipe,” I said firmly, pouring the oil over the chicken. My sister looked at the tray and poured in more oil. I glared at her. “It wasn’t enough,” she said. I added a pinch of all the spices and stirred. | “We stick to the recipe,” I said firmly, pouring the oil over the chicken. My sister looked at the tray and poured in more oil. I glared at her. “It wasn’t enough,” she said. I added a pinch of all the spices and stirred. |
| “More salt,” I said. | “More salt,” I said. |
| “There’s no salt in the recipe.” | “There’s no salt in the recipe.” |
| “Mum put salt in everything,” I told my wife. “We should put salt in.” | “Mum put salt in everything,” I told my wife. “We should put salt in.” |
| “I thought you wanted to follow the recipe exactly,” my wife said, flashing me a sarcastic smile. “We shouldn’t put salt in if it doesn’t say salt,” my sister agreed. | “I thought you wanted to follow the recipe exactly,” my wife said, flashing me a sarcastic smile. “We shouldn’t put salt in if it doesn’t say salt,” my sister agreed. |
| We cut the chicken into pieces and rubbed the marinade over them, placing the trays in the fridge. It didn’t feel right, I thought. There was too much oil. It was going to ruin the whole thing. That night I couldn’t sleep, haunted by the excess of sunflower oil. I crept downstairs and as quietly as I could, pulled the trays of marinated chicken out of the fridge. The yoghurty marinade had separated from the extra unwarranted dollop of sunflower oil and there was a thick, greasy film swimming around the chicken. I poured the excess oil out, trying to stop the marinade disappearing with it. | We cut the chicken into pieces and rubbed the marinade over them, placing the trays in the fridge. It didn’t feel right, I thought. There was too much oil. It was going to ruin the whole thing. That night I couldn’t sleep, haunted by the excess of sunflower oil. I crept downstairs and as quietly as I could, pulled the trays of marinated chicken out of the fridge. The yoghurty marinade had separated from the extra unwarranted dollop of sunflower oil and there was a thick, greasy film swimming around the chicken. I poured the excess oil out, trying to stop the marinade disappearing with it. |
| Hours later, my sister and I sampled a piece before it was served. “Smells about right,” I said. She nodded. “Every year Mum asked me if I wanted to learn how to make this,” she said. “I don’t know why I always said no.” | Hours later, my sister and I sampled a piece before it was served. “Smells about right,” I said. She nodded. “Every year Mum asked me if I wanted to learn how to make this,” she said. “I don’t know why I always said no.” |
| “Mum’s chicken smelled stronger than this, more chickeny.” | “Mum’s chicken smelled stronger than this, more chickeny.” |
| I lifted the chicken to my mouth and put it in. There was a cacophony of tastes, the lilt of the lemon, ginger and garlic working like a tightly knit kabaddi team, the piquant persistence of the chilli powder, the warm gloop of yoghurt and the singe of cumin all dancing in my mouth – like a parade of elephants surrounded by bhangra dancers hoisting their arms in the air, with trumpets blaring and dhols banging. I rolled my head back in hypnotised, dizzying jubilation and … it didn’t taste anything like my mum’s Christmas roast tandoori chicken. It tasted like an imitation. | I lifted the chicken to my mouth and put it in. There was a cacophony of tastes, the lilt of the lemon, ginger and garlic working like a tightly knit kabaddi team, the piquant persistence of the chilli powder, the warm gloop of yoghurt and the singe of cumin all dancing in my mouth – like a parade of elephants surrounded by bhangra dancers hoisting their arms in the air, with trumpets blaring and dhols banging. I rolled my head back in hypnotised, dizzying jubilation and … it didn’t taste anything like my mum’s Christmas roast tandoori chicken. It tasted like an imitation. |
| I swallowed the chicken and looked at my sister. | I swallowed the chicken and looked at my sister. |
| “It needs more salt,” she said. And I agreed. | “It needs more salt,” she said. And I agreed. |