I’ve been away for a while. The first part of my absence was fun – I went home, caught up with the family, and had almost zero time (or internet access) to get any work done. But the second, enforced part of my time away from work and The NRI was because my kidlet, Mir, was sick, with high fevers and a sore throat that eventually landed him in hospital for dehydration. While sitting in a dark hospital room, rocking Mir to sleep and waiting on the crack IV team, my dear friends, mummy guilt and parental anxiety, came a-knocking, assuring me that I hadn’t exhausted every avenue, that there must have been something else I could have tried, some way to spare the kidlet the trauma of a third IV attempt.

In the light of day, I know kids get sick, fevers happen, and sometimes, you just have to go to the hospital. But I’m determined to be as prepared as possible for the next time Mir is sick, so I’ve been collecting Indian home remedies. Of course, I don’t know if any of them work, I’m clueless about Ayurveda, and I fully intend to take the kidlet to the doctor’s the moment he comes within fever pitch, but here are a few from my list so far.

For Fever:

• mix half a glass of grapefruit juice with half a glass of water to help take away the burning sensation of fever
• eat or suck on oranges, or drink orange juice
• make basil tea by boiling 12 grams of basil leaves in half a litre of water and drink once daily.
• make saffron tea with 30ml boiling water and half a teaspoon of saffron. Drink just a teaspoon every half hour.
• soak raisins in half a cup of water, then grind up and strain. Add half a teaspoon of lime juice, then take twice a day. Add ginger for an extra kick.
• drink a glass of fresh-squeezed apricot juice with a teaspoon of honey.
• make a tea out of a teaspoon of turmeric and black pepper, ginger, diced onion, lemongrass, and a few basil leaves and drink three times a day.
• mix the juice from tamarind leaves with a pinch of turmeric and cold water to taste.

For a Sore Throat & Tonsillitis:

• make a paste 2-3 cloves of garlic, then mix with one cup of honey. Take one teaspoon three times per day.
• warm a cup of milk, then add a pinch of turmeric, and take before bed each night.
• boil water, then add a teaspoon of honey, a squeeze of lemon, and a teaspoon of black pepper to soothe a sore throat or cough (this is my dad’s remedy).
• make a cup of milky chai, with ginger, black pepper, cloves, and honey.
• gargle with salt and warm water twice a day (another family favorite).

Mir has also lost some weight, and is refusing to eat almost anything except dal, blueberries, and goldfish crackers–and even those in small amounts. What foods do you use when trying to bribe your kids to eat? And what are your favorite home remedies?

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I am a tea fiend. My kitchen is full of tea-making paraphernalia: a stove-top kettle, reusable muslin teabags, dozens of tea spoons, cups, saucers, and mugs, Twinings bags, tins of looseleaf (two black, two green, peppermint, fennel & liquorice) and blooming tea, small pieces of chocolate and tea biscuits…well, you get the idea. But there are two things missing from my tea cabinet: sugar, and chai.

Although I’m not much into dieting, I don’t like sugar. I prefer salt on my oatmeal (it’s a Scottish thing), and eat mostly dark chocolate, the kind that’s just bitter enough to leave my lips with the teensiest lemon-pucker. To me, sugar is the great pretender, sliding into a cup of the good stuff and acting as if it intensifies the taste when it actually smothers the flavor, leaving only a sick, cloying feeling on the tongue. Chai, with its inherent spice and warmth, doesn’t need sugar or milk, and yet I can’t drink it without either, suckered into adding them because that’s how I drank chai growing up. In our house, chai inevitably evolves (devolves?) into a chai latte, made in a saucepan, or with a mix, and it almost always makes me ill. Joe, of course, loves them.

Sugar-smothered lack of spice aside, I’m not entirely sure what it is about chai lattes that irritates me. Is it that I’ve never seen an Indian drinking one? The closest my family comes (unless one of us is sick), is regular tea with cardamom-sweetened condensed milk (which I also despise; not a big fan of seviyan, either). Perhaps it’s that most people I see drinking chai lattes don’t actually like tea, or because I’ve heard them cried up as a health drink. And then there’s the lack of authenticity, insofar as anything marketed as Indian–ready made masala from the supermarket, bhuja in shiny, potato crisp packets spiced with pepper and not much else, make your own dal soup mixes–is authentic. In some ways, I love the availability of Indian everything (frozen samosas, anyone?). Yet behind the ease of ducking down to the Whole Foods near my house, or watching Joe buy a heavy, sugary, fake spiced drink at the Starbucks, lurks ordinariness.

Ordinary isn’t a bad thing; exotic isn’t a good thing. As a child, non-Indians would tell me I have exotic eyes, and I hated it because it left me feeling like a sideshow exhibit. Yet perhaps the ready-made-get-your-Bollywood-on products everywhere (chai lattes included) make me yearn for that moment of “oh my, your eyes are so exotic” because underneath my knee-jerk irritation, there lay satisfaction: satisfaction that I was not, am not, ordinary. Each comment was reassurance that I was special, a member of the Indian club, a super secret society wherein members are known only to one another by our love of heavy, ornamental clothing, bright gold jewelry, and tolerance for intensely spicy food. As an adult, particularly one already on the outs with my Indianness, I think I crave that reassurance even more.

Chai lattes will probably never be “my drink”, though I do have fond memories of my aunts making them (and forcing them on me) when I’ve been ill. And I’m unlikely to buy a ready-made dal mix any time soon, especially as I’m not sure my Indian-ego can handle it. But I’d like to think my attitude toward chai lattes is changing, that I detest them because of their too-sweet taste rather than my gut Alice in Wonderland-drink-up-brown-up reaction to them. And much as I’d like to go on a chai-destroying crusade through my neighborhood, I don’t need to, because I already know I’m special–because my kidlet and husband remind me everyday.

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“I am bringing 50 theplas and a jar of pickle” declared my mum as I spoke to her this morning on the phone. My parents are flying into Munich tomorrow evening and I join them in a few days for a European holiday that will last almost 3 weeks. Now for any Indian family (and vegetarian at that), going without desi food for that long would seem like a punishment they couldn’t endure and so my mum is coming well equipped, ready to confront the bland tastelessness of European cuisine. The Italians might be master chefs tossing up perfect pastas and the French might pride themselves for their delicate blend of flavours, but no Indian worth their salt (and spice!) would be able to pretend for too long in admiring the subtle nuances of European cuisine.

Which brings me to the contentious argument I am about to make – Is Indian food superior to cuisines from the Western parts of the world? Are we more evolved in what we eat and how we cook as compared to our counterparts in Europe or America? Despite being vegetarian, I am extremely fond of European cuisine – I like the freshness of the ingredients, I like the fact that individual flavours are retained instead of being killed by an overindulgence of spice and the presentation is superb. I also admire this whole gourmet culture in the west, the fact that so many different techniques are used in cooking and that there are so many food connoisseurs passionate about what they eat in an age where takeaways and frozen meals are becoming the norm. Yet, I like it only for a while – about a week at a stretch, no more!

You might argue that this is because I am used to eating Indian food, that Europeans too would say the same thing about our cuisine. True, food is after all a very subjective matter, but holistically speaking, I still believe Indian cuisine is in many ways superior to European cuisine and for the following 3 reasons.

Variety – From meat and fish to about a hundred different kinds of vegetables, wheat, pulses, rice and abundant spices – we probably use the most number of ingredients in our food and that too in a variety of different ways depending on which region of India you are from. The predominant ingredients in European cuisine are meat, pastry, pasta and potatoes and you could literally count on your fingertips the staple dishes eaten in any European country.

Health – Any health expert will tell you that the nutritional value of a wholesome Indian meal (daal, rice, vegetables, yoghurt and chapattis) will far exceed that of a British or Italian one. Also India is probably the only country in the world where the choice of vegetarian options exceeds that of non-vegetarian ones. So even as vegetarianism is just about becoming fashionable elsewhere in the world, we’ve adopted it for centuries.

Flavour – Agreed, we sometimes overkill the individual flavour an ingredient with spices, but come to any Indian home and every dish has a distinct taste. Our curries aren’t that obnoxious red colour, nor are they as greasy or overpowering in their spice levels as they are in Indian restaurants here. Flavours vary hugely from region to region and are distinct and varied as you make your way across the subcontinent.

No wonder, then, that Indian food hasn’t been as easily influenced by foreign cultures as food elsewhere is. In Britain for instance, curry, Chinese and sushi have now become as much a part of daily life as mash and sausages. This is testimony to the lack of variety offered by local British cuisine. In mainland Europe, too, Indian and Chinese food is hugely popular because of the richness of its flavour. Of course we Indians too enjoy the occasional pasta dinner or Chinese takeaway (hugely modified to suit our taste), but I really can’t imagine a day will come when our local food will lose its appeal and make way for other cuisines to be equals at our dinner table.

I used to eat at Indian restaurants–a lot. Not the posh, pearl-inlaid, teeny-weeny dishes kind, but the little hole in the wall spots, the kind with ever-changing menus and cheap plastic cutlery. Samosas were better eaten hot off a napkin, tandoori tastier when I could actually see the tandoor. But the posh places still beckoned, their fancy water goblets gleaming in the sun when I passed by, their leather-backed booths piled with silken cushions, exuding luxury and comfort, the perfect spot to linger after a rich and satisfying meal.

One Saturday, during a long, hunger-inducing walk, Joe and I landed in front of one of the posh places. “I’m starving,” I said. “Want to try here?”

He shrugged. “Passes the test, I guess.” Joe’s measure of a restaurant is simple–if Indians are eating there, it must be good. Like everyone else, we ordered the buffet; the waiter brought us a basket of bread and pappadums. The cushions were soft against my back as we ate, the low murmur of chatter familiar, warm, sort of like an impromptu family reunion. Breaking off a piece a paratha, I swept dal into rice, my finger deft with practice. But as I lifted the paratha to my lips, my skin pricked–the woman at the next table, dark-skinned, dressed like a the heroine’s mother in a Bollywood movie, stared first at my hand, then at my fork. I popped the paratha into my mouth. After a moment, the woman looked away.

At first, I chalked Bollywood Mum’s stare up to absent-mindedness–I’ve inadvertently stared at people in restaurants and coffee shops, on the train, in the rain, while out buying mops (Baby likes reading Dr. Seuss – a lot). But as I continued to eat my paratha, people continued to look, turning their heads and taking short, covert glances as if watching an exotic bird. Was it Joe? In a room full of Indians, my pale, freckled husband stands out. But no–the glances skipped over his head, settling on my hand. A quick check of the room confirmed it: table after table used knives and forks, even with naan, paratha, and roti. I was the only person using my fingers. The only person breaking my bread. Setting the paratha aside, I picked up my fork.

Until that moment, I’d assumed all Indians ate with their hands. The folk at my hole in the wall restaurants used naan to sccop up their lunch. My family scoops rice and gravy bare-fingered or with bread. Even Joe uses his fingers when eating Indian (though only with bread), as Baby probably will. Eating Indian food with fingers felt like a natural consequence of growing up Indian, much like eating Chinese food with chopsticks is a natural consequence of growing up Chinese. Was eating with fingers and bread now uncouth?

Three years later, I can’t quite get my head around that day. An Indian friend says she’s refuses to use her fingers unless there’s bread, saying it’s unpractical and too messy, especially if you’re having a conversation with friends. One of my aunts suggested that the restaurant-goers were all Western-born and educated, and ate with knives and forks to fit in. Joe pointed out that they could all be higher caste Hindus, with rules my Muslim family is unaware of. Whatever the cause, I felt, for the first time, more Indian than Indians, yet somehow more lost than ever before, as if there were a secret Indian newsletter and I’d been left off the mailing list.

Today, I rarely eat out. Since Mir arrived in July last year, I’ve been on the go, grabbing snacks (protein bars, cheerios, anything than can be eaten one-handed) eating whatever Joe can whip up while I nurse Mir to sleep. And those times when I crave a good Indian meal? I order in, get out the paper towels, and scoop to my heart’s content.

Chillies. Masala. Chutneys. Naan. To the outside world, these are the foods Indians eat at home. At dinner parties we’re expected to serve rogan josh with homemade sambal, still-steaming naan, and afters plates piled high with halwa and jalebi. Indians are not alone in this–Scandinavians are thought to eat herring with every meal, Americans only burgers and fries, Japanese sushi, teriyaki, and tempura.  Culture, it seems, dictates everything from the clothing we wear (saris, duh) to the foods we eat (dal and rice, anyone?).

Mixed families have it even harder. Growing up, I was “the Indian one”. I scarfed bowls of dal and rice the way other kids scarf roast beef sandwiches. My mother hated it, always worrying I’d damage my digestion, always putting sour cream and yoghurt on the side. I never ate them.

But while I piled on the hot lime pickle, my brother picked over white rice, or asked for a bowl of tomato soup. He knew all about digestion damage–as a gastronomically adventurous 3 year old, he’d eaten through my Dad’s homemade mango pickle jar. The ER doctors thought he’d been poisoned.

Given his misfortunes, it’s no surprise my brother gave up on spicy food, though he certainly suffered for it. My father nicknamed him “sadhu”, after Hindu ascestics, some of whom eschew spicy food. My mother, Scottish to the core, was rarely subjected to criticism for her inability to eat chilli (she actually has a mild allergy). Her genetic predisposition was beyond reproach.

Aside from the doctor recommended restrictions – no soft cheese, no undercooked meats or eggs – my nursing diet is much the same as it has ever been. I eat tabasco or sriricha with almost every meal. I load my plate with strong tastes like garlic, ginger, fenugreek, and coriander. Baby doesn’t seem to mind; his digestion remains unaffected. Yet, as we start solid foods, I find myself wondering about what to make. Should I stick with plain rice cereal and sweet potato? Should I add a little ground mustard seed, a little ginger? And what about when he’s older, when he sees me adding chutneys and hot sauces to my plate?  Will I let him add hot sauce to his meals or offer homemade mango pickle?

My husband eats the heat despite his European background–and takes great pride in it. (In the early period of our courtship, Joe set out to impress me with his love for vindaloo.) My father keeps birdseye chillies in vinegar handy at all times; my mother travels with a tub of sour cream in her purse. These days, my brother will brave a little spice on his rice, but it’s rarely his first choice. My sister-in-law skips anything flecked with tell-tale red. There’s little teasing, though there is a certain expectation–already my father and I joke about Baby’s tastes.

My brother and I were born to two worlds – I wear saris to weddings but eat my porridge with salt. Ben speaks little Hindi but rocks a Nehru collar as much as, well, Nehru. My white Australian husband eats gulab jamun with gusto and takes Hindi lessons once a week. And Baby?

Whatever we choose, wherever he chooses, at least I know he’ll fit in somewhere.

It’s 4pm, I’m 11-years-old and I walk through the front door, straight into the kitchen for my post-school bowl of cereal. As I slurp my hot mush, I ask my mum’s what’s for dinner. It was amazing how the words which followed had the power to dictate my mood for the whole night…

If she said biryani (rice), chana bhatura (chick peas and puffed bread) or, glory be the day, vegetable pie with garlic bread, my eyes would light up, my shoulders would relax and I’d grin insanely. But if she said ‘rotli ne shak’ (chapatis and curry), my face would fall. I knew that could mean only one thing. That I’d have to help.

Which would be fine as I usually helped with dinner.  But me, rolling pins, chapati dough and pastry boards just didn’t get on. We never have done. We just don’t understand each other. I mess up, try to sort things out, my mum tries to patch things up, but the end result is always an India-shaped piece of lumpy, not-quite-flattened dough that won’t fit into the flat griddle chapati pan.

Going out for ‘an Indian’ was always a treat though. My dad and I would share chicken tikka kebabs and I’d steal all my mum’s paneer. But as a lifelong enemy of ghee, margarine and all things buttery, my restaurant etiquette was slightly untoward as I’d always sniff the food before tucking in. Now, I realise butter-free naans are always available on request, and sunflower oil, who I have an excellent relationship with, is the norm. Sadly, so is departing with stained yellow fingers but I can’t bring myself to eat Indian food with a fork and knife, even if my fingers do suggest I have a 40-a-day cigarette habit.

With such a talented chef for a mother, you’d think my own repertoire might stretch to more than jeera chicken, chilli paneer and kichi. But having lived away from home since I was 18 and much time spent in the Mediterranean, my specialities do veer towards poncy gastro-pub-esque dishes like linguine with homemade pesto or organic chicken, leek and mushroom pie.

My family joke that all I must eat is pasta, but they couldn’t be further from the truth. Nothing beats the sound of cumin seeds popping in hot oil, the aroma of ginger, garlic and chillies frying or the sound of the pressure cooker telling you the kidney beans are dying to get out. If I could only eat one cuisine for the rest of my life, there’d be no contest. But please, let me have a chapati maker.

When you don’t cook regularly, going into the kitchen to make something is often an exciting and exhilarating experience. Yes, it has been argued that men usually make more of a monumental fuss about what they’re going to make, but why not. As I ventured into the kitchen the other day, I couldn’t help but realise how much of the food I’d had growing up was actually very unique. Every kitchen will turn out its special blend of flavours, depending of-course on the matron in charge. However, it is perhaps inevitable that with such a range of ingredients on offer, a lot of the food we’re eating is a conglomerate of eastern and western themes. A bit like a cash and carry inspired ready-steady-cook.

Growing up, I’ve had spiced up omelettes, sandwiches deep fried in batter and pizzas with every single conceivable topping. Simplicity is often overruled, and mixing European recipes with Indian flavours becomes a regular experimental occurrence – but how much garlic, ginger and onion should really go into a Sunday roast? Often, you happen to stumble upon some beautiful accidents, on other occasions things can go terribly wrong. At this point, I wonder whether it is worth imposing some universal Dos and Don’ts in an Anglo/Indian kitchen.

I for one delight in the invention of chutney and its simplicity. Greek yoghurt and mint sauce is one step in which to create the easiest of condiments. Why then, when it so easy to create or buy these dips, do we rely on our friend tomato ketchup to go with almost every single savoury Indian snack? Perhaps this is one of the first rules to impose. I find it an insult on the Samosa, Pakora or Bhaji when Mr Heinz comes out. Strangely though, this rule can be turned on its head when we think of puddings. You may have often had Gajrela with Ice-cream, which is of course heavenly. I don’t suppose that they originally served this with Kulfi though? So some wise person somewhere must have thought of the idea, and it’s been a legendry party favourite since.

Perhaps then, we need to consider flavour more seriously. I think the best way around this exercise is to document the most interesting food marriages imaginable. Once I have a catalogue of delights or monstrosities, I’ll be better equipped to formulate a definitive culinary constitution.