Food, for me, has always been a language of its own, a silent dialect of love and memory. And in the lexicon of my childhood, no phrase was more eloquent than my fatherâs Sunday curry. In our native Malayalam, we called it Varatharacha Koottaan, a name as humble and direct as the man who cooked it. It simply means âfried and ground curry,â a description that, while accurate, does little justice to the magic he would conjure in our small kitchen. Iâve come to think of it as âThe Slow-Simmered Story,â because every Sunday, that is what he would serve.
Our home was a tiny apartment in the bustling, Bengali-dominated town of Howrah. Life was often tough and money was scarce, but our small world was rich with the scent of stories and spices. My father, a strict disciplinarian and a man of few words, often seemed a distant figure to me, a man I respected but kept at a careful distance. But on Sundays, a weekly ritual would unfold that would melt away that distance, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
The process was a form of therapy in itself. I would watch, mesmerized, as he meticulously chopped the vegetablesâsometimes lady’s finger, other times cauliflowerâor carefully cleaned the mutton for the non-vegetarian version. Sitting on the floor, he would hold the knife upside down between his toes and begin to work on the butcher-cut meat pieces, one little piece after another, carefully removing the layers of fat, washing them all in water multiple times, and leaving them in a sieved dish for the water to run off. It was a treat to watch.
As the smells filled my being, the walls of our tiny apartment seemed to expand, and the high-handed figure of my father would transform into a nurturing creator. In those moments, he wasnât just cooking; he was communicating. Every stir of the ladle, every carefully added spice, felt like a word in a conversation I desperately wanted to have. And when we finally sat down to savour the fruits of his labour, the curry was more than just deliciousâit was a resolution. The rich, deep flavours of the freshly ground masala, coating the tender meat or vegetables, were an unspoken expression of love.
Today, my father is ninety years old, and his hands, though still full of warmth, are no longer able to whip up this dish. I no longer live in that small town where my youth, my friendships, and my heartbreaks are so deeply rooted. Yet, the memory of that Sunday curry remains vivid. When I see my father now, the aroma of fried spices seems to waft in the air between us, a fragrant reminder of our unique bond. It was a dish that defined my growing up days, a weekly fixture that taught me that love can be simmered, respect can be earned, and the deepest connections can be forged in the simple, profound act of sharing a meal.
Recreating My Father’s Curry: The Spirit of the Recipe
My father never cooked from a recipe book. His measurements were in the palm of his hand and in his heart. The following is my best attempt to translate his intuitive process into steps you can follow. I encourage you to treat it as a guide and adjust to your own tasteâthat is what he would have wanted.
The Main Event (Choose one):
- Tender Mutton, cleaned meticulously.
- Or, Potato diced into cubes, paired with one of the following: lady’s finger, pointed gourd, or cauliflower florets.
The Foundation:
- 2 large Onions, peeled and sliced thin.
- 2 red Tomatoes, diced into tiny cubes.
- 5-6 cloves of Garlic & a quarter-inch piece of Ginger, ground into a fine paste on a stone grinder, just as he did.
The Soul of the Curry (The Fried & Ground Masala): A small wok is laced with a tiny amount of coconut oil. Into this, the whole spices are shallow-fried until they heat up and release that nostalgic, unforgettable aroma.
- A handful of Coriander seeds
- 4-5 dried Red Chillies
- 1/4 handful of Fennel seeds
- 1/4 handful of Black Peppercorns
- A 1/2-inch piece of Cinnamon stick
- 2 Bay leaves
- 4-5 Cloves
- 3-4 Green Cardamom pods
- 1 piece of Mace
- 1/4 of a Nutmeg
Once fragrant, these are removed and ground with just enough water to form a thick, dark brown paste.
The Method (As I Remember It):
- Heat oil in a wok. Add the sliced onions and stir-fry until they become translucent and begin to turn slightly brown.
- Add the ginger-garlic paste and continue to stir-fry until its sharp, beautiful smell wafts into the air. Add a touch of turmeric powder and salt to taste.
- Now, add the carefully prepared fried-and-ground spice paste. Keep stirring to ensure the mixture doesnât stick to the bottom. Once the spices release their deep aroma, it’s time for the next step.
- Add the tiny tomato cubes to the mixture. Place the lid on the wok and let it slow-cook, stirring every couple of minutes, until the entire mixture turns into a perfect, paste-like consistency and you can see tiny drops of oil collecting on the sides.
- Introduce your main ingredientâthe mutton or the vegetables. Stir everything together until the pieces are properly coated in the rich paste. Let this simmer with the lid closed for 5 minutes, stirring once or twice.
- Finally, add waterâjust enough to cook the vegetables (approx. 15 minutes) or a little more for the mutton (45-60 minutes, depending on the quality). Cooking should be done on a low flame with the lid on, stirring every few minutes.
- Once cooked, garnish with fresh coriander leaves and, most importantly, let it rest for 30 minutes for the flavours to truly settle. Serve with hot rotis and a simple salad.