The other day, Kishmish came whining into the kitchen as I was making dinner, and her chief complaint started with, “Mommmmmyyyyy, how come you never. . . .”   Are there actually any good endings to that sentence?  “Mommy, how come you never let us play video games?” “Mommy, how come you never let us have anyone over to play after dinner?” Or, the version that often comes from tired little ones around here: “Mommy, how come you never let us do anything we want to?!”  Oh, Lord.

Can you imagine, then, how happy I was to hear this?  “Mommy, how come you never make those yummy things with dal on the inside? You know those triangles, and we dip them in ketchup?”  Hooray! My work here, as they say, is done!  It’s fair to say that, right, when your kids start asking for real food? (Except for the ketchup part. . . . ) Read More


Look at these cute little teeny tiny potatoes!  I didn’t mean to end up at Trader Joe’s last Monday, but I forgot about the TJ’s in Chelsea and happened upon it during a non-food-related errand.

In the evening, I washed and roasted these teeny-tinies with some garlic, olive oil, and salt until they were crispy and soft.  We had some good sourdough bread, and I guess I was planning to round out the meal with some cooked vegetables, but everyone was hungry. So instead we sat down to eat these potatoes (with ketchup for the kids, and mango pickle for the adults), bread to dip in the garlicy olive oil, and some avocado I scrounged up and sliced. Read More

When I got married, a group of my friends gave me a collection of handwritten recipes, pasted into a little black book with photographs and stories. I had been living for the past several years in a cooperative house with a bunch of people, and the center of our lives in that house was the decrepit, poorly painted (my fault) kitchen we shared and cooked in together.  The sweet little recipes-and-pictures book went with me when I moved to India with Ankur, and I cooked the nutty noodles and baked tofu and tahari and garlic green beans enough times that I don’t need the written recipes anymore.

(Which is good, because sadly — due to a turn of events too complicated to go into during today’s post — that recipe book was lost a few years later. I’m a little angry/choked/remorseful just thinking about it. . . . but that story will have to wait for another day.)

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