POV : Your fridge is full of groceries, you just left a date without eating because the boy started ranting about his favourite Batman film. Tomorrow is a Sunday, the film you wanted to watch is finally on Netflix and you hate to inconvenience an underpaid rider to get you snacks and dinner, what do you do?
To start, you subscribe to this magazine. We are all tired, independent, woke, a little broke—and did I mention tired women who have collectively decided to raid our mothers' recipe books to find simple recipes for you? We are what we eat, and I don't know about your childhood kitchen, but the food in my kitchen!
On a more sentimental note, I will also try to tell you a story behind these recipes and how living away from home for the last 10 years and keeping the flavour of my mother's recipe alive in a city that is 1000s of miles away from her is a privilege.
Food, especially comfort food, has its language; it's only spoken to say to the receiver: I see you, you will be fine, everything will be okay, and *why is the living room lights on if you are curled up in your room? (interchangeable with whatever jab your kind mother made after or before comforting you)
Just like a mother's love. Comfort food language is universally understood and cherished no matter where you come from, what you've done, and what hopeless battle you are fighting. Comfort food treats your pain without any judgment, and in soothing you, it soothes something deeper; it makes the world a less lonely place.
We are starting with a classic Nisha recipe that has a reputation for always slapping.
It is Pulao, Tahiri, or that tender rice dish that hits just right after work, like sinking into your favorite chair.
Recipe:
Ingredients:
- Mixed vegetables (whatever you have on hand—carrots, beans, peas, potatoes, etc.)
- 1 cup rice
- 1–2 tbsp oil
- Salt and spices to taste (optional: cumin, bay leaf, garam masala)
Instructions:
- Soak the rice for about 15 minutes and drain.
- Chop all the vegetables you have available.
- Heat oil in a pressure cooker.
- Sauté the vegetables for 4–5 minutes.
- Add the soaked rice and stir gently to mix.
- Add water (usually double the amount of rice), salt, and spices of your choice
- Close the pressure cooker lid and cook for 2 whistles.
- Let the pressure release naturally. Open and fluff the pulao with a fork.
- Want to make it healthier?
Just add some soya chunks or paneer for a boost of protein!
This was one of the most underappreciated dinners in my house. I’ve had it during what seemed like mundane milestones, like when my 8th-grade crush finally texted back. I was mid-sauce drizzle (don’t judge) when I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten my math homework.
I’ve eaten it while watching a Priyadarshan film with my parents for the 80th time, and somehow it still made us laugh.
It was also one of the last meals I had before leaving for college at 18. Looking back, I wish I had appreciated it more—both the dish and the people I shared it with.
You wouldn’t believe it, but I remember every kitchen my mother ever set up—and there were many. I remember the colors on the walls, the texture of the floors, the light that spilled across the counters. But the one thing that never changed was the smell of mother, almost guarding that one room and anchoring all the love of our home in that one room.
The second thing that never changed was the place where she hid the snacks. I always believed she chose hiding spots she knew I’d find. Speaking of snacks, this is a fairly new recipe for my mother, I don't have as many memories with it because it is a perfect snack I love to enjoy with my father when we are drinking right before a massive fight.
Recipe:
Note: If you're vegetarian—like my mother—you can make a delicious version using rajma (kidney beans) instead of chicken. Just swap the chicken with boiled rajma and follow the same method.
Ingredients:
- 1 kg boneless chicken/
- ½ kg chana dal (split Bengal gram)
- 250 g ginger and garlic (roughly chopped)
- 1 cup water
- Green chilies and black pepper (to taste)
- ½ cup olive oil
Step 1: Prepare the Base Mixture
- In a pressure cooker, combine chicken, chana dal, ginger, garlic, green chilies, black pepper, water, and olive oil.
- Pressure cook for 5–6 whistles, or until everything is tender and fully cooked.
- Let it cool, then grind the mixture into a thick, smooth paste.
- Store this paste in the freezer for whenever you're ready to make kababs.
Step 2: Make the Kababs (When you're ready to cook)
- Take out the Shami mixture and let it thaw.
- Mix in finely chopped onions, bread crumbs, and fresh coriander leaves.
- Shape into small patties.
- Shallow-fry in a pan with a little oil until golden brown on both sides.
Serve hot with mint chutney, lemon wedges, or plain old ketchup—whatever reminds you of home.
My father has fought—and lost—for the last piece more times than I can count. This dish reminds me of him.
So instead of sharing another childhood memory, I’ll leave you with a small poem to close this chapter of Girl Dinner.
To conclude, I hope that in making these recipes, you're reminded of my mother, a woman who believed that the language of kindness and community begins in the kitchen. Who was never happier than when she was feeding people—and feeding them well.
By cooking these dishes, you're stepping into her prayers, into her heart, and her kitchen. For that, I’m eternally grateful.
Happy dining.
About the Author: Smriti Bhoker is an Urdu poet, lyricist, screenwriter, and culture essayist based in Mumbai, India, where she heads a techno record label. With a master's degree in sociology, she brings a deep understanding of culture and society into her creative work. Smriti has published two Urdu books that fall under the genre of political poetry. Smriti’s work often explores themes of identity, language, and social narratives.
Support the author :
We're an independent magazine that is finding its footing, and here's how you can help: Shatter the illusion of capitalism with one contribution at a time and consider supporting this writer who made you laugh/cry directly: smriti.bhoker@okaxis