One of the greatest lessons of adulthood took place in the quiet confines of my apartment kitchen. It’s on appreciation, namely for the recipes and rituals I took for granted, or rolled my eyes at, growing up. Spices that I once despised purely for being too aromatic (as if that could even be a complaint) or pungent are now always found in abundance inside my pantry shelves. Ingredients that I once felt so much shame around now grace the insides of my refrigerator. And meals that I once complained about eating are now some of my most-eaten, especially on days when I’m craving comfort and nostalgia.
In recent years, I found myself falling in love with khichuri. My earliest memories of the one-pot dish are of rainy days spent either lounging on the couch or under the sheets. I used to hate the rain as a child, simply because I knew, with utmost certainty, that my mother would be making khichuri for dinner. By late afternoon, a pressure cooker filled with moong dal (yellow split lentils), rice, vegetables and spices would be set on the stove. Within a few minutes, we’d hear the soft bubbling of everything cooking together, followed by a shrill whistle, letting us know that it was time to eat. Our plates brimmed with color — yellow, green, red and orange — unlike the gloom outside. There’s something incredibly medicinal about khichuri that younger me couldn’t appreciate at the time. The earthy fragrance of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves and cumin. The porridge-like consistency of the entire dish. The fact that it’s best enjoyed piping hot, with steam rising in thin streams from spoonfuls of rice.
