Apron Strings

Shayma Saadat, a Pakistani-Afghan with Persian ances­try, is the author of the food-memoir style blog, The Spice Spoon: Cooking Without Borders. She is a Senior Policy Advisor for the Minister of Energy and Infrastructure. Shayma lives in Toronto with her husband.

I watched Ami, my mother, as she stirred the pot in a cir­cu­lar motion. Round and round her arm cir­cled, the gold ban­gles glis­ten­ing on her wrist. Clink, clink, they went as she stirred and stirred. The same gold ban­gles given to her by her Ami, when she mar­ried my father in her China-red and gold bro­cade gharara.

All twelve of them, 22kt gold, passed on to me as part of my trousseau. I don’t wear mine when I cook. They lay wrapped in muslin and vel­vet, in a safety deposit box.

I stand in my kitchen alone, mak­ing Ami’s Pakistani Ginger Chicken, and I think of her milky arms and hands, as I stir the pot.

And I hear her.

“A small pour of oil, just enough to make the bot­tom of the pot glossy,” she says as she tilts the bot­tle into the pot.

She chops an onion through its crisp lay­ers. Not like a chef, but like a mother.

Meticulously, slowly.

As my eyes start to water, she says, “Sauté them till reddish-brown. Then add some gin­ger for khush­boo (fragrance).”

“But for how long, Ami?” I ask her.

She does not know.

“Just keep watch­ing as the colour changes,” she casu­ally says.

She’s chopped some blanched toma­toes. In they go.

“But how many?” I ask her again.

She still does not know.

“Enough for more peo­ple than we’ve invited,” she laughs, and adds the mound of chopped toma­toes into the pot, the fresh red juice drip­ping down the sides of her hands.

I tilt my head and try to imag­ine the num­ber of toma­toes she’s used.

Ami stirs the pot till the toma­toes become jammy and candy-like. She adds some salt, and a heaped spoon of brick-red chilli pep­per. Then a smidgeon of turmeric, stain­ing her fin­ger­tips yel­low; the colour of the robes of Buddhist monks. Without ever tast­ing the con­tents of the dish, she con­tin­ues to stir with brisk movements.

Clink, clink.

The steam from the pan turns the win­dow above her stove opaque. The win­dow which looks out into the lawn with the trees, the same kind of trees whose leaves used to turn a garnet-red by the time it was my birth­day every Fall.

Now the chicken goes in. She slathers it with the tomato sauce reduc­tion, and con­tin­ues to stir. “You’ll see. The oil will start to sep­a­rate from the sauce. It means it’s almost done,” she tells me.  “Maybe a lit­tle bit more chilli pow­der,” as she reaches for the jar. She adds a pinch of red dust. She then turns to the sink, cups water in her hands and lets it seep onto the chicken.

“It’s almost done,” she says, decidedly.

“But how long has it been, Ami? How will I know?”

“You’ll just know, the way I know, the way my Ami knew. By andaaza, it’s all estimation.”

She cov­ers the pan, places the wooden spat­ula in the sink and asks, “Tea with milk and cardamom?”

I nod and reach for the cumin-spiced wafers to go with the tea.

When I am in my kitchen with my hus­band, chop­ping fresh corian­der for gin­ger chicken, I remem­ber the clink­ing of Ami’s ban­gles, and her arms as she stirs and stirs.

Clink, clink.

Ami’s Pakistani Ginger Chicken Recipe:

Since many friends have asked me how to make Ami’s gin­ger chicken, I have put pen­cil to paper and noted down the mea­sure­ments while watch­ing her pre­pare this dish. Happy Mother’s Day to all the won­der­ful mum­mies around the world. I can­not be with my Ami this year on this occa­sion, but she will be cel­e­brat­ing with my youngest sis­ter and I know they will be think­ing of me the same way I am think­ing of them while they have their blue­berry pan­cakes on the riverfront.

Serves 4 with a side of cha­p­ati (a flat whole­wheat Pakistani bread) or naan.

Ingredients:

• 3 tbsp corn oil (or any other neu­tral oil)
• 1 very small onion, chopped fine
• 2+2 inch knob of gin­ger; 2 inches cut into small cubes + 2 inches julienned
• 4 vine-ripened toma­toes, blanched, skins removed and finely chopped
• pinch turmeric (haldi)
• 1 tsp salt
• ½ tsp red chilli pepper
• 2lb bone­less chicken, cut into 2 inch long strips, (or you may cube them if you so like). I use chicken breast, but you can use thigh meat, too.
• hand­ful fresh corian­der / cilantro leaves and stalks, chopped like con­fetti. The stalks of corian­der are as fra­grant and sweet as the leaves; use both.

Preparation:

• Place large pan on stove on medium-high heat. Add oil.
• Add onions and sauté till a golden-nutty brown, this will take 5–7 min­utes. Don’t worry if the onions become a golden-dark brown, this will only add to the flavour of the sauce.
• Add the cubed gin­ger and con­tinue to sauté for 1 minute till fra­grant, (the gin­ger should not caramelise).
• Add chopped toma­toes and keep stir­ring till the tomato sauce reduces and becomes thick. This will take approx­i­mately 10 minutes.
• Add the chicken and stir-fry for 10–15 min­utes with a hand­ful of water– (approx­i­mately ¼ cup). You should begin to see some of the oil leak onto the sur­face of the tomato sauce.
• Add the rest of the juli­enned gin­ger and remove from heat imme­di­ately. (Keep some of the gin­ger for garnishing.)
• Garnish with lots of fra­grant, fresh coriander/cilantro sprin­kled on top like con­fetti and some fresh juli­enned ginger.
• Serve along­side cha­p­ati or naan. You could also have this with Pakistani Basmati rice, though we tend to have rice with sauce-based dishes like lentils or cur­ries. Chapati and naan is for the more ‘drier’ dishes such as this one.