I love the way some women love – compulsively. I put spice in everything. Cumin seed and chilli on fried eggs. Black cardamom and star anise in . Turmeric, Indian bay leaf and Kashmiri red chilli in Bolognese. in my fish fritters.
“What’s for dinner?” the kids will ask.
“!” I’ll say, but not before stirring my mess of spuds through a slurry of ghee, salt, chilli, turmeric, and cumin 'cause what’s mash without a bit of extra bang?
And yet I’m not intimate with spice in the hunt for flavour. Tastiness is a happy by-product. My engagement is all about connection.
I was 33 when I started wanting to understand why I never felt settled inside. Why I didn’t know peace. I had everything. Two beautiful children. A wonderful marriage. Supportive friends. A gorgeous extended community in an idyllic neighbourhood in the heart of one of Melbourne’s most sought-after bayside suburbs. But I wasn’t content.
Working with spices healed me, because every time I cooked I could taste exactly where I was.
I had become part of the great societal disconnect. And like the many others who experience that same sense of hollowness, I tried all sorts of methods to fill the gap. Yoga. Martinis. Running. Work. New lipsticks. Therapy.
None of these devices proved successful. It took time and many mistrials to understand that effective self-communication was integral to re-establishment of a deeper connection with myself. And that the language I best understood was the chatter and song of spice.
I grew up with spices. Ammi, my Kashmiri grandmother, was the one to teach me turmeric must always be balanced by sugar. As a girl, I watched how Mum (an Australian and Ammi’s most enthusiastic student) made soft magic with and clove and ground ginger. How different her food was to my Kashmiri dad’s, his so strong and front-footed with salt and cassia and ground red chilli.
But I never knew my own taste. Family trauma meant that, by the time I was woman enough to begin sounding out my own spice song, I had chosen to leave all my family’s Kashmiri recipes and their meaning behind.
In that pressure cooker, for the first time in a long time, I got a clear sense of me – frustrated, out-of-sync and angry that life had proved more challenging than I was prepared for it to be.
Personal struggle meant that by age 35, I knew I had no choice but to pick up those family recipes once again.
Working with spices healed me, because every time I cooked I could taste exactly where I was. Not that the initial end results were brilliant; my first was lumpen and fiery. I was too impatient in the soaking of the lentils. Too heavy-handed with the salt and the chilli. And yet in that pressure cooker, for the first time in a long time, I got a clear sense of me – frustrated, out-of-sync and angry that life had proved more challenging than I was prepared for it to be.
That little taste of honesty was my pressure-valve release. For the first time in my hunt for me, I experienced a taste that felt real and palatable in its truthfulness. I’d found a delicious medium that spoke to the core of me, and I was listening.
Spice taught me perspective. I saw that conflict wasn’t bad – for what is turmeric’s bitterness, if not a magnifier of jaggery’s sweetness?
Cooking with spice became an obsession. Everyday. No matter what. . . . Dhal. Always . . Kaddu. Any of Ammi’s recipes that I could test out and extend and play with in order to get one more bite of what it felt like to be me. The spices were almost secondary to the result and, quite frankly, anyone with a mildly developed palate experienced my self-obsession in the food: the balance was mostly either too much or not enough.
Gradually, though, my practice softened. Spice taught me perspective. I saw that conflict wasn’t bad – for what is turmeric’s bitterness, if not a magnifier of ’s sweetness? I could taste how black cardamom’s darker shadow accentuated ginger’s warmth and light, and that the drive of salt needed tempering from that grounding earthiness of cumin seed.
Cooking with spice became an obsession. Source: Samira Damirova
Six years have passed since my mission began. I have balance – sometimes! I also have a relationship with spice that's profound in its intimacy. They tell me all of their secrets. In my upcoming column, The Spice Mistress, I would like to share these secrets with you.
Sarina Kamini is - spices tell her their secrets and she shares theirs with you. Don't miss her column, The Spice Mistress, on SBS Food. Keep in touch with in touch with her on Facebook and Instagram .
