I have the keys to a secret society where only women who know the true value and allure of spices are permitted entry. Okay so maybe I exaggerate just a little. Truth is, a year ago when Mrs. K. gave me my very own masala dabba or Indian spice box, I felt rich, rich, rich. Not in the material sense, dear reader, but in the sense of possessing a rare gift to enhance my culinary know how.

A masala dabba is a staple for anyone who more than dabbles in Indian cooking. It’s a round stainless steal container with little pots inside and an inner lid so the spices keep their freshness. When Mrs. K. gave me the spice box I felt that she finally considered me an Indian cook and knew I took my apprenticeship seriously. She even filled the spice pots with the spices I would need to get started. In addition to the garam masala in the spice pot, she gave me a small tiffin pot with some extra garam masala she made up that week.

“I don’t want you to run out,” she told me.

The way she said it was as if she spoke about air or water. And, in some ways this comparison wasn’t far wrong. After all, garam masala, which means, “hot mixture” is a core ingredient in North Indian cooking. Simply put: Most dishes would die without it.

Most major North American cities have Indian specialty stores, and so chances are you can sniff out an Indian spice box of your very own. If you’re out in ‘the sticks’ as my Grandma Mae used to say—meaning the countryside—you can order your spice box online. Basic spices to add to it include ground spices like red chili powder, turmeric, cumin, coriander, and garam masala, and whole spices, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon sticks and black peppercorns.

Make sure your spice box is within easy reach of your cooking. Mrs. K. keeps hers in a drawer beside her stove so she can open it in a flash and spoon spices onto whatever she’s whipping up. Mine has found a place on my kitchen counter between the bowl of course sea salt and the honey jar.

I’ve always been big on renewal rituals. After becoming a lapsed Catholic, for example, I would lament the fact I’d no longer be anointed with ashes on my forehead at the start of Lent—a symbol for mourning and repentance, and marking the start of Jesus’ 40-day fast in the desert. Not exactly a renewal ritual I know, but it leads up to one. As a child, my favorite holy day was Easter. I recall incessant kneeling and standing followed by gospel-style exuberance. And, of course multicolor baskets of Easter eggs, and chocolate hens and bunnies would be waiting for us when we arrived home from church. The fact that Jesus had died and had risen, that I had survived 40 days of deprivation such as not watching my favorite TV show, eating candy, or not attacking my brother, incited much joy and a feeling of lightness from the burdens of the world.

Holi, the Hindu festival which happens each spring in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Nepal is very different from Easter, the Christian holiday I experienced as a child, yet it contains some of the same elements of exuberance and renewal. People of all cultures, religions and classes throw colored powder at each other, dance and celebrate in the streets. Holi is a collective expression of spring’s arrival while also highlighting events in Hindu mythology. Bonfires are lit in memory of young Prahlad‘s escape when Demoness Holika carried him into the fire. Prahlad was a devotee of Vishnu and came away unharmed, it is said, because of his devotion. Holi happens at the end of winter on the last full moon day of February and March.

Mrs. K. (my Indian cooking teacher) tells me that Holi is essentially about starting over. A time when you get to clear the slate. And, she adds, “What person doesn’t want a new beginning?”

Just after Christmas–after the homemade chocolate truffles, gingerbread and shortbread cookies, the log fires, walks in the forest, and after the drinks of mulled cider, eggnog and red wine–I moved from my little cabin located in the Pacific Northwest, to Toronto, Canada’s biggest metropolis. A significant change to be sure.

While living on Vancouver Island for a short time I came to know and depend on the local producers in my area who sold me tomatoes, greens, artichokes, apples, pears, eggs, milk, beef, lamb, fish and pork at the markets and roadside stands. I bought local Coho salmon from a secret source, which we canned for the winter, and I also canned some fruit. Although I’ve been growing food since I was six years old, I wouldn’t have been able to survive on the few greens, tomatoes and other scant veggies our garden yielded last summer if it weren’t for the local producers.

Farmers work unbelievably hard, most of them barely making a living, and yet people complain that grass-fed beef that’s free of antibiotics is too expensive, or that their apples are too small or have blemishes. Farmers understand the global food crisis and climate change better than anyone and I think that’s one of the main reasons some of them decided to grow food in the first place, and why they continue to believe–in spite of insurmountable challenges–in the importance of farming sustainably to protect the environment and promote agricultural diversity.

I miss not having Little Qualicum Cheeseworks, one of the best Canadian cheese producers as a neighbour, and not being close to Sloping Hill Farm, breeders of Hampshire, Duroc and Berkshire pigs. These pigs are given a 100 per cent vegetarian ration, roam outside, and manure at the farm is returned to the soil instead of polluting the nearby rivers and streams. Pork from Sloping Hill Farm is served at the best Vancouver restaurants, and yet farmers Bea and Dirk are the nicest most down to earth people you’ll meet.

So now that I live in a big city, far from farmland and forest, I’m making a renewed effort to locate, socialize with, and come to know by name, a new group of local food producers. Because, after all, when we perceive ourselves not as mere consumers but as co-producers, we begin to see our important role in the food system, and how we can influence for the better the environment, and people’s lives and local cultures.

The other day I had lunch at Mrs. K.’s house and she served scrumptious onion pakoras, a mouth- watering zucchini curry and kitchari, an all-time favorite of mine. If you’re not familiar with kitchari, let me say it’s one of the tastiest Indian rice dishes, and so simple to prepare. Used in Ayurvedic cooking, kitchari is super-nutritious and cheap to boot.

Mrs. K.’s kitchari is downright addictive. I try to be polite and not take too much of it, yet then I usually end up coming back for more. Mrs. K. has learned to tell by looking in my eyes whether I haven’t had enough. Thank goodness she can read past my uptight Anglo-Saxon good manners.

It’s not at all frowned upon to eat kitchari with your hands. In fact many foods taste better when eaten this way. Whoever invented cutlery couldn’t have been very sensual. There’s definitely something mechanistic, even a bit barbaric (and they call it civilized!) about shoveling a metal or silver instrument with prongs into your mouth. Think about it. Utensils can remove you from the full experience of eating food.

When I first began visiting Mrs. K., she told me to eat with my right hand. I explained I was left-handed, yet she insisted that the correct way was with the right hand. I did a Google search on this Indian custom and found that you’re supposed to use the right hand because the left hand is for serving food from the serving dish onto your plate. If you’re eating and serving with your left hand there’s a chance you could contaminate the serving dish. It’s important to make sure your hands are clean, especially your fingernails. If the food is served with naan or another flatbread then scoop the food up with the bread and bring it to your mouth. It’s super easy and fun!

Kitchari

This recipe works best with a pressure cooker, though it can also be made in a pot on the stove top.

1 cup of basmati rice

½ cup yellow lentils

3 cups water

½ tablespoon whole peppercorns

2 tablespoons cooking oil

Cumin

Salt

Turmeric

Soak lentils for 15 minutes. I also soak my basmati rice for 2 hours or more in cold water before rinsing and cooking. It isn’t necessary to do this though and there are different opinions on length of time, etc. Clean the lentils and rice by rinsing them in a colander under running water for several seconds. Boil 3 cups of salt water on the stove in a pot or kettle. Warm oil in a medium-size pot, and add whole cumin and peppercorns. Cook until they smell good or until the oil bubbles a little. Be careful not to burn the spices. Throw in the rice and lentils and stir for a couple minutes so that the oil coats the food. Add boiled salt water and stir. Let simmer until water has almost evaporated and rice and lentils are cooked, about 15 to 20 minutes. Add turmeric until the rice is a pleasing butter color.

Top with fresh cilantro and eat with yoghurt and your favorite pickle (e.g. mango or lemon). This dish goes well alongside a vegetable curry.

Last Sunday, I set out with my sister Shannon, brother-in-law, her friends and a gaggle of kids for an afternoon of mushroom hunting. Yet not just any mushroom:  the golden chanterelle.

In our party, we had a town planner, a biologist and eco-tour guide, and a woman from a local First Nations group focused on sustainable fishing practices. There was a woman who dries her own winter food using a state-of-the-art food dehydrator and who brought along some scrumptious raw snacks, another who has a CSA business, and a guide who runs adventure-loving tourists to Tofino on the west coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Given our combined backgrounds, I figured if we got lost in the deep woods that we would somehow come out okay—probably even healthier than when we set out.

At the start of our expedition it was difficult to locate the beautiful mushroom that many chefs the world over love to cook and eat. It was fall, there were many yellow maple leaves scattered on the ground that were the exact color of the mushrooms, and so we really had to examine the ground where we tread. After a while we came upon a patch of chanterelles by some looming cedars. And then, after that first time, it became easier to spot the yellow fellows. I think that’s because the more we looked, the more our eyes became attuned to the differences in earth tones.

Instead of seeing moss, lichen, more moss and some tree bark, my eyes began to differentiate between the shades of green, yellow, brown and so on. I realized that mushroom gathering was not only about finding mouth-watering fungi, it was about becoming more aware of our surroundings. In nature, being more aware can mean the difference between surviving and not surviving. For example—as with many species of mushroom—there’s a lookalike chanterelle that’s poisonous in some parts. If you look real close you can tell the real chanterelle because it has wavy gills that run down the stem instead of going directly to the stem. In the forest, the more aware you are, the less likely you’ll, well, poison yourself.

When picking, gently remove mushrooms so you don’t disturb the soil. That way there’s a greater chance of them growing back in the same spot next year.

Chanterelles are best eaten fresh. It’s better not to wash these mushrooms as they can lose some of their flavor. I would recommend brushing dirt off with a toothbrush or your fingers. Make sure there are no insect larvae on them. If there are, then dip them in salt water before cooking.

I like to cut fresh mushrooms into fairly large chunks to appreciate their unique flavor. Often I cook up mushrooms in omelettes or make a simple pasta dish. This time I made a chanterelle and leek soup from some of the ingredients I bought at the local winter market.

Chanterelle and leek soup

I feel I should add a disclaimer given that this recipe contains whipping cream, butter and cheese. I rarely cook with cream. And butter, well, let’s just say he and I have a love-hate relationship. Most things that taste too good to be true usually have one or both of these ingredients. I recall a guest of mine saying once, “This is so amazingly good; what’s in here?” To which I was forced to reply, “It’s all low-fat stuff.” Of course it wasn’t true, yet I had wanted her to enjoy every bite, not worrying about the pounds. Unfortunately dear reader, the best-tasting meals are often high in fat and calories. Please don’t eat this everyday, unless you are a marathon runner or mountain climber. Okay, there’s my disclaimer.

Chanterelles are very tasty on their own and so you don’t want to pair them with a vegetable or spice that overwhelms their flavor. Some feel potatoes don’t mix with chanterelles, though I tried them with potatoes and really enjoyed the combination. You might want to pair this recipe with a wintertime cheese that melts well such as raclette. Whenever possible I go for local cheeses, and our local cheese producer Little Qualicum Cheeseworks just happens to offer a raclette that I can’t get enough of.

2 leeks

5 or 6 chanterelles, chopped into different sizes

4 small (new) potatoes, cut into small cubes

2 tablespoons butter

Olive oil

Dash of garam masala

1 clove garlic, finely chopped

Sea salt

Fresh ground pepper

½ cup whipping cream

3 or 4 cups water

1 to 2 tablespoons vegetable bullion

Chop the mushrooms into chunks. Finely chop the leeks and sauté in butter with chopped garlic. Add a little garam masala and sea salt. Cut potatoes into small cubes and toss on a baking sheet with some olive oil, salt and pepper to broil until brown. Add mushrooms to leeks in pan. Stir often and cook until soft. Remove from stove. Boil about 3 or 4 cups of water in kettle. Add 1 to 2 tablespoons of vegetable bullion to medium size pot. You could also use chicken bullion. I tend to buy the Better Than Bullion pastes as they sell organic and vegetarian mixes, and don’t have harmful additives. Once the water has boiled then add to the pot with the bullion mix and stir until dissolved. Add the vegetables to the liquid and cook for a few minutes, not too long. Add the whipping cream at the very end and simmer for 5 or so minutes. Pepper and serve with grated raclette (or other local favorite).

It was a gloomy Thursday when Mrs. K. asked me over for an afternoon snack. I’d just peeled off my wet raincoat, stepped out of my black Hunter rain boots, and then noticed a steaming plate of food on the coffee table in the living room. Looking closer I saw it was paneer (Indian cottage cheese) on baguette. A bi-cultural combo of Indian and French. The thought of these two worlds coming together in one recipe thrilled me, as they’re my two all-time favorite cuisines. Also, I like anything cheesy, and paneer is at the top of my list.

“The cheese is only seasoned with a little salt and pepper,” Mrs. K. told me. “Too much of anything good will spoil the food.”

Holding a paper napkin with pink flowers and a hot cup of Assam tea in one hand, I reached for the food with the other, cocooning the baguette chunk—cut to the length of a woman’s wallet—in my palm. I then reached for the bowl of mango pickle. I took tiny bites of the bread and cheese dressed with the pickle, trying with my tongue not to let the cheese fall off the bread. Next, I swished it all down with hot tea. The combined flavor of the tangy, spicy mango combined with the light fluffiness of the soft cheese and crusty texture and aroma of the fresh baguette was ultra-yummy and different from anything I’d ever tasted. I threw away all decorum and ate two more pieces of bread, each time reaching for larger amounts of pickle with the dainty spoon.

Mrs. K. told me that a friend had asked her how she got the idea for the recipe. “It’s my house and my kitchen and so what can stop me coming up with my own ideas,” she told her. Well, that settles that.

This week, faced with yet another string of rainy days, I gathered together the ingredients and kitchen gear needed to reproduce Mrs. K.’s heavenly snack, remembering the indispensable ingredients buttermilk and lemon to make the milk curdle. If you don’t make your own crusty bread at home, I suggest visiting your local French bakery and picking up a baguette. The bread must be hard on the teeth when you bite into it. Some places say they sell baguettes, but if you’ve ever been to France, then you know the word ‘baguette’ isn’t always rightly applied in North America.

Please bear with me dear reader, as I haven’t yet learned to make mango pickle. You’ll be the first to know when I do. Choose a quality brand of pickle such as Patak’s to go with your paneer. Mrs. K. makes her own mango pickle and also uses this brand from time to time so I know it’s a good one.

Before I made paneer I thought it must be super complicated. Well, it’s quite the opposite. The most important thing is timing. You can’t scurry away and let the milk boil on the stove. Paneer likes to be watched and stirred from time to time.

Paneer

1 quart (8 cups) 2 percent milk

6 ounces buttermilk

¼ cup lemon juice (either fresh-squeezed or store bought from a bottle)

Tools

Large pot

Colander

Wooden spoon

Metal bowl

Slotted spoon

This recipe takes 15 minutes from start to finish so I recommend using your stove timer, or noting the start time on your kitchen clock. Rinse heavy pot and dry lightly. This is a trick Mrs. K. taught me so the milk doesn’t burn. Turn milk up high until it comes to a boil, and then decrease the temperature. Stir occasionally.

When you see the milk bubbling up, add buttermilk and stir a few times, then add lemon juice and keep stirring. Leave for 5 to 7 minutes. Mrs. K. calls this part of the recipe the time to “watch the magic” as it’s when you begin to see paneer forming. With a slotted spoon, sift through paneer water that used to be the milk and find the pieces of paneer. Place them in a colander to drain.

Once the paneer is completely drained, then place the cheese on a cutting board and cut paneer into small cubes. They don’t have to be perfect by any means, and I actually like oddly shaped paneer as it lends a certain home-grown feel. Add a little salt and pepper and put a couple heaping spoonfuls onto a piece of fresh or toasted baguette (generously buttered for the full taste experience!). Pile the open-faced sandwiches onto a plate and serve with mango pickle or your favorite Indian condiments. If you have some fresh coriander on-hand, then add some sprigs to the top to raise the yum factor even more.

And there you have it folks:  Paneer on baguette. Could anything be simpler, tastier or more warming…and delightful on a rainy day?

This is an odd situation for a gal like me with a food blog. Mrs. K. gave me a recipe, which sadly I’m unable to tell you about because she made me promise never to share it.

For a while now I’ve politely hinted that I wanted to have her recipe for garam masala, which in Hindi means “hot mixture.” Each time she would answer by handing me a jar from a recent batch she made.

“It’s a lot of work for you,” I said the last time. “Some day I really should learn how to make it on my own so you won’t have to make extra.”

Then, just like that, she told me the recipe as my brain frantically grabbed onto each word so I wouldn’t forget ingredients and amounts. She didn’t give me time to even fetch a pen and some paper as she told me she would write it down for me later. Yet, previously a similar scenario had cropped up where she didn’t write a recipe down and then told me it was good to try and remember. I suppose if it’s on a piece of paper floating around your kitchen you might lose it, and then that recipe would be gone for good. Though the more I think about it, the more I realize Mrs. K. was teaching me a deeper lesson.

When you memorize a recipe it gets planted inside you. Each time you make the dish, it becomes more firmly rooted. Maybe this also gives you creative license to mix up the recipe and accept it as yours, just as others in the family did before you.

Mrs. K. explained why she didn’t want me sharing her recipe.

“I’ve spent years perfecting it,” she told me. “I’ve tested and retested the proportions and have finally got it exactly right. Why would I want to share it with just anybody given all my hard work.”

I’d heard of families having secret recipes that they didn’t give to people outside the family, yet I never experienced it in my family before. We always shared recipes freely with others and I hadn’t considered for a moment that I shouldn’t. Yet after Mrs. K. gave me the above explanation, I understood perfectly the reasons why. Over the years she worked to perfect it, testing the quantities and ingredients until she came to a taste that she felt reflected her personal vision. Just like an artist or writer who has an idea in her head, and spends hours shaping it while perfecting her craft at the same time. Would we copy word for word a novel of someone else’s and then pass it off as our own? Or course not. Though I hadn’t thought of it that way before, I guessed the same could be true for recipes.

I used my electric coffee grinder to grind the whole spices for the garam masala. Probably not the best tool to use as the coffee drinkers in our house would have quite a different cup of coffee the morning after. But anyway it worked like a charm. When I showed it to Mrs. K. she saw right away that I used more cinnamon than she did because of the colour—a rich golden brown. The nice thing is that no matter how you make your garam masala it will never be wrong because there are so many different ways to combine ingredients, and, each time leads to a different yet delicious outcome.

If you look online you’ll see several different recipes for garam masala. Pick one and then begin to experiment. In time you’ll come up with your own version:  A dreamy blend that captures your unique vision—maybe even your essence. And when you do chances are you’ll want to make it often for family and friends and share the recipe only rarely.

When I wrote last time about bringing Mrs. K. a jar of my freshly made mango chutney, I forgot to mention the amazing food she prepared. I decided I couldn’t let this killer lunch experience slip by without telling you a bit about it and sharing two of Mrs. K.’s recipes. She made garbanzo or chick pea curry served with her unbeatable homemade raita, rice pulao and her own unique take on Greek salad.

Gabanzos or chana are a staple in northern India. Mrs. K. commonly cooks them in curries, chickpea dhal, and she also adds them to salads. They are tasty, cheap and high in protein.

Chickpea Curry

1 can chickpeas

½ medium size onion, grated

A small amount of grated ginger

1 teaspoon coriander

1 teaspoon garam masala

¼ teaspoon turmeric

Salt to taste

Half a clove of garlic

3 tablespoons cooking oil

¼ cup water

Splash of lemon juice

1 tablespoon of tomato paste

1 tomato, diced

Coriander or parsley, chopped

Sauté onion and ginger in oil till brown then add spices and stir for a few minutes. Drain the chickpeas and save the water. You can also buy dried chickpeas and soak in water overnight, then cook for 1 to 2 hours until soft before using. Add them to the pan or pot and stir for 3 minutes or so. Add water, stir and cover with a lid to cook for about 15 minutes. Add lemon juice and tomato or tomato paste to thicken. I tried the recipe out in my own kitchen and added some fresh green beans from our garden. Chop coriander or parsley and small pieces of tomato for garnish. Serve with rice.

In Hindi basmati means Queen of Fragrance. The grain has been cultivated for thousands of years at the foot of India’s Himalayan range. I have always preferred this delicate, flavorful rice to others.

Basmati Pulao

1 cup basmati

Salt to taste

¼ large cooking onion, sliced lengthways

6 cloves

A few bay leaves

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

Dash of chili powder

2 to 3 tablespoons cooking oil

21/2 cups water

Soak the rice in water for 30 minutes then drain it. The best way to cook rice is in a rice cooker, however, if you don’t own one then a medium-sized pot will do nicely. Add rice to a pot filled with 21/2 cups fresh water that is already boiling and put the lid on.

Today I went to Mrs. K.’s for lunch and brought her a jar of my mango chutney. I confess dear reader that I was sheepish about her tasting what I made. It was as though I was in school again and meeting the principal for an evaluation. After all Mrs. K. grew up with mango trees in her family garden and has used them in chutneys, pickles and curries for most of her life. If I could think of a fruit that instills that same confidence in me it would probably be the raspberry.

I grew up surrounded by raspberry bushes, ran through them as a kid till they scratched my legs to bits, and ate so many in the summertime that the tips of my fingers were constantly red. Eating my Aunt Flora’s raspberry pies at the cottage on the dock with a group of kids, pie portions swimming in vanilla ice cream—the only time we were all quiet—is also part of my juicy raspberry memories.

So back to Mrs. K. and the chutney. Although I was there for lunch, as soon as she saw my jar of mango chutney she wanted to taste some. I thought she would wait till I left, but no this was serious business as I quickly found out. “Fetch me a spoon,” she demanded. And so I hustled to the kitchen, popped open the fresh jar of chutney and sat there on the sofa waiting with anticipation and, yes, some fear for her to give me her verdict.

She sat on the sofa, back erect and staring at the jar of chutney. Then she took one taste on the spoon and waited a few seconds until the flavor filled her palette. “It’s like murabba,” she said with an air of delight. I could have been a wise guy and told her that I intended it to taste like that, but then I didn’t even know what the word meant so there was no use pretending. Although I wished it were more like chutney and less like the strange other thing, I was happy that at least it tasted to her like something recognizable. She told me she’d have it in the mornings with cheddar on toast, and that she wanted another jar because the one I gave her just wasn’t big enough.

When I arrived home I typed this new word into Google and came up with the English translation for marmalade. While it’s true that my chutney was sweeter than I had wanted because the mangoes were ripe and not tart at all, I had pleased my teacher and created something entirely new to me.

And as Mrs. K. is always telling me, cooking is not about being perfect but about creativity and invention.

Mrs. K. told me after I bought the luscious orangey red mangoes that for canning the mangoes should be green because then they are tart, instead of sweet, and are firmer. I’m not sure why she didn’t tell me this before when she gave me her special recipe. Maybe she wanted me to learn from trial and error. After all, if a guru told her student the most direct route to Nirvana, what would that teach the student about life?

My mom, sister and me seriously considered eating 21 ripe mangoes in the next two days rather than use them, but then we decided that was just too crazy (even for us), and so went ahead and made the chutney.

A word to mango chutney makers: Make sure kids are around when you’re slicing the mangoes because, no matter how sharp your knife, there’s always some fleshy bits that stay on the skin and those make great, sweet snacks. My seven-year-old niece Zaira took a spot right beside me so she’d have first dibs on the luscious mango leftovers (after lemons, mango is her second favorite fruit; lucky her!). Before throwing them on the mango pile amassing on the kitchen counter for compost, I handed them to her one by one. She was in real juicy fruit heaven and not the Wrigley kind.

I told Mrs. K., and she said, when she was a child in India she would pull the skins through her teeth to get the mango flesh that was left over after her mom had cut the fruit up for chutney. So you see dear reader, maybe we too are starting our own family tradition right here in North America just as Indian families have done for generations.

Mango Chutney

This recipe is adapted from the one Mrs. K. gave me in which she used dried mangoes, only because when she first came to North America from India, there were no fresh mangoes available. If you use green mangoes then you can add 4 tablespoons of vinegar and up to two cups more water. For extra-thick chutney, you may wish to forgo the water altogether. For ripe mangoes I suggest 6 tablespoons of vinegar. If the mangoes are more tart than sweet then add another 2 cups of sugar to the recipe. Mrs. K. said to add enough red chilies so you can see the flakes in the jar. If you’re unsure about the best way to cut a mango, look at this short video. There are other ones out there but I especially like this one because it features a father and daughter, which is pretty sweet.

6 almost-ripe red mangoes, cut into small pieces

2 cups water

1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon chili powder

2 cups sugar

1 tablespoon coriander seeds

1 tablespoon black peppercorns

Dried red chilies, your discretion and taste

3 bay leaves

1 tablespoon fenugreek seeds

6 tablespoons vinegar

Soak the mangoes in 2 to 4 cups of water (depending on size) overnight. Next day, wash and dry the mangoes with a towel and keep 2 cups of water for use later on. Cut the mangoes, first on one side of the stone, then the other. Next, slice the remaining sides or ‘fingers.’ After, cut lines into the mango flesh lengthways without cutting into the skin. Then cut across the lines so that you have a checkered pattern. Take the mango section in your hands and pull down on the sides so that the mango squares stick up like the back of a hedgehog. Slice the small cubes off the skin so that most of the flesh comes off. Do this with all mango pieces.

Add 2 cups of sugar to the 2 cups of water and bring to a boil. Add mangoes, salt and spices, and cook for a ½ hour or more. Mrs. K. told me about a trick to see if your chutney is ready to can. Put a spoonful of liquid onto a plate turned sideways. If the liquid runs fast on the plate then the chutney isn’t ready, yet if it runs slowly then it is. In other words, you don’t want it to be too runny or too thick, as it will thicken when it cools.

Now that your chutney is ready, you can keep it warm on the stove and prepare the jars for canning. One of my favorite canning websites is Marisa McClellan’s Food in Jars. She has a list of great resources on how to can. Everybody has her or his own particular way of canning. The most important thing is to make sure the jars are sterilized and that when you put the lid on, that the jars are properly sealed. I listen for the popping sound, and also push on the lid slightly (after 12 to 24 hours) to make sure it doesn’t go up or down.

But I’m no expert and am always looking at instructions to make sure I haven’t forgotten so please do look it up!

Yield: 10 small or 5 medium jars