So after months, if not years, of my mother prodding me to learn to cook some traditional Pakistani food, I finally ventured into the kitchen to do just that. What has it taken you years to do this, Ikhlas, you ask me, with an eyebrow raised. You love baking, surely that love must transfer into cooking, no? Unfortunately, the two are quite different beasts.

Baking is an exact science. 1 teaspoon vanilla, 2 cups flour, 3 eggs. Oven to 350. Pakistani cooking, a la Mom? “A teaspoon of cayenne. A quarter teaspoon of haldi (turmeric). No, that’s not a quarter. I want a bigger quarter. Okay, half a cup yoghurt. Hmm, maybe make it one cup. All right, just put the whole thing in. Put it on low. Not that low! Turn it back high. Higher!” Yeah, not so much.

Despite these challenges, I decided to make something that I like to eat. As someone who loves to eat, the possibilities were sort of endless. But I settled on Butter Chicken, the good ol’ classic. Okay, so its not actually a classic, but its close enough.

This was all done because of endless prodding from my mom. Before you think I’m a hopeless cook, I do know how to make other non-Pakistani things. Pizza, pasta, Chili Chicken; all the good stuff, if you like. But as any traditional Pakistani mother is wont to say, my mom badgered me with the “If you don’t learn to cook what will your husband eat?!” question. Um, I’m sure they’ll be toast? That didn’t usually fly well with her, so into the kitchen, wooden cooking spoon in hand, I went.

The recipe was cobbled together from the Internet and my mom. The crushed tomatoes weren’t enough. And the whipping cream made it too white. The spices were lacking. But it was just right. Why? Because I made it myself. All right, so I didn’t cut the chicken or dice the onion myself, but you get the picture.

Even though its not the way I like it now, I’m going to try again. And again. And again. Until I get it just right. Or, until it tastes like the Butter Chicken from that restaurant on Gerard Street. Because that’s what good Pakistani girls training to be good wives do. Or maybe its what good ol’ Canadian girls with a kick of masala do.

Till next time.

That’s all there is; there isn’t any more.

Ikhlas