On Egg Curry and Imaginary Dinner Guests

Cooking with Tulip

Rumi wrote recipes.

Or at least I like to imagine he did.

In my head, he isn't the thirteenth-century poet people quote on Instagram. He's an old man in a white robe who lives in the corner of my kitchen, perched quietly against my overflowing bookshelf. Every now and then, he'll interrupt my cooking with a thought about bread, lentils or love. Sometimes it sounds like wisdom. Sometimes it sounds like complete nonsense. Usually, it's hard to tell the difference.

A writing teacher once told me to write about simpler things. Food felt like a good place to start. If Rumi could find poetry in a loaf of bread, perhaps I could find some in egg curry.

Whenever I cook, I imagine I'm hosting my own television show.

This week, my guest is Gary Mehigan.

He's standing in my tiny Mumbai kitchen while I confidently explain the fundamentals of Indian cooking, conveniently ignoring the fact that I burnt an aloo paratha two days ago.

"Indian food is simple, Gary," I say, scattering cumin seeds into hot oil with theatrical confidence. "You just have to understand the basics."

He smiles politely.

I imagine he's judging me.

So we begin.

A pan. Any pan, really. I've never understood why non-stick gets all the attention. Two spoons of oil, a pinch of cumin, chopped ginger and onions. The kitchen starts smelling like home almost immediately.

Curries have always intimidated me.

They're mostly water, yet somehow that water decides everything. Too thin and dinner feels unfinished. Too thick and you've made something else entirely. It's a lesson in instinct more than measurement, and instinct is something recipes rarely teach you.

Once the onions soften and begin to caramelise, in go the tomatoes. Fresh if I have them. Tinned if I don't. While they cook down, I wash the rice and put it on with the potatoes. A pressure cooker if I'm feeling efficient. An open pot if I'm pretending time isn't real.

Cooking has taught me that patience is often just another ingredient.

Then come the spices.

Salt. Chilli powder. Tamarind. Rasam powder. Coconut powder. A squeeze of lemon.

Recipes tell you how much.

I think your mood decides the rest.

Cooking is emotional.

If you're angry, everything suddenly needs more chilli. If you're heartbroken, maybe the curry simmers a little longer. If you're cooking for someone you love, you'll probably taste it five times before it reaches the table.

My mum has always believed food knows when you've rushed it. She insists that meals absorb the energy of the person making them. I used to laugh at that.

Now I'm not so sure.

Once the tomatoes have softened into the spices, add water and let everything come together. Peel the boiled potatoes and break them into the curry—not neatly, just enough for them to dissolve a little and thicken the sauce naturally. Add the boiled eggs whole. Some people fry them first.

I never really saw the point.

Serve everything with steamed rice.

Nothing fancy.

Just enough.

I think we spend too much time treating cooking like another task to get through. Something squeezed between emails, notifications and takeaway apps.

Maybe, just for one evening, it can be something else.

Leave your phone in another room. Put Tinder on mute. Let the curry simmer while the rice cooks. Play music that reminds you of home. Clean the kitchen as you go.

By the time dinner is ready, the house smells different.

You might smell different too.

The egg curry won't change your life.

But every now and then, making something slowly, just for yourself, feels like a small act of kindness.

And sometimes, that's enough.