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It was Naomi Duguid (pronounced Do-good) who introduced me, earlier this month, to “the joy of not knowing”. I was very struck by the phrase because (a) it appeared an apt motto for someone who has written six books on global culinary journeys (her seventh is due next year) and (b) it is sound advice for those of us who get our joys from sameness and believe there isn’t much left to experience. A strapping, adventurous and amiable Canadian, Duguid persuaded me to accompany her—one sunny morning in Panaji (we were both there for the annual Goa Arts and Literature Festival)—to the city’s sprawling vegetable and fish market. I must confess that despite being of Goan origin and making many visits to Goa, I had never ventured into the Panaji market. I love markets, and I sighed with pleasure at the sight of fruits and vegetables known and unknown and the opportunity to practise my sketchy Konkani. As we walked through the produce section, Duguid busied herself with photographs and interrogated, through me, vendors garrulous and taciturn, men and women. Since this was Goa, where many foreigners make their home, and the people are generally more accommodating of obvious outsiders, Duguid could wander and photograph at peace without being stared at or mobbed. After a coconut break, where the chatty vendor told me the sweetest water came from coconuts that grew on trees beside rivers, we found ourselves in the spice section. We marvelled at the varieties of chillies and fragrant piles of triphal and kokum, both souring agents used in Goan cuisine, particularly fish curries. Now, Goan fish curries hold few mysteries for me. I know all there is to know; the thin caldins, the sour coconut-less ambotiks and, best of all, my grandmother’s fish curry. But since I was buoyed by Naomi’s philosophy, I listened carefully when Vallabh Kolvekar—an unsmiling, young man who ran a stall in Panaji market’s spice section—asked if I would like to see a home-made garam masala. Garam masala, I thought. Why would I want that? I make my own, and, moreover, what’s so special about a collection of ground spices? That was a pretty arrogant thought, imbued with the Indian know-it-all quality. “Sure,” I said to Kolvekar, trying to look interested, “let’s see it. Who makes the masala?” He frowned. “I make it.” Kolvekar gravely offered me a handful of spice. I smelt it. My eyes widened. Smelling a spice is like tasting a wine. Multiple flavours and bouquets were evident; I could discern red chilli, cinnamon and clove. Kolvekar said it contained 18 spices. I asked for 200g. He wrapped it in a plastic bag and handed it over, along with some shiny, juicy-looking kokum, which I bought because my stocks were running low. Kolvekar and I discussed his masala. So, I could use it for a fish curry without coconut? Hmm, that was not quite right, he said, because this was a masala that was best with coconut, the base of most Goan fish curries. When I returned home, I discarded my wariness of coconut, aided by the news that it was rapidly being taken off cardiac danger lists, and the result was one of the tangiest, tastiest fish curries to have emerged from my kitchen. It was even better than my long-standing version of ajji’s fish curry, and that is saying something. It was good to use someone else’s knowledge, to let go of what I knew. That, in a limited way, is what the joy of not knowing can do for you. Used in full measure, Duguid told me, it was fuel for travel, discovery and new journeys. “I suppose it starts with getting clear of the idea that I am, or that I should be, in control or on top of things,” Duguid told me on email after she returned home. “You could view it as a relinquishing of responsibility, but I think of it as an opening out. If I don’t know, and admit that and enjoy that, then it gives me the impetus to go out and ask questions and be curious. I am very curious about how things work and about all kinds of details. If I’m not afraid to show others that I don’t know, that leaves me free to ask all kinds of questions, very obvious ones, without worrying that they might seem foolish or superficial or make me seem ignorant.” I could not agree more. Goan fish curry with Vallabh’s Panaji market masala Serves 4-6 Ingredients 1kg kingfish (surmai) or any other firm sea fish, cut into fillets or slices with bone (I prefer bone because it imparts greater taste) 1 coconut, grated or cut into small pieces 15 pieces kokum, soaked in a little warm water 1-inch piece fresh ginger 20 pieces garlic, chopped fine 4 tsp (5 if you like it spicy) Vallabh’s garam masala (replace with any other red-chilli-based masala) 2 tsp vegetable oil Salt, to taste Method Grind the coconut, ginger, salt and garam masala in a food processor with half to one cup of water. After grinding, the coconut masala should be thick. In a medium-hot wok, heat the oil and add the chopped garlic. Sauté but do not brown. Add the ground masala and sauté for 2 minutes. Add enough water to form a curry of medium consistency; make sure it is not too thin. Stir in the soaked kokum with its water. Reduce heat to low and when steam starts rising off the curry, slide in the fish. Taste curry, adjust for salt if required. Cook for 5-10 minutes and take off the gas. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. Goanet annual year-end meet in Goa: if you're reading this, you're eligible to join us! Dec 28, 2015 @ 11 am Fundacao Oriente, Panjim Confirm your participation with a short email to goa...@goanet.org -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
