SpiceLines

I've never been able to bake bread, but in less than an hour, Julie Sahni taught me the secrets of making the most delicious chapati and potato-stuffed paratha, using a simple flour-and water-dough and a few easy techniques.

When I opened my suitcase last Monday night, a sultry aroma wafted through the bedroom.

The scent of freshly roasted Indian spices—a mélange of cumin, coriander and cardamom seeds, black peppercorns, cloves, cassia stick and its leaf, and a whisper of grated nutmeg—brought back flavor memories so strong that I could almost taste the homemade tandoori chicken I’d been eating 24 hours earlier.

That evening Julie Sahni pressed a ziplock bag of ground spices into my hand just as I was leaving her Brooklyn studio. “Take it,” she said firmly. “When you get home, smell it. Look at it. Then make it yourself, using this as your guide.”

In the spoon: Gulkand, an Indian rose conserve made by layering fragrant petals and sugar in a glass jar and letting it soak up the sun for a few weeks. It is delicious served with sweet and sour fruit such as melon and raspberries.

“I don’t know if you’ll like this, “ Julie said a little hesitantly. “It‘s a conserve of roses. You can put just a little on top of the melon and let it melt down.”

Like it? It was sheer heaven on a steamy morning in Brooklyn.

I had just arrived at Julie Sahni’s studio for an all day cooking class, when she put a small bowl of icy-cold cantaloupe chunks into my hand. On the counter there was a spoon and a non-descript white plastic container labeled Super Tower Gulkand.

Inside was a strange brown sticky substance, the consistency of thick, almost crystallized jam.

I tasted it, and suddenly roses filled my mouth.

Four luscious yoghurt lassis, plus armloads of sparkly bangles, will get the party started. Flavors include mango, cucumber with roasted fennel seed and Thai basil, cantaloupe and mint, and raspberry-rosewater.

Recipe for a muggy summer afternoon: A tub of tangy Indian yoghurt, sweet summer fruit, fresh mint and Thai basil from the garden, a few spices from the pantry. Ice, and a blender to mix it all up.

Add a stack of glittery bangles and party sandals. And what about that flowery embroidered kurta you bought in Mumbai and have never worn? Now’s your chance.

Oh yes, call up your girlfriends. The occasion?

A lassi party on the verandah, among the angel’s trumpets and the moon flowers.

An ideal setting for a lassi party: Among the tropical plants, a brugmansia or angel's trumpet unfurls eleven glorious blooms.

While the food world remains in thrall to all things local, an Iranian spice merchant is swimming against the tide, tempting American chefs with fragrant saffron, rose petals and exotic fruit from the farthest corners of the globe.

Behroush Sharifi, photographed by Con Poulous
for Food&Wine.

“I have the opposite of what everyone thinks they’re looking for,” says Behroush Sharifi, a.k.a. The Saffron King. “They’re looking for fresh and local. What I have is dried and global. My job is to encourage chefs to marry the two."

In “The Saffron King and His Amazing Journey,” (Food & Wine, September 2010), Emily Kaiser traces the unlikely trajectory of Behroush Sharifi, an Iranian who spent his early years in London and Little Rock, Arkansas, before setting his sights on New York. After the birth of his daughter, Saffron Rain, in 2001, Sharifi, “a stay-at-home father,” decided to try importing spices from his homeland. His first product was Iranian saffron, his first customers chefs from New Orleans where he had attended the spring Jazz Fest for almost 20 years.

The Revel Wet 'N Dry grinder whips ginger and garlic into a smooth, creamy paste. Unfortunately it's not as efficient for grinding cumin and coriander to a fine powder.

Is too ridiculous to say that I’m reveling in the Revel?

Already you’re wincing. But the truth is that ever since the Revel Wet ‘N Dry Grinder arrived in last week’s post, I’ve fallen in love.

As with most new infatuations, the device has yet to reveal its warts—at least in lurid detail. But for now, I marvel at its ability to whip up a silken ginger-garlic paste, not to mention the near-instant production of a stunning yogurt-cilantro-spice marinade for grilled lamb kebabs that I’ll be sharing with you next time.

A wet grinder—even a little one like the Revel—is a life changing acquisition if you are as addicted to curries (and as time-pressed) as I am. Unfortunately I’m less impressed with its efficacy as a dry grinder—I won’t be giving up my trusty Krups anytime soon.

Still, for a curry fanatic, $29.99 plus shipping seems like a fair deal.

Does this sound like a half-hearted infomercial?

Savory grilled lamb kebabs, marinated in yoghurt with ginger, garlic, cilantro and sweet spices, are delicious with serrano chiles and a cooling cucumber-mint raita. To round out a summer supper, add fresh corn sauteed with smokey bacon, cherry tomatoes and basil.

It’s all in the marinade.

After last week’s adventures with the Revel, I took a fresh look at an old recipe for charcoal-grilled lamb kebabs. Chunks of lamb—from a boneless leg that’s been trimmed of its fat and membrane—are marinated in thick, tangy whole milk yoghurt whisked with garlic, ginger, cilantro and a few Indian spices. The yoghurt works miracles on the lamb, tenderizing it naturally and removing any hint of gamy flavor, while the sweet, hot, aromatic flavorings contrast beautifully with the savory meat.

In theory.

Strong iced Mexican coffee infused with crumbly Ceylon cinnamon. Add a cool
breeze, an Egyptian scarf and the book review--all that's needed for an idyllic
Sunday morning.

The morning breeze rustled the banana leaves. A dragonfly danced around the papyrus stalks. Grey clouds scudded across the sun.

For the first time this summer it was cool enough to linger in the tropical garden.

I tossed an Egyptian shawl over the outdoor chaise, opened the book review and took a sip of iced coffee spiced with Ceylon cinnamon—strong enough to dispel the morning fog, lively enough to awaken a drowsy palate.

It’s August, but fall is in the air.

Medical studies confirm what aromatherapists have long claimed: Lavender can help you fall asleep--and sleep more deeply. Heart sachets stuffed with lavender (from Sunshine Lavender Farm) can be tucked under your pillow--or use the dried herb to make lavender-camomile tea at bedtime.

A long time ago, when I was still reading the funny papers, I had a hopeless crush on Mandrake the Magician.

Mandrake was a suave crime fighter, with black top hat, flowing cloak, chiseled cheekbones and a natty mustache. Assisted by strong man Lothar and the glamorous Princess Narda—how I envied her curves and dark eyelashes—he used his formidable powers of suggestion to thwart legions of evildoers.

Every Sunday there came a dramatic moment when, face to face with an arch criminal, Mandrake would “gesture hypnotically,” conjuring up horrific illusions that stymied the devilish plots of the Cobra or the Clay Camel or the Brass Monkey. At least until the following week.

What a man, what a magician. But perhaps you’re wondering what this has to do with lavender.

The Moroccan teapot has found a home on my kitchen counter, where it makes me smile whenever I pass by. Oh, and it makes a superb pot of mint tea.

Saturdays are lazy days around here. Except when they’re not.

Yesterday morning there was a lot of commotion. Angus was going north, back to college, and B was flying with him. The house boomed with loud male voices, and the floors creaked and shuddered as behemoth duffle bags exploding with hockey gear and who knows what else were lugged down the stairs and out to the car.

Was it just a few minutes ago that he was a little blond boy running on the beach in Nantucket ? Suddenly there's a hole in my heart.

Anyway, Serendipity and I had a consolation lunch at Sandwhich. Somewhere between the Beet & Blue Salad (roasted beets, candied walnuts and English Stilton) and the Tuna Salad Sandwich (a cheeky misnomer since the main event is fresh loin of yellowfin tuna poached in white wine), my eye fell upon a dozen Moroccan teapots sitting on a shelf.

Silvery, curvaceous and with the jaunty air all Moroccan teapots possess—maybe it’s the whimsical top hat they wear—each one was just big enough for two small glasses of tea.

Lust was in my heart.