The coalescence of lentils, water and turmeric exists in so much of South Asian food culture. These variations are subtle and wonderful and I’d love to taste every daal out there. When I lived in Sri Lanka, a local friend of ours Guyan would bring me his wife’s homemade daal once a week in a plastic bag by tuktuk. It was always the most delicious, only rivalled by the one made for us at breakfast in Thalduwa, which we’d wolf down after surfing with eggs and roti. To me, daal is pure comfort, both in its process, its taste and in its aftermath.
I was cooking dinner for a friend and had no time to dream up something exciting or inventive. I always have red lentils sitting in a jar on my counter, fresh turmeric in my fridge and something to season my water. I made this whilst on the phone to Ky who I hadn’t caught up with in a couple of days. As I grated ginger she sat on her bed while her baby (our baby, I tease) slept in the other room. It was almost as if we were FaceTiming from the same house, me in the kitchen prepping our dinner, her getting some peace and quiet before sitting down for a meal. I was half expecting to see her in the doorway once we hung up, peering over my shoulder or (more likely) pouring us a big glass of wine. Soon. Soon. Soon.
In true me fashion, I didn’t use any measurements which meant I had to course-correct towards the end. That’s the joy of making daal – it requires no soaking of the lentils because they break down quick enough in hot water. It’s up to you how loose or thick you make it. I like mine just in the middle – not like soup but loose enough to coat the rice like snow. Most recipes will call for ground spices – I prefer to use fresh if I have turmeric, ginger and chilli which gives it a certain lightness.
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