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What is the most descriptive collective noun for coconuts? A cluster? A clump? A crowd? None of them quite sufficed for the copious numbers I found myself with! With five thriving trees in my garden, dangerously dropping their heavy drupes at any given moment, I responded to this abundance in the best way I know how: by bringing them into my kitchen.

So I hired a nimble man to climb up the trees to cut most of the coconuts down, and then we segregated them into tender ones, which yielded nutritious coconut water, and ripe ones with flesh that could be shaved. One of my coconut trees is also the site of an experiment of mine. I have a little basket on a lovely pulley system which takes pieces of papaya up to a nice altitude for the parrots that often flit about. It took a while to convince them that this odd contraption was actually a friendly gesture, but as with people and animals both – at the end of the day, appetite always wins!

restore shaved coconut

The shaved coconuts found themselves in many of my recipes: from coconut rose cupcakes (which you can order here if you’re in Chennai) to sweet-savoury kachoris (which you can make in your own kitchen, with my recipe here) and more. And in the late afternoons, those pristine white shavings of coconut were perfect for a local lentil dish: sundal.

When most people hear the word “burger”, they think of an oily, low-nutrition meal full of sauces and heavy meat, polished off with unhealthy sodas and greasy fries! But what if I told you that I can share with you how I make something that looks like the real thing, tastes just as (or more!) delicious, and doesn’t do anything but nourish your body and soul?

My vegan bean burger is an improvisation on a dish that one of my teachers at the Kushi Institute, Chris Jenkin, used to make for us for lunch sometimes, in a strictly macrobiotic style using East Asian ingredients. I love innovating in the kitchen, discovering ways to turn a dish around and make it vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free and so on. I also consider how to source ingredients that are seasonal and readily available. Call it Macrobiotics meets Madras! Here’s a perfect example of how I fine-tuned a recipe so that it makes the best sense for climactic and cultural conditions.

This time, last year, the city I live in was devastated by the worst floods it had seen in over a hundred years. An unusually heavy northeast monsoon unleashed its might on Madras, also known as Chennai, as well as the coastal regions of Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Pondicherry. Hundreds of thousands of people were displaced, at least 500 lives were lost, and damages ran into billions of rupees.

While my city was being submerged, I was away in Massachusetts at the Kushi Institute, deeply engaged in the study of Macrobiotics. One morning, I received a phone call from my husband back home, who told me that the seasonal weather was something much more this year. Water was fast rising in our home, and he was calling from our terrace. Most homes in India have flat rooftops, where laundry is dried, potted plants may be grown, and parties are held under the moonlight. These terraces saved many people in the South Indian floods.

There are always beautiful things that we learn from our parents, grandparents and in-laws. The kitchen is one such space of knowledge shared and passed on. When I got married into the family (in India, due to the joint family system – one marries families, not individuals!) I had the chance to learn more than I had imagined. My mother-in-law is an educated woman who enjoys cooking, and coming from different regions of the country, she and I had different styles and methods. We would often argue about how my family would make a dish a particular way, while she would insist that her family’s recipe was better. So it was with her kachoris, a delicious regional variant of the internationally-ubiquitous samosa.