Many of my readers will raise an eyebrow or perhaps two, at the heading of this week’s column. Some may even drop me a mail indicting me as an ignoramus for misspelling the name of someone from the land of the Great Wall, who was one of Pakistan’s greatest friends. I can assure all of the above that like Dr Seuss’s Horton: “I meant what I said, and I said what I meant.”
I once wrote a column on the subject of wild flora, which if harvested and cooked could shame the best of chefs. I also made a promise that one day I would uncover some more of this ‘strange stuff’ that was omitted because of paucity of space. It is this week that I am making good that pledge.
I was fortunate to have been born and raised in a family, who believed in frequently seeking out nature’s wild bounties to satisfy their craving for sustenance with a difference. This led us children to acquire a taste for culinary adventure and as a by-product - consorting with nature.
‘Cholai’ may appear to be Chinese, but this plant from the spinach family grows abundantly right there in everyone’s backyard. When cooked (using the same recipe as common spinach), it makes a tantalising dish that is both ‘spinachy’ and peppery. My mother often harvested these plants, from hedgerows that lined our lawns, along with its sibling commonly referred to as ‘Makoh’. When cooked together their combined taste created an unforgettable taste.
The ‘Makoh’ plant also resembled common spinach and was larger in size than ‘Cholai’. Its flowers produced tiny pearl-sized-berry-like fruit that looked and tasted like miniscule tomatoes. It was said that since these berries were medicinally garam (hot), their effect was neutralised by ‘Cholai’, which was thandi (cool).
Our summer residence in Murree often boasted a profusion of nasturtium plants with their characteristic yellow, orange and ochre blooms. As these flowers ended their lifecycle, they produced pea-sized green seeds that tasted like ‘white radish’ and were served in salads. Their peppery and tangy taste added zest to the dish and unsuspecting guests often requested their hostess (my mother) for the recipe. It was always interesting to see their reaction, when told that nasturtium seeds were the ingredient that had made this preparation so different.
We were fortunate that our home in Lahore was surrounded by a lush, well kept garden that boasted, among other things, many ‘Murraya’ trees. Summers saw this member of the plant family (often mispronounced as ‘Marwa’) covered in a profusion of cream coloured flowers that emitted a wonderful sweet fragrance. To our delight, we discovered that ‘Murraya’ seeds when ripe became sweet. All hell broke loose, when we were caught munching on this fruit, which according to our mali, was known to produce toxic effects. It appeared that a myth had been busted because we had been nibbling on this fruit for many days before being caught, without any disagreeable effects.
I have never tried eating wild tulip bulbs, but have been informed by a reliable source that a yellow coloured variety of this genus is indigenous to the area around Islamabad and Rawal Lake. My horticultural informer tells me that these flowers bloom along the banks of the lake itself and the stream that feeds it and that children from surrounding hamlets often dig up and eat their bulbs, locally referred to as ‘Meetha Ganda’ or ‘Sweet Onion’, with considerable relish. I am planning, this winter season, to recruit some of these urchins and test the veracity of this story. Who knows that in the process, I might discover another secret ingredient for a new and exciting recipe?
   The writer belongs to a very old and established family of the Walled City.
    His forte is the study of History.