By Ellie Daghlian

Daaling you look beautiful.

 

 

A daal is like a partnership.

 

If there’s no lentils, abort.

 

Should be spicy. 

 

But not too spicy.

 

Shouldn’t blow your head off.

 

Slice two onions.

 

Put them in the pan.

 

Sweat them off softly.

 

We can do this lads.

 

Take fifteen or so cardamom pods.

 

Stare into the void.

 

Drink them in a Jamie Oliver flavour shaker.

 

Start again because you weren’t suppose to do that.

 

Perhaps you may want to shake the flavour shaker next.

 

But it is not essential.

 

Or rather it is absolutely essential.

 

In the same way you would not shake your partner for good ideas.

 

Place the crushed cardamom pods into the pan alongside your crushed sense of self worth.

 

Into the pot of sweating onions. 

 

The contents should now resemble the studio on Friday afternoon during clean up time.

 

Now change your mindset.

 

Finely dice your garlic.

 

You want to be heavy on the aromatics on this one.

 

Put it in the pan.

 

Sweat them off some more.

 

This is a melting pot.

 

Next up comes the spices.

 

Two tablespoons of garam masala.

 

It’s clean up time.

 

Bear with.

 

Right.

 

Half a teaspoon of cinnamon.

 

This is not good content.

 

One teaspoon of turmeric.

 

Also good for ageing dogs with hip problems. 

 

One level teaspoon of chilli powder.

 

Half a teaspoon of cumin.

 

And two sliced green chillis.

 

Toast the spices off with the sweating onions, cardamom pods and garlic. 

 

It should now resemble a powdery paste.

 

Feel free to add more oil if needed.

 

Once the spices are sufficiently toasted, out in a healthy dollop of red lentils. 

 

Put in twice the amount of water and bring to the boil. 

 

Turn down to medium and simmer until the lentils turn into a mush.

 

Just like the mush of your inadequate brain.

 

It should be a yellow green colour by now.

 

A bit like Marc’s trousers on a Friday.

 

Once the lentils are ready, you will need to salt to taste. 

 

Salt, not assault.

 

Add in a dollop of yoghurt for creaminess.

 

And serve with some sort of bread product.

 

Feel free to add in any vegetables or paneer for more hot content. 

 

Unfortunately it’s quite simple. Unlike staying in a playful child state whilst being constantly told you’re no good.

 

Now for the raita.

 

Find a cucumber.

 

Potentially forage. 

 

Get one with some girth.

 

Perhaps retrain a truffle pig. 

 

Next contemplate the salary you walked away from to come to this place of darkness.

 

Chop your cucumber into nice big chunks.

 

Finely crush some garlic.

 

And dice some fresh mint.

 

Remember to ask for help, otherwise you are a coward.

 

Fill out your gratitude journal.

 

And then add a healthy dollop of yogurt.

 

Give it all a big old mix.

 

And finish with a slight dusting of paprika and a drizzle of oil. 

 

The last two steps are simply for presentation.

 

It will quickly be ruined when people start to eat.

 

Greedy monsters. 

 

And that’s how advertising happens.