The Christmas that went wrong: I cooked curry for my new girlfriend’s family – and made them all cry
I had been seeing my girlfriend for six months when she suggested we spend Christmas with her family. This was uncharted territory for me: past relationships had either not lasted long enough or had been with people whose families did not celebrate Christmas. I felt nervous, but was determined to make a good impression on Bridget’s parents, who lived in a remote rural community in the Scottish Borders – a part of the world that was very different from anything familiar to me.
Having grown up in a Muslim family, I was unused to traditions such as Christmas dinner. I worried that requesting halal meat might interfere with her family’s food plans. Bridget’s parents, being deeply kind and empathetic people, suggested that perhaps I could prepare a Christmas curry for the family. They enjoyed Indian food and this would allow me to bring a part of my cultural heritage to their home – which was how I came to be in their kitchen preparing a saag aloo, based on a recipe learned from my mother.
“Remember not to make it too spicy,” Bridget may have said as I started scooping chilli powder and tandoori masala powder into a pan. I peeled and sliced potatoes, adding them to the pan along with the spinach (and just a few more teaspoonfuls of spices).
Although I had been warned that a pinch of paprika was about as spicy as Bridget’s parents got, my greatest cooking fear is the thought of making a curry that is bland. “That smells so good,” said her mother. I took this as permission to add another chilli.
The table was set, the family was seated and my saag aloo was served into bowls alongside warm pitta bread. Here I was, spending Christmas in a tiny village in Scotland, eating a dish my Muslim Pakistani mother had taught me. This, I thought, was the very best version of modern, multicultural Britain. I looked across the table and, to my astonishment, saw that Bridget’s parents had tears streaming down their faces. Her sister and brothers were also wet-eyed. The symbolism of this moment was, I sensed, not lost on them either.
Bridget seemed less emotional. “I told you to go easy on the chillies,” she hissed. “Everyone is dying right now.” I started to panic: perhaps one rather than three green chillies might have sufficed. “I hope it’s not too hot for you,” I said to her parents. They gestured to signal that everything was fine – but I could not help noticing that they seemed unable to speak.
“This is delicious,” rasped Bridget’s brother, on the way to the toilet. He returned with a roll of loo paper to pass around for everyone to wipe their tears. “It has got a bit of a kick to it,” I agreed, “but it usually gets a bit milder by day two.” Looking at the discomfort on the faces around me, I wasn’t convinced there would be a day two.
The lunch was not a success – but, to my relief, it did not signal the end of our relationship. Two years later, we got married. I have spent many more Christmases at my in-laws’ home since then – although I usually leave the cooking to them.
