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My family had a long journey to New York. Sixteen years long, if we’re counting. Service first for the World Health Organization and then the United Nations took them from Sri Lanka to Geneva, and then on a roundabout path through Alexandria, Jakarta, Khartoum, and on and on. My Ammani, who left Sri Lanka at twenty-three as a budding concert pianist, had never learned to cook. “At the end of the day,” she tells me, “Grandpa used to come in the door laughing: ‘Are we having sardines and eggs for dinner, or eggs and sardines?’”
A few years later, they were joined by Anta, an older sister-of-sorts to my Ammani who she had rarely lived without. And then, food at home felt like home again. My Ammani learned how to make gently sweet kiribath, which was eaten on the first of each month. Tender lamb in a shimmering curry, the briny bite of Maldive fish and the low, lingering heat of ginger all joined whatever was on the table, whether dinner was momos or malfatti.
Cashew curry came, too. It tasted slightly different in countries not shaded by the bushy nut trees, where coconut milk isn’t scraped and pressed each morning, but it still offered creaminess to cut through the bite of red onions and chiles in katta sambol. The whole nuts are the star here, softened enough to sip up luscious coconut milk (even if it comes from a can). The dish gets its oomph from aromatics and spices: onion and fresh curry leaves are almost always present, as are cumin, coriander, and fennel. Some cooks add ginger, or fragrant pandan leaf, or turmeric, paprika, cinnamon.
Over those sixteen years, my Ammani and Anta rarely had a source of fresh curry or pandan leaves, so their recipe omitted them. As I learned how to make cashew curry, I toyed with adding them in, for authenticity’s sake. But that would be authentic to another person’s food: I’ve never lived in Sri Lanka, and only really know its coconut-and-seafood flavors from my family. Sometimes, that’s a birds nest of string hoppers, carefully hand pressed. Other times, that's a Tupperware of mus pang on a road trip, each one wrapped in a pre-perforated sheet of Pillsbury dough.
Plus, this recipe is gloriously simple and forgiving, and I want to keep it that way. I like to soak the cashews overnight, so come cooking time, their color has softened to a milky white and they’ve plumped up considerably. But if you forget, do not sweat: even a few hours will take you in the right direction.
The spice blend you’ll use here is simple—just cumin, fennel, and coriander, sometimes, with cinnamon and curry leaf added in (the first three spices are musts, the last two, cook’s preference). Previously, I’ve bought the blend from Cinnamon Tree Organics, a small, Sri Lankan-owned, Maryland-based company that imports fair trade, single origin spices from the island. “Unroasted curry powder is used in the preparation of some vegetable, lentil, and fish dishes,” explains cookbook author Ruwanmali Samarakoon-Amunugama in her book Milk, Spice & Curry Leaves (who was generous enough to share her recipe for the blend with us here, if you’d rather make your own). Unlike the deeply roasted blend used in some Sri Lankan meat dishes, this unroasted curry powder—which is, actually, gently toasted, but not to the same depth or doneness as its pair—is subtle and herbaceous, imparting a gently spiced flavor and a light brown, golden color on our cashew curry.
Once you start cooking, the aromatics and spices sizzle in coconut oil, taking on some flavor and concentrating a bit. Then the coconut milk and soaked cashews go in, the curry thinned with a bit of water. You more or less leave it at a rapid simmer for half an hour and you're done, save for a squeeze of lime at the end.
Cooks new to Sri Lankan cuisine might worry about getting their cashews to just the right consistency—but the secret is, there isn’t one. Unlike a chicken thigh, in which juiciness can be measured to the degree, or a bean, which needs an attentive cook to reach the ideal creamy texture, a nut knows no rules. It can be eaten raw or cooked to softness, or somewhere in the middle at a nice al dente. I like to cook them soft, but if you prefer a bite, just turn them off ten minutes or so early.
While your cashew curry is cooking, turn your attention to what to serve alongside it. It’s best served with rice and a few other curries, eaten together: the cashew curry is your rich, soothing, slightly-sweet element; it needs spicy, savory, and refreshing dishes at its side.
I always serve this meal family style, each corner of my tiny table occupied with mismatched covered dishes. (I’ve been conditioned to believe curry should only be served piping hot, or not at all.) Growing up, it was an elaborate buffet: each white porcelain dish kept on the sort of electric plate warmer that’s beloved by aunties and school lunch ladies alike.
Serve yourself a heaping spoon of pol sambol, which cuts the richness with onion, lime, and Maldive fish. If you eat meat, this is the perfect time for a more complex chicken, lamb, or pork dish. Recently, I’ve been serving mine alongside Samarakoon-Amunugama’s deeply spiced Black Pork Curry. The blackness comes from the roasted curry powder, a warming blend of cumin, coriander, and fennel that's spiked with cardamom, curry leaves, clove, cinnamon, and a hit of toasted rice.
Complete the meal with a few vegetable options: I like a combination of cooked and raw, like a pile of just-sautéed sturdy greens or eggplant curry, next to Samarakoon-Amunugama's refreshingly crunchy cucumber salad.
My truly favorite way to eat cashew curry, though, isn’t in the evening at all. Instead, it's alongside a sunny-side up egg and a pile of greens after one of my Ammani’s big dinners, when the whole house rises early to make their way to the leftovers first.
