A slightly chipped molar on the right side of my jaw thanks to biting into a one rupee coin is my number one association with Nan’s scrumptious Christmas pudding. Another Anglo festive perennial, it is made from a mixture of flour, candied fruit, currants, molasses and a whole lot more. Every year, a highly ritualised making process ensued whereby Nan made sure that every family member took a turn stirring the pudding mixture, reminding us all to make a wish as we did. Her version had 13 ingredients (spices like nutmeg , cinnamon etc.) — one for Christ and one for each of his 12 disciples. And it was stirred from East to West, reflecting the journey of the three Magi to visit the infant Jesus. She would then drop a sterilised one rupee coin into the sticky, tar-like slurry to bring luck (oh, the irony!) to whoever found it during the final pudding reveal in all its gooey, steamed deliciousness. And always lit on fire once the brandy-laced butter sauce was drizzled all over it.

Nan also excelled at making kalaadi. This iconic Anglo-Indian sweet from Calcutta—one of the main bastions of the Anglo-Indian community—is a combination of milk, sugar, and khoya (reduced milk). Shaped into a small, round ball, and often flavoured with cardamom or rose water. Nan writes in her book that the name “kalaadi” comes from its characteristic dark colour, which results from caramelising the sugar that also lends to it an earthy, almost edible petrichor-like taste.  

Dipping a rosette-shaped iron mould with a long wooden handle into a thin batter (flour, a bit of rice flour for crispiness, eggs and thick coconut milk) and then lowering it into a kadhai of hot oil, while humming a tune is how I remember Nan making rose de kokis. Also known as achappam in Tamil Nadu, these delicate cookies—said to be of Dutch origin—would often threaten to shatter at the slightest touch. But they tasted divine, especially when sprinkled with black sesame seeds that give them a nutty finish.

But the most fun was had by us, all eight of her grandkids, when we sat down to make kul-kuls with Nan. This Anglo iteration of the traditional Diwali sweet of shakkar para, is made from a simple dough of flour, sugar, vanaspati, and a pinch of cardamom. We’d use everything from the back of forks to hair combs to press the dough onto, so as to imprint the ridge like grooves onto the kul-kuls’ surface. Once deep fried, it’d be these ridges that would hold forth the crystallised sugar syrup that these sweet pastry bits are dipped into. And like the famous slogan for a chips brand goes “no one can eat just one!”

But then, that can hold true, not just for kul-kuls, but the entire gamut of Anglo-Indian sweets. Confections that epitomise the confluence of cultures. Edible heirlooms in desperate need of being saved from the ravages of time.

Raul Dias is a Mumbai-based food and travel writer who’s work can be found at raulontheprowl.blogspot.in

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