There is a new series on Netflix, The Big Day. Indian weddings are supposed to be mental, I think it’s what the goal is, a participant in the documentary proclaims. The weddings portrayed in the series are lavish, extravagant affairs with the mega rich trying to outdo each other. One of the trademarks of the modern Indian wedding is that they are becoming very personal, a bride to be, proclaims. Each wedding has a personality of its own, she continues with no sense of irony. My own wedding, July 4th 1998, was relatively simple and elegant. Anjum’s family generously hosted the reception in Toronto which was attended by about four hundred people, and every one of the uncles that congratulated me wanted to know how I felt about losing my independence on Independency Day. Hahaha. Recently within our own family and friends circle, the weddings are getting unnecessarily big. Destination weddings with dance troupes and musicians and singers flown in to entertain guests who are served multi course meals as fireworks light up the night sky. Growing up near a large slum in India, there were weddings every other weekend, with loudspeakers blaring Bollywood music from sunrise to well past sunset, paused briefly to broadcast the religious ceremonies involved and announcements of which neighbors gave how much money to the couple. The highlight of our own middle class weddings was a slice of ice cream we got after the reception. It always amazed me how the guys serving the ice cream were able to detect when you tried to show up for a second serving and proceed to throw you out of the line. The weddings I didn’t look forward to were those where the hosts decided to serve food in a shared thaal, which is a large platter, where you sat with four strangers, and ate from the same plate in a gesture of brotherly love. Invariably the food served in these wedding was daal gosht, which is essentially goat cooked in a spiced lentil soup. A bucket full of white rice was dumped in the middle of the platter and a little while later a guy would come and pour some of the daal gosht over the rice. Now at this point you needed to have your wits about you, to paw through the pile to ensure you got at least one of the three pieces of meat deposited in the heap. Although I admire and respect the sentiment behind this shared meal tradition, the lack of hygiene and grossness of the people eating a sloppy mess of rice and daal with their hands, is an experience I’d rather not remember. The taste of the daal gosht though is harder to forget. This is my mom’s recipe for it. Pressure cook the goat meat with ginger garlic paste and some turmeric powder. In a separate container boil in a bunch of different daals, masoor, toor and channa. Also peel a kaddu (green gourd) and cut it into inch sized chunks and soak in water for about an hour. Once the daal softens use a hand mixer to make a smooth mixture and then add coriander, cumin and chili powder and salt. Then dump in the kaddu and goat meat from the pressure cooker and cook it on low heat for about an hour to let the flavors seep into each other. Just before serving, in a small frying pan heat up some oil and temper with crushed garlic cloves and fresh mint leaves. When the mixture starts to sizzle pour it into the daal gosht. Serve with white rice. Then get a big platter, pour the rice and daal in the middle and let the Hunger Games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor.