My Reluctant Journey Into Curry

I have a confession: I’m not a fan of curry. That reluctance has a long, specific history, and it’s the reason I avoided the dish for years—until a cookbook finally convinced me to try it again.

Picture this: spring of 1998. A group of us were finishing college and grad school, and for most of our four or five years we lived on cafeteria food, Taco Bell in the student center, or a local Mexican place where a generous combo plate cost $4.75. Those were days when an extra dollar might buy a soda. One fine weekend, about twenty of us piled into cars and drove more than an hour to Memphis to sample a new Indian restaurant. The idea came from our fearless leader, Tom. Nobody questioned him—Tom had impeccable taste in food. He was the same person who found Los Portalas in Jackson, Tennessee, a place we all agreed made the best Mexican food in the region. Because Tom recommended it, we trusted him and went along.

I should have been wary when the server asked whether we wanted our dishes “sniffling or sniveling” hot. I asked for the mildest option, the culinary equivalent of “Mild McMilderton,” and plenty of other people picked the milder level too. Tom, predictably, ordered the hottest. He survived to graduate a few weeks later, though I suspect his stomach took a beating.

The rest of us were not so lucky. For an entire week afterward, I felt like I sweated curry. The smell clung to my clothes; it infiltrated my car despite those pine-tree air fresheners. I even bought new shampoo trying to scrub the scent from my hair. Every time I hear the word “curry,” that weekend comes back to me—the long drive home, the lingering odor, and the unfortunate handful of people who got sick that night. Some were ill immediately; others followed later. Because of that experience, I swore off curry for years.

Then, a few years ago, something changed. Danielle Walker sent me her cookbook, Against All Grain. I set it aside for a while, hesitant to face any recipes labeled “curry.” Each time I opened the book, the curry recipe called to me—“It looks so good,” I thought, “but it’s CURRY.” I put it off, wrestling with my reservations and the memory of that long-ago dinner.

Eventually I decided to get over myself and give it a fair try. I didn’t tell Stephen I was making curry. He had been on that Memphis trip and still had the same visceral reaction to anything resembling that red, spicy mess, so I thought it better to surprise him.

The result surprised me. The dish was excellent. It wasn’t overpowering; its flavors were balanced and inviting. I liked it so much that I bought a bottle of curry powder from Penzeys so I could make the recipe again and adapt the spice into other dishes. When the curry cooked while I was at school, the scent that greeted me when I opened the door—rich, savory, and comforting—had me salivating. Stephen ate heartily, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. His reaction convinced me even more that this version of curry was different from the memory that had kept me away.

This experience reminded me of a couple of simple truths: never let one bad meal define an entire cuisine, and a trustworthy recipe can change your mind. Danielle Walker’s cookbook nudged me past my reluctance without betraying the integrity of the flavors. Her recipe offered a measured, flavorful approach to curry that appealed to someone who had spent years avoiding it.

I shouldn’t have hesitated for so long. The curry taught me that preparation, balance, and quality ingredients matter more than preconceived notions. It’s now a dish I’m willing to cook again, and I look forward to trying more recipes from Against All Grain and bringing their flavors into my regular rotation. Sometimes all it takes is one well-made meal to rewrite an old culinary story.