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Low-calorie recipes

Lighter recipes that are still filling and full of flavour. (764 recipes)

Ugnsbakad laxOven-baked salmon

Ugnsbakad lax is one of Sweden's most common weeknight dinners, made all year round but especially in summer when dill is everywhere, and it is on every school and workplace lunch menu. A thick side of salmon bakes quickly with lemon slices and plenty of dill, staying moist and pink in the centre. Oily fish, high in protein and suitable as part of a balanced diet; serve with a few boiled new potatoes and green beans or a cucumber salad. About 350 kcal and 2 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is baking it until it is dry and chalky, with white protein seeping out; take it out as soon as it flakes. Chef's tip: salt the salmon 15 minutes before baking so it seasons through and holds its juices.

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Yaki imoRoasted sweet potato

Yaki imo is the winter street snack of Japan: from November the yaki-imo trucks crawl through Tokyo and Osaka neighbourhoods singing 'ishi-yaki imo' through a loudspeaker, selling Japanese sweet potatoes roasted slowly on hot stones. At home the oven does the job. Long, low heat turns the starch into natural sugars, so the flesh becomes golden, fudgy and almost syrupy, and nothing at all needs adding: no butter, no sugar, no salt. About 0.1 g salt per portion, all of it naturally in the potato. Eat them hot from paper as an afternoon snack or alongside miso soup. The usual mistake is roasting too hot and fast, which cooks the potato but never sweetens it. Chef's tip: the potato is ready when sticky syrup bubbles out of the skin and the whole thing slumps when squeezed with an oven glove.

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Hiyashi tomatoChilled tomato

Hiyashi tomato is the simplest thing on any Japanese izakaya menu in July and August: ripe tomatoes, chilled until icy, cut into wedges and served on a small plate, sometimes on crushed ice, to cool down a hot evening in Tokyo or Osaka. Many bars sprinkle salt; this home version leaves it out and offers a few drops of rice vinegar and toasted sesame oil instead, so the tomato's own sweetness and acidity do the work. About 0.0 g added salt; roughly 0.03 g per portion occurs naturally in the tomato. The usual mistake is using hard, pale supermarket tomatoes: this dish is only as good as the fruit, so buy deep red ones that smell of tomato at the stalk. Chef's tip: chill the plate as well as the tomatoes, so the wedges stay cold to the last bite.

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SobachaRoasted buckwheat tea

Sobacha is roasted buckwheat tea, drunk all over Japan and especially in the soba country of Nagano and Hokkaido, where it is poured free in noodle shops and kept in jugs in the fridge through summer. Toasted buckwheat groats are steeped in hot water to make a golden, caffeine-free tea with a nutty, almost popcorn aroma, and the softened groats can be eaten too, stirred into rice or salads. Nothing is added: no salt, no sugar, so about 0.0 g salt per cup. The usual mistake is burning the groats when roasting your own; keep the heat at medium and keep the pan moving. Use Tartary buckwheat (dattan soba) for a deeper yellow tea. Anyone with a buckwheat allergy should avoid it, as reactions can be serious. Chef's tip: steep a second time with slightly hotter water; the second cup is often the sweetest.

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Oksusu-chaRoasted corn tea

Oksusu-cha is the tea Korean households boil by the kettleful and keep in the fridge in old glass bottles, drunk instead of water with meals from Seoul apartments to Gangwon farmhouses, chilled in summer and hot in winter. Dried corn kernels are roasted until dark golden, then simmered to make a pale amber tea that tastes gently sweet and toasty, though nothing is added at all. About 0.0 g salt per glass. The usual mistake is boiling the kernels too long, which makes the tea cloudy and starchy; 15 minutes is plenty. Ready-roasted corn kernels are sold in Korean shops; if roasting your own, use dried corn, not fresh or tinned. Chef's tip: mix in a spoon of roasted barley for the classic boricha blend, rounder and more nutty, though no longer gluten free.

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Rau sốngFresh herb and vegetable plate

Rau sống, literally 'raw vegetables', is the heaped plate of lettuce, herbs and cucumber that sits in the middle of the table at almost every Vietnamese meal, from Hanoi bún chả to a Saigon family dinner. Everyone tears leaves to wrap grilled food, drops herbs into soup or eats them alongside rice. Nothing is added: no salt, no dressing. About 0.1 g salt per portion, naturally present in the greens. Seasoning comes from whatever dipping sauce is on the table, so a light hand there keeps the whole meal low in salt. The usual mistake is leaving the herbs wet; water dilutes the flavour and makes them wilt fast. Use whatever mix you can find: Thai basil, perilla (tía tô), Vietnamese balm (kinh giới), mint and coriander are classics. Chef's tip: soak the herbs in very cold water for 10 minutes, then spin dry; they become crisp and glossy and last through the whole meal.

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Mate de muñaAndean mint tea

Muña is the minty shrub that grows wild on the slopes around Cusco, Puno and the Sacred Valley, and highland cooks reach for it after a heavy meal of chicharrón or when visitors are struggling with the altitude. Market herb sellers sell it in fresh bunches, and hotels and homes leave it in a flask for anyone coming in from the cold evenings. Steeped simply in hot water, it smells somewhere between spearmint, oregano and pennyroyal, with a cooling, slightly peppery taste and a pale green-gold colour. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach. The usual mistake is boiling the leaves hard for a long time, which turns the tea brown and bitter. Pour water just off the boil over the sprigs, cover, and let it steep. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the aroma rises as soon as you lift the lid. Outside Peru, look for dried muña in Latin shops; failing that, use mostly spearmint with a little fresh oregano. Muña is strong: avoid large amounts in pregnancy, and check with a doctor if you take regular medication. Chef's tip: cover the cup while it steeps so the scented oils stay in the tea.

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Gondhoraj gholLime-scented yogurt drink

In Kolkata the gondhoraj lime arrives with the monsoon heat, a knobbly green fruit whose peel smells of flowers and pine more than of sour citrus. Bengali households use it to lift dal and fish, but in the sticky months from Boishakh into Srabon it goes into ghol: dahi churned with cold water until frothy, sweetened lightly and scented with the zest, a squeeze of juice and a torn leaf. Cafés along Gariahat and old sweet shops serve it in clay bhaar cups after lunch, and it is just as good mid-afternoon with a plate of muri. It drinks thin, cool and silky, with a soft tang and a perfume that hits the nose before the first sip. The usual mistake is grating too deep or leaving the zest to sit for an hour: the white pith and the oils turn bitter. Take only the green outer layer, add it just before serving, and stop when the ghol smells floral rather than sharp. It is ready when the top is covered in fine foam and a spoon comes out lightly coated. Chef's tip: for the salted version, swap the sugar for black salt and a pinch of roasted cumin, as many Kolkata homes do on the hottest days.

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Juhua cha (chrysanthemum tea)

The small white hangbaiju flowers grown around Tongxiang, near Hangzhou, are picked in November, steamed and dried, and they end up in teapots all over China. Families brew them after a rich dinner, through the dry autumn, and iced in summer; dim sum houses in the south offer them as a caffeine-free choice, often mixed with pu-erh. The tea is pale gold, lightly floral with a faint bitterness like chamomile, softened by a little rock sugar and a few goji berries that turn plump and red in the pot. The common mistake is pouring boiling water straight onto the flowers and leaving them for twenty minutes; the tea turns brownish and bitter. Water just off the boil, around 90 °C, and a short steep keep it clear and sweet. It is ready when the flowers have opened like little daisies, the colour is light amber and the smell is honey-like. You can top up the pot two or three times. If you are allergic to ragweed, daisies or marigolds, try a small cup first or skip it, as chrysanthemum belongs to the same family. Chef's tip: for iced juhua cha, brew it double strength and pour it straight over a glass full of ice so it does not taste watery.

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Douzhi (fermented mung bean drink)

Douzhi is the breakfast that divides Beijing. It is the sour liquid left over when mung beans are ground and their starch settles out to make noodles and jelly; left to ferment for a day or two, the grey-green whey turns tangy, a little cheesy and sulphurous. Old Beijingers drink it piping hot at dawn in hutong shops around Qianmen and Huguosi, with a dish of finely shredded salty pickle dressed in chilli oil and crisp fried dough rings (jiaoquan) from the bakery. First-timers often say it smells like stale socks; regulars say it tastes like home. The texture is thin and slightly creamy, the flavour sour, a little bitter and savoury. The common mistake is boiling the soured starch hard: it separates into grey water and sludge. Bring it up slowly, stirring, and take it off as soon as it froths. The ferment makes only a trace of alcohol, well under 1%. Ferment at 20–25 °C; normal signs are fine bubbles, a sour, yogurt-like smell and a grey colour. Discard it if you see fuzzy mould, pink or black patches, a slimy texture or a putrid smell. Chef's tip: save 100 ml of a good batch to start the next one, as Beijing workshops do.

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Spremuta di arance rosseFresh blood orange juice

From December to April the orchards on the plain below Etna, around Catania, Lentini and Paternò, are heavy with Tarocco, Moro and Sanguinello blood oranges. The cold Etna nights turn their flesh red, and in Catania bars the barista squeezes them to order on a lever press, serving the spremuta beside a cornetto or a granita at breakfast. It is sweet, juicy and tart, tasting of orange with hints of raspberry and cherry, and the colour runs from streaky pink to deep garnet depending on the variety. The common mistake is squeezing the oranges hours ahead or pressing the white pith too hard: the juice turns bitter and the colour goes brown. Squeeze just before drinking, press gently and stop before you grind into the skin. It is ready when the juice is bright and frothy on top and tastes balanced, with no bitter aftertaste. Moro oranges give the darkest juice; Tarocco is sweetest. Outside Sicily, any blood orange works, or mix half ordinary oranges with half blood oranges. Chef's tip: roll each orange firmly on the counter before cutting; it softens the segments so you get more juice with less pressing.

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Citron presséFresh lemon drink

Order a citron pressé on a Paris terrace in July, or at a café in Nice after the beach, and the waiter brings a tall glass with an inch of freshly squeezed lemon juice, a carafe of iced water, a sugar bowl or a little jug of syrup and a long spoon. You build the drink yourself, as sharp or as sweet as you like, which is half the pleasure; French children learn to drink it with plenty of sugar, grown-ups often with almost none. It is bright, sour and cleansing, nothing like bottled lemonade, and best in the late afternoon heat. The common mistake is stirring granulated sugar straight into cold lemon water: it sinks and never dissolves, so the first sips are sour and the last a sludge. Dissolve the sugar in the juice first, or use a quick syrup. It is ready when the sugar has vanished, the drink tastes balanced to you and the glass is beaded with cold. Unwaxed lemons matter if you add a twist of peel. Chef's tip: pour the water over ice slowly and taste after half the carafe; most people find they need less water than they expect.

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Tisane de tilleul (linden tea)

Carpentras, at the foot of Mont Ventoux, has been France's linden capital for over a century. In late June the flowering lime trees are harvested by hand, the blossoms and their pale papery bracts dried in the shade, and in July the town's linden market sells them by the sack. In French homes a tisane de tilleul is what you drink after dinner, at the end of a long day or before bed, often with a slice of lemon or a little honey; Proust's famous madeleine was dipped in one. It tastes softly floral and sweet, a little like honey and fresh hay, with a smooth, almost silky feel. The common mistake is using fully boiling water and steeping for fifteen minutes: the tea turns dull brown and slightly astringent. Let the kettle settle to about 90 °C and steep for 5–7 minutes, covered. It is ready when the infusion is pale gold and smells of a summer garden. It is traditionally drunk to unwind; if you take regular medication, have a heart condition, or want to give it to young children, check with a doctor first. Chef's tip: keep the pot covered while it steeps so the scented oils stay in the tea instead of the kitchen.

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Thambili (king coconut water)

All along Sri Lanka's roads, from Galle Road in Colombo to the highways into Kandy and the beaches of the south coast, vendors stack bright orange king coconuts in pyramids under umbrellas. The thambili is a variety grown on the island for drinking: smaller than a green coconut and sweeter, with a faint saltiness that makes it more refreshing than any bottled drink. It is drunk any time of day in the heat, after a long bus ride, after a cricket match, and given to people recovering from a fever because it is gentle on the stomach. The water is clear, lightly sweet and nutty, and the soft jelly inside is eaten with a spoon made from a slice of the husk. The common mistake is hacking at the side of the nut; the blade glances off and the water spills. Trim the pointed top with downward strokes until a pale circle shows, then pierce it. It is ready to drink when a small hole opens straight into the water without husk fibres. Outside Sri Lanka, young green or Thai coconuts are the nearest substitute. Chef's tip: chill the coconuts for a few hours before opening; the water tastes sweeter cold, and use a heavy knife and a towel, keeping fingers well clear.

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Beli mal (bael flower tea)

Beli mal is the herbal tea almost every Sri Lankan grandmother keeps in a tin. The small white flowers of the bael tree, the sacred tree found around temples and village gardens, are dried in the sun and brewed into a fragrant, amber drink that tastes softly floral, slightly fruity and a little bitter, a bit like a lighter chamomile. It is drunk in the morning or in the evening instead of black tea, offered at almsgivings and alongside kevum and kokis at Avurudu, and is traditionally taken after rich food to help digestion. Coriander seeds and a slice of ginger are a common addition at home. The custom is to sip it hot with a small piece of kithul jaggery held in the mouth, or stirred in. The common mistake is boiling the flowers fast for a long time: the tea turns dark and unpleasantly bitter. Simmer gently for a few minutes and then let it steep off the heat. It is ready when the tea is clear amber and smells sweet and flowery. It is caffeine-free, but bael may lower blood sugar, so check with a doctor if you take diabetes medication or are pregnant. Chef's tip: buy flowers that look pale cream; dark brown, crumbly ones are old.

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Ranawara teaTanner's cassia flower tea

Ranawara, tanner's cassia, is a scrubby shrub with bright golden flowers that grows wild along dry-zone roadsides and in gardens from Kurunegala to Jaffna. The flowers are picked, dried in the shade and sold in packets at every Sri Lankan supermarket and ayurvedic shop, and many households drink a cup each morning instead of plantain tea, traditionally believing it helps balance blood sugar and cool the body during the hot season. It brews into a pale golden-yellow tea with a mild, grassy, slightly beany taste and a gentle bitterness, which is why it is drunk with a piece of jaggery or a spoon of kithul treacle. The common mistake is brewing the flowers with too little water or for too long: the bitterness takes over. A good pinch per cup, a short simmer and a few minutes' steep is enough. It is ready when it is clear and bright yellow and smells like dried hay. Ranawara is a senna-family plant: do not drink it if you are pregnant or breastfeeding, do not give it to young children, and check with a doctor if you take diabetes or other regular medication. Chef's tip: add a few dried flowers to the cup when serving; they float and turn the colour even more golden.

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Ivan-chai (fireweed tea)

Long before Chinese tea reached ordinary villages, peasants around Koporye near St Petersburg, and on through Karelia and the Arkhangelsk forests, were rolling and fermenting the leaves of fireweed, the tall pink-flowered plant that floods clearings every July. Ivan-chai is having a revival now, sold in paper bags at markets and drunk at the dacha in the evening from the samovar, because it has no caffeine and will not keep anyone awake. It brews to a clear amber with a soft, slightly fruity, honey-and-dried-apple taste and almost no bitterness. Granular kinds taste deeper, leaf kinds more floral. The common mistake is brewing it for two or three minutes like black tea; it needs a full 10 minutes in a warmed pot to open up, and it never turns bitter if you leave it longer. It is ready when the liquid is a deep golden-amber and smells of honey and dried fruit. It is traditionally drunk as a calming evening tea; if you are pregnant or on regular medication, check with a doctor before drinking it daily. Chef's tip: the same leaves give a second, lighter pot; just top up with fresh hot water and wait another 10 minutes.

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Berezovy sok (birch sap)

For two or three weeks at the end of March and into April, while there is still snow under the trees and before the buds open, the birches around Moscow, Tver, Vologda and across the north start to run. Families tap a few trees at the dacha and drink the sap straight from the jar: clear, cold, very faintly sweet, tasting of rainwater and fresh wood. Because it spoils within two or three days, villagers bottled the rest with sugar, raisins and lemon zest, letting it ferment slightly into a sparkling drink that kept into early summer; like any ferment it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk young. Only tap with the owner's permission, choose trees thicker than 20 cm, drill one small hole and plug it with a wooden peg afterwards so the tree heals. The common mistake is sealing the bottles tight at warm room temperature, which can make them burst; keep them cool and open the caps daily. The bottled sap is ready when the raisins float, a ring of fine bubbles forms on top and it tastes gently sparkling. Chef's tip: drink the first glass straight from the tree; it is never quite as good again.

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Horchata lojanaHerbal flower infusion

In Loja and the valleys of Vilcabamba and Malacatos, horchata has nothing to do with rice: it is a pink herbal infusion of anything up to twenty garden plants, drunk hot at breakfast and after lunch, or cold from the fridge on warm afternoons. Markets sell the herbs in bundles: cedrón, hierbaluisa, toronjil, mint, chamomile, mallow, and the red-leaved escancel and ataco (red amaranth) that give the colour. It tastes lemony, floral and faintly silky, and turns from ruby to bright pink the moment lemon juice goes in. The common mistake is boiling all the herbs hard, which makes it bitter and grassy; only the tough flaxseed and lemongrass simmer, and the soft leaves steep off the heat. It is ready when the liquid is deep red-pink and smells of lemon and flowers. Abroad, Latin shops sell dried mixes; dried hibiscus gives the colour if you lack amaranth. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach; if you are pregnant or on medication, check with a doctor before drinking it daily. Chef's tip: add lemon at the table, glass by glass, to watch the colour change.

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Café chorreadoCloth-filtered coffee

Every Costa Rican grandmother has a chorreador: a small wooden stand holding a cloth bag, the bolsita, over a cup or jug. Hot water is poured through the grounds by hand, a little at a time, and the result is the coffee drunk at breakfast with gallo pinto and again at the afternoon cafecito around three, with a tamal, a slice of pan casero or a rosquilla. The cloth catches the oils and fine grounds, so the cup is clean, bright and smooth, with the soft acidity and caramel sweetness of Tarrazú and Central Valley beans. In the countryside the water is sometimes sweetened with tapa de dulce before it goes through. It is strong coffee, so mind the caffeine late in the day. The common mistake is pouring all the water in at once, which floods the bag and leaves weak, uneven coffee; pour in slow circles, in four or five goes. It is ready when the drips slow to a trickle and the coffee is dark reddish-brown and smells of toasted caramel. Never wash the bag with soap; rinse it in hot water and hang it to dry. Chef's tip: boil a new bag once with a spoonful of coffee before using it, to season the cloth.

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Adrak ka acharGinger pickle

Walk into a Punjabi dhaba in winter and there is often a steel bowl of ginger matchsticks soaking in lemon juice beside the onion rings. Adrak ka achar is the simplest pickle of all: tender ginger, green chilli, salt and lemon, nothing cooked. Young ginger with thin, pinkish skin reacts with the acid and turns a pretty pale pink within a day; older ginger stays yellow but tastes just as good. The flavour is clean, hot and sour, with crunch, and a forkful cuts the richness of sarson ka saag, makki ki roti, chole bhature or a heavy dal makhani. Common mistake: cutting the ginger thick or using fibrous old roots, which stay woody and harsh; slice thin enough to see light through. It is ready when the ginger has softened slightly, the juice tastes less sharp and the slices have taken colour. Fresh ginger in lemon juice keeps in the fridge for up to 2 weeks; discard it if mould appears, the juice turns slimy or the smell turns from fresh-sour to musty. Chef's tip: a pinch of black salt (kala namak) added at the end gives it that dhaba-style sulphurous edge.

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Jicaletas (jícama lollipops with chamoy)

At home time outside primary schools in Mexico City's Coyoacán and Narvarte, carts sell jicaletas, thick rounds of jícama pushed onto a stick like a giant lollipop and painted bright red with sweet-sour chamoy. They are crunchy, juicy and cold, with salty, sour and spicy layers on the outside, and make a light afternoon snack on a hot day. Chef's tip: cut the slices at least 1.5 cm thick, otherwise they snap off the stick at the first bite.

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Kulle chaatStuffed cucumber chaat

Kulle chaat comes from the lanes of Chandni Chowk around Chawri Bazar, where a couple of old stalls carve fruit and vegetables into little cups and fill them with chickpeas, pomegranate and lime. It is the cooling chaat of Delhi's scorching summer afternoons: no frying, no yoghurt, just juicy, crunchy cups dusted with chaat masala and black salt. Children love picking them up whole. Chef's tip: season the inside of each empty cup with lime and chaat masala before filling, so every bite is tangy right through.

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Bol renverséUpside-down rice bowl

Order a bol renversé in a Port Louis canteen or a Grand Baie food court and it arrives as a neat dome of rice with a fried egg perched on top; break into it and a glossy stir-fry of chicken, prawns, mushrooms and Chinese leaves spills out. The trick is building it backwards in a bowl, egg first, then the stir-fry, then rice packed down, before flipping it onto a plate. The sauce should be thick enough to coat the vegetables but loose enough to soak into the rice. People often make the sauce too thin and the dome slides apart in a flood, so simmer it until it glazes the back of a spoon. Chef's tip: fry the eggs only until the whites are set and the edges are crisp, and lay them yolk-side down in the bowl so the yolk faces up and stays runny when you turn it out.

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Timatim fitfit (torn injera with fresh tomato)

Leftover injera never goes to waste: torn into bite-sized pieces and tossed with juicy chopped tomato, red onion, green chilli, lemon and oil, it becomes timatim fitfit, a cool, tangy salad eaten for a light lunch on hot days and on fasting days all over the country. Unlike timatim salata, which is just the tomato salad, this version is a meal in itself: the injera drinks up the dressing and turns soft and spongy while keeping a little chew. It is usually served in a bowl and eaten with more injera or with a spoon. The common mistake is mixing it too early, which turns the bread soggy; toss it no more than ten minutes before eating. It is gluten free only if your injera is made from 100% teff. Chef's tip: use day-old injera, which is slightly drier and holds its shape better than fresh.

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Mukunuwenna mallungShredded joyweed with coconut

A green mallung appears on almost every rice and curry spread in the western lowlands, and mukunuwenna, a small-leaved creeping plant that grows wild along paddy bunds and in damp garden corners, is one of the most loved. Grandmothers swear by it for good eyesight, and it is sold in tight bunches at every Colombo pola, the weekly market. The leaves are cut almost to threads, then barely warmed in a dry pan with grated coconut, red onion, green chilli and turmeric, so the dish stays fresh and slightly crunchy, a cool counterpoint to the curries around it. Outside Sri Lanka, look for it frozen in Sri Lankan or Tamil shops, or use baby spinach or watercress. Overcooking is the trap: two or three minutes is enough, and longer turns the greens dull and soggy. Chef's tip: roll a handful of leaves into a tight cigar and slice it as finely as you can; the thinner the shreds, the better they hold the coconut.

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BlitvaSwiss chard and potatoes

Order grilled fish in any konoba along the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, from Zadar down to Dubrovnik, and a heap of blitva usually comes with it. Swiss chard and potatoes are boiled together until soft, then crushed roughly with lots of good olive oil and a little garlic, so the potatoes turn creamy and the chard stays silky and green. It is humble, quick and very good, also with grilled vegetables, eggs or a simple bean dish. The usual slip is not draining well enough, which leaves a watery, grey mush; let everything steam dry in the colander for a minute. Chef's tip: use the best olive oil you have and add a final drizzle at the table, as Dalmatians do, so its peppery taste stays bright.

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Tunisian octopus salad

Fishermen of the Kerkennah islands, off Sfax, still catch octopus in clay pots laid on the shallow seabed, and in winter the season's catch turns up in harbour cafés and home kitchens as this simple salad. The octopus is simmered slowly until tender, cooled in its broth, then sliced and tossed with red onion, plenty of parsley, lemon juice and good olive oil, with a little harissa if you like. It is light, clean and briny, eaten as a starter with bread or on a summer table of salads and grilled fish. Buy octopus from a reputable fishmonger; frozen and thawed octopus is often more tender than fresh. A common mistake is boiling the octopus at a rolling boil, which makes it rubbery; keep it at a gentle simmer until a knife slides in easily. Chef's tip: let the cooked octopus cool in its cooking liquid for 20 minutes before slicing; it stays juicy rather than tightening up.

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Shalgam ki sabziSpiced turnip curry

December fog over central Punjab means turnip season: purple-topped turnips pile up at every mandi, and village kitchens from Sheikhupura to Okara cook them down into this soft, sweet-savoury mash. Covered and steamed in their own juices with onion and tomato, the turnips lose their peppery bite, then a little jaggery and a final hard stir-fry turn them glossy and jammy. It is winter food through and through, eaten with makki di roti or wholewheat chapati, a dab of white butter for those who want it and a glass of lassi. Skipping the final bhuno, the open-pan frying at the end, is the classic error: it leaves the dish watery and flat instead of rich. Chef's tip: mash only half the turnips, leaving the rest in small pieces, so the sabzi has some texture.

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Murungai ilai varaiDrumstick leaf stir-fry

Nearly every compound in Jaffna has a murungai tree by the well, and its tiny, feathery leaves are stripped and cooked into varai, a dry, fluffy stir-fry that turns up with rice and kulambu several times a week. Varai simply means a dry dish with coconut, and this one is earthy and faintly peppery from the moringa leaves, with grated coconut crushed with garlic, cumin and turmeric, and a tempering of mustard seed and dried chilli. It is healthy everyday food, prized for iron and calcium, and it partners well with a fiery Jaffna curry and plain rice. Many cooks go wrong by adding water, which makes it steam into a soggy mass; the leaves have enough moisture of their own. Chef's tip: strip the leaves by running your pinched fingers down each stem towards the tip, and throw away any yellow leaves and the thicker stalks, which stay stringy.

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RawashRaw rhubarb with salt

For a few weeks in spring, men walk down from the hills around Kabul and Paghman with bundles of rawash, wild mountain rhubarb, and sell the thick red-flecked stalks on the pavement, peeled to order and handed over with a twist of salt. It is a crunchy, juicy and mouth-puckeringly sour snack, a sign that winter is over, eaten while walking or at a picnic on the first warm Friday. Wild rhubarb is almost impossible to buy outside the region, so this home version uses young, slim forced or garden rhubarb stalks, which are close in sourness and crunch. Never eat any of the leaf: rhubarb leaves are poisonous, so cut them off and throw them away, and enjoy the stalks in modest amounts, as they are high in oxalic acid. Chef's tip: chill the stalks in iced water for 10 minutes first; the cold makes them snap and softens their sharp edge.

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Al yakhniBottle gourd in yogurt gravy

Yakhni in Kashmir means a gravy built on yogurt rather than tomato, and al yakhni, made with bottle gourd, is the version cooked in Muzaffarabad and the Neelum valley when the vines are heavy in late summer. The pale, delicately sour sauce is flavoured with ground fennel, dry ginger, cloves and cardamom, never chilli powder, and finished with a crumble of dried mint, so it tastes cool and aromatic rather than hot. It is eaten with a mound of plain rice, often alongside a red, chilli-hot dish so the two balance each other. Yogurt that splits into grainy curds is the trap: it happens when cold yogurt meets hot oil or when the pot is left alone before it boils. Chef's tip: whisk the yogurt with the spices and keep stirring in one direction over a medium heat until it comes to a full boil; after that it will not curdle.

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Tinday masalaRound gourd curry

Small, pale-green tinday arrive on Punjab's sabzi carts with the summer heat, and in Lahore and Faisalabad homes they are cooked through June and July, when nobody wants a heavy pot of meat. Cooked slowly with onion, tomato and a handful of green chillies, the little gourds turn tender and almost silky, soaking up the masala like a sponge while keeping a faint freshness that is a little like courgette. Expect to see it with hot chapati, a bowl of yogurt and a plate of kachumar for a light lunch. Many cooks drown tinday in water, and they end up soggy and grey; they release plenty of their own liquid and need only a splash. Chef's tip: choose small, firm tinday with soft fuzz on the skin, since large ones have hard seeds and a woody core.

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Kancha aam makhaSpiced green mango

Outside every school gate in Bangladesh during the hot months, a vendor with a glass box on his cart sells green mango makha: unripe mango sliced paper-thin and squeezed by hand with salt, sugar, chilli and a splash of mustard oil, handed over in a cone of newspaper with a toothpick. Makha means mixed by hand, and the hand matters, as the squeezing bruises the mango so it softens and drinks in the seasoning. It tastes sour, sweet, salty and hot all at once, with the sharp nose-burn of raw mustard oil, and it is eaten as an afternoon snack in April and May, especially around Pohela Boishakh. Slicing the mango too thick is the error that leaves it hard and bland in the middle. Chef's tip: stir in a spoon of kasundi, Bengali mustard relish, for the version the street sellers call kasundi makha.

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Lau khosha bhajiFried bottle gourd peel

Thrifty Bangladeshi cooks never throw away the green skin of a bottle gourd: once the flesh has gone into a curry or a milky lau ghonto, the peel is cut into fine strips and fried with nigella seeds and green chilli into a small, crunchy, slightly bitter bhaji. It is a classic of home kitchens rather than restaurants, made in winter when lau is cheap and young, and eaten with rice and dal as a little extra on the side. The strips stay pleasantly crisp at the edges and soft inside, with the earthy taste of the gourd. Skin from an old, hard gourd is tough and woody, which is the usual reason this fails, so use only young, pale-green gourds with a tender peel. Chef's tip: a few matchsticks of potato fried in with the peel help it brown evenly.

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Lal shak bhajiStir-fried red amaranth

Bunches of lal shak, red amaranth with leaves streaked in crimson, are one of the cheapest and most common greens in any Bangladeshi bazar, and almost every lunch table has a bowl of it, cooked quickly with garlic and a dried chilli. The leaves wilt into a soft, slightly earthy tangle and bleed a beautiful magenta juice that turns the rice pink, which children love. It is served with plain rice and dal as the first course of a meal, before any fish or meat, the way Bengali meals traditionally start with something bitter or green. Adding water is unnecessary and the common slip; the leaves release plenty of their own and simply need to cook down uncovered. Chef's tip: wash the leaves well in several changes of water, as amaranth holds a lot of grit near the roots.

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Shor nakhodChickpea and potato salad

Push a wooden cart through the lanes around Kabul's Mandawi bazaar and you will find vendors ladling shor nakhod into small bowls for schoolchildren and shoppers, a snack that is half salad, half sour little soup. Soft chickpeas and cubes of boiled potato sit in a pool of vinegar sharpened with raw onion, green chilli and a fistful of coriander, so every spoonful is salty, tart and fresh at once. It is eaten on its own with a spoon, or beside naan, and it turns up at iftar during Ramadan because it is light after a day of fasting. Most home versions disappoint because the potatoes are dressed cold and the vinegar just slides off them, so toss them while they are still warm. Chef's tip: keep a spoonful of the chickpea cooking liquid or tin water in the dressing, which gives it the slightly cloudy body of the street version.

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Shim bhortaFlat bean mash

From November the bamboo trellises in courtyards across rural Bangladesh hang heavy with shim, the broad, flat hyacinth beans with purple or green edges, and they end up in curries, bhajis and, best of all, a smoky green bhorta. The beans are boiled until tender, then crushed with garlic fried golden in mustard oil, crisp dried chilli and raw onion into a coarse, nutty paste. It is one of the stars of a winter bhorta spread, served with hot rice, dal and a fried egg or fish for those who eat it. Leaving the strings on is the common slip; they stay tough and fibrous in the mash, so pull them off both edges first. Chef's tip: if the beans are mature with fat seeds inside, pop the seeds out, dry-roast them for a few minutes and pound them in for extra crunch.

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Kancha aamer tok dalGreen mango lentil dal

When the first hard, green mangoes fall from the trees around Rajshahi in April and May, cooks slice them into the dal pot, and the result is the most refreshing bowl of the hot season. Tok dal is deliberately thin, almost like a soup, with soft red lentils and slices of green mango that turn tender and tangy, finished with mustard seed and dried chilli crackling in mustard oil. It is eaten poured over plain rice, often as the last thing before a light fish or vegetable curry, because the sourness is meant to cool the body in the heat. Adding the mango at the start leaves it mushy and the dal overly sour, so it goes in once the lentils are soft. Chef's tip: taste the mango first; very sour fruit may need a pinch more sugar to balance it.

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Atmit (warm barley gruel with spiced butter and honey)

When a baby is born in an Amhara household, visiting women bring or cook atmit for the new mother, and the same soft, sippable gruel is made for anyone recovering from illness. Roasted barley flour (or oat flour) is whisked into water and simmered until it thickens to the texture of a thin custard, then enriched with a spoon of niter kibbeh, honey and a pinch of korerima. It tastes nutty, sweet and buttery, and is drunk warm from a cup rather than eaten with a spoon. Some homes add a little milk for extra richness. A common mistake is tipping the flour straight into hot water, which makes lumps; slake it in cold water first. Chef's tip: keep it thinner than you think; atmit thickens as it cools, and it should still pour easily from the cup.

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Besso (roasted barley flour drink and balls)

Farmers and travellers in Gojjam and Wollo have long carried a pouch of besso on journeys, because a handful of this roasted barley flour turns a cup of water into a filling meal. The barley is roasted until deep brown, ground fine and stored for weeks; stirred into cold water with a little sugar it makes a smooth, malty, slightly toasty drink, and kneaded with oil it becomes chewy little balls called chibto. It is eaten on fasting days, in the fields and by students before exams. Many families sweeten it with honey; sugar keeps this version vegan. The usual mistake is adding the barley flour to water all at once, which leaves dry clumps; whisk it in gradually. Chef's tip: roast the barley until it is the colour of milk chocolate and smells like toast; pale grains give a raw, floury taste, while black ones taste burnt.

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ChalopCold yogurt and cucumber soup

When Tashkent summers reach 40 °C, families eat chalop: chilled katyk or suzma loosened with cold water and filled with diced cucumber, radish and a pile of fresh dill, coriander, basil and spring onion. It is served in bowls with torn non bread, alongside plov or grilled shashlik, and some like a little ice in it. A common mistake is using thin, runny yogurt, which makes the soup watery; start with a thick yogurt and thin it to taste. Chef's tip: salt the cucumbers lightly and leave for 5 minutes before adding them, so they season through and stay crisp.

15 minUzbekSoupsGluten free
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MathaSalted buttermilk

Thinner than lassi and salty rather than sweet, matha is what Old Dhaka drinks after a plate of kacchi biryani or a heavy afternoon of tehari and rezala. Vendors around Nazimuddin Road and Bangshal carry it in tall clay pots, churned so long that tiny flecks of butter float on top, and pour it into glasses with a pinch of roasted cumin and black salt. It tastes tangy, cool and faintly smoky, and it cuts through rich, oily food like nothing else. People often make it with thick Greek-style yoghurt and no extra water, which gives a heavy drink that sits in the stomach; matha should be pourable and light. Chef's tip: churn with plenty of ice in the jug so the butter firms into flecks you can skim off or leave floating, as the street sellers do.

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KesäkeittoSummer vegetable and milk soup

In July, when Finland's first new potatoes, baby carrots, peas and cauliflower arrive at market stalls in Helsinki and Turku, families make kesäkeitto: the vegetables simmered in water until just tender, then finished with milk and a knob of butter and lots of dill. It is light, sweet and pale green, eaten with rye bread and butter. A common mistake is boiling it once the milk is in, which can curdle the soup. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in order of cooking time, so each is just tender and keeps its colour.

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PressgurkaPickled cucumber

Pressgurka, 'pressed cucumber', is the quick, sweet-sour cucumber pickle that goes with Swedish meatballs, fish, roast chicken and the Christmas julbord: very thin cucumber slices salted and pressed to soften, then covered in a light vinegar-sugar brine and scattered with parsley. A common mistake is skipping the press, which leaves the slices stiff and the brine watery. Chef's tip: slice on a mandoline as thin as paper, salt for 10 minutes and squeeze gently before adding the brine.

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Fever grass teaLemongrass and ginger tea

In Jamaican country yards a clump of fever grass, the local name for lemongrass, grows by the kitchen door, and a handful steeped in boiling water is the old remedy for colds, aches and restless nights. Brewed with fresh ginger, it is lemony, gently peppery and soothing, and is drunk hot, sweetened with a little brown sugar. The mistake people make is using the stalks whole, which gives a weak tea; bruise and cut them to release the oils. Chef's tip: tie long leaves in a knot before you add them, as country cooks do, so they are easy to lift out.

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Aiyu jelly with lemonAiyu fig jelly with lemon

Squeezing a little cloth bag of seeds in a bowl of water until it turns into jelly sounds like a magic trick, yet that's how aiyu has been made for well over a century in Chiayi, at the foot of the Alishan hills where the climbing fig grows wild. The pectin in the dried seeds sets the water into a soft, glassy, pale-gold jelly with almost no taste of its own, so it's cut into cubes and served icy cold with tart lemon juice and honey syrup, the most refreshing thing on a sticky Taipei summer afternoon. The classic failure is a bowl that won't set, usually because the bowl was oily or the water was distilled or very soft; it needs ordinary tap or mineral water. Chef's tip: rub the bag steadily for 8–10 minutes and stop as soon as it feels slippery and nothing more comes out, or the jelly turns cloudy and bitter.

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Pui shak bhajiStir-fried Malabar spinach

Pui shak climbs over the tin roofs and fences of village homes all through the monsoon, and its thick, glossy leaves and succulent stems cook down into a soft, slightly silky side dish that people either love or find a little slippery. In most homes it is cooked with small shrimp, or with a fish head, and with chunks of pumpkin or potato; this is the plain vegetarian version, with garlic, green chilli and a pinch of nigella, plus a few cubes of potato for body. It is eaten with hot rice and dal at lunch, especially in July and August when the vine is at its best. Covering the pan is the misstep that makes it watery and slimy; keep it open and let the moisture cook off. Chef's tip: cut the thick stems into short pieces and give them a 3-minute head start before the leaves go in.

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