2799 Jain recipes with no onion, garlic, potato, carrot, fresh ginger or other root vegetables, and no mushrooms, eggs or honey. Hing, dry ginger and turmeric powder are fine. Each has photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Apfelschorle, takes 2 minutes. Most take around 40 minutes.
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Mamri, better known as mandazi, are lightly sweet East African fried breads made with coconut milk and cardamom. They puff up golden and hollow and are soft inside. Serve warm with pigeon peas in coconut milk (mbaazi) for a classic Zanzibar breakfast, or with tea.
Small, round Swahili rice pancakes made from a yeasted batter of rice flour, coconut milk, grated coconut, sugar and cardamom. They're crisp and golden outside, soft and spongy inside. Serve hot with tea.
Injera is the soft, spongy, slightly sour flatbread eaten with Ethiopian stews: you tear it and scoop the food up with it. This home version uses rice and plain flour fermented with a home-made starter over a few days, then cooked on one side until covered in tiny holes. Serve rolled and sliced with missir wat, azifa and atter kik. Any fermented batter left over keeps in the fridge for the next batch.
A soft, savoury pie of blended boiled maize folded into a peppery white sauce and baked until golden on top. It's mild and comforting, a little like a corn pudding, and children love it. The eggs are optional: they make it set firmer. Serve hot with a salad or tomato stew.
Oyaki are the everyday snack of Nagano's mountain villages, where rice was scarce and wheat and buckwheat grew better. The plump dumplings are filled with whatever the season gives: pickled nozawana greens in winter, aubergine and miso in summer, sweet squash in autumn. Old farmhouses baked them in the ashes of the irori hearth; today they are browned in a pan and steamed, so they come out crusty on both faces with a soft, chewy middle. They travel well, which made them the lunch of farmers and hikers on the trails around Zenkoji temple. Chef's tip: let the dough rest for at least 30 minutes. A relaxed dough stretches thin around the filling without tearing.
Chunky skewers of pineapple, banana, strawberry, peach and nectarine drizzled with balsamic vinegar and dark muscovado sugar, then grilled over charcoal until the sugar caramelises. Warm, sticky and a little tangy. Serve hot as a barbecue dessert, with ice cream if you like.
Big pieces of sweet red pepper and fennel tossed with lemon, black pepper and olive oil and roasted until soft and just starting to brown, then topped with black olives, toasted pine nuts and fresh herbs. It works as a side or a light starter, warm or cold. The vegetables can also be roasted on the barbecue jiko.
All over India, fruit sellers with handcarts chop a plate of fruit chaat to order, and in Kolkata the evening carts near New Market and Gariahat pile guava, apple, papaya, banana, pomegranate and cucumber into a leaf bowl with chaat masala, black salt and lime. During Ramzan it appears at iftar, and in summer it is sold with a sprinkle of chilli. It is sweet, salty, sour and a little hot all at once, so it tastes nothing like a dessert fruit salad. Chef's tip: use at least one crunchy fruit (guava, apple or pear) and one soft one (banana or papaya) for contrast.
Whole bananas roasted on the barbecue until soft and sweet, cut into quarters, put on skewers, half-dipped in melted dark chocolate and rolled in chopped almonds, pistachios and cashews. It's a quick barbecue dessert that children love to help make. Serve them straight away while the chocolate is still soft.
Chunks of tender corn on the cob tossed in hot oil with cumin, green chillies, fresh coriander, turmeric, black pepper and lemon until every kernel is coated. It's hot, tangy and messy to eat with your fingers. Serve hot from the barbecue.
Chakuli pitha is Odisha's breakfast pancake and the first of the pithas a child learns to love; it is offered to Lord Jagannath and made at home on Sundays and for Manabasa Gurubar in the month of Margasira. Rice and a little urad dal are soaked, ground and fermented overnight, then poured onto a hot pan into a pancake that is thinner than an uttapam but softer and thicker than a dosa, with a lacy, holey top. It is eaten with aloo bhaja, ghuguni or simply with jaggery. Chef's tip: cook only on one side under a lid; the steam sets the top and keeps the holes.
When the monsoon arrives in Kolkata, the telebhaja shops at every para corner start frying beguni: long, thin slices of aubergine dipped in a spiced gram-flour batter and fried until the coat puffs and turns golden. It is eaten with muri and a cup of tea, or alongside khichuri on a wet Saturday. The inside should be soft and creamy, the shell thin and crackly. Chef's tip: a spoonful of rice flour and a pinch of nigella in the batter keep it crisp long after frying. This is a different dish from begun bhaja, where the slices are fried bare with turmeric and salt.
Chhena poda means 'burnt cheese', and it is Odisha's most famous sweet. It was first made in Nayagarh district, where a sweet maker is said to have left chhena and sugar overnight in a cooling wood oven. Fresh chhena is kneaded with sugar, a spoon of rice flour or semolina, and cardamom, then baked slowly until the outside caramelises into a dark, sticky crust and the inside stays moist and fudgy. It is offered to Lord Jagannath and sold in slabs at every Odia sweet shop. Chef's tip: line the tin with ghee-brushed banana leaf if you can; it adds the smoky note of the original.
Pootharekulu ('coated sheets') come from Atreyapuram village in the Godavari district, where women make translucent rice-starch films by dipping a cloth in batter and wiping it over a hot, upturned clay pot. Those whisper-thin sheets are then layered with ghee and powdered sugar or jaggery and folded into neat parcels that melt on the tongue. True rekulu need the special pot and years of practice, so this home method spreads a very thin rice batter on an upturned wok or non-stick pan and peels off the dried film. Sheets can also be bought ready-made in Indian shops; then just do the filling. Chef's tip: work with the sheets dry; brush ghee on, never sugar syrup, or they turn soggy and tear.
Qatayef only really appear in Egypt during Ramadan: in the weeks of the fast, street vendors in Cairo and Alexandria set up big griddles and pour rows of small pancakes that are cooked on one side only, then sold by the kilo for families to fill at home. The pale, bubbly side is folded around chopped nuts and raisins (or a creamy ashta filling), sealed into half-moons, baked or fried until crisp and dipped in syrup. They are eaten after iftar with tea. Chef's tip: cook the pancakes on one side only and don't flip them; the uncooked top stays sticky and is what glues the edges shut.
Travellers on the road from Patna to Rajgir stop at Silao, a small town near the ruins of Nalanda, for one thing: khaja, a pastry built from dozens of paper-thin layers that flake apart in the mouth and are glazed with a crackly sugar coat. Silao's halwais have made it for generations, and it is carried home in boxes as a present; it is also offered in temples and at weddings across Bihar and Odisha. It takes patience but no special equipment. Chef's tip: fry at a really low heat so the layers have time to open out like pages before the outside colours; hot oil seals them shut.
These are one of Tianjin's three famous snacks, named after Erduoyan ('ear hole') Lane, where the original shop opened over a hundred years ago. The dough is soft, slightly fermented glutinous rice, filled with dark, sweet red bean paste and fried until the shell is crisp and blistered while the inside stays chewy. Locals buy them for festivals and as a winter treat. Chef's tip: seal the edges thoroughly and fry at a moderate heat; hot oil makes them burst and spit.
The name means 'donkey rolling in the dust', after the golden soybean flour that coats these soft rolls like a donkey that has rolled on a dusty road. It's one of the old Beijing sweets sold at temple fairs and in snack streets near Houhai, often next to pea-flour cakes. Inside is chewy glutinous rice dough spread with red bean paste and rolled into a spiral. Chef's tip: toast the soybean flour yourself until it smells of roasted nuts; the shop-bought kind is often pale and flat-tasting.
Every April and May, when the hard, sour green mangoes arrive, Andhra homes turn into pickle factories. The mangoes are cut, stone and all, with a heavy cleaver, then mixed with freshly ground mustard, fiery red chilli powder, salt and a flood of sesame oil, and packed into ceramic jars to mature. Avakaya is fierce, pungent, salty and sour, and a tiny piece mashed into hot rice with ghee and dal is many Telugu people's idea of perfect lunch. A jar lasts the whole year. Chef's tip: every piece of mango, every knife and the jar must be bone dry; a single drop of water can turn a whole batch mouldy.
In Tamil Nadu the day starts with filter coffee: a strong decoction dripped slowly through a two-tier steel filter, mixed with plenty of hot, boiled milk and sugar, and frothed by pouring it from a height between a steel tumbler and its little bowl, the davara. It's served at every Chennai and Kumbakonam 'hotel' and in nearly every home, and it's thick, sweet and slightly bitter from the chicory in the coffee powder. Chef's tip: press the coffee only lightly in the filter and pour the water in slowly; packed too tight, it drips for an hour, and too loose, the decoction is thin.
On the morning of Thai Pongal in mid-January, families across Tamil Nadu cook new-harvest rice in a clay pot in the courtyard and wait for the milk to bubble over: 'pongalo pongal!'. That pot becomes sakkarai pongal, a sticky, golden-brown sweet of rice and moong dal cooked soft, then simmered with melted jaggery and finished with lots of ghee, cardamom, edible camphor and cashews and raisins fried golden. It's also the classic prasadam at Vishnu temples. It's the sweet twin of the peppery ven pongal. Chef's tip: dry-roast the moong dal until it smells nutty before cooking; it adds a toasty depth that plain boiled dal can't give.
Jaipur's old-city sweet shops fry malpua in wide pans of ghee from winter through Holi and Teej, and serve them stacked in a bowl with thick rabri. The batter is made with milk, a little khoya and crushed fennel, so each pancake turns soft and spongy in the middle with crisp, lacy brown edges, then soaks up a saffron-cardamom syrup. Some families also make them as an offering on Holi morning. The usual mistake is skipping the rest: unrested batter spreads unevenly and stays flat and chewy. Chef's tip: pour the batter into the centre of the pan from close above so it spreads by itself; this is how the lacy edges form.
Zunda is Sendai's signature sweet: young green soybeans mashed with sugar into a coarse, pale-green paste. Farmers in Miyagi made it at the end of summer, when edamame were at their best, and it is still sold everywhere from Sendai station's souvenir halls to small tea shops, now also as zunda shakes and rolls. The flavour is gentle, beany and fresh, closer to sweet peas than to red bean paste. Spoon it over warm, chewy rice dumplings and serve with green tea. Chef's tip: rub the skins off the cooked beans. It takes ten minutes but turns the paste from dull khaki to a vivid jade colour.
Ask a halwai in Ujjain, Indore or Ratlam for something festive and they will point to mawa bati: a fist-sized cousin of gulab jamun, made richer with more khoya, fried slowly to a near-mahogany shell and stuffed with nuts, saffron and cardamom. It turns up on wedding menus across Malwa and in sweet-shop boxes at Diwali, usually served warm with a spoonful of its own syrup. Cutting one open to find the green-gold filling is half the pleasure. Chef's tip: fry on a really gentle heat, with the oil barely shimmering; the bati should take a full 12–15 minutes to darken, which is how the middle cooks through.
Hokkaido grows most of Japan's sweetcorn, and in late summer roadside stands around Sapporo and Furano sell cobs so sweet people eat them raw. Butter corn is how the island turns that harvest into a side dish: kernels hissing in a hot pan with Hokkaido's other pride, butter, and finished with soy sauce until the edges catch. You'll find it as a ramen topping, a beer snack in izakaya and a bento filler. Serve it hot beside grilled vegetables or rice. Chef's tip: let the kernels sit in the pan without stirring for a minute at a time. A few browned, almost toasted kernels give the dish its nutty, popcorn-like smell.
Kootu sits halfway between a dal and a vegetable dish, and in Tamil homes it is the mild, kind side on a lunch plate next to a sharp rasam or a fiery kuzhambu. Chopped vegetables such as chow-chow, snake gourd, cabbage or pumpkin are cooked with moong dal until soft, then thickened with a paste of fresh coconut, cumin and a little green chilli. It's the dish many Tamil grandmothers give children and anyone recovering from a fever. Spoon it over rice with ghee or serve it alongside sambar and poriyal. Chef's tip: grind the coconut paste with the cumin raw, not toasted; the fresh, sweet cumin flavour is what makes kootu taste like kootu.
Kopi is the strong, thick coffee poured from long-spouted pots at kopitiams all over Singapore. The beans are dark-roasted with sugar and margarine, which gives a bittersweet, almost chocolatey brew, and the classic cup is sweetened with condensed milk. Order it like a local: kopi-o is black with sugar, kopi-c has evaporated milk, and kopi peng is iced. At home, a dark-roast robusta or espresso blend in a cloth sock or cafetière gets close. Chef's tip: pour the coffee back and forth between two jugs a few times; it cools slightly, aerates and gets the smooth, frothy kopitiam texture.
Tingmo are the everyday bread of Tibet: plain steamed buns made by stretching and twisting oiled strips of dough into a knot, so they open into soft, pull-apart layers. Families in Lhasa and Tibetan communities in Nepal and India eat them with spicy vegetable stews, dal and chilli sauce, tearing off pieces to mop up the sauce. The dough is simple; the twist takes a little practice. Chef's tip: once the steaming time is up, turn off the heat and wait 3 minutes before lifting the lid, so the buns don't collapse.
Roz bel laban (rice with milk) is the pudding of Egyptian homes and dessert shops alike, sold in clay pots and little foil cups across Cairo and eaten all year, especially in the evenings of Ramadan. It is made with short Egyptian rice cooked slowly in milk, thickened with a little cornflour so it sets creamy and spoonable, and scented with vanilla or orange blossom water. This is the roz bel laban fel forn version, finished in a very hot oven so the top blisters with brown spots, the way the Cairo dessert shops sell it. Serve it cold, scattered with pistachios or coconut. Chef's tip: stir the cornflour into cold milk before adding it; dropped straight into the hot pot it turns into lumps you can't whisk out.
Malabar parotta came from the hotels and tea stalls of Malabar in north Kerala and is now made all over the state, where parotta men slap and stretch dough on oiled marble counters late into the night. The soft dough is stretched paper-thin, pleated, coiled like a snail and griddled, then clapped between the hands so the layers pull apart into flaky ribbons. Eat it torn into vegetable kurma or a spicy black chickpea curry. Chef's tip: give the dough its full rest; well-rested dough stretches thin without tearing, which makes the layers.
Vetkoek ('fat cake' in Afrikaans) is fried at church fêtes, rugby matches and roadside stalls all over South Africa, and in townships it's known as amagwinya. The yeast dough fries into a crisp golden ball with a soft, steamy middle, split open while still warm. The best-known filling is curried mince, but just as many people eat them with grated cheese and apricot jam, golden syrup, or a spoon of chakalaka, as here. Chef's tip: keep the oil at a steady medium heat and turn the vetkoek often so they colour evenly and cook right through.
On the cold Tibetan plateau, people drink many cups a day of this salty, buttery tea, and a host keeps topping up a guest's bowl as soon as a sip is taken. Traditionally, brick tea is boiled for a long time, then churned with yak butter and salt in a tall wooden cylinder called a chandong. At home, a blender gives the same creamy, frothy result. It tastes more like a light broth than a sweet tea. Chef's tip: boil the tea hard and long; it needs to be very strong to stand up to the butter.
Provoleta is the first thing off the grill at an Argentine asado: a thick round of provolone-style cheese, invented by Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires, cooked in a small iron pan or straight on the grate until the outside forms a golden crust and the inside turns molten. It comes to the table bubbling, sprinkled with oregano and chilli flakes and drizzled with chimichurri, to scoop up with crusty bread. Many provolones use animal rennet, so check the label and choose one made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: chill the cheese well before cooking; cold cheese forms a crust before the middle melts and runs.
Upperi, the yellow raw-banana chips of Kerala, are fried in huge cauldrons in the snack shops of Kozhikode and Thrissur and handed round in bags at every Onam sadya, where they are one of the first things laid on the leaf. Green nendran bananas are sliced straight into hot coconut oil, and a splash of salted water goes in at the end, so the salt clings to every chip. The result is crisp, golden and faintly sweet, with that unmistakable coconut-oil smell. Chef's tip: rub a little oil on your hands before peeling the bananas; the sap stains skin and is very hard to wash off.
Pap is the everyday staple of South Africa, eaten in Soweto kitchens and Limpopo villages at almost every evening meal, and in a three-legged pot at every braai. It is plain white maize meal cooked in water, in two main styles: stywe pap (stiff pap), smooth enough to roll into balls and dip into relish, and krummelpap (crumbly pap), steamed into dry, fluffy crumbs. Both are eaten with chakalaka or a tomato-and-onion sauce. Chef's tip: wet the meal to a paste before it hits the boiling water, or you'll be fighting lumps for the next 20 minutes.
Tsampa, roasted highland barley flour, has been the staple food of the Tibetan plateau for centuries. Every morning, families in Lhasa and in nomad tents put a handful in a bowl, pour in butter tea, add a knob of butter and knead it with their fingers into small, nutty balls called pak. It's filling, quick and easy to carry. Barley flour is easy to find; toast it in a dry pan if it isn't already roasted. Chef's tip: add the tea a little at a time; you want a dough like firm marzipan, not a paste.
Fara is what a Chhattisgarhi kitchen does with yesterday's rice: it is kneaded with rice flour and hot water into a soft dough, rolled into little fingers, steamed and then tossed in a crackling tadka. Served at teatime or packed for long bus journeys, it is soft and chewy inside with spots of crispness from the pan. Some families spoon it into a thin, tangy curry instead, but the dry tempered version is the one sold in Raipur's snack corners. Chef's tip: knead the dough while it is still hot from the water; cold rice dough cracks and the fara split as they steam.
In the Kashmir Valley this deep-red lamb braise turns up at every wazwan, the multi-course wedding feast cooked by hereditary chefs, and on Sunday tables in Srinagar through the cold months. The Kashmiri Pandit version cooked here uses no onion, garlic or tomato: the colour comes from mild Kashmiri chillies, the warmth from ground fennel and dry ginger, and the body from yogurt cooked down until the fat rises red to the top (that red oil is the 'rogan'). Eat it with plain steamed rice, the Kashmiri way. Chef's tip: use bone-in shoulder or leg and give it time; the bones and slow simmer make the thick, glossy gravy, and boneless meat turns stringy before the sauce is ready.
Jeju's haenyeo, the island's women free-divers, have gathered abalone from its rocky coast for generations, and porridge made with it is a favourite breakfast on the island. Restaurants near the harbours and many hotel breakfast tables offer it, often a soft green-grey from the abalone guts cooked into the rice. It's gentle, warming food, also cooked for anyone who is unwell or tired. Frozen cleaned abalone works well; the porridge is just paler without the guts. Chef's tip: toast the soaked rice in sesame oil with the abalone until the grains turn translucent at the edges before adding any water; it gives the porridge its nutty flavour.
Tire d'érable (maple taffy, or 'tire sur la neige') is the highlight of a spring visit to a Québec or eastern Ontario sugar shack: hot boiled maple syrup is poured in ribbons over clean packed snow, where it firms into a chewy, amber toffee that you roll up onto a wooden stick. It's sold at winter carnivals in Québec City and made at home on a tray of snow or crushed ice. Chef's tip: use a sugar thermometer and stop at 112–114 °C; a few degrees under and it stays runny, a few over and it turns hard as candy.
Pazham pori is what the glass cases of Kerala's roadside tea shops are full of at four in the afternoon: long slices of ripe nendran banana dipped in a sweet batter and fried in coconut oil until puffed and golden. Bite through the crisp, slightly chewy coat and the banana inside is soft, hot and honeyed. People eat them standing at the counter with a glass of frothy, milky chaya, or carry a paper parcel home for the family. Chef's tip: wait until the nendran skins are mostly black; the banana must be fully ripe to turn creamy when fried.
Saskatoon berries grow wild across the Canadian prairies, and in July families in Saskatchewan, Alberta and Manitoba pick them by the pail for pie. They look like blueberries but taste sweeter and nuttier, almost like a cross with cherry and almond, with soft seeds. The city of Saskatoon takes its name from the Cree word for the berry, misâskwatômina. A double-crust saskatoon pie with ice cream is classic prairie summer dessert. Chef's tip: saskatoons are low in acid, so lemon juice is essential to wake up the flavour; outside Canada, use blueberries with a few drops of almond extract.
Bannock is a quick bread of flour, baking powder, fat and water, cooked in a cast-iron pan, baked, fried or wrapped around a stick over a campfire. It's eaten in First Nations, Métis and Inuit communities across Canada, at powwows, family meals and on the land, and every family has its own version. Its history is complicated: wheat flour and lard reached many communities through trade and government rations, and bannock became both a food of survival and a living symbol of community and resilience. Long before that, Indigenous breads were made from local plants and roots. This is a simple home pan version, not any one nation's recipe. Chef's tip: mix only until the dough just comes together; overworking makes bannock tough.
Geelrys, or yellow rice, is the bright, faintly sweet rice that comes to the table in the Western Cape with bobotie, curries and Sunday roasts, and at Cape Malay weddings and funerals alike. It is cooked with turmeric, a stick of cinnamon, a little sugar and plump raisins, then finished with a knob of butter so the grains gleam. The sweetness is gentle, just enough to soften a spicy curry. Chef's tip: add the raisins at the start so they plump in the cooking water; added at the end they stay tough and chewy.
In Mongolian summer, when the herds are milked several times a day, families on the steppe gently heat fresh milk in a wide pan, ladling and pouring it back to froth it, then leave it overnight. By morning a thick, wrinkled, pale-gold skin of cream has formed: öröm. Lifted off and folded, it's spread on boortsog (fried dough) or bread with a sprinkle of sugar and eaten with milk tea. It's rich, slightly nutty and very simple. Chef's tip: use the widest, heaviest pan you own and the lowest possible heat; öröm needs a large surface and patience, not boiling.
Mambazha pulissery appears in Kerala kitchens in April and May, when small, fragrant village mangoes fall from the trees, and it is often on the Vishu sadya. Whole small ripe mangoes, or chunks of bigger ones, are simmered with jaggery and chilli until syrupy, then loosened with a coconut-cumin paste and lightly soured yogurt. Unlike kalan, it stays thin and pourable: sweet, tangy and mildly hot, with the fenugreek tempering on top. Pour it over rice, with a thoran on the side. Chef's tip: use very ripe, slightly fibrous mangoes; firm ones make it sour and the sweetness never comes through.
Haupia is the dessert of every Hawaiian lūʻau and family party: coconut milk thickened and set into smooth, wobbly-firm squares that you can pick up with your fingers. It was once set with arrowroot from the pia plant; today cornflour does the job. It tastes clean, cool and gently sweet, and is also layered on chocolate pies and spread on cakes in Honolulu bakeries. Chef's tip: keep whisking until it's as thick as mayonnaise and big bubbles plop slowly; underdone haupia won't set firm enough to slice.
In Uruguay, a grey rainy afternoon has one answer: torta frita and mate. These thin discs of dough, pierced with a hole in the middle, are fried until puffed and golden and either sprinkled with sugar or eaten plain, still hot, between sips passed around the circle. In Montevideo you'll smell them from street stalls on wet days; at home they're made with butter or beef fat, here with butter. Chef's tip: the hole in the middle isn't decoration; it lets the centre cook through at the same speed as the edges.
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