I have always known what my dream dish should taste like. It’s a feast of bright, dominant flavors reminiscent of a speeding police car with a blaring siren. 

I discovered this police car a few years ago in the kitchen of my friend Kacper and his boyfriend Mo-Jai, who were visiting Warsaw and invited me over for a curry lesson. It was the first time I met Mo-Jai, and—as we all know—cooking eases interpersonal tensions and awkwardness. Mo-Jai had deliberately brought spices from London; he wasn’t sure if he would get all the ingredients he needed in Polish stores. 

Burning Love 

It was evening, the middle of summer, and the windows were wide open, but as soon as we got to work and threw onions, a cinnamon stick, a handful of cashews, cardamom husks, cloves, piri-piri peppers, cumin seeds, curry, and laurel leaves into the frying pan, the whole kitchen began to be filled with