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My journey with sharbat began on a bright day in a television studio. During an interview on Nepal Television, the discussion touched many topics, but my heart kept returning to one subject—our humble, refreshing, and deeply traditional drink: sharbat. It was then I realized this drink is more than a thirst-quencher. It’s a symbol of our identity and a reflection of our heritage. 

The word ‘sharbat’ comes from the Arabic word sharba, meaning ‘a sip’ or ‘something to drink.’ Its roots trace back to ancient Persia and the Arab world, where it was more than a cool refreshment. It was believed to have healing powers. Scholars and traditional healers used ingredients like rose, lemon, cardamom, and fennel to prepare these sweet herbal drinks.

As it traveled across the Islamic world—from Baghdad to Cairo, and later into the Ottoman Empire and Mughal India—sharbat was refined and reinvented. In India, Emperor Babur famously had ice brought from the mountains of Kabul just to enjoy sharbat in the summer heat. Regional ingredients like bael fruit and raw mango gave rise to new variations like aam panna.

Sharbat eventually made its way into Nepali kitchens and local culture. Here, it evolved again—crafted from ingredients found in our own soil, like khudo (traditional sugarcane molasses) and native lemons such as kagati and sun kagati. Today, sharbat is part of many Nepali households, but it deserves a more honored place in our national identity.

Nepal is a land rich in natural beauty, biodiversity, and culture. But some of our simplest traditions remain underappreciated. Sharbat is one of them. In a world full of imported soft drinks that are unhealthy, expensive, and harmful to local economies, sharbat offers a refreshing and sustainable alternative.

It’s healthy, easy to make, and full of local flavors. It energizes and cools the body, thanks to its natural ingredients. The molasses (khudo) provides organic sweetness, while the fresh lemon juice adds a zesty boost of vitamin C—good for digestion and immunity.

And sharbat is versatile. You can serve it chilled at a roadside tea shop, mix it into a cocktail at a luxury hotel, or enjoy it with momo during family gatherings. It belongs everywhere.

Here is a basic recipe that anyone can make at home, in restaurants, or at events:

Ingredients:

• 1 liter of natural or spring water
• 2–3 tablespoons of khudo (sugarcane molasses)
• Juice of 3–4 kagati or sun kagati lemons
• Optional: A few crushed mint leaves or a dash of rose syrup

Instructions:

• Mix water and khudo until fully dissolved.
• Add freshly squeezed lemon juice.
• (Optional) Add mint or rose syrup for extra flavor.
• Chill in the fridge or serve over ice.

This is more than just a recipe—it’s a taste of Nepal’s soil and spirit.

On that day at Nepal Television, I found myself passionately speaking about why sharbat should be served in every embassy, hotel, and street corner in the country. Imagine welcoming foreign guests at international conferences with a glass of chilled sharbat. Picture tourists arriving at resorts in Chitwan or trekking lodges in the Himalayas, greeted with this simple, delightful drink. What better way to share a piece of our culture?

With rising health concerns around sugary sodas and energy drinks, Nepali sharbat stands out as a natural and nutritious alternative. It hydrates, refreshes, and nourishes. It’s free from chemicals and full of the natural goodness of local lemons and molasses.

Sharbat can be enjoyed any time of day. It doesn’t spike blood sugar the way sodas do. And because it uses ingredients found across Nepal, it supports a healthy lifestyle while also supporting local farmers.

Promoting sharbat means investing in Nepal’s local economy. If more people start using khudo, it increases demand for locally grown sugarcane. If restaurants and hotels serve lemon-based sharbat, it helps citrus farmers. If street vendors sell sharbat, they gain income while sharing local flavors with visitors.

More than that, it’s about pride. In a globalized world dominated by multinational brands, serving sharbat is a way of saying: ‘This is who we are.’ It’s our version of Japan’s matcha tea, India’s lassi, or Qatar’s lemon-mint. It’s uniquely Nepali.

During the FIFA World Cup in Qatar, I was part of the culinary team that helped upgrade the Qatar Airways inflight menu. One of the highlights was introducing the Qatari drink ‘lemon mint’—simple, refreshing, and rooted in identity. That moment made me think: why shouldn’t Nepal have its own national drink?

We already do. It’s in our homes, our farms, and our traditions. It’s called sarbat—our version of sharbat.

This is more than a campaign for a drink. It’s a campaign for national pride, health, and economic empowerment. I urge families, restaurants, tourism operators, and government officials to make sharbat part of everyday life.

Let’s serve it at international events. Let’s include it on hotel menus. Let’s encourage farmers to grow more lemons and sugarcane. Let’s support local producers of khudo. Let’s inspire young entrepreneurs to bottle Nepali sharbat and sell it to the world.

Every glass of sharbat we serve is a step toward self-reliance. It’s a drink that quenches more than thirst—it speaks to our roots, our resilience, and our rich culture. It’s affordable, accessible, and full of potential.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

When I lived in Malekhu—a small town in Nepal famous for its fish—I often saw Indian buses stop near a wild-looking tree. Men would get off, snap off stems, and drive away. I found it odd. Curious, I asked a local elder, Barakoti Krishna Mama. He chuckled, “Even goats won’t eat that grass. Indians use it as a traveling toothbrush.”

I forgot about it. Years later, in the UK, I opened a packet of curry leaves. The smell hit me hard. It was sharp, familiar, nostalgic. I couldn’t place it. The memory tugged at me for years.

Then, during a jungle safari in Sauraha, I saw the same plant from Malekhu. I crushed a leaf in my hand and there it was: That same unforgettable smell. This wasn’t just any plant. It was curry leaf—something I once overlooked, now the hero of my kitchen abroad.

What shocked me even more was that wild organic curry leaves in the UK sell for up to £800 a kilo. This leaf, dismissed back home, is a premium herb abroad. I’ve used it in Qatar during FIFA 2022, and even while cooking for the Ambani family in Las Vegas. And every time, it took me back to Nepal.

Now, I store curry leaves in every form—fresh, dried, frozen, powdered. It’s my favorite spice. Not native to Nepal, perhaps, but deeply tied to my story. And I believe it’s time Nepal recognises this forgotten gem. 

What are curry leaves?

Curry leaves come from the Murraya koenigii tree, native to South Asia. The leaves are glossy, deep green, and aromatic. They are not related to curry powder, but they bring a distinct, citrusy flavor to food. In many Indian and Sri Lankan dishes, they are essential—especially for a process called tadka, where spices are briefly fried in oil to release flavor.

In Ayurveda, curry leaves are praised for healing benefits, from easing digestion to managing diabetes and improving hair health. Communities in southern India even plant them near temples, believing in their purifying powers.

Science now confirms what traditional healers long knew. Curry leaves can control blood sugar, help digestion, reduce hair fall, protect the liver, fight infections, lower cholesterol and aid in weight loss. This little leaf is a health powerhouse.

Strangely, the plant grows wild in parts of Nepal but nobody pays attention. We ignore what other countries pay high prices to import. There’s no system in Nepal to cultivate, process, or sell this plant. But the demand is real.

Nepal could export curry leaves in different forms: fresh, dried, powdered, or even freeze-dried. We already do this for timur (Sichuan pepper) and cardamom. Why not the curry leaf too?

Curry leaves are gaining attention in organic markets, gourmet kitchens, and even beauty products. Chefs use them in fusion dishes. Health lovers drink curry leaf tea. Cosmetic companies experiment with curry leaf oil.

It’s not just a spice. It’s a functional ingredient, one with a story and value.

In many Nepali homes, curry leaves are already used in cooking. Known locally as ‘meetho neem,’ this plant adds flavor to dals, curries, and pickles. But we don’t often grow it ourselves.

What if every household had one curry leaf tree? It’s simple, affordable, and powerful.

The tree is hardy and evergreen. It thrives in warm climates. It grows in pots, backyards, and fields. You can grow it from seeds or cuttings. It needs sunlight, compost-rich soil, and a little care. One tree can provide all the leaves a family needs and more.

I’ve traveled the world carrying my spice kit, especially fried curry leaves. In Mexico, during a Formula One race, I ran out. I called the Indian Embassy. To my surprise, a kind man invited me to his home to pick some. That’s the power of shared food traditions.

In Nepal, we could take this further. Encourage every family to grow a tree. In villages, urban homes, schoolyards. Teach how to grow it. Use it in food and medicine. Dry it. Sell it.

On a bigger scale, the tree grows well in farms too. Space them out one and a half to two meters. Use compost. Harvest leaves every few months. One mature tree gives one to two kilos a year.

It can be a good source of income. Farmers could supply local markets, or export dried or powdered leaves.

Curry leaves clean the air. Their roots prevent soil erosion. Bees love them. They don’t need much water. They cool the surroundings. Growing more of them helps the environment. Medicinally, they support the liver, aid digestion, reduce fat, and boost immunity. They’re rich in iron and vitamin A, good for eyes and blood.

Nepal can lead this, but others can follow. From the southern USA to Israel, curry leaf trees can grow in many climates. They can be grown in gardens, on balconies, or using new techniques like hydroponics.

We need awareness. Schools and communities could distribute grow kits. Chefs can promote the leaf in recipes. Governments and NGOs can support it with training and small grants.

Even small entrepreneurs can build businesses making dried leaves, curry leaf teas, oils, or extracts.

To me, curry leaves are more than just a flavor. They are memory, identity, and health. From the roadside of Malekhu to kitchens in Qatar and Mexico, they’ve been part of my journey.

It’s time we give this leaf the respect it deserves. Let’s stop calling it grass. And let’s plant one tree in every home. Because with every leaf we grow, we bring back something valuable—to our plates, to our health, and to Mother Earth.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

Every year, in the hills of Nepal, the arrival of April and May brings with it a familiar sound—the haunting call of a bird echoing through the forests: ‘kafal pakyo, kafal pakyo.’

This call, meaning ‘the kafal has ripened’ in Nepali, is sung by the short-winged cuckoo (Cuculus micropterus), a migratory bird. The bird’s song reminds locals of the seasonal fruit kafal, also known as the Himalayan Bayberry or Box Myrtle (Myrica Esculenta), found in the mid-hill forests of South Asia including Nepal.

For many Nepalis, this fruit isn’t just a seasonal delicacy but part of folk memory, culture, and tradition. 

One popular Nepali folklore tells the story of two orphan siblings. After their parents died, the elder brother left his younger sister in the forest, pointing to a kafal tree and promising to return when the fruits ripened. Seasons changed, and the sister waited alone, surviving on forest fruits. When the kafal finally ripened, her brother didn’t return. Heartbroken and lonely, the girl eventually died. It’s said that her soul turned into a bird that still sings, ‘kafal pakyo,’ as she searches for her brother.

Another story speaks of two lovers. The boy, before leaving to find work, told the girl he would return when the kafal ripened. But he never came back. The girl, heartbroken, died and became the cuckoo bird that returns every season, reminding the world that the fruit is ready but her beloved is still gone.

A similar tale from India’s Uttarakhand region is equally tragic. It’s about a widow and her daughter. One morning, the mother brought home some kafal after collecting grass and told her daughter they would eat the fruits together in the evening. The obedient daughter waited patiently, never touching a single fruit. But when the mother returned and found fewer fruits in the basket—withered by the afternoon heat—she suspected the girl had eaten some. In a moment of anger and exhaustion, she slapped her daughter. The girl fell, hit her head on a stone, and died.

Only later did the mother discover that the fruit had shrunk in the heat and rehydrated overnight in the cool air. Realizing her mistake, the mother died in grief. It’s believed both mother and daughter became birds. Today, the daughter’s bird still cries out, ‘kafal pako, me ni chakho’ (the kafals are ripe, but I have not tasted them.)

For most Nepalis, the kafal is a fruit to chew, enjoy for its tangy sweetness, and spit out the seed. But beyond Nepal, the fruit has found varied uses. In China, kafal is used for flavoring alcohol, snacks, and other foods. Its red color is also extracted as a natural food dye. The leaves are used to add aroma to soups and broths and are even dried as spices. In Japan, the fruit is preserved in syrup and eaten as a dessert. It’s also used in jams and baked goods.

Realizing the potential of kafal, a resident of Uttarakhand, Deepak Petshali, started experimenting with it. In his village of Petshaal in the Almora district, Deepak created a herbal tea from the fruit under his brand ‘Back to Nature.’

This herbal kafal tea isn’t only tasty but also packed with health benefits. Rich in antioxidants and vitamin C, it’s said to help with anemia, asthma, indigestion, constipation, and common colds. The process includes drying both the fruit and leaves, mixing them with spices like cloves and cardamom, and turning it into a flavorful herbal infusion. Today, Deepak’s kafal tea is gaining popularity not only in Uttarakhand but across India and even abroad.

So the question arises: If others can explore the full potential of this fruit, why not us? Nepal is rich in biodiversity, indigenous knowledge, and seasonal treasures like kafal. But we have often overlooked the commercial and medicinal value of our native plants. While the fruit continues to be consumed casually, its economic and health potential remains largely untapped in Nepal.

With rising interest in herbal products, organic farming, and traditional remedies, now is the time for us to look at our natural resources with new eyes. From Kafal-based tea, juice, jam, and pickles, to herbal medicine and skincare, the possibilities are wide open.

It would not only help preserve our traditions and folk stories but also create income opportunities for rural communities. Local entrepreneurs, cooperatives, and youth groups could lead this movement, turning a seasonal fruit into a source of pride and prosperity.

The next time you hear the bird calling ‘kafal pakyo’ in the hills, pause and remember the stories it carries—the waiting sister, the heartbroken lover, the obedient daughter, the grieving mother.

But let it also remind you of the fruit's unrealized potential. Kafal is not just a memory of spring. It can also be a gift for the future—if we choose to act.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

For many who grew up in rural Nepal, the sharp, tangy taste of kabro (Ficus lacor) pickle brings back warm childhood memories. This seasonal treat was once a favourite among children, who often ate the young shoots and fruits straight from the trees. The fresh leaves, buds, and fruits were not just tasty—they were part of everyday cooking in many homes.

But eating too much kabro had its side effects. Many children joked about how it could cause an upset stomach or diarrhea. Still, this wild ingredient had a special place in both the kitchen and traditional medicine. Sadly, like many other native foods, kabro is disappearing from Nepali households, replaced by modern and processed foods.

What is kabro?

Kabro, or Ficus lacor, is a large, fast-growing tree found in Nepal, India, Bhutan, Myanmar, and across Southeast Asia. It belongs to the Moraceae family, which also includes figs and mulberries. The tree grows well in tropical and subtropical climates. Apart from feeding humans, it also supports wildlife—its fruits are a favourite of many birds and animals.

In Nepal, making pickles from kabro is an age-old tradition. The young buds, leaves, and fruits are harvested during specific seasons and used to make a tangy, slightly bitter pickle that goes perfectly with rice and dhido (a traditional buckwheat porridge).

The best time to pick kabro is when the buds or leaves are young and reddish in colour. Once they mature, they are mostly used as animal fodder.

Ingredients for kabro pickle

• Tender kabro shoots or young leaves
• Turmeric powder
• Salt
• Timur (Sichuan pepper)
• Red chilies
• Cardamom
• Ginger and garlic paste
• Mustard oil
• Lemon juice

Methodology 

Wash the young leaves and shoots properly. Lightly boil them to remove some of the bitterness and soften the texture. Let them cool, then mix with turmeric, salt, and other spices. Sauté the mixture in mustard oil until it smells rich and aromatic. Add lemon juice for a tangy twist. Leave the pickle in sunlight for a few days to let it mature. The result is a delicious blend of bitter, sour, and spicy flavours—a taste that brings back memories for many Nepalis.

Kabro in traditional Medicine

Kabro isn’t just a tasty pickle. It has long been valued for its healing properties in traditional medicine. In small amounts, kabro supports digestion and relieves bloating. It’s often used to treat indigestion and gastric discomfort. Packed with antioxidants, it helps strengthen the immune system. The bark and leaves have anti-inflammatory properties. Some studies suggest kabro helps lower blood sugar.

A tradition at risk

As more people move to cities and processed foods become common, traditional items like kabro pickle are being forgotten. Reviving them is important—not just for nostalgia, but to protect Nepal’s rich culinary heritage and improve food diversity.

How to bring kabro pickle back

Promote in local communities

Raise awareness of kabro’s health benefits and traditional value.=

Feature in restaurants

Traditional eateries can include kabro pickle on their menus to attract curious food lovers.

Encourage small-scale production

Kabro pickle can be packaged and sold as a specialty item, offering economic opportunities for rural communities.

Kabro beyond Nepal

Kabro isn’t just known in Nepal. Cultures across Asia use it in their own ways. For example, in Northern Thailand, a delicious curry is made using the young leaves of Ficus lacor.

Here’s a simple way to prepare kabro curry with Chicken or Pork, inspired by Thai cuisine. Pick only the soft young leaves, removing the thick leaf stems. Fry Thai curry paste (or make your own curry paste) in a pot until aromatic. Add chicken or pork, and stir until the meat is well-coated and cooked. Pour in water and bring to a boil. Add the kabro leaves and boil until they are tender. Turn off the heat. The curry is ready to serve. This dish has a rich, earthy flavour and is a wonderful way to enjoy kabro beyond pickles.

Bringing back a lost flavor

The kabro pickle is a piece of Nepal’s food history. As we explore new tastes, we should not forget the value of the past. By reintroducing kabro into our diets, we are not only reconnecting with tradition but also making a healthy, sustainable choice. Let’s bring kabro back to our kitchens and preserve this forgotten gem for future generations.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

Climate change is causing big problems for Nepal’s farming, putting food security, jobs, and the economy at risk. Scientists say Nepal is the fourth most vulnerable country in the world when it comes to climate impacts, and it also ranks high on the Global Hunger Index. The effects of climate change are already being felt in farming, forestry, and fishing. 

Experts warn that many districts in Nepal could face food shortages in the future. To tackle this, they recommend ‘Climate Smart Agriculture.’ But while new technologies are important, we shouldn’t forget the wisdom of our ancestors. Traditional food preservation methods, like fermentation, could be a powerful tool to fight food insecurity caused by climate change.

Fermentation is one of the oldest ways to preserve food. In Nepal, a country with diverse landscapes, cultures, and cuisines, fermentation has been a key part of life for centuries. From the high Himalayas to the Terai plains, every community has its own unique fermented foods. These foods are not just about survival—they are also about culture, nutrition, and flavor.

Fermentation is a natural process that uses bacteria or yeast to preserve food. It makes food last longer and adds new flavors and textures. Fermented foods are also rich in probiotics, which are good for gut health. In Nepal, with its 128 ethnic groups, fermented foods are a treasure trove of tradition and nutrition. Let’s take a closer look at some of these foods and how they can help us adapt to climate change.

Kinema (fermented soybean)

Kinema is a protein-rich food made from fermented soybeans. To make kinema, cooked soybeans are wrapped in banana leaves and left to ferment for a few days. The result is a sticky, strong-smelling food with a rich umami flavor. It’s used in stews, stir-fries, or eaten as a side dish.

Chhurpi (fermented cheese)

Chhurpi is a type of cheese made from yak or cow milk. It comes in two forms: soft and hard. The hard version can last for years, making it a great food for harsh climates. Soft chhurpi is used in soups and stews, while the hard version is chewed as a snack. 

Serkam (fermented butter) 

Serkam is fermented butter used in Tibetan and Sherpa diets. It’s a key ingredient in butter tea and traditional stews. The fermentation process gives it a rich, unique flavor.

Gundruk (fermented leafy greens)

Gundruk is one of Nepal’s most famous fermented foods. It’s made from mustard, radish, or cauliflower leaves. The leaves are wilted, packed tightly, and left to ferment before being sun-dried. Gundruk is used in soups, curries, and as a pickle.

Sinki (fermented radish taproot)

Sinki is similar to gundruk but made from radish taproots. The radish is packed into bamboo containers and left to ferment for weeks. The result is a tangy, pungent food that can be stored for years.

Purano mula (fermented radish)

Up to 40 years ago, fermented radishes were a common sight in Kathmandu’s Asan Bazar. These radishes were used in pickles, stews, and other dishes, adding a unique flavor.

Tama (bamboo shoot) 

Tama is fermented bamboo shoots, a popular ingredient in Nepali cuisine. It’s used in curries, pickles, and chutneys, giving dishes a tangy flavor.

Akbare chili and salt (naturally fermented chili)

This simple yet powerful fermentation process involves preserving bird’s eye chili in salt. The result is a fiery condiment full of flavor.

Khalpi (fermented cucumber pickle)

Khalpi is a pickle made from overripe cucumbers. It’s fermented with salt, mustard seeds, and spices, creating a cooling and digestive-friendly condiment.

Dahi (yogurt) & lassi

Fermented milk products like yogurt and lassi are popular in Nepal. They are known for their probiotic benefits and are often set in clay pots to enhance flavor.

Masyaura, biriya, and tilkor tarua

These are protein-rich fermented foods made from lentils or black gram. They are used in curries and stews, providing essential nutrients.

Fermented mustard pickles

Mustard seeds are a key ingredient in Nepali pickles. They add a pungent flavor and have antimicrobial properties that help preserve the pickles.

Traditional alcoholic beverages

Fermentation is also used to make traditional drinks like tongba, jaad, and raksi. These beverages are part of cultural celebrations and rituals.

With climate change threatening food security, fermented foods offer a sustainable solution. They are easy to make, require no electricity, and can be stored for long periods. They are also packed with nutrients and probiotics, making them a healthy choice. As the world becomes more interested in gut health and probiotics, Nepal’s fermented foods could gain global attention. Scientists are already studying how these traditional methods can improve food security and health.

But perhaps the most important lesson is this: Adapting to climate change isn’t just about adopting new technologies. It’s also about revisiting the traditional knowledge of our communities. Fermented foods are a perfect example of how ancient wisdom can help us face modern challenges. By preserving and promoting these foods, we can ensure a more secure and sustainable future for Nepal.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

In my childhood home in Pokhara, ginger was never something we bought from the market. It grew quietly in our kitchen garden, a humble yet essential part of our daily lives. My mother, a firm believer in self-sufficiency, would plant ginger rhizomes in neat rows, and I, her little helper, would water them diligently. She would clear the soil, mix in rice husks for better drainage, and then let the ginger grow with minimal care. It was one of the easiest crops to cultivate—hardy, low-maintenance, and incredibly rewarding. When harvest time came, we would dig up the rhizomes, store them for the year, and even sell some when prices were high.

Ginger (Zingiber officinale) is believed to have originated in the tropical rainforests of Southeast Asia over 5,000 years ago. Ancient Sanskrit and Chinese texts highlight its medicinal properties, and it quickly became a prized commodity along the spice trade routes. From its origins, ginger traveled to India, where it became a cornerstone of Ayurvedic medicine and cuisine, and to China, where it was revered for its warming properties and ability to balance the body’s energies.

Nepal, nestled between these two cultural giants, naturally adopted ginger into its traditions. The fertile mid-hills of Nepal, with their subtropical to temperate climates, are ideal for ginger cultivation. 

According to Ghanashyam Chaudhary, in his paper for ‘Horticulture Nepal’, there are two main types of ginger varieties: Nashe (rich in fiber) and Boshe (low in fiber). The Boshe variety is considered superior due to its better yield, quality, and higher market price. Nashe varieties, with their high fiber content, are preferred by the spice industry for producing ginger powder.

Ginger thrives in well-drained, loamy soils enriched with organic matter, such as rice husks or compost—a practice I vividly remember from my mother’s garden. The crop requires minimal care, making it accessible even to small-scale farmers. While ginger is primarily cultivated, wild varieties can still be found in Nepal’s forests, particularly in the eastern and central regions. These wild varieties, though smaller and more pungent, are sometimes used in traditional remedies.

Ginger’s reputation as a superfood is well-deserved. Packed with bioactive compounds like gingerol, shogaol, and zingerone, it offers a wide range of health benefits. Ginger is a natural remedy for nausea, vomiting, and indigestion. Gingerol has potent anti-inflammatory and antioxidant effects, helping reduce muscle pain and symptoms of osteoarthritis.

Ginger’s antimicrobial properties help fight infections, while its warming effect improves circulation and immunity. Ginger may help lower blood pressure and cholesterol levels, reducing the risk of heart disease. Emerging research suggests ginger may inhibit the growth of certain cancer cells.

Ginger’s versatility in the kitchen is unmatched. In Nepal, it’s a key ingredient in traditional dishes like gundruk ko jhol (fermented leafy green soup) and purano achar (a traditional radish pickle). It’s also used to flavor teas, known as adhuwa chiya, which are especially popular during the cold winter months.

Globally, ginger is a staple in Asian stir-fries, Indian curries, and Middle Eastern desserts. It’s also used to make ginger candies, which are popular for soothing sore throats and nausea. Modern trends like ginger shots—small, concentrated doses of ginger juice—have gained popularity for their health benefits, particularly among health-conscious consumers. In Nepal, this trend is gradually gaining traction, with local entrepreneurs exploring opportunities to produce and market ginger-based products like juices, candies, and health supplements.

In Ayurveda, ginger is known as Mahaushadha, or the ‘great medicine,’ due to its wide-ranging therapeutic properties. It’s classified as a rasayana (rejuvenating herb) and is used to balance the vata and kapha doshas. Modern medicine has also embraced ginger, using it in various remedies.

Nepal has immense potential to become a major exporter of ginger, given its high-quality produce and organic farming practices. The global demand for ginger is on the rise, driven by its health benefits and culinary uses. Key export markets include India, China, the Middle East, and Europe.

However, challenges such as inadequate infrastructure, lack of processing facilities, and limited access to international markets hinder Nepal’s ginger export potential. Addressing these issues through government support, private sector investment, and international partnerships could unlock significant economic opportunities for Nepali farmers.

As Ghanashyam Chaudhary writes, improving storage capacity, reducing farming costs through mechanization, and developing efficient technical packages for ginger root rot management are crucial steps. Diversifying products and ensuring timely access to inputs like irrigation, fertilizer, and plant protection can further enhance ginger production. Collective marketing by farmers can also help them secure better prices for their produce.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

If anyone asked me, even in a dream, what my favorite spice is, my answer would always be fenugreek—methi dana, the methi seed. Perhaps it’s because it was my mother’s favorite spice. She never claimed methi as her favorite spice, but she used it to temper almost every curry, pickle, and achar she prepared. She would add methi when soaking rice for sel roti, Nepal’s favorite snack, shared by all 128 communities across the country.

One particular memory stands out: She used to prepare a summer drink called ‘misri kada.’ She soaked methi seeds overnight with rock sugar (misri) and strained the mixture to create a refreshing morning drink. This simple concoction helped us stay cool during the scorching summer heat. Methi’s magic was also evident in the western parts of Nepal, where dishes like the famous ‘chukani’ were always tempered with methi seeds, just like Kathmandu Valley’s renowned ‘choila’.

As a 44-year-old Nepal-born British chef, my current aim is to distinguish Nepali cuisine from other South Asian cuisines and establish its unique identity on the global food map. I believe methi will play a central role in this endeavor. While Indian and other South Asian kitchens often use cumin or mustard seeds for tempering, Nepali kitchens rely on methi dana. Did you know that the dominant flavor in India’s best butter chicken and the UK’s favorite chicken tikka masala comes from methi leaves? 

Methi’s origins can be traced back over 4,000 years to the fertile crescent region, where it was first cultivated in ancient Mesopotamia. Historical texts and archaeological evidence suggest that the Egyptians used methi as part of their embalming processes and as a flavoring agent in their bread. Its journey from the Middle East to the Indian subcontinent was facilitated by ancient trade routes. By the time methi reached Indian shores, it had already become integral to Ayurvedic medicine and Indian cuisine.

In India, the seeds (methi dana) and leaves (fresh methi or kasuri methi) are used in a variety of dishes. Methi seeds are small, golden-brown, and hard, with a slightly bitter taste that mellows and deepens when roasted or cooked. The leaves, on the other hand, are fresh, green, and aromatic, lending a unique flavor to curries, breads, and stir-fries.

One of the reasons methi is so revered in Indian cuisine is its versatility. Methi seeds are a common component of spice blends such as panch phoron and sambar powder. They add a distinct bitterness that balances the richness of curries. Fresh methi leaves are kneaded into dough to make methi parathas, theplas, and naans. The leaves impart an earthy aroma and flavor that make these breads unique. Methi seeds are often added to Indian pickles, where their bitterness cuts through the tangy, spicy, and oily flavors. Perhaps one of the most interesting uses of methi is its addition to dosa batter, a South Indian staple made from fermented rice and lentils.

Methi’s unique ability to enhance flavor can be attributed to its complex chemical composition. The seeds contain compounds such as sotolone, which gives methi its characteristic maple syrup-like aroma, and trigonelline, which contributes to its bitterness. When methi seeds are roasted, these compounds undergo chemical transformations that release nutty, caramel-like notes.

In culinary science, methi acts as a flavor enhancer because it provides balance and depth to dishes. Bitterness, when used in moderation, can counteract excessive sweetness or acidity in a dish, creating a harmonious flavor profile. This is why methi is often paired with rich and spicy foods—its bitterness provides a necessary contrast that enhances the overall eating experience.

The addition of methi seeds to dosa batter is a centuries-old practice rooted in both science and tradition. Methi seeds contain galactomannan, a natural gum that aids in fermentation. When soaked and ground with rice and lentils, it promotes the growth of beneficial bacteria, leading to a light, airy batter that yields crispy dosas. The mucilaginous (slimy) property of methi seeds improves the batter’s viscosity, ensuring even spreading on the griddle and resulting in dosas with the perfect texture. The subtle bitterness of methi offsets the sourness of the fermented batter, creating a nuanced flavor profile that elevates the dosa’s taste.

Methi’s journey doesn’t end in India. It continues to be a cornerstone of Nepali cuisine. In Nepal, methi seeds are known as ‘methi dana,’ and they hold a special place in traditional cooking and rituals. Fresh methi leaves, often referred to as ‘saag,’ are widely consumed in curries and stir-fries.

One of the most iconic uses of methi seeds in Nepal is in the preparation of ‘achaar’ (pickle). Methi is dry-roasted and ground into a powder, which is then mixed with mustard oil, chili, and other spices to create tangy and spicy pickles that are a staple in every Nepali household.

Methi is also an essential ingredient in ‘gundruk ko jhol,’ a traditional soup made from fermented leafy greens. The bitterness of methi seeds complements the sourness of the gundruk, creating a dish that is as nutritious as it is flavorful.

What sets Nepal apart in its use of methi is its emphasis on the ingredient’s medicinal properties. In many rural areas, methi seeds are chewed raw or soaked overnight in water to treat digestive issues, joint pain, and hormonal imbalances. The traditional belief that food is medicine is deeply ingrained in Nepali culture, and methi epitomizes this philosophy.

Furthermore, methi is a key ingredient in ‘sel roti,’ a traditional Nepali rice flour doughnut. A pinch of methi powder is added to the batter to enhance the flavor and balance the sweetness of this festive treat.

Methi’s journey from ancient Mesopotamia to South Asia has been marked by its unparalleled ability to enhance flavor, promote health, and adapt to a variety of culinary traditions. By celebrating this humble yet extraordinary spice, we not only enrich our meals but also honor the culinary wisdom of our ancestors.

The author is a London-based R&D chef

When I first moved to Kathmandu from Pokhara for my studies, everything felt new and overwhelming. Away from the warmth of home and my mother’s cooking, I longed for familiar flavors. Living on a student budget meant I couldn’t indulge in culinary luxuries every day, but there was one breakfast that became my solace: ‘Haluwa-swari’, ‘jeri-swari’, paired with ‘tato tato chiya’ (hot tea) and ‘piro aalu kerau tarkari’. It was a taste of comfort in a city that felt unfamiliar.

What is haluwa?

Haluwa is a sweet semolina pudding that is rich, buttery, and fragrant. Made primarily from semolina (suji), ghee (clarified butter), sugar, and milk or water, it’s flavored with cardamom and garnished with nuts and dried fruits such as almonds, cashews, and raisins. The cooking process involves roasting semolina in ghee until golden brown, then adding sweetened milk or water and stirring until it achieves a thick, smooth consistency.

Haluwa’s luxurious texture and rich flavor make it a dish of celebration, often prepared during festivals, pujas, and special occasions. However, when paired with swari, it transforms into a humble yet indulgent breakfast. The slightly grainy texture of haluwa, combined with the flaky, crisp swari, creates a delightful contrast.

What is swari?

Swari is a flaky, deep-fried flatbread that resembles puri but is slightly thicker and less oily. Made from wheat flour, a touch of ghee, and water, the dough is rolled into small discs and fried until golden and puffy. Swari has a soft interior and a crisp exterior, making it an ideal accompaniment to both sweet and savory dishes.

In the context of haluwa-swari, the swari acts as the perfect vehicle for scooping up the rich, sweet haluwa. Its neutral taste balances the sweetness of haluwa, making every bite a harmonious blend of flavors and textures. Swari’s versatility also makes it an excellent companion for piro aalu kerau tarkari, demonstrating its importance in Nepali breakfasts.

What is jeri?

Jeri, known as jalebi in other South Asian cuisines, is a spiral-shaped, deep-fried sweet soaked in sugar syrup. Made from a fermented batter of all-purpose flour and yogurt, the mixture is piped into hot oil in circular patterns and fried until crispy. Once golden, the jeri is immediately immersed in warm sugar syrup, allowing it to absorb the syrup and become irresistibly sweet and sticky.

Jeri is often served alongside swari, creating the iconic jeri-swari pairing. The crispy, syrup-soaked jeri provides a burst of sweetness that contrasts beautifully with the flaky, neutral swari. This combination is both decadent and comforting, making it a favorite breakfast or snack for those seeking a touch of indulgence.

What is aalu kerau tarkari?

Aalu kerau tarkari is a spicy potato and green pea curry that embodies the essence of Nepali comfort food. Made with boiled potatoes and fresh or dried green peas (kerau), the dish is seasoned with turmeric, cumin, coriander, chili powder, and mustard seeds. A touch of garlic, ginger, and fresh coriander enhances its aroma and flavor.

This dish is beloved for its simplicity and versatility. The potatoes absorb the spices beautifully, while the green peas add a burst of sweetness and texture. When paired with swari, aalu kerau tarkari becomes a hearty and satisfying breakfast. Its spicy kick is perfectly complemented by a cup of hot Nepali tea, making it a favorite among students and workers alike.

The cultural significance

This breakfast combination of haluwa-swari, jeri-swari, and aalu kerau tarkari holds a unique place in the food culture of Kathmandu Valley. Rooted in the Newar community, it represents a blend of traditional flavors and modern-day convenience. While the Newars are renowned for their elaborate feasts and unique culinary practices, this breakfast showcases their ability to create balanced and wholesome meals that are both delicious and practical.

In the bustling streets of Kathmandu, small tea shops and eateries serve this breakfast to locals and visitors alike. It’s common to see people gathered around, sipping hot tea and savoring each bite of haluwa-swari or jeri-swari, often while engaging in animated conversations. For students and young professionals, this breakfast offers a sense of comfort and nostalgia, evoking memories of simpler times.

For many, this breakfast is not just about the food. It’s about the memories it carries. It takes one back to the early mornings in Kathmandu, the warmth of a bustling tea shop, and the camaraderie of friends. It’s a reminder of the small luxuries that brought immense joy during student life—a time when every bite was savored not just for its taste but for the connection it fostered.

As a student from Pokhara living in Kathmandu, the absence of home-cooked meals often made this breakfast a cherished ritual. It was more than just sustenance. It was a moment of solace and indulgence amidst the challenges of academic life. Even today, living far from Nepal, the thought of haluwa-swari, jeri-swari, and aalu kerau tarkari evokes a deep sense of longing and pride in the culinary heritage of Kathmandu Valley.

Why hasn’t this breakfast gone global?

While Nepali momo have gained international fame, this iconic breakfast has yet to make its mark globally. One reason could be the intricacy involved in preparing these dishes, especially the perfect swari and the syrup-soaked jeri. Additionally, the breakfast’s cultural context and deep-rooted connection to Kathmandu’s street food culture make it challenging to replicate the same experience elsewhere.

However, this also adds to its charm. The exclusivity of haluwa-swari, jeri-swari, and aalu kerau tarkari keeps it special, preserving its status as a beloved breakfast of Kathmandu Valley. For those who have moved away from Nepal, the nostalgia associated with this breakfast keeps it alive in their hearts, even if it is not readily available.

Haluwa-swari, jeri-swari, and aalu kerau tarkari are a celebration of Nepali culinary artistry and a testament to the rich food culture of Kathmandu Valley. For those who have experienced it, this breakfast is a cherished memory, a taste of home, and a symbol of simpler, happier times. While it may not yet have traveled globally like momo, its significance remains unparalleled for those who hold it close to their hearts.

The author is a London-based R&D chef