My earliest memory of curry was the small tin of Keen’s Curry Powder that appeared in our pantry in the early 70s. It was topped with a lid you had to prize off with the wrong end of a teaspoon. The deep yellow of its turmeric made it look almost radio-active. Along with mum’s recipe for apricot chicken — another wonder of the decade — her curried sausages were the most exotic thing our white-bread family had ever seen.

Perhaps its intrigue was helped along by the mound of white rice sitting beneath — a revolutionary diversion from the standard mashed potatoes with every meal. Or perhaps it was the sultanas flecked through the sweet golden gravy. Whatever it was, mum’s curried sausages fast became a family favourite.

Early on I understood curry as this magic powder imported from India, thanks to Mr Keen. It turns out Keen was an enterprising Tasmanian who, with his wife, concocted the mix in his own Hobart kitchen. Even more, I imagined Indian families sitting down to bowls full of curried sausages every night. How lucky are they?? Not so, apparently. I was shocked to hear an Indian chef, now cooking in Melbourne, say she had never eaten a ‘curry’ in her life. Nor a sausage!

This correlation of ‘curry’ with a pre-mixed powder of ground spices and with dishes swimming in yellow gravy originated not in India, but with the British and their 17th century arrival in the sub-continent. The importation of spices into their homeland required an explanation for marketing purposes. Modern curry powder was born. In fact, the word ‘kari’ comes from the Portuguese ‘peppers’ and the Tamil ‘to blacken with spices.’ It includes both a method of cooking and a category of cuisine that developed differently in places as far afield as Sri Lanka and Pakistan, Japan, Thailand and, of course, India.

In his book Curry: Eating, Reading and Race, Naben Ruthnum defines curry more as an identity or idea than a dish, one that’s constantly evolving as diasporas flow across borders and cultures blend. “It’s a concept too large,” he says, “to be properly controlled by a recipe.” That said, I’ve developed a deep respect for the long-standing recipes of regional India. These cuisines are so much more complex and divergent than our caricatures allow. Clearly, there is more to the Indian idea of ‘curry’ than Mr Keen could ever have imagined.

The ‘bhuna’ process of curry making, native to Delhi in northern India, is one I’ve discovered more recently. It relies on the prolonged frying of spices in oil without too much liquid. It takes a while but builds an intensity of flavour as you go. I use lamb, though mutton or goat is common. And you’ll need a good-sized cast iron pot to do it justice.

Here’s what you need:

• A slug of oil (around 50ml)
• 3 fresh bay leaves
• 1 black cardamom (you may need to visit an Indian spice store, but it’s worth it)
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 tablespoon of peppercorns
• 6 cloves
• 2 large onions, finely diced
• 1kg diced lamb
• A knob of fresh ginger, finely grated or puréed
• 6 cloves of garlic, finely grated
• 1 long green chilli, roughly chopped with seeds
• Salt
• 1 teaspoon of turmeric powder
• 1 1/2 teaspoons of coriander powder
• 1 teaspoon of red chilli powder
• 1 teaspoon of garam masala powder
• 2-3 tomatoes peeled and diced (or 1 can of diced tomatoes if you’d rather)
• 2 cups of stock — chicken preferably, but any good stock with do.
• 1/2 cup of full-fat yoghurt
• Coriander leaves to garnish

Here’s what you do: