I’ve only been living in Mauritius for a short while, but already this is one of those foods that feels like it belongs in my everyday life here.

Yesterday, I made a proper Mauritian meal at home: chicken curry, dhal puri, a little chilli and something fresh on the side

And honestly, it was one of those dinners where everyone was hovering around the kitchen waiting for it to be ready.

The smell alone.

Onions cooking down slowly. Garlic and ginger. Turmeric turning everything that gorgeous golden colour. Curry leaves hitting the hot oil and releasing that almost citrusy, savoury fragrance.

Then the chicken goes in and everything starts bubbling away.

But the dhal puri is the bit I really want to talk about.

Because if you’ve never had one, you are missing out.

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So what is dhal puri?

Think of a very thin, soft flatbread, but with a filling of finely ground yellow split peas, seasoned with spices.

It’s rolled out and cooked on a hot tawa until you get those little golden brown spots across the surface.

The best ones are soft and pliable, with just enough bite.

You tear off a piece with your fingers, spoon over some curry, maybe add a little chilli or pickle, fold it over and eat.

No cutlery required.

And that is exactly how I like food.

A little messy. Very comforting. Lots of flavour.

But dhal puri has a much bigger story

What I find fascinating about Mauritian food is how much history is sitting there on the plate.

Dhal puri came to Mauritius through the Indian indentured labourers who arrived on the island from the 19th century onwards.

They brought their food traditions with them: lentils, spices, flatbreads, ways of cooking and eating.

But once those recipes landed here, they evolved.

They became part of this incredibly mixed Mauritian food culture, shaped by Indian, African, Creole, Chinese and European influences.

And dhal puri became something uniquely Mauritian.

Which is why you’ll hear people talk about it as one of the country’s national dishes.

And I think that makes perfect sense.

It isn’t fancy food.

It’s everyday food.

You see it at markets, roadside stalls and little takeaway places. People eat it for lunch, grab it on the way home, make it for family and argue passionately about who makes the best one.

That, to me, is what makes something a national dish.

It’s the food people actually grow up eating.

The food they miss when they’re away.

The food that tastes like home.

The smell of a fresh dhal puri

One of my favourite things about buying dhal puri here is the whole experience.

You can smell them cooking before you even get to the stall.

There’s the heat from the tawa, the smell of toasted flour and split peas, curry bubbling away nearby, chilli and spices hanging in the air.

And then you’re handed a little warm stack of them.

You peel one away and it’s still soft and warm in your hands.

That first bite with curry is just... glorious.

There’s something very satisfying about eating it with your hands, too.

Tear a piece.

Scoop up the curry.

A little pickle.

A little chilli.

And suddenly dinner feels like an occasion, even if you’re standing in the kitchen in your old clothes

My Mauritian chicken curry

This is the curry I made to go with ours.

It’s the sort of curry I love cooking because there isn’t much fuss involved. You just build the flavour slowly and let the spices do their thing.

You’ll need

• 1kg chicken thighs, cut into pieces

• 2 tbsp vegetable oil

• 1 large onion, sliced

• 3 garlic cloves, crushed

• A good thumb-sized piece of ginger, grated

• 2 tomatoes, chopped

• 1 tsp turmeric

• 2 tsp ground cumin

• 1 tsp ground coriander

• 1 tsp garam masala

• 1–2 chillies, chopped

• 8–10 curry leaves

• About 250ml water

• Salt

• Fresh coriander

To make it

Heat the oil in a large pot and add the onions.

Let them cook until soft and golden, then add the garlic, ginger, chilli and curry leaves.

Give it a minute.

This is the point where everyone suddenly appears in the kitchen asking, “What are you cooking?”

Add the turmeric, cumin and coriander and stir everything together.

Then add the tomatoes and cook until they soften.

Add the chicken, season well and stir so every piece gets coated in those lovely golden spices.

Pour in the water, cover and let it simmer gently for around 30–40 minutes, until the chicken is tender and the curry has thickened.

Stir through the garam masala towards the end and finish with fresh coriander.

And that’s it.

Nothing complicated.

Just a proper, fragrant pot of curry.

And the dhal puri?

If you’re feeling ambitious, make them from scratch.

They do take a little patience, but there is something so satisfying about making them yourself.

For the filling

• 250g yellow split peas

• 1 tsp turmeric

• 1 tsp cumin

• 1 tsp ground coriander

• Salt

Cook the split peas with the turmeric until tender, then drain them really well.

Grind them with the spices and salt until you have a fine, fairly dry filling.

For the dough

• 500g plain flour

• 1 tsp salt

• 2 tbsp oil

• Warm water, as needed

Make a soft dough with the flour, salt, oil and warm water.

Divide it into balls, flatten each one and put some of the dhal mixture in the middle.

Carefully bring the dough around the filling and seal it.

Then gently roll it out into a thin circle and cook on a hot, dry tawa or frying pan until you see those little golden spots.

Keep them wrapped in a clean tea towel as you cook the rest so they stay lovely and soft.

Then comes my favourite bit.

Put the curry on the table.

Put the dhal puri beside it.

Add chilli.

Add pickle.

And let everyone help themselves.

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This is why I love Mauritian food

The more I eat my way around Mauritius, the more I realise that the food here is really a story of people moving, arriving, adapting and making something new.

Recipes have travelled across oceans.

Ingredients have changed.

Techniques have been passed down.

And somewhere along the way, all those influences have become Mauritius.

That’s what I taste when I eat dhal puri.

Not just split peas and spices.

I taste history.

I taste the markets and roadside stalls.

I taste generations of home cooking.

And now, sitting here making it in my own kitchen, I’m adding a tiny little chapter to that story too.

And honestly?

That’s the best kind of recipe.

What’s the one dish that instantly tastes like home to you? ❤️

Selina xx

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In my twenties, I could eat all the junk food, stay up late, drink cocktails, have pizza and somehow wake up the next day feeling absolutely fine.

Now? Give me a few days of birthday cake, pizza and pina coladas and I’m suddenly craving water, vegetables and something homemade.

Which is slightly annoying…

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But also, I’m learning to listen to it.

Living in Mauritius probably doesn’t help when it comes to overindulgence. We have beautiful beachfront hotels practically on our doorstep where you can book a day pass, sit by the pool, have lunch, swim in the sea and order a cocktail.

Honestly, my younger self would have DREAMED of this.

And I still love it

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I’m never going to be the person who says no to birthday cake because I’m being “good”. I want the pizza. I want the ice cream. I absolutely want the pina colada (I have kids)

But I’m also realising that I don’t want to feel rubbish afterwards.

And I think that’s where I’m starting to understand what balance actually means.

Not being perfect.

Not restricting everything.

Not feeling guilty because you ate too much.

Just enjoying yourself and then getting back to the things that make you feel good

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A few things I’m learning as I get older:

I still want the fun stuff.

I’m not giving up cake. Life is too short.

Simple food makes me feel better.

Rice, vegetables, fish, dhal, fruit, eggs. Food that doesn’t need to be complicated.

I don’t need to “make up” for overindulging.

I just go back to my normal routine. No detox. No punishment. No dramatic Monday reset.

Movement makes me feel good.

Swimming has become one of my favourite things. Especially getting into the sea in the morning. Not to burn off what I ate, but because I genuinely feel better afterwards.

The beach has become my reset button

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A swim. A walk. Standing in the water for a few minutes. Looking around and actually being present.

It sounds simple, but those little things make a difference.

And maybe that’s the biggest thing I’m learning.

I don’t have to choose between enjoying myself and looking after myself.

Maybe balance isn’t about getting everything right.

Maybe it’s just knowing when to enjoy yourself, knowing when you’ve had enough, and knowing how to gently get yourself back to feeling like you again

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I’m curious what’s changed for you as you’ve got older?

Can you still eat like your 20 year old self, or does your body now demand vegetables and an early night too?

Selina xx

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Sometimes you can have the recipe right in front of you and still not be able to make it taste like your mum’s.

My mum makes a fish rougaille that I’ve tried to recreate more times than I can count.

I’ve watched her make it.

I’ve asked her what she puts in it.

I’ve stood in the kitchen while she’s cooked it.

I’ve even written down the ingredients.

And still...

Mine isn’t hers.

It’s good. I’ll give myself that.

But it’s missing something.

And I think that’s the frustrating thing about the recipes we grow up with.

They’re rarely really recipes.

They’re instinct.

My mum doesn’t stand there carefully weighing out every clove of garlic or measuring the exact amount of tomato.

She just knows.

A little of this.

A bit more of that.

Cook the onions until they smell right.

Add the garlic and ginger.

Let the tomatoes soften.

Taste.

Adjust.

And somehow she gets it right every single time.

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The smell of home

For me, fish rougaille is one of those dishes where the smell gets you before the food does.

The onions softening in the pan.

Garlic and ginger hitting the heat.

That warm, savoury smell filling the kitchen.

Then the tomatoes go in and everything starts bubbling away.

There’s something about a pot of rougaille simmering on the stove that feels instantly familiar to me.

It’s the kind of food that doesn’t need much fuss.

A simple tomato base, fresh aromatics, herbs, chilli and beautifully cooked fish.

But when it’s done properly, it is so much more than the sum of its parts.

The tomatoes become rich and almost jammy.

The chilli gives you that little kick.

The fish soaks up all those flavours.

And then you spoon it over hot rice, with the sauce running into the grains.

That’s dinner.

No styling.

No complicated garnish.

Just really good food.

Why can’t I get it right

This is the bit that makes me laugh.

I cook for a living.

I’ve developed recipes.

I’ve tested recipes until I never want to see them again.

I’ve written a cookbook.

And yet I can still stand over a pan of fish rougaille thinking:

Why doesn’t this taste like Mum’s?

Maybe I’m overthinking it.

Maybe I’m measuring too much.

Maybe I’m trying too hard to recreate something that was never really about measurements in the first place.

Because when my mum cooks, she isn’t following a recipe.

She’s following a memory.

She’s been making food this way for years.

She knows what the onions should look like.

She knows when the garlic is ready.

She knows how much chilli is enough.

She knows when the tomatoes have cooked down properly.

And she probably couldn’t tell me the exact measurements even if I asked her.

That’s the thing about family recipes.

They’re often passed down by watching, tasting and doing.

Not by writing everything down.

So this is my attempt

I’m still tweaking it

I’m still asking Mum questions.

And I’m still trying to work out exactly what that missing something is.

But perhaps I’ll never get it completely right.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because there is something quite lovely about having a dish that will always taste better when your mum makes it.

It gives you a reason to sit at her table.

A reason to watch her cook.

A reason to ask, “How did you make this?” even though you’ve asked a hundred times before.

And maybe one day, when my own children are grown up, they’ll say the same thing about something I make.

They’ll have the recipe.

They’ll know all the ingredients.

They’ll make it perfectly.

And they’ll still say:

“It’s good, Mum. But it doesn’t taste like yours.”

And honestly?

I think I’ll be quite happy with that.

My Mum’s Mauritian Rougaille

This is my version of the dish I grew up eating and the version I’m still trying to get just right.

I usually make it with fish, but that’s the beauty of a good rougaille: you can change up the main ingredient depending on what you have.

Don’t like fish? Try it with tinned tuna for a really quick version, or use sausages for a heartier family dinner. The same rich, tomatoey sauce works beautifully with both.

You’ll need

• 600g firm white fish, cut into large pieces

• 3 tbsp vegetable oil

• 1 onion, finely chopped

• 4 garlic cloves, crushed

• 1 tbsp fresh ginger, grated

• 400g chopped tomatoes

• 1–2 fresh chillies, finely chopped

• 1 tsp turmeric

• A handful of fresh thyme

• A handful of fresh coriander

• Salt and black pepper

• 100ml water

• Juice of ½ lemon

To make it

Season the fish with a little salt and pepper.

Heat a tablespoon of oil in a large frying pan and gently fry the fish for a couple of minutes on each side, just until lightly golden. Remove and set aside.

Add the remaining oil to the pan and cook the onion over a medium heat until soft and translucent.

Add the garlic, ginger, chilli and turmeric and cook for another minute, stirring so everything becomes fragrant.

Add the tomatoes, thyme and water.

Let it simmer gently for around 15–20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes have cooked down and the sauce is thick and rich.

Taste and adjust the seasoning.

Gently nestle the fish back into the sauce and cook for another 5–8 minutes, depending on the thickness of the fish, until just cooked through.

Finish with a squeeze of lemon and plenty of fresh coriander.

Serve with hot rice.

And, if you’re anything like me, go back for another spoonful of sauce.

For tuna, stir drained tinned tuna through the finished rougaille and warm gently for a few minutes.

For sausages, brown them first, then let them simmer in the tomato sauce until cooked through.

I’m still not convinced mine tastes exactly like Mum’s.

But I’m getting closer.

And perhaps that’s what Behind the Recipe is really about.

Not just the recipe itself, but the people, memories and little pieces of home that come with it.

Next time, I’ll be sharing another recipe and another story from the kitchen.

Thank you for following along on my journey.

Selina xx

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I’m a food writer, cookbook author and mum of two. I’m also someone who has spent a very large portion of her life thinking about what everyone is going to eat for dinner.

I wrote The Island Kitchen, I’ve written for magazines and newspapers, worked with brands, taught cookery classes and generally built a career around something I’ve always loved: food

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.

But these days, food looks a little different.

Because I’m also a mum.

And motherhood has a funny way of taking all your lovely ideas about food and throwing them straight out the window.

There are days when I’m making something from scratch and feeling very smug about it.

And there are days when dinner is toast, eggs and whatever fruit hasn’t been eaten by the children.

Both count.

I’m not here to tell you how to be the perfect mum, cook the perfect meal or have your life beautifully organised.

Quite honestly, I’m figuring it out too.

I have two children; an eleven year old daughter and a three year old son so life is busy, noisy, funny and occasionally completely exhausting.

And then, because apparently we like making life interesting, we moved our family from London to Mauritius.

Which is where I am now.

And yes, it sounds dreamy.

And it is

But moving countries with two children is also paperwork, finding somewhere to live, figuring out schools, navigating a new routine, getting lost, discovering new supermarkets and wondering why you can’t find the one thing you used to buy every Tuesday in London.

It’s also beaches.

Markets.

Mangoes.

Dholl puri.

Rougaille.

Long lunches.

Swimming with the kids.

And learning to slow down a little.

That’s probably what this Substack is really about.

Food, obviously.

But also family life.

Motherhood in my forties.

Moving somewhere new.

Travel.

The things I’m learning.

The things I’m unlearning.

The meals that save me when I’m tired.

The little things that make family life easier.

And the occasional thought that I’ve had while standing in the kitchen that I feel compelled to tell you about.

I don’t really want this to feel like another place where I have to perform.

I want it to feel like we’re having a chat.

You know the sort.

You’ve made a coffee, I’ve made a coffee, the kids are somewhere in the background asking for snacks, and we’re talking about life.

Sometimes I’ll give you a recipe.

Sometimes I’ll tell you where we’ve eaten.

Sometimes I’ll share something I’ve learnt.

And sometimes I’ll just tell you what’s been on my mind.

So if you’ve been here for a while, thank you!!

And if you’re new here, welcome.

I’m really glad you found me.

Now, shall we talk about food?

Selina x

There are some smells that instantly make you stop what you’re doing.

Garlic sizzling in a hot pan.

Vinegar hitting the heat and filling the kitchen with that sharp little tang.

Soy sauce bubbling away, dark and glossy, coating pieces of chicken until everything smells savoury, sticky and deeply comforting.

For me, one of those smells is now chicken adobo.

It wasn’t a dish I grew up eating.

It came into my life through my mother-in-law, who is Filipino, and somewhere along the way it quietly became one of those recipes that feels like part of our family.

And I think that’s one of the things I love most about food.

Sometimes the recipes that become ours aren’t actually the ones we grew up with.

They’re the ones we pick up along the way.

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A recipe from another kitchen

We’ve had family staying with us here in Mauritius, which means our usually quiet little family of four has suddenly become a much fuller house.

More voices.

More plates.

More people wandering into the kitchen asking, “What’s for dinner?”

More children appearing at the exact moment you’re trying to get something onto the table.

It’s lovely.

It’s also chaotic.

And when you have a house full of people, there is something wonderfully comforting about a big pot of food bubbling away on the stove.

During one of our Airbnb stays, my mother-in-law made her chicken adobo.

It wasn’t a fancy kitchen.

It wasn’t some beautifully styled holiday dinner.

It was one of those slightly chaotic family meals where you’re making do with the pans and utensils you’ve been given, children are hungry, everyone is talking and somehow dinner still comes together.

And honestly, those are often the meals I remember most.

The chicken slowly simmered away in its dark, savoury sauce, the smell of garlic and vinegar filling the kitchen.

That vinegar is important.

At first it smells almost too sharp a little punchy as it hits the pan but give it time.

Let it bubble away with the soy sauce, garlic and bay leaves and it mellows into something completely different.

The chicken becomes tender enough to pull apart with a fork, and the sauce turns glossy and rich, clinging to every piece.

We had it with glass noodles, which soaked up all that sauce.

You know when everyone goes quiet for the first few minutes of eating?

That happened.

The good kind of quiet.

The everyone is hungry and this is exactly what we needed kind.

The recipes we bring with us

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since moving to Mauritius.

We talk so much about moving countries in terms of what we leave behind.

The house.

The familiar streets.

Your favourite coffee shop.

The supermarket where you know exactly which aisle everything is in.

Friends and family.

But we also bring things with us.

Our habits.

Our little rituals.

The foods we crave.

The way we cook.

And, most importantly, the recipes.

Some are written down.

Some live entirely in someone’s head.

Some are measured in cups and teaspoons.

Others are more like:

“A little bit of this.”

“Until it smells right.”

“Cook it until it’s done.”

Those are the recipes I find most fascinating.

Because they’re not just instructions.

They’re memories.

My mother-in-law didn’t need a recipe book to make chicken adobo.

She knew it.

She knew the smell.

She knew when the sauce was right.

She knew how the chicken should look when it was ready.

And watching someone cook a dish they’ve made for years is a little bit like being allowed into their history

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Food has a funny way of travelling

Chicken adobo is Filipino.

I’m not.

But my children have grown up eating it.

It’s now something that can appear on our family table, thousands of miles away from where my mother-in-law grew up.

And that feels pretty special to me.

Because food doesn’t really stay where it started.

It travels with people.

It crosses oceans.

It gets adapted.

It gets shared.

It gets passed from one generation to another.

And sometimes it ends up somewhere completely unexpected.

That’s certainly true here in Mauritius.

You only have to look at Mauritian food to see how beautifully different cultures can meet on a plate.

Indian, African, Chinese, French and Creole influences all woven together.

Food tells you so much about a place.

Who arrived.

Who stayed.

Who shared.

Who taught someone else how to cook. And then that recipe keeps travelling.

My mother-in-law’s Chicken Adobo

This is the kind of recipe I want in my life at the moment.

Simple.

Comforting.

Full of flavour.

And forgiving enough that you don’t need to be measuring everything perfectly while someone is shouting “Mum!” from the other room.

Serves 4–6

For the marinade

• 1kg chicken thighs, boneless or bone-in

• 120ml soy sauce

• 80ml white vinegar

• 5–6 garlic cloves, finely crushed

• 2 bay leaves

• 1 tsp black peppercorns

• 1 tbsp brown sugar

• 1 tbsp neutral oil

To cook:

• 150ml water

• 1 tbsp oil

Method

1. Marinate the chicken
   Place the chicken in a large bowl with the soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves, peppercorns and brown sugar. Mix well, cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or ideally overnight.

2. Brown the chicken
   Remove the chicken from the marinade, keeping the marinade — don’t throw it away. Pat the chicken lightly dry.

   Heat the oil in a large, deep frying pan or casserole over medium-high heat. Add the chicken in batches and brown well on both sides. You want those lovely golden, caramelised edges.

3. Make the adobo sauce
   Pour the reserved marinade into the pan along with 150ml water. Bring to a proper boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. This boiling step is important because the marinade has been in contact with raw chicken.

4. Simmer
   Cover and cook for 25–35 minutes, turning the chicken occasionally, until tender and cooked through.

5. Reduce
   Remove the lid and let the sauce bubble for another 5–10 minutes, until it becomes darker, glossy and slightly syrupy, coating the chicken.

Serve with steamed rice or glass noodles, spooning plenty of that garlicky, salty-sweet sauce over the top.

The recipes that become ours

I think there is something beautiful about the recipes we inherit accidentally.

The ones that weren’t technically ours to begin with.

The recipe your mother-in-law makes.

The cake your friend brings to every birthday.

The curry you learned to cook after marrying into a family.

The dish you ate once on holiday and then spent years trying to recreate at home.

These recipes become part of our lives without us really noticing.

Until one day you make them for your own children.

And they say, “Can we have that again?”

And you realise you’ve passed something on.

Not just a recipe.

A memory.

A smell.

A taste.

A little piece of someone else’s home that has now become part of yours.

And maybe that’s why I love cooking so much.

We think we’re making dinner.

But really, we’re collecting stories.

And sometimes, we’re carrying them forward.

What recipe has found its way into your family that wasn’t originally yours? I’d love to know.

Next time in Behind the Recipe, I’m taking you into another kitchen, another memory, and a recipe that has its own story to tell. See you there.

Selina xx

I’ve been home for a couple of days now, but part of me is still in the mountains.

Still wrapped in a blanket beside the wood fire. Still waking to birdsong instead of my alarm. Still wandering down a quiet path to the farm with a mug of fresh herbal tea warming my hands.

We spent three nights in a little wooden lodge tucked away in the Mauritian highlands, and it reminded me how quickly I settle into a slower rhythm when nature is all around me.

The mornings were my favourite

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The air had that crisp mountain freshness you only seem to find up there. The mist lingered over the trees, everything was still damp from the night before, and the only soundtrack was birds calling to one another as the sun slowly made its way over the hills.

No traffic.

No notifications.

Just the kind of silence that isn’t really silence at all.

One morning, we wandered down to the farm where rabbits poked their noses through the wire, chickens scratched happily at the earth, and the vegetable gardens were quietly doing what gardens do - growing without fuss or hurry

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There was something incredibly grounding about it.

We picked herbs straight from the garden to make tea. Fresh mint. Lemongrass. Leaves that only moments earlier had been growing in the morning sun were now steeping in hot water.

I’ve made herbal tea countless times at home, but somehow it tasted different there.

Maybe because I knew exactly where it had come from.

Maybe because nothing else was competing for my attention.

As we walked through the vegetable beds, learning what was growing and what was coming into season, I found myself thinking about how disconnected so many of us have become from simple things. We expect everything instantly. Food appears on supermarket shelves. We order what we need with the tap of a screen

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But gardens don’t work like that.

They ask you to wait.

To trust.

To pay attention.

And maybe that’s why I find so much comfort in them.

I’ve realised that now I’m in my forties, I need this more than I ever did before.

Not the holiday itself.

The feeling.

The slower mornings.

The fresh air.

The chance to notice things I’d usually walk straight past.

The older I get, the less I’m searching for excitement and the more I’m searching for peace

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A quiet place to drink a cup of tea.

A garden to wander through.

A fire to sit beside after the sun goes down.

Time to read a few pages of a book without looking at my phone every few minutes.

It’s funny how, when we’re younger, we often dream about fast-paced lives filled with constant adventure. Somewhere along the way, my definition of a good life quietly changed.

These days, it looks a lot more like herbs growing outside the kitchen door, vegetables finding their own rhythm, birds waking me before sunrise, and mountain air filling the windows of a little wooden lodge.

Three days was enough to remind me of something I’d almost forgotten.

Nature doesn’t ask us to keep up.

It simply invites us to slow down.

And perhaps that’s exactly what I’ve been craving all along

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Thank you for being here and sharing these slower moments with me.

Next time I’ll be back with the second post in my Behind the Recipe series, where I’ll be sharing the story behind another family favourite. I can’t wait to tell you about it.

Selina xx

A taste of island life, one bowl at a time

Welcome to Behind the Recipe, a new series where I’ll share the stories behind the dishes I create from my island kitchen.

The inspiration, the ingredients, the testing, including the fails, and the little moments that bring a recipe to life.

Because every recipe has a story.

Sometimes it starts with a memory. Sometimes it begins with an ingredient discovered at the market. And sometimes it starts with a feeling, that little moment when a new place slowly begins to feel like home.

Since moving from the UK to Mauritius, my kitchen has become a place of discovery.

I’m learning about the flavours of this island, the ingredients that grow here, the traditions behind the food, and the simple meals that bring families together around the table.

For my first recipe in this series, I’m sharing a Mauritian inspired fish coconut curry.

A dish that celebrates the island’s incredible seafood, fragrant spices and tropical ingredients.

But the funny thing is, fish curry was never one of my favourite meals growing up.

I know, it sounds strange now living on a beautiful island surrounded by fresh seafood!

As a child, fish curry was one of those dishes I never fully appreciated. Maybe it was the texture, maybe it was the strong flavours, or maybe it was simply one of those foods you need to grow into.

But over the years, something changed.

I started to appreciate the beauty of a good fish curry. The freshness of the fish, the warmth of the spices, the creaminess of coconut and the way simple ingredients can create something so comforting.

Now living in Mauritius, it feels even more special.

Because here, the ingredients tell a story.

Fresh fish caught from the ocean. Coconut from the island. Ginger and garlic from the market. Aromatic spices that bring warmth and depth. Fresh herbs and chillies that add brightness.

It feels like Mauritius in a bowl.

The inspiration

When creating this recipe, I wanted to make something that honoured the flavours of Mauritius but was also realistic for family life.

Because while I love cooking, I’m still a mum.

I need recipes that are full of flavour but don’t take all day. Meals that work on a busy weekday. Dishes that my children will actually eat.

This curry needed to be comforting, simple and full of island flavour.

The ingredients

The beauty of this dish is that it celebrates humble ingredients.

Fresh fish is the star. The type of fish you choose really matters because you want something that holds its shape and stays tender.

Coconut milk creates that beautiful creamy sauce.

Garlic, ginger and spices build the flavour base.

Tomatoes add sweetness and balance.

Fresh herbs and chillies bring everything together.

One of the things I’m learning about island cooking is that it is not always about following strict rules. It is about using what is fresh, seasonal and available.

A trip to the market often inspires what ends up on the table.

The testing

The first version was delicious, but it needed a few changes.

The biggest lesson was the fish.

A delicate fish can easily break apart and disappear into the curry, while a firmer fish keeps its texture and makes the dish feel more special.

For this curry, I love using firm white fish such as red snapper, sea bass, grouper or king fish.

I also played around with the spice level.

I wanted the curry to have all those beautiful Mauritian flavours while still being something the whole family could enjoy.

The final version has warmth and flavour without being overpowering, making it perfect for little ones too.

The final recipe

A quick, family friendly Mauritian inspired fish coconut curry that brings a taste of island life into your kitchen.

Serve it with steamed rice, roti or fresh bread to soak up all that delicious coconut sauce.

Mauritian Inspired Fish Coconut Curry

A simple, family friendly curry inspired by the flavours of Mauritius. Creamy coconut, warming spices and fresh fish come together in a dish that feels like island comfort food.

Ingredients

500g firm white fish fillets, cut into chunks (red snapper, sea bass, grouper or king fish work beautifully)

1 tbsp lime juice

1 tsp turmeric

Salt, to taste

2 tbsp coconut oil or vegetable oil

1 onion, sliced

3 garlic cloves, crushed

2cm piece of ginger, grated

1 tsp cumin

1 tsp coriander

1 tsp turmeric

2 tomatoes, chopped

1 tbsp tomato paste

400ml coconut milk

Fresh coriander to finish

Fresh chilli or curry leaves, optional

Method

1. Season the fish with lime juice, turmeric and a little salt. Leave to marinate while you prepare the curry.

2. Heat the oil in a pan and gently cook the onion until softened. Add the garlic, ginger and spices and cook for a minute until fragrant.

3. Add the tomatoes and tomato paste and cook until softened.

4. Pour in the coconut milk and simmer gently for 10 minutes until the sauce thickens slightly.

5. Add the fish and cook for around 8 minutes until tender and flaky.

6. Finish with fresh coriander and chilli if using.

Serve with steamed rice, roti or fresh bread to soak up the coconut sauce.

A simple curry, inspired by an island, and a reminder that sometimes the foods we grow up not appreciating become the ones that tell our story later.

Have you ever moved somewhere new and found a recipe that made it feel like home?

Much love from the mountains,

Selina x

Then life took an unexpected turn.

We packed up our life in the UK and moved to Mauritius.

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A place I had always felt connected to, but a place I was now learning to see in a completely different way.

Because visiting somewhere and living somewhere are two very different things.

When you live here, you start noticing the little things

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The fruit that suddenly appears at the market when it’s in season. The smell of curry leaves and spices drifting from someone’s kitchen. The local dishes people make without a recipe because they’ve been making them their whole lives.

You start looking beyond the food on the plate and asking: what’s the story behind it?

And that’s the part I love.

Before moving here, I was often creating recipes from an idea. A flavour combination, a memory, a piece of inspiration.

Now, I feel like I’m collecting stories.

From food trips, conversations, ingredients I’m discovering for the first time and dishes that have been part of Mauritius for generations.

I’m learning that food is one of the quickest ways to feel connected to a place.

A meal shared around a table. A recipe passed down. A simple dish that reminds someone of home.

And while moving countries has been exciting, it hasn’t always been easy.

Starting again means finding new routines, building a community and sometimes missing the familiar things you didn’t realise you loved so much.

But food has always been my anchor.

It’s how I explore. It’s how I connect. It’s how I tell stories.

So I’m starting a new chapter here on Substack.

A little less about just the finished recipe, and more about everything that happens before it gets there

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Welcome to Behind the Recipe : a series where I’ll share the inspiration, the ingredients, the testing (including the fails!), and the stories behind the dishes I create from my island kitchen.

First up: a Mauritius-inspired coconut curry.

A recipe that started with a new place, a handful of island ingredients and the feeling that maybe, slowly, this island is becoming home.

Because perhaps that’s what happens when a food writer moves to an island…!

You don’t just write about the food.

You start writing your way into a new life.

Selina xx

But here we are

One of my favourite things about living in Mauritius is how much my shopping habits have changed. I still pop to the supermarket for the basics (because life with two kids is never that organised), but most weeks you’ll also find me stopping at fruit stalls, chatting to growers at the market and buying whatever looks good that day.

I’ve become much less of a meal planner and much more of a “let’s see what’s in season” kind of cook. And honestly? It’s made cooking feel fun again.

Here’s what’s usually making its way home with me.

🍍 Pineapple

Mauritian pineapple is on another level.

It’s so sweet that it rarely makes it past the chopping board before someone pinches a piece. We eat loads of it for breakfast, pack it into lunchboxes, blend it into smoothies or serve it alongside grilled chicken at dinner.

One of my favourite easy dinners is this:

Honey & Lime Pineapple Chicken Traybake

Toss chicken thighs with olive oil, garlic, honey, soy sauce and the juice of a lime. Add chunks of pineapple, red onion and sweet potato, then roast until everything is sticky, caramelised and golden. Finish with fresh coriander and serve with rice.

It’s one of those dinners that tastes like sunshine.

🧡 Papaya

This has become one of our breakfast staples.

I’ll slice it up with local yoghurt and a drizzle of honey, or throw it into a smoothie when the mornings feel a bit hectic.

❤️ Pomegranate

Whenever they’re in season, I can’t resist buying one.

I love scattering the jewellike seeds over yoghurt, salads or even roasted vegetables. They make everything feel just a little bit more special.

🥣 Local yoghurt

I don’t think I can go back.

It’s thick, creamy and tastes completely different from what I used to buy in the UK. Most mornings it’s simply topped with tropical fruit, but it also finds its way into marinades, dips and curries.

Recipe of the Week: Pineapple & Yoghurt Breakfast Pots

This is one of those breakfasts that looks like you’ve made an effort... but takes all of five minutes.

Serves 2

You’ll need:

• 250g local natural yoghurt

• ½ ripe Mauritian pineapple, diced

• 1 small papaya, diced

• Seeds from ½ pomegranate

• A handful of toasted coconut flakes (optional)

• A drizzle of local honey

• A squeeze of lime

Method

Divide the yoghurt between two bowls or glasses.

Top with the pineapple, papaya and pomegranate seeds.

Scatter over the toasted coconut, drizzle with honey and finish with a squeeze of fresh lime.

That’s it.

Fresh, colourful and the kind of breakfast that reminds me exactly why I love living here.

🥛 Fresh raw milk

Picking up fresh milk from a local dairy has become one of those little weekly rituals I never expected to love.

It’s such a simple thing, but it reminds me why we moved here in the first place to slow down a little and appreciate where our food comes from.

🍅 Tomatoes

I buy them every single week without fail.

They end up in pasta sauces, traybakes, sandwiches, salads... or simply sliced with a pinch of sea salt and a handful of fresh herbs.

Simple food really is some of the best food.

🍠 Sweet potatoes

If you opened my kitchen cupboard, there’s a good chance you’d find sweet potatoes somewhere nearby.

They’re perfect for busy family dinners—roasted, mashed, turned into wedges or thrown into a curry. Even my kids are happy when sweet potatoes are on the menu.

🌿 Herbs... lots of herbs

One thing Mauritius has definitely changed is the way I cook with herbs.

My basket is usually overflowing with coriander, thyme and bunches of fresh greens. The local leafy greens, known as brèdes, have become a favourite too. I’ll stir them into curries, soups or simply sauté them with garlic as a quick side.

They make even the simplest dinner taste fresh.

🌱 Okra

Not every week, but whenever I see beautiful fresh okra, it’s coming home with me.

Roasted until slightly crisp, added to curries or cooked down with tomatoes and spicesit’s one of those vegetables I’ve grown to love since moving here.

Looking at this list, it’s funny how different my shopping basket is these days.

A year ago, I was filling my trolley in a UK supermarket, sticking to the same routine every week. Now discovering ingredients I’d never cooked with before and letting the seasons decide what’s for dinner.

It’s one of the unexpected joys of island life.

I’d love to know what’s the one ingredient that’s always in your shopping basket? I’d love to hear where you’re reading from, too.

Selina x

No school run alarm at 7:15am.

No commute stealing my morning before it even starts.

Just this. Quiet. The promise of a walk before anything else begins.

Eighteen months ago, we moved to Mauritius. Everyone asked why. Honestly? I didn’t have a good answer. I just knew London was breaking something in me, and I needed to find out who I was when I wasn’t running.

The Rhythm Changed First

Mornings start with a walk now. Not after everything else. Before.

My little one needs to be in nature. And somewhere along the way, I stopped questioning it and just said yes. The beach at dawn. Mountains in the afternoon. Barefoot. Salt in the hair. Sand under fingernails.

Everything I used to think was essential - the schedules, the timetabled activities, the relentless productivity - just fell away. Because he doesn’t need it. He needs earth and sky and time to move at his own pace.

Homeschooling is Intense

Full-time homeschooling is crazy. Some days I’m not sure if I’m being a mother or a teacher or both at once.

But my kids are thriving in ways I didn’t expect. My eldest’s creativity has exploded. My little one is braver, more confident, more sure of himself.

And me? I’m learning that motherhood and education don’t have to be at odds. They can just be messy and real and enough.

Money Means Something Different

London was expensive in ways I didn’t realise until we left. Everything cost more. The pressure to earn constantly, to justify the cost of living, to always push harder for more.

Here, we need less. Not because we’re struggling - we’re not. But because slow living is cheaper living.

The constant anxiety about money has quieted. We can think about real goals now. What do we actually want to build here? What matters enough to work toward?

Family is Complicated

This was supposed to be the part where we’d be surrounded by relatives. Where our kids would grow up knowing their cousins, their aunts, their uncles.

It hasn’t worked out that way.

We don’t see family as often as I imagined. And I’ve had to grieve that a little.

But something else is happening too. Our little unit - just us four - has become incredibly tight. We’re learning who we are when we’re not surrounded by a bigger family structure. We’re creating our own rhythms, our own version of home.

It’s challenging. It’s growing us.

What I Know Now

Slow living isn’t about doing less. It’s about choosing better.

My little one knew something I didn’t. That we all need our feet in the earth, our eyes on the mountains, our skin touched by salt and sun. That rushing and productivity were symptoms of being ungrounded.

Growth doesn’t always look like ambition. It looks like my daughter’s confidence. My little one’s creativity. My capacity to actually be present.

This is what we chose. And it’s choosing us back.

With love from Mauritius,
Selina

It feels like it’s been a season of change for me, and I wanted to bring you along. Over the past month or so, I’ve felt a big pull toward something that feels really aligned with where I am right now — recipes, meal prep, and food aimed at mums and toddlers

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As many of you know, food has always been a huge part of my life. I’ve worked as a chef for over 10 years, hosted supper clubs and pop-ups, done cooking demos, written for magazines, and even published a cookbook. Food has always been my love language.

But becoming a mum of two reshaped everything. The pace of busy kitchens didn’t fit the reality of nappies, nap schedules, and a never-ending stream of “what’s for dinner?” questions. Suddenly I wasn’t just cooking for creativity — I was cooking for survival, for family, for love

It hasn’t been a straight or easy road. Like so many of you, I’ve had my fair share of toddler mealtime battles, dishes flung across the floor, and evenings where toast or nuggets were the only thing that happened. But those moments also gave me clarity: mums like us don’t need more guilt. We need shortcuts. We need systems. We need meals that actually work in the chaos of real life.

That’s why I’ve shifted my focus to creating tools, recipes, and resources for busy mums who want to feed their kids well without losing their minds. It feels like the most natural and honest thing I can do right now — because I’m living it too.

I’m still here in Mauritius 🌴, adapting to island life with my family, which means you’ll sometimes see a little tropical flair in my food. Think coconut, curry leaves, and sunshine in a bowl — mixed with the everyday family meals we all rely on

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To start, I created something I’m really proud of: a free 77-page downloadable Meal Prep Guide for mums and toddlers. It’s full of tips, recipes, and simple strategies that will help you cut down the daily stress of mealtimes. You can grab it through my Instagram (where I’ll be posting most regularly from now on).

And this is just the beginning — I’m also working on a new meal prep course, where I’ll show you exactly how I get 300 meal combinations prepped in just 60 minutes a week. I can’t wait to share it with you soon!

Thank you, truly, for being here — whether you’ve been following since my supper club days or just joined recently. Your support means the world, and I’d love for you to keep walking with me in this new chapter.

With love + solidarity,
Selina 💛

Blue Bay is something else. The colours here feel richer somehow—sea-glass blues and late-afternoon golds, the kind that seem to blur the line between dreaming and living. If the north is buzzy and bright, the south is slow and soulful. It’s the kind of place where time stretches long enough for second coffees, barefoot toddler walks, and lazy drives with no real destination.

Vanille Nature Park: A Day Among Tortoises and Crocodiles

We took the kids to Vanille Nature Park and spent the day under towering palms, surrounded by giant Aldabra tortoises who move with the wisdom of centuries. My daughter was wide-eyed feeding them crunchy stalks of greens, and even our toddler was surprisingly calm. The crocodiles were less cuddly, but captivating in their own way—prehistoric and still as stone.

Pro tip: Go early, before it gets hot. And bring bug spray. The southern mosquitos don’t mess around

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The Best Sourdough in Mauritius? Found in a Tiny Blue Bay Bakery

A few mornings later, we stumbled into Naked, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it artisan bakery right in Blue Bay. I’m calling it: they make the best sourdough on the island. Crisp crust, airy crumb, with just the right hint of tang. We picked up a loaf still warm from the oven, plus a flat white that felt like a small luxury after a sleepless night.

If you’re a bread person (like me), you’ll understand—this kind of sourdough is a rare find anywhere, let alone tucked into a sleepy coastal lane.

Boat Day: Marine Park Magic

We also took a boat trip out to the Blue Bay Marine Park—just a quick ride over coral-tinted waters. It’s a protected area, and you can tell. Snorkelling there feels like swimming in an aquarium: clownfish, parrotfish, even a small reef shark gliding below us. The water is ridiculously clear, and if you're lucky a sea turtle might just drift by, nonchalant and ancient.

No crowds, no booze cruises—just you, the reef, and the endless blue

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Brunch in Mahebourg: A Hidden Gem

We ended the week with brunch at Café de Sud in Mahebourg. It’s low-key, unpretentious, and everything you want from a family-run café. The coffee’s strong, the juices fresh-pressed, and their paninis and burgers are outrageous. Highly recommend.

You could spend an hour just watching the town go by—grandmas with their market baskets, kids running past on bikes, the lagoon glittering in the distance. One evening, we pulled over by the roadside just before sunset, where the sky turns sherbet-pink and the planes come in low over the lagoon. It’s oddly mesmerising—watching them glide in above the sugarcane, our toddler pointing at each one like it was magic.

The south has its own flavour—literally and figuratively. Think Creole soul food, roadside snacks wrapped in paper, and recipes passed down through grandmothers. One of my favourites? Ti Puri with Mauritian Rougaille—small, fluffy fried breads served with a tangy tomato-onion sauce spiced with thyme, garlic, and a touch of chili. It’s humble, comforting, and deeply local. If you stop by a coastal snack stall, ask if they have any fresh out of the oil.

It’s the kind of meal you eat with your fingers, sitting on the bonnet of your car, watching the sun dip below the palms.

🌺 Ti Puri with Rougaille (Tomato-Based Creole Sauce)

From the heart of southern Mauritius

✨ What is it?

Ti puri (small puris) are soft, puffed little breads—like miniature faratas—fried until golden. They're usually served with rougaille, a bright and savoury tomato-onion sauce with thyme, garlic, and sometimes dried fish or sausages. This version is vegetarian and toddler-friendly

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🥣 Ingredients

For the Ti Puri

• 2 cups (250g) plain flour

• 1/2 tsp salt

• 2 tbsp oil or ghee

• 150ml warm water (approx)

• Oil for deep frying

For the Rougaille

• 2 tbsp oil

• 1 small onion, finely chopped

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 4 medium ripe tomatoes, chopped

• 1 sprig thyme (or 1/2 tsp dried)

• 1/4 tsp turmeric

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Optional: a pinch of chili flakes or 1/2 green chili (omit for toddlers)

• Optional: handful of chopped coriander to finish

🧑‍🍳 Method

1. Make the Puri Dough:

• In a bowl, mix flour and salt. Rub in the oil/ghee.

• Gradually add warm water and knead until you get a soft, smooth dough.

• Cover and let rest for 20–30 minutes.

2. While the dough rests, make the Rougaille:

• Heat oil in a pan. Add onion and garlic and cook gently until softened and lightly golden.

• Add chopped tomatoes, thyme, turmeric, and optional chili.

• Let it cook down for 15–20 minutes until thickened and saucy. Season to taste.

• Turn off the heat and sprinkle with chopped coriander if using.

3. Fry the Ti Puri:

• Divide the dough into 10–12 small balls. Roll each one out into a small circle, about 10cm wide.

• Heat oil in a deep pan until hot but not smoking.

• Fry each puri until puffed and golden, flipping once. Drain on kitchen paper.

🍽️ To Serve

Serve hot ti puri with a generous scoop of rougaille. Great for dipping, scooping, or tearing apart. Perfect with pickled vegetables or a simple cucumber salad on the side.

🥄 Toddler Tip:

Leave the chili out and mash the rougaille slightly before serving for a milder, softer texture. These little puris are perfect for little hands!

We stayed in the lodge closest to the main office — a cozy, creaky, wooden structure that reminded me of childhood holidays in the countryside, minus the cold cereal breakfasts and scratchy sheets. Here, everything is intentional. A fire already set, waiting to be lit. A basket of coffee and homemade jam. Windows that frame the mountains like paintings

Our days were unhurried. Mornings were for barefoot coffee on the porch, wrapped in blankets, watching the fog lift. Afternoons filled with small hikes and feeding the horses apples from our hands. Evenings, we cooked over open flame — simple food that tasted better because of the smoke, the mountain air, and the stillness

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One night we grilled on the bbq, and I made a quick, smoky flatbread with herby yogurt — the kind of thing you can throw together without measuring, barefoot, drink in hand, baby chasing cats and roaming dogs.

I’ve added the recipe below. It's not fancy, but it is special. Like Vieille Cheminée itself

If you go, bring: a good jumper, something to grill, and nothing on your schedule.

Fire-Cooked Yogurt Flatbreads with Herbs & Charred Garlic Oil

Perfect for grilling directly on a fire grate or cast iron over flame.

You’ll need:

• 1 cup plain yogurt

• 1 ¼ cups plain flour (plus more for dusting)

• ½ tsp salt

• A splash of olive oil

For the herby yogurt dip:

• ½ cup Greek yogurt

• A small handful fresh herbs (coriander, thyme, mint — whatever you’ve got)

• Squeeze of lemon

• Salt and pepper

Optional garlic oil (game changer):

• 2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

• 3 tbsp olive oil

To make:

1. Mix yogurt, flour, salt, and olive oil into a soft dough. Knead briefly until smooth. Rest for 10 minutes.

2. Divide into small balls and roll out into flat rounds.

3. Toss them straight onto a hot grill or dry cast iron pan over the fire — cook 2–3 minutes per side until puffed and charred.

4. For the garlic oil, gently warm sliced garlic in olive oil until golden and fragrant (don’t let it burn!). Spoon over the breads.

5. Stir chopped herbs and lemon juice into Greek yogurt for dipping.

Eat warm. With sticky fingers. Around a fire. Preferably under a mountain sky.

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We left reluctantly, already planning our return.

If you’ve been craving stillness, deep breaths, and the kind of food that only needs flame and fingers — when in Mauritius you must go.

With love from the mountains,
Selina

You can travel the island, flip through a hundred menus, or ask any Mauritian what food defines home—and nine times out of ten, the answer will be dhal puri.

It’s not just a snack. It’s a street-side staple, a lunchbox favourite, and a childhood memory rolled into one. You eat it in pairs, always—warm, soft, and slightly greasy in the best way—often with a splash of sour mango pickle, a spoonful of rougaille, or a generous slather of cari gros pois (butter bean curry). Wrapped and rolled like a little parcel of love.

For me, it’s comfort, nostalgia, and identity, all bundled in yellow split peas and wheat flour. It’s what I crave before I even touch down in Mauritius, that first familiar bite I seek out as soon as I arrive. Because in that simple, cumin-scented flatbread is everything—history, home, and the flavour of belonging.

The History

Dhal puri came to Mauritius with Indian indentured labourers in the 1800s. Over time, it evolved uniquely—thinner than its North Indian cousin (paratha), softer, and filled with ground dhal seasoned with turmeric and cumin. It’s flat, flexible, and usually rolled up with curry and chutney inside like a creole burrito.

Mauritians don’t just eat dhal puri—they chase it. Everyone has their favourite vendor. Some swear by the ones in Rose Hill or Port Louis Market. Others drive cross-country for a pair from a roadside stand in Curepipe or Mahebourg.

Where to Eat the Best Dhal Puri

• Dewa & Sons, Rose Hill – A legendary name; they’ve turned dhal puri into an art form. Expect queues.

• Faratas Karo Karo, Port Louis – Slightly different texture, but their cari gros pois is unmatched.

• Baz Station stalls in Mahebourg – Unpretentious, authentic, and deeply satisfying.

• Home kitchens – Because the best dhal puri is always made by someone's mum.

The Recipe – Mauritian Dhal Puri

Makes 8–10 dhal puris

🌾 Ingredients:

For the dough:

• 2 cups plain flour

• ½ tsp salt

• ¾ cup warm water (adjust as needed)

• 1 tbsp oil (plus extra for greasing)

For the dhal filling:

• 1 cup yellow split peas (chana dhal)

• 1 tsp cumin seeds

• ½ tsp turmeric

• Salt to taste

🔪 Method:

1. Prep the dhal:
   Rinse split peas and soak for 2–3 hours. Boil until just soft but not mushy (about 20 mins). Drain well and leave to cool.

2. Blend the filling:
   In a food processor, blitz the cooked dhal with cumin, turmeric, and salt until fine and crumbly. The mix should be dry, not paste-like.

3. Make the dough:
   In a bowl, mix flour and salt. Gradually add warm water and knead into a soft dough. Add a tablespoon of oil at the end. Cover and rest for 30 minutes.

4. Fill and roll:
   Divide dough into equal balls. Flatten each slightly, spoon some dhal filling into the centre, then pinch closed like a dumpling. Gently roll out into a thin circle (use light flouring if needed).

5. Cook:
   Heat a dry tawa or non-stick pan. Cook each dhal puri for 1–2 minutes on each side, brushing lightly with oil, until golden spots appear and it puffs slightly.

How to Serve It

Serve warm with:

• Cari gros pois – Butter bean curry

• Rougaille – Tomato-based creole sauce

• Mauritian pickles – Especially mango achar or tamarind sauce

• A side of nostalgia, always

Final Note

I’ve been living in Mauritius for nine months now, and dhal puri has become part of our daily rhythm. I’ve bought it from market stalls, handed it to my kids in the car, packed it for beach days, and reheated it when I needed comfort.

Some days, it’s just lunch. Other days, it reminds me why I’m here—raising a family between cultures, rooted in something familiar. Dhal puri isn’t just food—it’s home.

I already knew the food was good — I grew up around it, cooked it, and loved it long before moving here. But living on the island full-time? That’s a different level. It’s one thing to know about the food. It’s another to live it daily, to chase down the best dhal puri in town, or stumble on a roadside rougaille that makes you rethink everything.

Even though I came in already familiar with so much of what’s here, I’m constantly reminded — there’s always something new to try. A hidden spot. A dish I haven’t had in years. A twist on an old classic. Mauritius doesn’t run out of flavour.

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Over the last eight months (and counting), I’ve been on a bit of a mission — not just to revisit my favourites, but to go deeper. I’ve been eating my way across the island, from market stalls to quiet beach shacks, aunties cooking outside their houses, late-night street grills, and humble spots that only locals seem to know about.

So I decided to put it all into something useful. Something personal.

👉 The Ultimate Mauritian Food Guide (PDF now live on Gumroad)

This isn’t a tourist list.
It’s a local’s lens with a foodie’s heart

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Why I Made This

Honestly, I made this guide because people kept asking me where to eat — friends visiting the island, folks relocating, even locals curious about where I’ve been going.

And I didn’t want to gatekeep.

This is the exact list I’d give my best mate if they were landing in Mauritius tomorrow and wanted to skip the tourist traps and eat properly. The good stuff. The real stuff

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Where to Get It

🛒 Grab the PDF on Gumroad here: https://selinaperi.gumroad.com/l/jhzsnn

It’s cheap, easy to download, and I’ll keep updating it if I discover new gems (which I will).

If you’re into food, travel, or just want to eat like you know what you’re doing, this one’s for you.

Thanks for supporting the passion behind this. And if you do try the rougaille recipe — send me a photo. I’d love to see your version.

Bonus: A Recipe From My Kitchen to Yours

As a little thank you, I’ve included a bonus recipe in the PDF — my go-to Rougaille Sauce, the real MVP of Mauritian cooking.

It’s simple, fresh, and works with literally anything: chicken, fish, tofu, rice, bread, even eggs. I’ve had it five days in a row and still crave it.
The best part? You can make it in under 20 minutes with stuff you probably already have at home.

This is my version of the classic Mauritian rougaille — a fresh, punchy tomato-based sauce that goes with everything.

🛒 What You’ll Need:

• 1 tbsp oil (vegetable or coconut oil both work)

• 1 medium onion, finely chopped

• 2–3 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 small piece of ginger (about 1 tsp), grated

• 3–4 ripe tomatoes, chopped

• 1–2 green chilies, sliced (optional, for heat)

• A few curry leaves (if you’ve got them – worth it)

• Salt, to taste

• Fresh coriander, chopped (optional, for garnish)

🔥 How to Make It:

1. Heat the oil in a pan on medium heat. Add the onions and cook until soft and slightly golden. Don’t rush this bit – let the sweetness come out.

2. Add the garlic, ginger, and curry leaves (if using). Stir for about a minute until fragrant.

3. Toss in the chopped tomatoes and chilies. Let them cook down until they soften and release their juices – about 10–12 minutes. Stir occasionally and mash them a bit with the spoon to help them break down.

4. Season with salt. Let it simmer until it becomes a thick, rich sauce. You can leave it chunky or blend it smoother – totally up to you.

5. Optional: sprinkle over some chopped coriander before serving.

That’s it. Dead simple. Proper tasty.

Keep it in the fridge for a few days — it gets even better the next day

NEW!! The Ultimate Mauritian Recipe Guide (PDF now live on Gumroad)

Since writing this, I’ve published a second, more recent guide—a curated collection of 20 exclusive recipes straight from my kitchen. These are dishes that have inspired me deeply, rooted in memory, heritage, and the everyday rhythms of cooking with love. Each recipe is personal, tested, and refined, offering more than just instructions—they’re invitations into the warmth and soul of my food journey. If you’ve enjoyed the stories and flavors I’ve shared so far, this new guide is a natural next step.

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It’s not silence exactly — there’s always a rooster somewhere, a dog barking in the distance, the rustle of palm fronds brushing each other in the wind — but it’s a quiet that settles inside you. A quiet that asks nothing of you but to notice.

This morning, before the heat began its slow crawl across the tiles, I made tea the way my grandmother used to: with cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and ginger. The pot bubbled softly as light slipped across the floor in slanted, golden stripes.

I poured it into a chipped enamel mug, the same one that always feels better in my hands than the fancier cups. It tasted like memory. Like something that had waited for me, patiently.

Sometimes I forget how grounding these little rituals are — how they’re not about productivity, or even rest, but presence. A cup of tea or coffee can anchor a whole day.

And in true Mauritian fashion, it’s never just tea. There’s always something sweet on the side. This time, it was Napolitaines — soft, buttery sandwich cookies filled with jam and covered in a pink sugar glaze. They’re the kind of treat you always say you’ll just have one of, but somehow the second finds its way onto your saucer.

I’m sharing both recipes below — one for grounding, one for joy.

☕ Thé aux Épices (Mauritian Spiced Tea)

Ingredients:

• 2 cups water

• 1 cinnamon stick

• 3 cardamom pods, gently crushed

• 3 cloves

• 1 slice fresh ginger

• 2 tsp black tea leaves (Bois Chéri or Ceylon-style)

• Sugar, to taste

• Milk (optional)

Method:

1. In a small saucepan, combine water, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and ginger. Bring to a gentle boil.

2. Add the tea leaves and let it simmer for 3–4 minutes.

3. Strain into your favorite mug.

4. Add sugar and a splash of milk if you like (I usually do). Stir slowly. Breathe deeply. Sip with both hands.

🍪 Napolitaines (Mauritian Jam-Filled Cookies)

Soft, crumbly shortbread-style cookies sandwiched with jam and topped with a simple icing — a staple at Mauritian birthdays, tea times, and sweet trays

Ingredients:

For the cookies:

• 200g (about 1 ¾ sticks) unsalted butter, softened

• 100g (¾ cup) icing sugar

• 300g (2 ½ cups) all-purpose flour

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

For the filling:

• Strawberry or raspberry jam

For the icing:

• 200g (1 ½ cups) icing sugar

• 2–3 tbsp water

• A few drops of pink or red food colouring

Method:

1. Preheat your oven to 160°C (320°F).

2. Cream the butter and icing sugar until pale and fluffy. Add vanilla.

3. Gently mix in the flour until it forms a soft dough.

4. Roll out the dough on a floured surface and cut into rounds (about 5cm / 2in diameter).

5. Place on a baking tray lined with parchment and bake for 10–12 minutes — don’t let them brown.

6. Let cool completely. Sandwich two cookies together with jam.

7. Mix icing sugar with just enough water to form a thick glaze, tint it pale pink, and spoon it over each sandwich. Let set.

A Final Note

The tea is still warm. The pink icing on my napolitaine is slightly cracked from the heat.

It’s a good morning.

If you try these recipes, reply and let me know — or tell me what your own version of a quiet morning looks like, wherever you are. I’d love to hear.

Until next time — with crumbs on my shirt and tea on the stove!

There’s no frost creeping across windows, no trees shedding burnt-orange leaves. Instead, “winter” here arrives like a whisper: softer sunlight, cooler mornings, and roadside vendors in hoodies, still barefoot in their sandals.

It’s easy to forget the calendar entirely in a place like this. Time is told in fruit seasons (mangoes are long gone, lychees are months away), in how long your tea stays hot, or how your body relaxes into a slower pace.

For me, the season announces itself in the kitchen — with lentils.

Cooking in the Season That Barely Changes

Mauritian homes may not pull out winter coats, but we do pull out the dhal pot.

This time of year, dhal takes on a heartier form: spiced more deeply, served hot with soft flatbreads, and eaten slowly. It’s the kind of meal that fills more than just your belly — it grounds you, softens the edges of the day.

This recipe is inspired by the kind of dhal my mum made when the air turned cool and everyone hovered around the pot waiting for their piece of torn farata to soak up that first ladleful.

Recipe: Dhal Pita – Spiced Lentil Stew with Flatbread

🌿 Serves 4

For the Dhal:

• 150g chana dhal (split chickpeas)

• 50g yellow lentils (moong dhal or masoor)

• 2 bay leaves

• 2–3 whole cloves

• 1 medium onion, thinly sliced

• 2 tbsp turmeric

• 2 tbsp roasted ground cumin

• ½ tsp garlic paste

• 1 tsp ginger paste

• 1 tomato, chopped

• Few curry leaves

• Handful of chopped fresh coriander (with stalks)

• 1 sprig fresh thyme (optional)

• 1 tsp garam masala

• Crushed dried fenugreek leaves (optional, but adds depth)

• Salt, to taste

For the Farata Dough:

• 250g plain flour

• Pinch of salt

• 1 tbsp neutral oil (sunflower or vegetable)

• Water (as needed to make a soft dough)

Instructions:

1. Make the Farata Dough:

• In a bowl, combine flour, salt, and oil. Add water gradually and knead into a soft, elastic dough (about 8–10 minutes).

• Cover and let rest while you cook the dhal.

2. Cook the Dhal:

• Rinse both lentils thoroughly. Boil with 4–5 cups of water, bay leaves, cloves, and turmeric until tender (30–40 mins). Skim off any foam.

• In a separate pan, sauté the onions in a little oil until golden. Add garlic, ginger, cumin, and tomato. Cook until the tomato breaks down and it smells fragrant.

• Add this to the cooked dhal. Stir in curry leaves, garam masala, thyme, and fenugreek if using. Simmer until thickened slightly. Season well with salt and finish with fresh coriander.

3. Cook the Farata:

• Divide the dough into 6–8 balls. Roll each into a thin circle.

• Cook on a hot, dry tava or frying pan until both sides are golden with light brown spots. Brush with oil or ghee if desired.

4. Serve:

Traditionally, farata is torn into large pieces and placed directly in a bowl, then drenched with steaming dhal. Let it soak, then eat with your hands — the way it’s meant to be.

🫶🏽 A Bowl of Enough

Mauritian winter doesn’t ask for much — just a thicker blanket at night and a bowl of something warm by day.

This dhal pita is what I reach for when the light changes. It’s not dramatic, just deeply comforting — a seasonal shift you taste more than see.

No snow. No storm. Just a soft bowl of lentils and flatbread, shared slowly, as the sugarcane rustles outside.

Selina x

Yes, I wake up to birdsong and can walk to the beach before breakfast. But no, it’s not all hammocks and fresh mangoes. Life here is beautiful — but it’s also slower, messier, and can be inefficient, but I am grateful.

Here’s what I’ve learnt so far

.

1. The beach is always there… but so is the laundry, the toddler tantrum, and the fourth grocery run of the week.

Holiday mode is "beach all day and a rum punch by sunset." Living mode is “quick workout before someone spills something, the fish guy runs out, or you realise you forgot bin bags again.”

The proximity to the ocean is soul-healing. But the errands still need to be done — and usually by you, since there's no click-and-collect magic here

.

2. Slow living is lovely… until you need something delivered.

There's a charm in the island's slower pace — until you’ve been refreshing a parcel tracking page for three weeks and realise it's either stuck in customs, gone missing, or casually being delivered sometime next month.

Now I plan ahead, order things way in advance (if at all), or just wait until family are flying over with extra luggage space. Island time is real — and so is learning to let go of urgency.

3. You will go to four different places just to get what you need for dinner.

Forget the big one-stop weekly shop. Groceries here are more like a scavenger hunt:

• Fruit and veg at the market (if there are open, don’t bother checking google times)

• Fish from the guy who only sets up twice a week

• Fresh dairy from a farm, depending on when they deliver

• And maybe dry goods at supermarkets (along with a queue that tests your patience and your toddler’s snack reserves)

It's not convenient, but you do get fresher, better produce — and you build relationships with the people behind the stalls and counters. It’s slow food, in every sense

.

4. If it’s organic or specialty, bring it with you.

There are health food shops, but you’ll pay triple the price and the stock is unpredictable.

Now, I stockpile things like bisto gravy, good chocolate, books in suitcases or ask anyone visiting to smuggle me the good stuff. Pro tip: pack your spices and pantry favourites. You’ll thank yourself later.

5. Community replaces convenience.

Here, you rely on word-of-mouth, WhatsApp groups, and your fish guy texting you that he’s got fresh tuna today.

Nothing is really online. You find out where to get the good rotis or which mechanic to trust by asking around. It’s slower, yes — but it’s also more human

.

6. Island parenting is raw, joyful, and chaotic.

Raising small children here means barefoot afternoons, stained clothes, and endless outdoor play. But it also means power cuts during nap time, mozzie bites, and not always having access to what you need.

You get resourceful. You slow down. You learn which beaches are shady at 10am and which shops sell baby wipes in bulk. You stop chasing perfection, because it just doesn’t exist here — and honestly, you stop wanting it.

7. You fall in love with the messiness of it all.

Living here isn’t polished. There’s no next-day delivery, no fully stocked everything-store, no perfect weekly schedule. But there’s rhythm. There’s light. There’s beauty in adapting, in noticing, in accepting.

I’ve learnt to live with less, but enjoy more.

To walk slower.
To ask for help.
To find joy in a coconut just picked from the tree.
And to let go of the fantasy version of island life, because the real thing — as bumpy and beautiful as it is — feels a lot more true.

.

8. Even when it’s your second home, it can still feel lonely.

I guess I thought I’d see family more. At first, we did — weekend visits, shared meals, that warm familiarity I’d missed. But the truth is, people get busy. Everyone retreats into their own routines, their own corners of the island.

It’s not personal. It’s just life. Still, it’s something I didn’t quite expect — to be in such a familiar place, and still feel a little adrift at times.

It’s teaching me that “home” isn’t just where your people are — it’s how you show up, how you stay connected, and how you create belonging from scratch.

What about you?
Have you ever moved somewhere you only knew from holidays? Did the reality surprise you too?

Hit reply or drop a comment — I’d love to hear your version of this journey.

But this year, something in me resists that language.

Because I don’t feel older — not in the way they say I should. Not heavier, not wearier, not fraying at the edges. If anything, I feel lighter. Like I’ve let go of a version of myself that didn’t fit anymore.

So what if I said: I’m another year younger?

It sounds strange, rebellious even. But hear me out.

We tie so much to age. Expectations. Pressure. A script. You're supposed to have achieved this by 30, done that by 40, stopped doing those things by 50. And when we don’t hit those marks, we carry guilt — like we’re failing a race we didn’t ask to run.

But what if age isn’t a ladder we climb up, rung by rung, but a spiral we move through — getting closer to our center each time we circle round?

This year, instead of feeling like I’m stacking on age, I feel like I’m peeling it back.

I'm not trying to cling to youth — I'm redefining what it means to grow. Less about accumulating years, more about returning to the essence. Less about proving and producing, more about noticing and being.

This past year I’ve learned to say no faster. To rest more deeply. To laugh louder. To take less personally. I’ve learned that growing doesn’t always mean building. Sometimes it means pruning. Sometimes it means softening. Sometimes it means going still.

And when I think about it like that — I don’t feel older at all. I feel newer. Freer. More myself.

So I’m counting backwards now. Not to deny time, but to reclaim it. Not to resist life, but to live it more playfully. If my daughter can turn nine and feel like the world is bursting with magic, why can’t I do the same at forty-something?

Another year younger. Another year closer to joy. Another year back to who I was before the world told me who to be.

Here’s to un-aging — and to growing deeper, not older.

Just a thought today on my birthday!

Selina x

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