Horse gram has a flavour that refuses to disappear politely into a curry. It is earthy, slightly nutty and distinctly itself, so this amti is built around that character rather than trying to cover it up.

The kulith is soaked, sprouted and cooked first, with its cooking liquor saved for the gravy. Kanda lasun masala brings roasted chilli, garlic and coconut depth, while tamarind and jaggery sit quietly in the background doing the Maharashtrian sweet-sour balancing act. A handful of the horse gram gets mashed back into the pot for body, and goda masala and roasted cumin go in towards the end so their aroma survives the journey.

It is dark, hearty and particularly good with rice and a little ghee.

Turns out horse gram has quite a lot to say. Best not interrupt it.

Kadve vaal are the sort of ingredient that make you wonder how hungry the first person who cooked them must have been. Start with a hard, slightly bitter bean, soak it overnight, convince it to sprout, soak it again, peel every single one by hand, then cook it past tender until it begins to fall apart. Somehow, all this trouble leads to something delicious.

This is the Birde my mother makes, although it isn't technically her family recipe. My grandmother was from Sindhudurg, but after moving to Bombay she became particularly fond of her CKP neighbours' cooking and happily adopted several of their recipes. Their sweet and tangy style of Birde was one of them.

The sprouted vaal are cooked with vegetables, coconut, tamarind and jaggery into a thin, sweet-sour gravy.

Apparently family recipes don't always travel down the family tree. Sometimes they just wander over from next door.

Palakachi Patal Bhaji is the sort of Maharashtrian spinach preparation that makes the word bhaji feel slightly misleading. Patal means thin, and this is meant to be loose and almost soupy, with spinach cooked alongside peanuts and chana dal in a tangy curd and besan base.

There’s a lot going on for something that looks so unassuming. Jaggery rounds out the sourness of the curd, peanuts and dal give you little interruptions of texture, and then a properly enthusiastic ghee tempering of garlic, chilli, ginger and curry leaves goes over the whole thing at the end.

It’s not the glamorous end of the spinach universe. It is, however, exactly the sort of thing that makes a bowl of hot rice disappear considerably faster than planned.

Shepu is one of those ingredients that refuses to quietly become “some greens” in the background. Dill is grassy, slightly bitter, intensely aromatic and very much the main character here. Kneaded straight into atta with coriander, green chillies, ginger, sesame and a few everyday spices, it turns a simple paratha into something considerably more interesting. Layer it with ghee, get those edges properly crisp, and serve it hot with curd and pickle. Technically breakfast. Also a perfectly reasonable excuse to eat butter before noon.