The Year That Was ... Part I

Blog-wise, this was a no show year for me. I had promised myself I would keep blogging, irrespective of the four-month hiatus in India, beginning January this year. Actually, the husband was supposed to contribute while I figured out how to get the darn Internet to co-operate, but he couldn't make up his mind about plausible blogging subjects, being as it were my blog.

And here we are 10 months down the line, New Year resolutions, promises-to-self, a thing of the past -- I suspect mine are hiding with the clothes that fit me pre-pregnancy. The clothes, I have pretty much given up on. As for the resolutions, I figure it's never too late (or early) to start with those. It's about time anyway, being November and all. (As you can see, I am a bit of a planner. Whether the planning actually takes places as planned, is of course a different matter. But, plan I will. Now, that's something the husband could write realms on.

It was an eventful year, 2009. Starting with a 26-hour long flight and a nine-month in tow. All she wanted to do was crawl and cry, all I could think of was to crawl somewhere within the depths of the earth, where neither man nor baby could find me. Ah, well ... the best laid plans. We know what happens to those. So, after much bawling (and lots of mental-hair pulling on my part) we landed at Chattrapati Shivaji Airport. By then, I'd almost forgotten the arduous flight, and was looking forward to reaching home. The Gods must be smiling upon us, I whispered to my daughter, as we cleared immigration etc., within no time. Luggage too came swimmingly along, followed by the car-seat. Now, only if the stroller would show-up, I said to myself. Of course, it didn't, being my lucky day, as it were. After much standing around, hopelessly-hoping the stroller had made it in after all, a couple of missing-luggage forms and two-and-a-half hours later, the smell of 26-hours of traveling, my ravenous infant and I, finally made our way into the open arms of waiting family.

Ahhh ... the smell of home. Four years later, the mornings still smelled the same. An odd mixture of Chitale milk and pollution. I knew the wee one was too small to understand any of it. Mommy's home and her odd associations. But, I wanted her to see and absorb, as much as she could, even if she didn't comprehend. I think it comes naturally, once you are a parent and especially an immigrant one. However unfair it maybe, almost every parent I know, expects their progeny to love and take to things that they grew up loving. Be it sights that comfort, or odd smells that spell home -- all of it is fair game.

As, it turned out, I had inhaled in too much of the Mumbai morning. In a couple of days we were both sniffling and sneezing the whole house down. Ahhh ... home.

Between January and April, time pretty much flew by quickly. Three days before her first birthday, and five days after AM joined us, our daughter took her first steps in my in-laws' living room. Since then, she hasn't stopped running circles around us all. Of course, now that's behind us, and she's mastering a few words at a time, we are waiting for her to speak a complete sentence. Parent's and their expectations, what can I say?

The last three weeks of our vacation were a blur of gastrointestinal problems for me. (I know, I know, this is a food blog. But, this post is all about digressing and being all over the place). In between said problems, we did manage to sight-see a couple of places. Diarrhea or not ... I was going to make the most of this trip.

We visited Matheran, a first for me. Sick, or not, stomach -- more water than gut -- I was going. Growing up, my grandfather told me the most wonderful stories revolving around this small little hill-station of Maharashtra. Tales of lions, tigers, monkey's and snakes and brave shikaris, all mushed together like soft rice and dal, fed ever so lovingly. Some real, some a figment of his imagination -- it was an enchanting place for me. He'd promised me that he would take me there someday, but unfortunately he passed on before he and I ever got a chance. Then, it took me all these years to not be sad about visiting without him. It wasn't the best time, seasonally speaking, being dry and scorching hot. But, it was enough. All I wanted was to make a memory with my first-born, in a place that reminded me of the most unforgettable childhood stories. After all, this trip was all about keepsakes ...

To be continued ...

♣ Leena Maushi's Golden Dosas

One of the things I miss most about home is probably one of my favorite Udipi restaurants -- Vaishali on F.C. Road, that has graced the city of Pune since 1951. A substantial amount of my college life, and almost every second weekend has been spent in her warm embrace, but as hugs go, they are scarcely ever enough.

My mother and I have spent a considerable part of our lives trying to replicate their crisp, golden dosas at home. We've come to terms with the fact that, that will probably never happen. It's really like attempting to replicate your grandmother's signature dish.

So, when Mum's cousin Leena, told us about this recipe that turns out beautiful, crisp golden dosas, we had to give it a whirl. It's not Vaishali, but I think it's very close. The addition of pigeon peas (toor dal) give the dosas a lovely gilded hue, while the beaten rice lends them a perfect crunch.

You need:

3 cups rice (I used Sona Masuri)

1 cup urad dal (black gram)

1/2 cup toor dal (pigeon peas)

1/2 cup thick poha (Flattened/beaten rice)

1/2 tsp fenugreek seeds

Salt to taste

Vegetable oil

Recipe:

Mix in the fenugreek seeds with the toor dal, and soak in water overnight. Similarly, soak rice and urad dal in separate containers. The following morning, soak poha briefly in water to moisten it thoroughly. Then, grind everything separately to form a smooth batter. Mix together, spoon in salt to taste and add water to get a batter of pouring consistency. Leave it to ferment the entire day (eight hours minimum) in a warm place.

When you are ready to make dosas:

On a medium-flame, heat a non-stick pan or a well-oiled and seasoned cast-iron pan. While the pan warms, take a cup or so of cold water in a container, and mix in a tablespoon or so of salt, drop in a clean cloth rag and keep near the cook-top. Pour some cooking oil in a small bowl and place nearby as well.

Check the consistency of the batter, adding in more water if required. What we want is for the batter to fall in a smooth, steady stream.

Once the pan is hot, pour in a small teaspoon of oil, squeeze excess water from your cloth rag and quickly swab the pan with salted water. Using a round-bottomed ladle, pour in a ladleful of batter and in a swift, circular motion, form thin dosas. Pour in a few drops of oil around the edges and a few on top, cover with a lid (preferably something see-through) and let steam for a few minutes until the edges start to brown. Remove lid, and carefully lift an edge, sliding in the spatula until the entire dosa lifts easily. Fold it over carefully and transfer on to a wire-rack, and repeat the process to make remaining dosas. (If leftover, the batter stays well for a day or two). Enjoy piping hot with a variety of sides.

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Poof! Goes the Puff

There are puffs; and then there's the "veg-pattice" from Hindustan Bakery, in Pune. Elsewhere known as turnovers, calzones, hot-pockets and puffs, these have been quite the blue-eyed babies in our house, oh-I-don't-know, ever since I was two-feet-eleven inches, tall.

Sunday mornings at my grandparents' house in old-world Narayan Peth always began with the clangity-clang from the newspaper press downstairs, and the smell of hot tea and warm pattice, wrapped in brown paper. But, what I really looked forward to the most, was when Aai, my paternal grandmother, re-heated the puffs over the iron griddle in the evening. Somehow, the taste of over-done, crusty puff, combined with the spectacular filling seemed ever so sublime. And now that I am separated by a good 10,000 miles, it seems even more so.

Frequently, I wake up on Sundays with those familiar sounds and my taste-buds alive with flavors of the "pattice" (as these are known in most of India) from my beloved bakery. So, you can imagine my excitement when I discovered the Pepperidge Farm pastry-puff sheets in the freezer-section of my grocery store. Ever since, I haven't quite stopped experimenting. Mostly, that has yielded good results. At other times, the end-products have been, let's just say, interesting. So enthralled was I at one point, actually a couple of months ago, that I took it in my head to try and make puff-pastry from scratch ...

"Now for the making of puff paste of the best kind, you shall take the finest wheat flour after it hath been a little baked in a pot in the oven, and blend well with eggs, whites and yolks all together, after the paste is well kneaded, roll out a part thereof as thin as you please, and then spread cold sweet butter over the same, then upon the same butter roll another leaf of the paste as before; and spread it with butter also; and thus roll leaf upon leaf with butter between till it be as thick as you think good: and with it cover any baked meat, or make paste for venison, Florentine, tart or what dish else you please and so bake it." -- (The English Housewife, 1615, from Harold McGee's, On Food and Cooking ...) Several such recipes later, I firmly pushed the idea to the far nether of my being. Meant to be retrieved only after my daughter starts sleeping as babies ought to.

Irrespective of the degree of difficulty, though, it has to be said, whoever created this flaky masterpiece was some kind of a genius -- in all probability with an incredibly huge gut, considering all that experimentation with butter. That said, you would think, some chunky French pastry chef or a rotund Italian one (there are certainly plenty of stories out there) might have created the first recipe. But, food historian Charles Perry says, in all actuality it was most probably the Arabs and Turks who should be credited for inventing puff pastry around 1500. Turkish Borek, anyone?

The Borek, they say, is typically made with yufka or phyllo pastry. Different from puff pastry in that its dough is stretched, not rolled; and once baked, turns crisp without puffing up. So, it goes that traditional boreks are usually stuffed with meat, feta cheese or some sort of savory filling, much like the Indian pattice. Unlike it though, Boreks come in a number of shapes, depending apparently on the region, shape and an extensive diaspora of other factors, meant for another post.

Taking inspiration from the Borek, I decided to do a circular variation using my trusty old muffin pan. Over the years, I have variously stuffed Pepperidge Farm sheets with different fillings -- potatoes, cabbage, chicken, at one time a sweet cranberry version even. From the lot, I almost never err whenever I use the cabbage filling. This time too it was no different ...

... Like always, it brought with it sepia-tinted memories from my childhood, dragging along a chubby, rosy-faced Sunday morning in tow. There was the hot chai simmering away on my grandmother's ancient gas-top. The smell of the brewing tea punctuated with crisp newsprint, as it rolled off the press. And most of all there were my beloved puffs. Golden, brown and, sinfully delicious. To be tasted and savored slowly, meant to tide me over until evening. At least.

♣ "You Won't Believe it's Cabbage"

I certainly didn't when I had it for the first time. I kept asking my BFF's mother, Bansal Aunty, whether she was being completely honest. All the while taking third, fourth and fifth helpings. Years later, the recipe continued to haunt me, until I finally took it from Yasha, who I have known for almost as long as I have known my extremities.

Those were such good times, and inextricably in my mind, the cabbage is the glue that holds it all together. Yasha's mother, unfailingly made it for our group of chubby six. And she made a lot of it.

Each one of us, would keep indulging, all under the pretext to ensure it was indeed cabbage. I, for one, still haven't stopped.

You need:

For the filling
1 small cabbage head, finely shredded
A pinch of hing
2 medium-sized tomatoes, finely chopped
1/4 tsp turmeric
1 1/2 tsp chili powder
2 tsp coriander powder
3 T of vegetable oil
Salt to taste
Handful of fresh cilantro, chopped

For the puff
A sheet of Pepperidge Farm puff pastry
Some all-purpose flour or whole-wheat flour

Recipe:
Place a medium-sized wok over medium-high flame, and heat the oil. Sprinkle in hing, and quickly toss in the finely chopped tomatoes, stirring around, until they start losing their edges, and become slightly soft.

Spoon over the turmeric and give it two-three stirs. Now, lower the heat slightly, and add the chili and coriander powder, salt to taste and combine well. After a couple of minutes, dump in the shredded cabbage and stir to combine.

Place a lid over the wok, lower the heat further and let it cook for about 30-45 minutes at least. Frequently stir the cabbage, what we are looking for is for the filling to turn a deep, roasted reddish-brown. Sprinkle and stir in the cilantro, and turn off the heat. This filling is also fantastic with phulkas or piping rice and dal.



To assemble
Pre-heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit, and set the puff-pastry sheets to thaw for 40 minutes. Then, lightly-flour your countertop or chopping board with all-purpose flour or whole-wheat flour. Spread the pastry-sheet and gently smoothen any creases with a floured rolling pan. Using a cookie cutter, cut circles out of the sheet and line a muffin tin. The left-over pieces of the pastry-sheet can be re-molded and rolled into a circle to fit in the tin. Now, spoon in the filling into the puff-cups, three-fourths of the way. Bake for 10-15 minutes until golden-brown, and to-die-for. Make plenty, "no one can eat just one."

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A little bit of Java

School mornings always began early. Seldom was the day that started without a whiff of Gurumoorthy Aunty's filter coffee. It was heady, that aroma. And at 5 am, it seemed especially enticing. While, miserable and sleepy me had to contend with plain ol' Bournvita, an egg-sandwich and a couple of almonds, Rajesh had his mother's coffee with piping idlis, no less. On other days, he had dosai and filter coffee. All that urad dal and delicious coffee concoction was responsible for his math genius. Or so I believed. Mum of course refused to buy into this brilliant theory and continued my staple of cocoa, badams and eggs.

Several years later, I had my first cup of cappuccino at a new bookstore in Pune. It wasn't great by any means. Certainly wasn't Gurumoorthy Aunty's heavenly filter coffee. But, I had acquired a deep love for the fragrance of roasted coffee beans. That, mingled with the crisp smell of new books was like having my grandmother's fish curry for a month straight -- Simply divine. It's another thing that later I was bouncing off walls and couldn't sleep the entire night.

Funny as it is, 10 years later, every time I have a cuppa, I am pretty much the same. Hyperactive and sleepless. A decade is a long time to come to terms with the fact that mine is a system built for hot chocolates. I am supposed to only gulp in the fragrance of coffee by the nostril-fulls, but never ingest it. Every time I come across a scientific clipping citing the ill-effects of caffeine, I feel a little happy. As only someone who is denied one of life's most simple pleasures would feel.

But, but, but. This was the situation until a year ago. One afternoon, as I was browsing through one of my treasured finds from a local thrift-store, I chanced upon a recipe for cappuccino muffins. Ordinarily, I would have skipped right by, but that day I was in the mood for some experimentation. Besides, I thought to myself, it would make a nice little treat for AM's colleagues the following day. As it turned out, it has now become one of our house-favorites. So far, we've made these at least half-a-dozen times. My husband is yet to reach office with those muffins.

Given my body's resistance to all things caffeine, you would think I would be wise not to have any. For a whiff of these what's breaking a few chairs and a sleepless night or two?

♣ "Pick me up, as you go, go"

This recipe for cappuccino muffins takes espresso and bittersweet chocolate to a whole new level. When you don't have time for either breakfast or a hot cup of Joe, these muffins give you a shot of both. Filling, delicious and oh so heady -- can there be a better way to begin that rushed morning? Since I love these little ones so very much, I am marching them off to play and mingle -- hope you like these Meeta!

"For a deeper, more intense chocolate flavor," the authors, James Barrett and Wendy Smith, "cut their own chocolate chips from a bar of good quality bittersweet chocolate."

From the Metropolitan Bakery Cookbook

You need:

1/8 C instant espresso powder
1 1/8 C's milk, heated until hot
1 1/4 C's all-purpose flour
1/2 +1/8 C's granulated sugar
1 1/2 tsp of baking powder
1/2 + 1/4 tsp of ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp salt
1 large egg
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 1/2 T unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 + 1/4 C's bittersweet chocolate chunks

Recipe:

Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Grease or butter 12 two-and-half-inch muffin-pan cups. Melt the butter and set aside to cool. Then heat the milk until it is just hot and dissolve in the espresso powder. I strain this mixture, but the book doesn't suggest so, skip the straining if you think it unnecessary. Transfer to a small bowl and let cool.

In a large mixing bowl, sift the flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and salt. Once the espresso-milk mixture has cooled down, whisk into it the egg and vanilla extract. Then, whisk this espresso-milk mixture into the sifted ingredients just until blended. Stir in the melted butter, and then fold in the chocolate chunks with a rubber spatula.

Spoon the batter evenly (I pour in about 2 tablespoons) into the muffin-pan cups. Bake for 14-16 minutes, rotating the pan between the upper and lower oven racks halfway through baking. Check by inserting a wooden skewer in the center of the muffins, once it comes out clean, remove and cool the muffins in the pan for five minutes. Then, remove from pan and cool completely on wire racks.

Bite into some moist deliciousness coupled with this lovely extract from the novel Devadasi by Kasturi Sreenivasan ...

Chapter I - The Course of True Lovers (1977):

"Outside the temple, the petty vendors along the dusty street were doing a brisk trade by the light of smokey oil lamps..."

"Though Palayam was only a small town, one of its eating places started serving a new drink called coffee. It had been introduced by the British rulers and there were many stories about it. Some argued that, since it was of European origin, it must necessarily be unclean; others said it might be alcoholic. In any case, very few tried it, since a tumbler full cost as much as half an anna, while butter-milk was served free in many places and coconut water including the tender coconut meat was only a paisa. Only the most daring or the wealthy could afford the exotic brew ... "


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Once Upon a Butter Chicken

A long, long time ago, in a hole-in-the-wall kind of an eatery, there featured a very common dish known to the locals, far and wide, as Butter Chicken. But, none quite made it like this small restaurant that called itself Kabir's in the sweet, little city of Pune. A girl aged about 10 or 11, chanced upon the dish at a soiree thrown by one of her parent's friends.

And thus began a rather arduous, one-sided, love affair.

The charming shredded chicken and its silky, rubicund gravy left an imprint so deep on the lass's palate, that although she met many a handsome butter chicken in her young life, none quite compared to her first love. Once, she had, had her share of disappointments dished by restaurant after restaurant, here and yonder, the girl took it upon herself to recreate the recipe that had indelibly carved such a niche on her heart and gut. But, alas, such are the ways of specialty entrees. Unless, the chef who creates it, is your mother -- nay, mother's are untrustworthy creatures when it comes to teaching certain recipes. They are known to keep "special ingredients" and quantities to themselves -- or grandmother, such treasures can be but lost.

Yet, the colleen persevered...

...she tried elusive recipe after difficult recipe from famous chefs. Hung around (some strange) blogs. Skimmed innumerable newspapers and magazines. Even carried out a gillion experiments in her kitchen. But, to no avail. She despaired that perhaps her first love was indeed lost in an abyss, forever. Never to be retrieved in this lifetime.

Many a years later, the girl now a married woman and mother, quite by chance, happened upon an unexpected miracle. After an endlessly long day of changing diapers and feeding a very hungry wee little one, the dame came across a recipe that she thought was quite interesting.

So, armed with a very hopeful heart, she ventured into the kitchen.

Half-way through, milady realized that a very important ingredient was missing from her pantry. It was the very one which she had used up in her endeavor to make tandoori chicken. But, not one to give up so easily -- especially, after being so close in perhaps re-creating the nuances of a dish that had kept her awake for many a night -- she turned once again to her trusty laptop-on-the-wall in the hopes of finding a from-the-scratch-tandoori-masala-recipe. Lo and behold! A gazillion (or so) popped up, but she decided on the very first one she'd googled. And it did not disappoint. She hurriedly bustled, tasting and adjusting as she went along.

Finally, after a measly hour in the scullery, the dish was ready to be savored...

...The woman broke a piece of her unleavened bread and hastily dipped it in the butter chicken gravy. At last.

As was expected it lacked the special something from Kabir's. But, it was so close to the dish she had fallen in love with many-many-a-twelve-month-ago that she almost swooned and let out such a gasp of delight that she woke the sleeping babe in the crib, down the hall, much to the chagrin of its father who had rocked her relentlessly for more than hour.

Here it is, in its entirety, for you to experience and fall in love with. As she did, once upon a time, when she was 10 or 11.

♣ Restaurant-style Butter Chicken
Loosely adapted from vahrevah.com

You need:

2 sizable chicken breasts, skinned and sliced thin

2-3 cashews

2-3 almonds, blanched and peeled (optional); if you decide to skip the almonds, make-up by adding a couple more cashews

A tbsp of ginger-garlic paste (2-3 largish garlic cloves + 3/4th inch of ginger)

1-2 tbsp lime juice

1/2 of a large red-onion, roughly chopped

1/2 of a nicely-proportioned, juicy tomato

2 tbsp hung curd

A handful of finely chopped cilantro

1/2 stick of salted butter

2-3 tbsp of vegetable or peanut oil

A couple of tsp of salt or as per taste

A tablespoon or so of cream or whole milk

1/2 tsp of turmeric powder

1 tbsp + 2 tsp + some in dashes and sprinkles of chili powder

1 tsp of cumin powder

About a quarter teaspoon of garam masala

1 tbsp of from-scratch-tandoori masala (recipe follows below)

For Tandoori Masala, you need:
Adapted from indiancurryrecipes.com

8 tsp ground coriander

7 tsp ground cumin

7 tsp garlic powder (if you don't like a strong garlicky taste, make it 5-6 tsp)

7 tsp paprika (I didn't have paprika, but the overall result was good nevertheless)

5 tsp ground ginger

5 tsp mango powder

2 tsp dried mint (didn't have this either, but I didn't think it made a huge difference)

5 tsp beetroot powder (or a tsp of red food coloring powder; I added a few drops of food coloring in the chicken instead)

2 tsp chili powder

2 tsp anatto seed powder (or 1/2 tsp yellow food coloring powder; or a few drops in the gravy or over the chicken)

-- Dump all the spices in a ziplock bag and give it a good shake to combine all the spices well.

Recipe:

To begin, place the curd in a cheesecloth or worn out cotton handkerchief, twine and hang the curd until whey is drained. Consequently, slice the chicken in neat, thin pieces. Then, spoon over tandoori masala, a teaspoon of salt, cumin, a tablespoon of chili powder and the hung curd. Using your hands, massage the spices into the chicken, and set aside in the refrigerator for an hour at least. While the chicken is marinading, roughly chop the onion and keep aside.

After that, toss in the garlic and ginger in the mixing bowl of your blender and blend to a smooth paste. Remove and put to one side, and in the same bowl, grind together the tomato along with half-a-teaspoon of chili powder, cashews and (if using) almonds.

Once the chicken is appropriately marinaded, heat oil in a roomy vessel of your choice. Into it, dump the chicken pieces and toss around until the chicken is cooked. In the last couple of minutes, squeeze in two to three drops of red and yellow food color, stir about and remove to a plate. Quickly stir in the ginger-garlic paste for a minute or so, add in the chopped onion and stir until a lovely golden-brown. Spoon over turmeric, about half-a-teaspoon of chili powder and the remaining salt. Add in the tomato-cashew-almond paste and give it about five to seven minutes in the pan, then set aside to cool completely. Remove into the mixing bowl of your blender and grind to a silky paste.

Now, in the same pan that you cooked the chicken, melt the butter and stir in the onion-tomato paste for another five to seven minutes. Add about three-fourth's of a cup of water, giving it a quick little whirl. What we want is for the sauce to bubble and to thicken slightly to add some oomphy texture. Check for the seasoning, if needed, add a few dashes of chili powder and salt. Sprinkle over the garam masala powder, give the sauce a quick whirl or two and add in the cooked chicken. Add in a couple of drops of red food color, if you think the sauce needs a bit of brightening. Let the chicken stew over a medium to low flame for about five to 10 minutes. Squeeze over the lemon juice, stirring as you squeeze, add a nice little swirl of cream or whole milk, and throw in a handful of freshly chopped cilantro to bring out the lovely tangerine hues of the butter chicken.

Serve atop a mound of steamed plain rice, or alongside your favorite unleavened bread. Relish every bite. Ever so slowly. The thing with fairy tales is, they have to be savored. Slowly.

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