From the happy place ... DAY 1

Ever since I heard of Nupur's seven-recipe-seven-day-challenge, from my chum Manasi, my mind has been in a maniacal overdrive. Like a spoilt ATM machine that doesn't know what the bejesus to do with all that money. Imagine that! I know exactly what I would do ... Manolos, here I come! No, no ... need PB side-table first. Perhaps not. Cannot do without those fierce, fierce Loboutins, after all. Er ... maybe I spoke too soon. See, how easily I distract. Imagine what a fabulous challenge like this must do to my ADD brain!

To give you an idea. Really, I insist:

"Bake book-marked caramel cake! Nope nope. Feel like the insides need some goood coating of fat, butter and cheese. Pfffft calories! Cheese. Blue cheese, Monterey Jack, Cheddar, Mozzarella. Cheese. Cheese ... Cheese Enchiladas! Damn it! Don't have cheese!! Hmmm ... Ooooh I know! Italian feast of seven fishes in manner of latest Throwdown episode!! A sudden moment of clarity and visions of sweaty, cussy self yelling SHIIT-ake!! (when you have a toddler who bores through new words like caterpillars do apples ... hey, you take inspiration when it comes! Never mind if it's from animated penguins. Thank god she can't read yet).

Deep breath. Calm breath. Happy breath. No time for mushrooms and the like. Warm thoughts. Lit fire. Friends and family. Home. Cozy table of four, six, eight, ten or 20 ... lots of eats, loads of sweets. Soft music, loud banter. Diffused shadows, yellow candlelight. Twinkling white lights on soft, falling snow. Wine and cheese. Ahh ... more like it. Happy place. A recipe from my happy place. That wasn't difficult. Not at all.

One recipe that defines it all ... hmm ... you can see it coming can't you. No, no don't cringe. I won't be spoilt ATM-Y this time. For the time-being at least.

To me, my mother's preparation of rajma-chawal symbolizes all that is warm, golden, and right-in-the-world. Most of our Maharashtrian family give my sister and I quizzical looks, when we are all bated breath over a stew of kidney-beans and rice, rather than modaks, puran-polis and masale-bhaath. They shake their heads from side to side, all the while saying "shya-shya," (kind of the Marathi equivalent of shiit-ake), not comprehending this kind-of worship for something, that first of all, makes most of them flatulent. And second of all, makes them flatulent.

My sister and I are polar opposites, when it comes to most food. At least, that was the case when we were growing up. If she loved her "varan-bhaath" and spinach (sheesh, such kids give others such a bad name), I could eat fish-curry and rice all week, and 365 days of the year. Needless to say, mum got to hear a lot of "you only make what she likes!" But, on days she made rajma, there was absolute bonhomie between the two of us. Even if we'd pulled each others hair, just minutes ago. There was nothing better than kidney-beans and rice to bring us together. And we can sulk, believe me. For days at end. Somehow though, the sight of that silky, deep-red stew -- the kidney-beans, pressure-cooked just right, until some of them lent their inner goodness to the stew -- atop perfectly cooked basmati rice, spelt rainbows, home and everything wonderful.

I think nothing could describe the holidays better!

♣ Not Without My Kidney Bean

My mother got this spectacular rajma recipe from our wonderful Sikh neighbor, Mrs. Walia, while my father was posted in Pathankot. Ever since Mum learnt it, I don't think our family has spent a single week without it.

I have often experimented with it, adding and subtracting ingredients on whim and fancy. But, its hold on me is such that I always meander back to it. Always as home.

Mummy's Rajma

You need:

1 1/4 C rajma or red kidney beans, soaked overnight or pressure-cooked for a good 7-8 whistles (Mum swears by the deep-maroon, Jammu variety, which are smaller and definitely tastier; the canned variety work too, but be fore-warned. It's simply not the same)
1/2 a large red onion, cut into chunks
3 fat garlic cloves
1 tbsp ginger, minced
1- 1 1/2 tomatoes, chopped (vary depending on how much tartness you like)
Tiny pinch of turmeric
2-2 1/2 tsp chilli powder (2 1/2 makes it deliciously spicy. Stick to 1 1/2 - 2 if you prefer a balanced taste)
1/4 - 1/2 tsp garam masala (recipe follows)
2 tbsp vegetable oil
Salt to taste
Handful of cilantro, chopped

Garam masala:

4-5 black cardamom (badi elaichi)
8-10 cloves
1 - 1 1/2 inches of cinnamon stick
4-5 fenugreek seeds
Dry roast on a low flame until the whole-spices are toasty and just a tiny bit smoky. Grind to a powder and store in an air-tight container.

Recipe:

Dump onion chunks, garlic and ginger into the blender, and grind to a smooth paste. Place the pressure-cooker to warm, while you chop the tomatoes. Then, pour oil and spoon in the onion paste, and sauté on a medium flame. Do so, until you see oil leave sides of the pan, and the paste is dry of moisture.

Stir in a pinch of turmeric, tomatoes and continue sautéing until it's one, nice, beautiful-mush. Now, spoon in the chilli powder, garam masala and half-the-salt (I use about half-a-teaspoon), and mix around well.

Depending on whether you remembered to soak the kidney beans, continue as follows:

For the disciplined and canned (beans) lot who always soak their beans, clear the dishwasher every day, dust their furniture, all the while -- not a hair out of place ...

... drain the soaked kidney beans and mix in with the onion-tomato-spice mush, add remaining salt and about half-to-a-cup of water and pressure cook for 5-6 whistles. Let the cooker lid open on it's own accord (no shoving it under cold water, please ... yep, been there. Done that. Not worth it), Your patience will be rewarded. Smell in the goodness, adjust water if you like your stew thinner, taste for salt, sprinkle a handful of chopped cilantro. Breathe in heaven one last time, before you devour it over steamed Basmati rice, or parathas even.

For you other kindred souls ... soaking be darned, dishwasher be double-darned and hair .. oh well .. damn that too.

... remove the onion-tomato paste, and pour in washed kidney beans in the cooker. Pour in about four to five cups of water and give it 6-7 whistles. After the lid opens, spoon in the paste, mix around, adjust water and check for seasoning. Pressure-cook for another two whistles if the beans have been sitting on the shelf for a year or more. Now, we can join those disciplined (losers) .. er, I honestly meant lot ... to breathe in and taste some well-deserved manna.

Other notable mentions: Here are two other recipes that always drop in like old friends for some gossip and a cup of hot-brewed coffee:

The first is from fellow blogger Anita. Her Kashmiri rajma is absolutely divine. And it tastes diviner with home-made ghee.

The other is a legend of sorts, from the acclaimed Gopium, both his writing and recipes are such an inspiration.
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Shtuffed ...

Burrrrp ... write later. Sleep now.

Happy Thanksgiving!







Adapted from Hello, Cupcake! by Karen Tack & Alan Richardson.
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The Year That Was ... Part II

" ... It smells of rain and steamy earth
and hot June sun
In the whole tomato garden
it's the only one.
I close my eyes and breathe in
its fat, red smell.
I wish that I could eat it now
and never, never tell ..."
From First Tomato, written and illustrated by Rosemary Wells

... Fat, red-tomatoes, jackfruit, papaya or sweet, sweet mangoes -- everything in Asrondi smells of rain, the steamy red earth, and the ocean. AM's ancestral village is a good seven to eight hours from Mumbai, the way dotted by villages and cities, treacherous ups and downs as the earth undulates, and leafy, leafy trees that always look like they've had a dip in the nearby river.

As children, my husband and his siblings spent every summer here, playing in its terracotta dirt. The color staining their fingers, feet and shorts. It has a certain vibrancy, the earth there. A strength and this indescribable, distinctive smell that never really leaves you. Perhaps, that's the secret behind the fragrance of its flowers and the succulent, organic taste of its vegetables and fruits. AM often reminisces of many unforgettable summer mornings in Asrondi -- the whole kitchen smoky, but deliciously heavy from the smell of kindled wood and food. Lit by a solitary sunbeam that streamed in through an amiss tile in the roof, scattering the woodsy, grey smoke hither-thither, conjuring patterns as you ate. Breakfast would be simple. Hardy bhakri with chunky, bright-red, garlic chutney, freshly made on the grindstone ... a pure explosion of crisp flavor. Or simply made beaten rice, tempered with mustard, and cumin seeds and flavored with chillies and curry leaves. Then, it would be off to the pastures in the company of cousins and cows. Walking and wandering, unusual treasures and stones saved in pockets, to be savored and looked at after lunch.

Lunch would be simple, or elaborate depending entirely on the day of the week. As with most families, Sundays were special food days. And absolutely incomplete without protein of some kind. My husband says, it would be unnatural if the day ever began without the smell of caramelized onions and roasted coconut. The morning would then escalate slowly into noon, punctuated by sounds of cantankerous spoons against heavy aluminum vats, and a happy amalgamation of smells.

As the meat would hit the hot fat, its aroma would loosely herd the ménage in the big room and the courtyard outside. Oblivious to the gastronomical havoc stirred outside the kitchen threshold, the women rolled out the dough made from rice and mixed lentils into thick, round circles or vade, and fried them in smoking hot oil. As the lentil bread would puff and take a victory lap around the oil, the men and children would gather around the table in anticipation. Even then, no one ate until the patriarch of the family, Bapu, graced the table. Then, it was all about enjoying the flavors of the meat. Soaked and falling off the bone in its rich, brown gravy. To be scooped, slurped and had simply with your hands.

Since then, our family has grown exponentially. Where there were siblings and cousins, there are now grandchildren and great grandparents. Less than 10 kilometers from the ancestral property, the family has built a lovely little farmhouse and a nursery, aptly named "Vrikshvalli," or the orchard of trees. From its depths grows the golden Alphonso known as much for its taste, as its heady scent of of hay and sweetness; golden plumeria or "son-chafa," its petals, a shade between the color of butter and saffron, and when it blooms, it infuses into everything around it. Much like honey does in milk; coconuts, cashews, kokum, chickoos and papaya -- the fruit ooze such sugar, one might think they were dipped in honey.

As I write this, I remember it was only six months ago that we sat on the red-tiled terrace at Gavkund. Sipping the last dregs of thick mango milkshake, deep in concentration over a game of scrabble. The kids giggling in the background, as the Indian sun mellowed and readied to set. Below, AM's cousin, Babi Dada, readied the charcoal grill for an evening of barbecued chicken.

While I awaited my turn at the board-game, I took a moment to take it all in -- the sounds of my excited, laughing nieces, my one-year old busy observing a couple of ants, nearby. An orange sky, that kissed the tops of trees and arms of outstretched green branches.

Ever so gently, as if it sensed my mood -- the smell of Asrondi washed over me. The wind lifted slightly, bringing with it some loose, red earth for company; a soft stain appeared on my white tunic, where wind and earth had touched. Like the others, they left me an imprint to last a lifetime, and keep coming back for more.

♣ The Simple Life

No matter how tightly-packed our suitcases, AM and I ensure we bring back as much of Asrondi as we possibly can cram. "Ole kaju" or fresh cashews to be made into curry later on; kokum to flavor dals, fish curries and fried fish; some "utna," a mudpack of sorts to be smeared on the face and body, with coconut milk and oil on the first day of Diwali. And my favorite -- kulith or powdered horsegram. Most well-known spice blend manufacturers (Kepra, Bedekar, etc) have their versions of a Kulith blend. We seldom buy these as I find them lacking in taste. In Asrondi, they first toast the horse-gram carefully (so as not to burn it) in a clay pot, until it's fragrant. Then, it's pounded to a smooth powder with turmeric and coriander powder, and packaged to be cooked into pithi. The following recipe is going to make an appearance for Sra's Legume Love affair at The Well Seasoned Cook.

Kulith Pithi

You need:

A handful or so of powdered horse-gram/Kulith
1-2 Tbsp oil
1-2 garlic flakes, crushed
1-2 green chillies, chopped on the diagonal
1/2 red onion (American onions are typically huge, use about 1-2 onions if in India), roughly chopped
1/4 tsp turmeric
1-2 tsp chili powder
Salt to taste
A handful of cilantro/coriander leaves, chopped

Recipe

Dissolve powdered horse-gram in water with chili powder, turmeric and salt -- mix around until there are no lumps and the mixture is of thin, pouring consistency. Heat oil in a pan or wok, add crushed garlic, and stir around until the flakes turn golden. Stir in chopped onion and chillies and saute until onions are pink and golden around the edges.

Kulith has a tendency to settle down at the bottom when dissolved in water, so give it a quick stir or two before pouring over onion, garlic and chillies. Bring to a simmer, check seasoning and throw in a handful of chopped cilantro. Heap over a mound of rice, with chunky raw onion as a side. There, you have it. Simplicity and Asrondi on your plate.

A small note about Vrikshavalli:

Has about 1,000 mango trees -- Alphonso (Hapoos as it's known locally), Ratna, Keshar, Paayri, Sindhu, Totapuri, Rajapuri -- being some of the many varieties; Approximately 6,000 cashew trees and saplings and a wide variety of almost every spice found in India. Recently, Vrikshavalli acquired all varieties of Hibiscus in the world, and has quite the plethora of other fruit trees -- Jamun/Jambul, Chickoos, Papaya, Jackfruit/durian, Kokum (Garcinia indica) to name a few -- and ornamental plants such as roses, marigolds, and Plumeria ("Chafa," "Son-Chafa").

Contact:
Vrikshavalli Nursery, Vaghde,
Taluka Kankavli
District Sindhudurg
Maharashtra -- 416602

On Bombay-Goa Highway

Opposite Hotel Priya
Phone no: 91 2367 232 314

Cell phone: 91 98 2258 9041 / 91 94 2239 0122

e-mail: vrikshavalli@hotmail.com

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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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Wok-ing the Wok

I ogle at woks the same way as most women eye shoes and jewelry. Not that I don't the other two, I do. Very much so. Only that woks also happen to occupy that very special place reserved exclusively for accessories. Just so you truly understand, let me give you an example. I am one of those people who will buy the pretty curtains first, think of measuring the window, later. Much later. That's how important accessories are for me. And if said curtains can double as a table-cloth or a bed-spread, even better.

Whether it is soups, diamonds or a piece of utensil -- I look for two things. How accommodative? and the degree of versatility. Nine times out of ten, if these two pre-requisites are satisfied, I will take one. Or two. Depending, to a certain extent, on fabulous things called sales and discounts. Then, I am likely to take four. Well, you know, when I say four, I actually mean five.

So, it goes with woks. I am yet to meet a uni-tasker, and so far, one that I haven't liked. The ones in my kitchen, deep-fry, braise, stir-fry, broil, boil. Heck, I use the dome-side of my aluminum kadhai, to bake Rumali-rotis from time to time. Believe you me, if someone would let me, I wouldn't think twice before trying to pressure-cook in my go-to wonders. You would think such supreme over-confidence must mean I am not in the market, or on e-bay, actively looking for woks. Nope. Nada. Nix. Yeah, yeah I know, I all but put the words in your mouth. But, how could you presume there's such a thing as enough shoes, clothes, and bags! Or woks. The outrage!!

Not surprisingly then, after I solemnly swore to the other-half about laying off woks, for awhile anyways, I unexpectedly ran into "THE" wok at our little outlet mall, on the outskirts of town. Much to the annoyance of the husband, it made me squeal exactly like Sarah Jessica Parker, in the presence of Manolo Blahniks. I didn't care other customers and the store clerks were looking at me funny. Or the possibility that I must look like a cross between SJP and Scrat, the saber-toothed squirrel in Ice Age, putting life and limb in danger for the acorn ... er wok. 

Then, began the rationalization.

"This was definitely not the same as our 14-inch cast iron one, was it?" I asked. Besides, we'd always wanted one, for you know, when there was a small bunch of spinach, or a piddling cauliflower or cabbage. And oh, oh. Imagine if we wanted to fry a small batch of French-fries. Or a mini-assortment of fritters. "The possibilities are endless, honey," I said holding it up to the light. Its strong, wood handle fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. And oh, the bottom! Again, and again I caressed its smooth, undulating form. After four years, AM now knows better than to argue logically with his wife when she says "honey."

And, so we bought our sixth "essential" piece.  I don't think I have ever expressed gratitude for my God-given gift for rationalization, as much. Today, were I to advise a novice on his/her "only" fundamental kitchen must-have. This would be it. The dimensions, its depth and the sheer feel of it. Perfection like you won't believe it. The only, how can I put this delicately, pain-in-the rear has to do with its upkeep. After use, it demands an immediate wash with luke-warm water and soap. Then, it needs to be wiped clean and tucked on to the kitchen shelf after a quick a dab of vegetable oil.

What can I say? It's so much like owning your very first piece of Cashmere.

♣ U.M.A.M.I : D.E.L.I.C.I.O.U.S
Sure, the Chinese might have given us egg rolls and General Tso's chicken. But, the gobi manchurian -- that's as Indian, as well, Amul butter and pav-bhaji. As most NRI's one of the things I miss most about India, is the Chinese food. And so, like almost every immigrant who wants to re-create home, with its flavors and unique smells, I do too.

One of the first things I wanted to try in the new wok was the following recipe for manchurian, by one Harish Amble. It had been heavily tweaked and lay idling around, pressed between the pages of Better Homes and Garden for quite awhile. Then, we bought us some Kikkoman sweet and sour sauce from a Chinese grocery store, and took the recipe for a spin. The kitchen hasn't stopped smelling like Mainland China, on Dhole-Patil Road ever since.


You need:

1 big cauliflower, broken into medium-sized florets
2 T Cornstarch
8-10 Thai chillies or Serrano peppers, julienne
3 T chopped garlic
1 T chopped ginger
2 T Soy sauce
1 bottle of Kikkoman's sweet and sour sauce
Spring onions, roughly chopped for garnishing
Peanut oil for deep-frying

Recipe:

Set the wok with enough oil to deep-fry the florets. Then, slowly add cold water to the cornstarch, we need just enough to make a relatively runny batter and one that can thinly coat the cauliflower. Dunk in the florets , a little at a time, and deep-fry until golden-brown. Remove and set aside on a wire-rack, similarly fry the remaining cauliflower and leave it be until later.

Heat another wok (you have two, don't you?) and add a couple of tablespoons of oil. Toss in the ginger, garlic and green chillies and stir-fry until they turn a chocolatey brown. Spoon in the Soy sauce and a couple of tablespoons of sweet and sour sauce, tossing and stirring constantly, so that nothing sticks to the bottom of the pan.

Mix in the fried florets at this point, depending on how dry or moist you prefer your manchurian add some more sweet and sour sauce. AM and I use up almost the entire bottle for a big cauliflower. Toss and mix for about 7-10 minutes. Throw in a handful of chopped green onions, and nosh with fried or steamed rice.
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