The deluxe life

Here she goes again, you think, boasting about her riches.
But listen to this story and why I am so exultant.
When I lived in Pune, and had just started cooking, 'foreign' vegetables were just coming into the market and priced to reflect their novelty. I didn't mind so much about asparagus and zucchini (yes, even zucchini was 'gourmet'!), but I did mind the parsley. At nearly 80 Rs for a couple of stems, parsley cost more than meat and so was never bought. A green-fingered friend did try to grow some for me, but the seeds never sprouted for him either.
When I came to Chatola, I discovered that a local organisation was selling herb starts. I bought garlic chives and rosemary and sage and of course, parsley. They all thrived. The parsley especially self-seeded as if it wanted to make up for the disappointment of a decade ago. Today, I need to just stretch out a hand to get parsley, but I still feel recklessly indulgent when I make a parsley-heavy dish like tabbouleh.
And today, G took me hunting for these.

Riches indeed. They have been lovingly cleaned and simmered in butter supplied by a neighbour.

Mian comes home soon. Dinner will be homemade pasta (made with our eggs) with morels, parsley and garlic- all from our garden.
Wallowing in luxury, we are.

The only real Vindaloo

The five stages of grief are a lie.

For me, grief is like the beach holidays that we would take when I was a child. Amma would sit on the beach while her daughters played in the water and watch us. The rule was that each time one of us got knocked down by a wave, we were to stand up. The idea was that Amma could know we were okay.

Of course, in practice that meant that I would get knocked down, flail wildly, manage to stand up spluttering, and get knocked over again by the even-bigger wave that had been rearing up behind me all this time.

I had thought that the nights of waking up because I was unable to inhale were past me. But then our wedding anniversary came up. I realised that Amma would not call me up to wish me that day or ever again. I bought a new pressure cooker and automatically reached for the phone to tell her and got punched one more time by the realization of loss.

Yesterday I decided to cook pork vindaloo for myself in that brand-new pressure cooker. Mian had been gone for a few days and I was tired of eating leftovers.  I made it properly using Amma's handwritten recipe; when I opened the mixer jar in which I had ground the masala I burst into tears. That was the smell of most of the happy times of my childhood.We had a lot of fun times around pork vindaloo- a special treat for us.

But here is her recipe.

As far as we are concerned this is the only authentic pork vindaloo recipe.  Make it and enjoy. If you don't eat pork, the masala paste is a great rub for any oily fish. If you are a vegetarian, I suppose you could try it on potatoes for a Goan version of patatas brava. But please, no chicken or 'mixed-veg'- that's just wrong.
I follow the recipe as she wrote it in my copy of Thangam Phillip's book, with one exception. Mum would cook the pork before cutting it small. I cut it into inch-or-smaller cubes before cooking and then pressure  cook everything together.

Pork vindaloo

Cut 1 Kg pork into small pieces. You need some fat in the pork, and we also keep the skin on.
Soak 15 kashmiri chillies in vinegar for two hours  (or you can just use kashmiri chilli powder)
Grind together- garlic cloves from one big head (or more) + 2 heaped tsp cumin+ 15 peppercorns + 5 green cardamoms + the soaked chillies + 3 nos of 2" long sticks of cinnamon + 10 cloves + 1/2 tsp turmeric + 1/4 cup of a dark vinegar (sugarcane or malt) + the pulp from a lemon-sized ball of tamarind (about 3 Tbs)
Slice 5 onions and maybe two or three fat pieces of pork thinly.
Heat a pressure cooker and 'dry fry' the thin slices of onion and pork fat. You don't need to add oil because the fat will render.
When it begins to brown, add the pork, the ground masala, salt, two bay leaves (the Indian kind, the leaves of cassia cinnamon) and just enough water to barely cover (less if your meat is very tender).
Let three or four whistles go, and then simmer for 20 minutes or so till tender.

Eat with rice or soft white bread. And beer. It's V.good, as Amma wrote.

Not a cakewalk

'Aunty only loves me, she doesn't love you' the small boy jeered. 'She gave me cake for my birthday, you got a great big Noo-oo-thing' he continued while his sister blinked back tears. It was all my fault of course. I had gone off to my mum's last year and missed G's daughter's birthday.

And so, this year, I had to make up for it. As per custom, I baked and frosted a birthday cake. My guilt for the last year led me to make a tall, tall layer cake. It was when I was making a swirly pattern on the sugar tower that I realised that 1.5km of mountain road lay between me and the birthday girl.

So the cake was on a plate, which was on a baking tray, which was in a fruit box, which was covered by stiff paper, which was taped down.

Which led to this contraption:

The first rest-stop was needed before I walked 50 metres. The others followed at similar intervals

 As we slowly made our way to G's house, Madhu and I picked up a little band of merry followers. I am not vain enough to think the kids adore my company, but I thought that Madhu was the attraction. And then I heard one child call out, 'Is the cake coming?'

Priorities, the kids have them sorted out.

Our walk back was blissfully carefree. And we received the gift of a moonrise.

A bitter story

When a good friend ran out of bitter marmalade, she called me. I was the only person she knew who could be trusted to give her traditional marmalade. An acquaintance had gone on a trek last year, in the course of which he dropped in to visit Mian. His chief memory of that long day is that he had eaten whisky-laced marmalade at our home. In a few hours, two young men are coming over home so that I can teach them how to coax lemons into marmalade. So I have a bit of a reputation for making the stuff. And I make a LOT of it.

Which is  why it is surprising that I do not enjoy the jam-making process. Is it the tedium of chopping and stirring, you wonder? Is it the hours spent over a stove knowing that if you look away, the gloopy mess will suddenly burn? Is it the dipping of hands alternately into cold lemon pulp and hot water with disastrous results? Ye-es..all of that does have a place, but the real reason is different.

I detest marmalade-making because the process is the equivalent of the nosy neighbour who visits to pass judgement on your housekeeping. Marmalade making is the pious uncle who discovers that you used your 'no-aromatics' chopping board to cut onions because all the others were in the sink; the  aunty who spies the mustard seed you spilled into the sugar the day you were juggling chai and khichidi; the other uncle who points out that you have 12 jars and 8 lids; and worst of all, marmalade-making is the pesky brat who announces to everyone that you miscalculated the recipe and tried to cover it up by stirring hot water into half a jar of marmalade.

Thankfully, all these jars have lids..

For me, the source of distress all of last year was the case of the  Ginger-Garlic-marmalade. I had opened a fresh jar and immediately smelt it- ginger and garlic where there should have been only lemon and sugar. Hastily, I shoved it to the back of the fridge and opened another jar.

Many months later, Mian reached for a new jar and I watched his face change as he uncapped it. 'Oh is that the garlic one?' I asked blithely. 'That's for when we make sweet-and-sour pork.' Mian, bless the man, did not ask any more questions but put it back in the fridge. As our stock diminished, that jar became more and more prominent till I finally emptied it out, popped the contents into the freezer,and washed the jar.

For this year's batch, I had learnt my lesson. I used two buckets of hot lemony water to scrub every surface and every utensil in sight, I boiled jars and jar lids, I did not eat or cook anything till everything was sealed away. I even used a new dish sponge for the occasion.

One of the 5 batches..plain lemon and lemon + cocoa

And today I opened a jar and there it was..ginger garlic marmalade. Turns out that particular  jar is haunted by the spirit of Kimchi past. I had made it once, and it's ghost lingers in the plastic lid. I had to toss that. Thankfully, it is just the one jar and after 5 kilos, I have declared that marmalade season is Closed.

I've barely made a dent in the tree

A friend has bought me 3 kilos of cabbage. They want to try my Kimchi, they say..

It's that time of the year again..

when I can be upto my elbows in booze at 7am of a weekday and feel good about it.

We're having this cake instead of a pudding this year..using the pudding bowl is mandatory though. Have you started Christmas baking?

Harvest

Remember these guys?

 Well, they have been drinking in sunshine and water in the month I was away, just so they could welcome me in their full splendour:

 and tonight, they fed me.

Buckwheat noodles with pesto.

A bit on cooking

Last week, I realized all over again what a lovely set of friends Mian and I have. Friends that willingly give of their time, creativity, efforts. Friends that gladly do whatever it takes to make sure that our celebrations are truly memorable. I didnt need reminders of how wonderful they are, but since I've been here, I've been open-mouthed in wonder that these people love me. But this post is not about them.

One of the ways they showed their generosity and their love for us- and their knowledge of just what would be enjoyed by us- is by gifting my Mian and me a weekend at the Inn at Langley, with a dinner reservation. The weekend was perfect- the complete stop from running around that we needed. The highlight, however, was definitely Chef Costello's six-course dinner.

The menu was playful, inventive, and firmly rooted in local produce. Chef Costello plays a lot with newer techniques and tools- creating a bacon 'snow' and porcini foam for example. These make for playful eating, as in the case of the dessert. Meant to be shared by two, it consisted of balloons of various sorbets floating on a sea of mousse. The colours and shapes were evocative of a playground, and were fun.

What blew me away however, was not so much the use of these new-fangled tools, as the realization of what truly excellent cooking means. While we enjoyed the tricks, the true magic of the dinner was how every ingredient was made to be the best it could be. My favourite part was an artichoke and bacon soup. Other than the bacon 'snow', it was plain old good cooking. Perfectly balanced ingredients, deft seasoning, and scrupulous straining- nothing that one cannot replicate. Mian's favourite was the fish. Again, a very simple dish consisting of perfectly roasted halibut, and delightfully surprising sides (a garlic scape! cucumber and yogurt icecream!). And this was true of every course. Minimal fussing, great technique, much attention.

My most humbling moment was the garlic scape. Onion buds are popular in Dehradun, and invariably cooked to a soggy mush. I had stirfried them, and stunk up the entire kitchen. Costello's scape was a gently curving bloom sitting proudly on the fish. I tasted it and found it sweet with bite. The secret probably was blanching followed by a quick toss in hot oil. The thing is, this is what an alium bloom can and should be- not the stinkin' mess I'd reduced it to.

The flavour combinations were a lot like Mian and me- looking at the plate, I couldn't understand how these could be paired together; after one bite I would realise that it was inevitable, these were always meant to be taken together. Halibut, cucumbers and yogurt. Strawberry and coconut. Watermelon (seared!) and feta. Try this at home.

Flavour combinations aside though, I now think that what makes a truly good cook is the willingness to take the trouble to be one. I dont know if I can ever master technique, but the next time I cook, I am going to be fully there- thinking, tasting, cooking.

The love of a good man..

can work wonders. Not that I think Mian married me to reform me (you didn't, right?), but he has helped me overcome a lot of the 'I cant do that' block I had.
Take my kitchen for example..I am a passable cook, but had accepted that I can't make breads in any form- leavened or otherwise. Pasta (which counts as unleavened bread in my book) would sometimes be made from scratch, but those were definitely special occasions, and the preparation would begin with buying flour. Yes, flour never formed a part of my pantry.
And then Mian came along with his love for the sensuality of bread making. I watched him make tons of bread for the simple pleasure of it and realized that it's not actually a dangerous process. He taught me how to knead, gave me a love for the smell of fermenting dough, and left our kitchen stocked with far too many flours (whole wheat, refined, corn, rice, millet, buckwheat, amaranth) and enough yeast to colonize a planet.
Last week, I returned from the Pindar valley hungry for good food but too tired to do anything remotely complicated.  Nothing that requires me to step out of the house, I decided. Nothing complicated, nothing requiring me to slave. And so I made this:

 My new go-to food for when I am too tired to cook. hm.
and today for lunch, it was this:

This was so good. It took me about an hour, of which less than half was actual work time. Everything needed for this was already in the kitchen, and the end result was heaven- thin, crisp crust with caramelly, salty, intense topping. Please, make this.
Base: I didn't really use a recipe. This is a good one with hand-holding for the technique, which is the kind of bread recipe I like. I mixed one three-fingered pinch of yeast and a pinch of sugar in a little water and let it proof till I finished the dishes. Added to it one cup flour, a pinch of salt, a splash of oil and enough water to make a soft dough. Kneaded it till there were no cracks, coated the ball with oil and let it rise for a little less than an hour. Preheated the oven at the hottest possible. Oiled the lid of our kadhai, and stretched out the dough on that. Loaded with toppings, and let it cook for maybe 15 mins till the bottom of the crust was brown.
Toppings: Tomato sauce made by reducing blanched tomatoes with some dried fish (softened for 10 mins), garlic, salt, crushed red chilies, sugar. Onions and capsicum that I had sauteed till brownish. Olives.pepper. salt. some oregano.

not too much work for lunch, dinner and absolute bliss, eh?

yet another food related post..

It is the winter, with long cold evenings. It is pleasurable to work by the stove and do things with my hands. And then there is the produce! Strangely enough, most of the things that spell 'spring' start coming around now and last throughout the winter- lotsandlotsofgreens, zucchini, baby carrots..

But what I am writing about is a truly autumnal food. I have been wanting to make sweet potato agnolotti for a long time now- after reading this post. (warning- that blog is fun, and WILL suck you in.) Last week, I found myself at home with sweet potatoes, and a desire to stay in the kitchen.

the problem? no bacon, eggs, butter, cream, sage..and as for 'squab spice' I don't even know what that is.

But I winged it..made a pretty austere pasta dough with flour, oil, salt, water and kneaded it for 20 mins- with a clock by my side. Let it rest. Instead of the bacon, looked around for other ways to add those salty, smoky, rich punctuation marks to an otherwise smooth filling..The simplest way was to chop up some garlic and onions, and fry till crunchy and dark with a generous amount of salt. Boiled the sweet potatoes instead of roasting them, and mashed till smooooooth with some nutmeg, cinnamon, and a touch of jaggery. Folded in the onion mix. Rolled out the pasta, marked out rectangles, plopped spoonfuls of filling, rolled, folded and pinched. Dropped in boiling water and let cook for a little less than 5 minutes. Had undersalted the whole, so sprinkled salt and more nutmeg on top.

How was it? so good. It was creamy, and good, and warm, and soothing without being bland. the sprinkling of salt and nutmeg was perfect, with the taste 'crunch' it gave. With the whole wheat and lack of dairy and bacon, it turned out to be a not-rich version of the original. Something I will make again, and I will try it with bacon. But what I am most happy about is making nice agnolotti on a weekday evening without a recipe/planning/reason. Somehow I think that is so cool.


And for those purists who want the original recipe, it is from the French Laundry Cookbook, and Thomas Keller has not posted it anywhere outside the book. But it has been stolen, and it is available online, and you can look for it, and I am not linking to it.

what I did yesterday

Looks good doesn't it? And it was..That is one x'mas pudding mix that shows plenty of promise. Made two puddings, and they are now resting in my kitchen, gently maturing and waiting for Christmas. Just in case you want to make it too, this is the recipe I used and you are just in time.

Here is a picture of what my kitchen looked like when all was done.

The big one is for M and her family, the littler one in the top RHS corner is for The One and I,  and the littlest one? Call it quality control or call it lagniappe for the cook. Actually, you can even call it George Clooney if you like- as long as one thing is absolutely clear. Mine!

Aaah, the Christmas spirit..

la vida locavore

corny title..but how can one resist it?

In the year that I have been in Dun, I have eaten more local and more in tune with the seasons than I have since my childhood. I make no claims to eating truly local- my coffee comes from Mysore, the nutty-sweet parboiled rice I love was grown along the Konkan coast, and my olives, sadly, have given many a whale a migraine.

But when it comes to produce, I do tend to eat seasonal and local. It makes so much sense, I have been doing it unconsciously. I just realised it yesterday when I had a lets-dance-a-jig moment on seeing some baby radishes with their tops still attached.
and today i saw these..

They are called 'singadhe' here, and I have no idea what they are..some type of marsh/water loving plant seems to be indicated by the occasional slimy bits I find near the stems. Beyond that, I haven't a clue. I first saw them a year ago when I arrived in dun, and here they are again.

And now lots and lots of greens will flood the market, and grapefruit, and other such yummy things. this is a fun way to eat- stuff oneself with the freshest, best, (and funnily, cheapest) of produce. By the time I get tired of something, it's season is over and there is something else to look forward to.

Addenda (28 September)

• The singhade are water caltrops, and thanks to Maals for telling me of them
• I take back the 'corny title' comment, because since I posted this article, I found a website by that name and a fine one it is too..
  

of leeks

Last night, I was reminded all over again just how far I am from home. You see, for me leeks are an exotic vegetable. I have read about them but the first time I saw them was last year in Seattle. And so they are linked to that year and to Vio's magic filo pie.

Imagine my surprise when I saw a vegetable handcart heaped with the things. I expected that they were one of the forced exotic veggies that are lately coming into Indian markets to accommodate urban curiosity. The price (20 rs a kg) convinced me otherwise. Here they are called 'vilayti pyaz' (foreign onions) which I suppose is as good a name as any. One of the cookbooks I have suggests that this might have been brought in to the northern cantonment areas by homesick Britishers. Well, good for me.

So I took them home and cooked up a quick and satisfying supper. I cut up a potato into little cubes, diced a capsicum, sliced two leeks and 100gm of mushrooms. I browned the potatoes in a little oil and then added the leeks. When the leeks had softened and just begun to caramelize in places I added the capsicum and then the mushrooms, seasoned it, and allowed all this to soften while I beat an egg and a good bit of mustard. Added that, let it set and slid it on to a plate.

Ate it in bed while watching 'Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron'.

For G...

who apparently is eating enough mangoes to warrant worrying if there is such a thing as mango overdose. Here are a couple of fun, messy things to do with mangoes. Quit grinning people, I am talking curry recipes here. These are from my childhood, and speak to me of cool red cement floors, 'home' mangoes, and lovely summer holidays.

Huli Mensu: Take one mango for each person. The mangoes chosen should be slightly tart. Wash them really well, and peel them, but keep them whole. Don't throw away the peels. Rub over the peeled mangoes salt, chili powder and jaggery/brown sugar. The amount of these varies with the sort of mango you have- the more flavourful the mango ,the less the dressing required. While they are soaking that all in, and the sugar is mixing with the mango juice and the chilli powder and becoming this luscious sticky sauce, get to work. Mash the peels with some tamarind pulp (again, depends on how tart the mango is- start with a ½" diameter sphere and work from there) and water(1/2 cup for each mango). Strain and keep aside. Take a karahi and heat maybe a tsp of oil. Throw in 3-4 crushed, unpeeled garlic cloves, half a tsp of mustard seeds, and 6-10 curry leaves- in that order. When they get all sputter and aromatic, add the mango-tamarind water. When that boils, slide in the mangoes and simmer for a minute or two. Season to taste. Wear something skimpy and old. Eat messily with lots of rice.

Sasam: And here you need slightly sweet mangoes, again one for each person (at least). Peel the mangoes, rub with salt, sugar and chilli powder as before, and keep aside. Discard the peels after extracting every last bit of juice out of them. If liked, add the pulp of an extra mango to this. Bear together curds and coconut milk (about ½ cup each per person). Add the mango juice, mix well. Add the whole mangoes. Just before serving, add a paste of crushed mustard seed and garlic (around ½ tsp per person). Eat with rice. Lots of it.

Either one of these can be made presentable for company simply chopping up the mangoes into neat cubes instead of using the whole fruit. The taste is unchanged, the fun and summerishness is vastly reduced.

A Rather Nice Stew

I had dinner at the amazing M's place last week, and her mum cooked us a most amazing Lepcha pork curry. Tender it was, and luscious and the smell had me forgetting my 'guest' manners and hovering over the pressure cooker.
since then, I have tried the recipe with pork, and chicken, and lotus root. It is scrumptious each time, but my curries dont mesh together the way they are supposed to. They are good, but the ingredients can still be separated out.. dont know how to tackle that.
But here is how to do it.
Take a pressure cooker. put in a lot of chopped onions, a slightly smaller quantity of chopped tomatoes, as much chopped ginger and garlic as you like, and a little more chopped chilies than you think you can handle (the toms and onions add sweetness). sprinkle some salt over all this, and add the meat. Pressure cook till tender.
Eat with rice/dosas/appams/bread. Or just throw some potatoes with the meat and eat those.
This is simple, extremely tasty, and extremely good for you ( all that ginger, garlic, onion and tomato cannot help but boost immunity).
Try it, and let me know how it goes. And yes, I will thank M for you.

My favourite salads..

A spinach thingie.
You’ll need:
A bunch of spinach/other greens
Some button mushrooms: maybe a 100 gms?
Some of whatever else you like. Torn lettuce? Shredded carrots? Mixed greens? Boiled eggs? Cooked shrimp? Bring ‘em on!
Wash the greens in several washes of water. I detest this part...but ‘tis must be done, and done well. Keep the smaller leaves whole, tear the large leaves, discard the diseased ones. Spin dry in a towel being careful not to spray self/extremely expensive electronic equipment. Wipe the mushrooms with a dampish cloth, quarter or leave whole. Treat the rest of the salad ingredients the way you like them.
The dressing:
Some vinegar. You could also use lime juice, but i don’t because it becomes too chaat-like- which is not bad, just not wanted here.
Some oil
Some honey
one diced apple (or something equally tart and sweet: like grapefruit, or in a pinch, tomatoes)
one minced red onion
The usual gang: salt, pepper, mustard
Shake all together, pour over the salad, toss, stick fork in. Yippee! Perfect for a weekday lunch, which is where i am having it in the photo.

A mildly Turkish salad, with many thanks to D for making it for me so many times.
You’ll need:
Some tomatoes, large and red.
A cucumber or two
A large bunch of dill
Chop the tomatoes and cucumbers into large dice. Chop the dill fine
The dressing? Vinegar, olive oil, mustard, salt, minced garlic, maybe some oregano. Pour over the salad and toss. If you have some pomegranate, toss that in for the colour.
Now you will see that this is a very highly flavoured salad. The way to eat this is to take it, still in the bowl it was tossed in, a crusty baguette wrapped in a project report or something just as splendidly inappropriate, some olive oil in a saucer, a bottle of red wine, two stemmed glasses, and a good friend to a moonlit terrace.. Enjoy.. And if you insist on eating this as weekday lunch, then I would recommend adding a little something to make it less intense. Some lettuce perhaps, or cabbage, or spinach.

breakfast

oatmeal soaked overnight in milk, honey, orange zest and lavender blossoms.
healthy breakfast? luxurious skin treatment?
hey, both!

Going, going, gone...

“An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old one leaves.”

- Bill Vaughan

And no matter what category tickles your fancy, I do hope you stay up till midnight. So 00:00 does not have any cosmic significance, and frankly, looking at the past year can be a bit depressing, but that is why we look at the year-to-come instead. And 11:59 of 31^st December is when everything seems possible. Next year we will visit Kala patthar, sort out our finances, start farming, and win a Nobel. Magic is in the air then, and deserves to be toasted.

And that is what I will be doing tonight. Picture me sitting on a terrace wrapped in a dozen shawls. By my side is a jar of eggnog , which I am fastidiously drinking from a wineglass. There is a crescent moon, and I am talking to friends on the phone. Happiness.

What do you plan to do? Tell me.

Happy New Year.

eggnog recipe? I am using this, from Jerry Thomas’ Bartenders Guide or How To Mix Drinks, shown me by the wonderful one.

Cooking notes

Confession: I come from a long line of good and fiercely proud cooks and count among my friends good and equally proud cooks, all of who belong to the Mrs. Beeton school of cooking (to make rabbit stew, first catch the rabbit). I, most unworthy person that I am, did the unthinkable. I bought me a packet of instant dosa mix. But I made the dosas, and they turned out fine, and I am totally unrepentant (though skulking in shame).

What I learnt: Onions are slippery little devils. Especially when one is trying to grate them, they have a tendency to leap away and cause the cook to grate her fingers instead. But no worries. Blood has been traditionally used to thicken sauces, has it not?

games people play

One thing I love about Dehradun is the way the men here play board games. On the roadside one unexpectedly comes across groups of men intent on a game that I last played in my childhood. Very endearing. Near my house is a chess club. There is a place where the road has wide shoulders, and every evening there are groups of people sitting and playing chess. They store stools in a nearby shop, and their site is conveniently close to a chaiwallah. Generally 2-3 games are in progress, but on weekends there can be more- and the games also have spectators.

Another such institution is at a share-taxi stand close to my vegetable market. They have a carrom board, with a custom-built stand. Apparently, the drivers who are waiting for their turn to take passengers play carrom.

One game I did not recognize. It was being played by some truck drivers under their truck. They had drawn some concentric circles (4-5, am not sure), and divided them into sectors. They had some pebbles which were being used as markers. Does anyone know what game it is? Is it a variation of pacheesi?

I find myself doing the same. I play scrabble (real scrabble, not online) more often, attempt more crossword puzzles, write more, read more. I like it.