Showing posts with label FoodFiction. Show all posts

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Jamai Shoshthi

I had written this story sometime last year around Jamai Shoshthi, a day set aside in the month of Jaishtha when Bengali mother-in-law's pamper their son-in-law with food and gifts. I wasn't sure of Sulochana's reaction at the end of this story and so toyed with the idea of this story for a while. It was Jamai Shoshthi two weeks back and I had intended to post this then but never got around. Hope you all like it.

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The day had dawned stiflingly hot and muggy. Technically it wasn’t even dawn yet. The eastern sky had just turned a shade lighter, a slate grey dhonekhali with few scattered twinkling star work. The seamstress was probably trying a combination of gota-patti on dhonekhali and had decided not to go ahead. Instead she decided on a pale pink border to the slate gray canvas and was working on it right now.

Tossing and turning under the cotton mosquito net, which was held together with safety-pins in the couple of odd places where a rent had grown bigger, Sulochana did not think of dawn in those poetic terms. Instead she cursed the fan, which rotated painfully, doing little to move the hot air. She had been asking for an air-conditioner since last summer but nothing had materialized.
“No one in this house pays any attention to what I say,” she grumbled to herself, “the day I am gone they will understand my importance”.

She was hot and worried about how the day would pan out. But she was also excited.

Today was Shoshthi, the sixth day of Shukla Paksha in the month of Jaishtha. Since the day she had married into this house as a bride, she was christened into the rituals of Aranya Shoshthi on this day. When her Mother-in-law was alive, she was the one who spearheaded the celebration, but now it was Sulochana who made sure that the jackfruit branch was cut, the kheer narus made, the haatpakha--palm leaf hand fans and new clothes bought for each of her 3 children and 2 grandchildren. Her grandkids who were here for the summer would make the figurines of shoshthi thakurun with rice flour and then paint them with turmeric and bright water paint. The kids were excited about the Pujo, though her own sons, now middle-aged executives, could care less.

“Naah, let me get up now. There is so much work to finish. Montu will soon come with milk for the paayesh, Baroda has to be sent to haat for fresh rui and chingri and if I am late, the neighborhood kids will pluck all flowers and leave the tagor tree bare,” she folded her palms towards the east, bowed to the now pink streaked sky and straightened her sari to get ready for the day.

“Thakur, let everything end well today. I have been waiting for this day for five years now,” she threw across these words as a parting shot.

Her plea made sense. Sulochana’s 35 year old daughter Tara was coming home today. It had been 5 years since her last visit from USA where she was doing her PhD. All these years she had offered one excuse after another to defer her visit -- visa problem, limited money from the teaching assistantship, not enough vacation, complexity of her thesis which never seemed to get finished. Tara always had an excuse when Sulochana insisted that she come visit them.

Deep down Sulochana knew Tara was avoiding her mother and the list of marriage proposals that she would have ready, had Tara managed a visit.But what could Sulochana do? How could she let her only daughter live a lonely life in faraway California, while she led a full house with 2 married sons, their children, a dog and two parrots ? How could she a Mother not pine for the perfect son-in-law for her only daughter ?

Today as Sulochana stirred milk in the shiny brass dekchi in her kitchen, her heart fluttered like the tej-patta in the milk both in anticipation and disappointment. Two days ago Tara had called. In a halting voice she had asked if it was okay to bring a guest with her.An American. Her fiance. The news that first seemed like a shock, had now grown familiar to Sulochana. Really, in this day and time when Domino’s delivered pizza to their home even in suburbia of Madhyamgram, an American jamai was nothing to lose one’s sleep over. He sure would be much better than these Bengali boys who think Chicken pomodoro is way better than Kosha murgi.

Bolstered by her own belief, Sulochana started to stir the paayesh with more vigor now. She had planned an elaborate meal for lunch, to welcome Tara and her fiance. That today was also Jamai-shoshthi, a day set aside for celebrating son-in-laws in a Bengali family, seemed to her like a divine signal. Unsure of her American guest’s taste, Sulochana had decided to go the traditional route with few modern twists thrown in. A saag bhaja -- green spinach leaves sauteed with garlic and red chilli to start off the meal. Then a dal. Sulochana had narrowed down on a tetor dal with kaancha moog cooked with cubed pieces of bottlegourd. Bottlegourd was the perfect vegetable for this hot and humid day. Its coolant properties along with antiseptic of bittergourd would be fitting for this visitor from the colder clime. For the fish curry, she skipped the more traditional rui for a chingri today. Maybe a bhapa, large prawns steamed with grated coconut, light and yet flavorful. A kaancha aamer chaatni, with a runny gravy that Tara adored, to round off the meal. And then a aam doi, mango yogurt made with the sweet himsagor from her own tree.

The thought of this menu made Sulochana relax a bit and look forward to the day. “Manu’r Ma, chop the spinach really fine for the saag bhaja. Remember to wash it well. My American jamai is not used to the pesticides we ingest every day,” she instructed her house help. The kitchen grew hotter and fell into a rhythm as the day progressed. The shil-nora crushed spices, the fire blazed the pungent mustard oil, the hefty pieces of fish sizzled in oil.Outside, a lone crow had taken shade in the branches of the mango tree and cawed every few minutes. Sulochana’s fair face glistened with beads of perspiration that had gathered on the crease of her brow. “Ahh, can someone shoo that crow away”, she said irritably.

The dal and saag were done, the large prawns would be steamed right before lunch-- that way they would retain their juice and be most flavorful, the yogurt had already been set. She had been fasting since morning, taking only sips of lime water to keep her going. She wanted to finish off her prayers quickly and be ready with all her time on Tara’s arrival. Her husband and sons along with the grandchildren, had already left for the airport to receive Tara’s flight.

“Ma, why don’t you take rest, while I make the chaatni,” suggested her younger son’s wife. But today, Sulochana wanted to cook each dish herself. Food was the only way Sulochana knew to express her love and this lunch was going to be a slice of her heart. She wanted to welcome this stranger into her family with an open heart and she would prove to Tara that her love for her daughter’s american husband was to be no less than her own son’s.

The pujo for Ma Shoshthi today was done in a hurry. The Goddess would understand. It was already one in the afternoon and Sulochana was getting tired, straining her ears for crunch of wheels on the driveway. Her stomach lurched in anticipation and hunger. Who could it be? She lapsed into moments of day-dreaming while chanting her shlokas. Her mind scanned the Facebook pictures that Tara shared with her brothers. Maybe it was that fair skinned guy with a boyish grin who shared her office at the University. Or was it the slightly older Spanish professor, she raved about? Anyway, there was little for her to do now. The choice had already been made.

Right when she raised the shaankh to blow a heralding sound, the car pulled into the driveway. Sulochana’s hand, holding up the shaankh, trembled and with a last bow to her deity, she gathered her red bordered sari and shuffled to her feet. Shrieks of laughter and loud voices could be heard outside. The door to the patio was ajar and her daughter-in-laws were rushing outside with cheerful welcome ringing in their voice. Sulochana arranged the dancing fire of prodeep, few grains of dhaan and the dubbo-- three pronged grass on a brass plate and steadied herself, her heart drumming and waiting for Tara’s high pitched call of “Ma”.

“Ma”, a calm composed voice rang behind her.

Sulochana whirled around into Tara’s slightly anxious face, her eyes scanning for the stranger, her would be jamai, in the crowd. Tara had a faint smile but her eyes were anxious and defiant at the same time. This was exactly how her Tara was, even as a baby, she was self-willed and would do only what she had set out for.

“Ma, meet Sarah,” Tara said and pushed an athletic looking girl in cropped hair and faded jeans to the front.

“My fiancee”

Sarah, not sure if she should hug or do a polite handshake, extended a hand which remained suspended in mid air.

At first Sulochana could not fathom what Tara said. She looked around with a puzzled look. Her sons, standing behind Tara, were nodding their head making silent gestures to her. She tried to catch her daughter-in-law’s eyes but they glanced away. The sudden silence was pregnant with all kinds of possibilities which left Sulochana confused.

And then she saw Tara’s face and she knew. She could not make much sense of it but Tara’s face had taken on a defiant look and she saw her protective hand around her partner.

If Tara is happy, so was she, Sulochana decided."Bhogoban shobar mongol koruk."

She held Sarah’s face between her palms and sprinkled some dhaan on her head, praying for her long life. The pressure cooker whistled in the background. The steamed coconut prawns would be ready in just a few minutes.

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Friday, June 06, 2014

Beguni -- ar Ashare Goppo

Eggplant coated in a batter of chickpea flour and deep fried

This post was first posted in 2010. It is being reposted.

The rain had started out strong, not meek like other days. Huge blobs of water, hit the warm earth rapidly, with an urgency to quench out its parched dryness. The rain was now hitting down hard on her window, with that drumming sound, she loved about rains.

Outside the windows, the world seemed painted by Monet. She could hardly make out anything, even the Krishnachura by Bubai's house with all its red flowers was barely discernible. She sighed and returned to the open pages of the Resnick-Halliday, trying to figure out the resonant frequency of some stupid string of length L while the rain drummed on merrily on her windows.

"I will put these up for drying in your room", Ma said, a pile of still wet clothes on her arm, droplets of water clinging on to her jet black strands. Not waiting for a response, Ma started putting up a makeshift clothes line, right above her study desk. As the fan whirred slowly trying to dry out the clothes she sat beneath Dada's dancing pajama legs still trying to figure out the string.

She could hear Ma in the kitchen now, the pots clinging, the whoosh of water down the sink. And then she could feel the sharp smell of Mustard up her nostrils. The hot oil now hissed as something hit and then there was the familiar sound of "chyank-chok", repetitive it went, the same rhythm, a "chyank" followed by a "chonk". Ma was making Beguni, brinjal slices dipped in a chickpea flour batter and fried crisp. There would be Khichuri and Beguni for lunch, a rainy day staple. She hated brinjal and didn't care much for a Khichuri. But Ma would make an omlette for her, even one for Dada, she knew and smiled to herself.

"PING"!! The sound startled her.

She looked up and outside the huge glass window, the rain had trickled down to a drizzle now. The lights on the Empire State building glowed against the gray slated sky.
She looked back at her computer. Her husband was on the IM.

He wrote, " So shall I get some eggplants? what about Beguni and Khichuri tonight ?"

Smiling she gathered her laptop and her belongings. She didn't want to miss the 6:15 subway home.

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This is my first attempt at Food Fiction inspired by the fantastic tales of Kalyan@Finely Chopped. I often write about the past in my posts. The past is not perfect, the present more not so. While I write my regular posts, I stick to the reality, the truth, I don't transcend the fine line from reality to fiction. But this category of Food Fiction, lets me mingle my memories with bits of imagination, so the emotions and the nostalgia is still there but also there is a little bit of the author's creative mind in play.

*Ashare Goppo == Monsoon Tales.Depending on its usage it also means "made up tales"

Beguni or eggplant slices dipped in a chickpea flour batter and then deep fried is a long time Bengali favorite. Actually anything deep fried is a popular Bengali or for that matter popular Indian snack. With Bongs, the thing is they adore their eggplants and so not being satisfied by Begun Bhaja alone they go a step ahead to make Beguni.

The Beguni is a popular side kick to the Khichuri on rainy days and that is how we had it last week amidst pouring rain. If it is a high-dry day and no one wants Khichuri, Beguni is still very much welcome as an evening snack with muri aka Puffed Rice or as one of the fried veggies accompanying Dal for Lunch.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Happy Mother's Day

"Ma, Maa", Mr. Bhattacharya's stentorian voice resonated across the still sleepy neighborhood.

The two gray pigeons trying to catch the last snatches of sleep in their filigreed skylight home, flapped their wings in annoyance and flew up to the terrace. Mangala, the neighborhood milkman's much pampered cow, shook herself and hurriedly called out with a matching "Moooo", as she shuffled to get on her four legs. The far eastern horizon beyond the neem tree, behind the mismatched houses of the neighborhood, further from the swanky new flat building, now had strokes of pink on a slate background and the last of the twinkling stars knew it was time to wrap up their nightly glamour and take rest.

"Your neighbor Bhattacharjee kaku is very religious. Too much I would say," the Sens' youngest son's brand new wife, who had married into the salmon pink two storeyed house across the Bhattacharya's colonial gray one, jangled her shiny gold bangles in irritation.

"Aha, it has been 26 years and there has not been even one single morning when Bhattacharjee Didi's son has been a minute late for his morning prayers. Winter, Spring, Summer, Monsoon-- always the same. Such devotion for Ma Kaali. And such love and respect for his own Mother. It is Ma's blessing that he is doing so well in his work and getting promoted so quickly," said Mrs.Sen softly to herself. Sleep did not come easy to her these days, her arthiritic knee was getting worse and the pain kept her awake many nights. "Blessings from Mothers are precious. But do my own sons realize that ?" she muttered with disdain

Unaware of what his neighbors thought, Mr.Bhattacharya, CIO of McNally and Sand, freshly bathed and pious at 4:30 in the morning, picked Ma's favorite flowers, the scarlet hibiscus from his sprawling garden. He had four varieties of hibiscus. The crimson, pale pink, the soft egg yolk yellow and of course the scarlet, rokto joba, the Mother's favorite. Gently he plucked the flowers from their stem, the petals wet with morning dew, and put them in his saaji as he sang a Kaali Bhajan in a low voice that lacked sweetness or tune. What he lacked in tune, he made up in his earnestness though.

After he had offered his prayers in the marble floored prayer room and lighted enough incense to fill the whole house with fragrance, he went to meet his Mother. On dot at 6:10. This was his everyday routine. One and half hour spent for Ma Kaali and then 20 minutes for his own mother Suhasini. In this twenty minutes he made sure that Suhasini was taking her medicine and doing the exercises suggested by the therapist. If time permitted, they also discussed the state of the country and listened to Suhasini reminisce about her childhood in Jamalpur.

For Suhasini, these were precious 20 minutes. She had led a hard life with a husband whose temper was legendary and a mother-in-law known for her miserliness. It was only in her old age, as a widow, that she finally could experience a comfortable life. And for that she was grateful to her son. She had been an ordinary Mother, with little time for her son in a life filled with drudgery and hardship. But the boy had worked hard and made a name for himself. In his busy life, he had not forgotten his Mother and pampered her with all the affulencies that she never could have imagined for herself.

Yes, she knew, he had a temper, as bad as his father if not worse. At times she even felt a pang for Sunita, her daughter-in-law. But she kept quiet. Everyone on this earth is born with their fate written on their forehead. Who was she to interfere and upset that ?

When the clock on the dining room wall struck 7:30, Mr.Bhattacharya came down to breakfast. He did the same every morning. In fact he was so punctual that you could adjust your clock by him.

"What is this ?" he shouted. His face puffed up, his jaws stern. The early morning piousness had been wiped off by an almost cruel expression. Suhasini, counted her rudraksha beads faster. The Sen's youngest son's new wife, in the salmon pink house across, nodded her head in disdain and said "There, he goes again like clockwork".

"Why did you make Luchi for breakfast ?How many times have I told you that on first Thursdays of every month, I will have only crisp buttered toast and sausage for breakfast ? Did your Masters in International Affairs not teach you even this ?" Mr. Bhattacharya thundered.

With a powerful swipe of his right wrist, he sent the platter of white puffed luchis hurtling across the rosewood dining table. The airy luchis, floated in the air for a millisecond before they plopped on the shiny expensive moasic. The bowl of sada alu charchari lazily hit the wall and landed with a thud, the steel bowl making a clattering sound. In the kitchen, Sunita, his wife of 20 years stopped midway in her effort to make the next luchi puff up right.

Mr.Bhattacharya uttered profanities and called names. She kept quiet. She had learned the power of silence in her 20 years of marriage. It was not that he was a bad man and she had learned to shake off words like water from a duck's back.

"You cannot handle even simple affairs at home, how do you work at that bank of yours ? Some sorry state it must be in. Don't know what you would have done if you worked in a corporate office like mine ? They would have fired you the very next day. And remember, if I see such carelessness again, I will make sure that you are kicked out of this house," he wagged his finger and announced before stomping off to his chauffered car that waited at the front gate.

Sunita still silent, switched off the stove and went on her task of picking up the deflated luchis from the floor.

"Bouma, how many times have I told you that my son has a bit of a temper. If you would only be a little more careful when he is around, " Suhasini said in a liquid whisper, her 63 year old voice tinged with guilt. "Had she been a good Mother?" the doubt rose like bile in her throat.

"At least I am better off than Malati," thought Sunita. Malati, their house help, had called in sick again today. Her husband had beaten her black and blue last night. "At least I don't get beaten up like her," she comforted herself.

"Don't understand why she just doesn't walk out. She is educated, earns a good living and still...," the Sen's youngest son's new wife gossiped to her colleague over the water cooler.

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There is a little backdrop to this story. It was triggered by this ad, from a series called "Ma jaisa Koi Nahi" by Mother Dairy and which I got as a forward either on last year's Mother's Day or later. BTW, there are other Mother Dairy ads in the same series which are perfectly fine but it was this that I had got and this that I will talk about today.

That an ad from a reputed company would think it was completely natural for the husband to behave in such crass manner and then promote it on national television, amazed me. Don't know what they were trying to prove but then such scenarios do happen in many homes. It is easy to say that an educated women could walk out of the situation or try to make it better. But I have been privy to a couple of such women and however educated and strong they are, when looked at from their viewpoint it is easier said than done.

In a world that celebrates Motherhood but has little respect for its women -- Happy Mother's Day.

Tuesday, August 09, 2011

A pot of Okra Sambhar

She had an inkling of it for a while now.But never uttered a word. Why bring the climax in the middle of a beautiful life story, she thought. If I can just avert my eyes a little, to the left, I can pretend I never saw it.

Hadn't she been doing this all her life now, her life after marriage that is. When he would drop the wet towel right there on the middle of her Jaipuri bedspread, leaving a damp spot, she would pretend she did not see it. She had told him umpteen times to put the wet towel in the hamper, the deep blue one, not the pale green one in the right where his yesterday's jockey underwear should go. But did he listen ? No.She therefore chose to look away, to not really see what was happening around her, to build up a make believe life. But it suited her so why does it bother you anyway ?

How else do you think she could cope with the fact the he let out guttural rolls of laughter watching "Comedy Circus" on Sony ? A show she detested with its loud, raunchy jokes and canned laughter. Or that he picked his aquiline nose when Stephen Colbert came on Comedy Central ?

Twenty one years ago when Paritosh kaka had introduced the tall, bespectacled man as a prospective match all she had thought of was Soumitro.No, no, not her boyfriend. Soumitro Chatterjee, the filmstar, the poetic brother-in-law of Charulata, the intelligent detective in Feluda, her childhood hero.The gangly young man, lean with sharp eyes looking out of the 4x6 photograph with the hills of Hollywood behind him had reminded her exactly of Soumitro.Later that evening when Ma had asked if she liked the boy, she had nodded in agreement, dreaming of watching a Kurosawa together or sharing a packet of Jhalmuri while discussing Ray's Teen Konya.

It turned out he had never heard of Kurosawa and thought Satyajit Ray was all a big hype of antel (intellectual) Bangalis.She didn't take it to heart. She just pretended that he had not said those words , that Kurosawa was never screened in any of the 18 theater multiplexes in her small California town.

Although when he said Alu Posto was a bland paste of poppy seeds which only farmers from Bankura ate to keep themselves cool in scorching heat, she took serious umbrage and did not talk to him for one whole day.But then her mounavrata had't really bothered him much and she finally consoled herself that it wasn't really necessary that two people should have the exact same taste in everything.

Gradually she had learned, it was much easier to pretend things she did not like never happened around her.

She had thus set up a good life for herself, a rhythmic routine that started with Kellogg's Strawberry and ended with half a glass of Chianti. There was a Lexus in the driveway, a Honda Accord lonely in the two car garage. The dining table was from Etan Allen shining in the afternoon sun while she scooped kalai er dal and alu posto, rice from the cereal bowl sitting across the kitchen island. On the sofa table sat a framed picture of her son, grinning just like his Dad with the Sather Tower at UC Berkley rising in the far back. Weekends were always busy with a party at one or the other Bengali homes in the area; where heavy scent of Dolce Vita swirled through deep maroon Tassars and light gray Bangalore silks; platters of chicken biryani, mutton rezala, cholar dal and bhapa doi competed with loud laughters and border line lewd jokes.

It was a good life, she had finally decided.And then today she saw her again, right there on his Facebook page, left accidentally open on the iPad he had been browsing. He had forgotten to sign out when he rushed to take the client call on his blackberry. This was the same girl that she had met at his office party last Christmas.

In her early thirties, petite, her long ear drops shining many colors in the light from the chandelier. " Hi, I am Ranjhani", she had said, a lilt in her voice, a slight emphasis on the "jh" in her name.But it was her ear drops that had caught her eyes and that is all she could remember now. When the dangly ear drops, Ranjhani, popped up on Facebook Chat with the question "Dinner tonight ? 7-ish sounds good ?", she should have just looked away, left, past the window to the corner where the towel lay in a heap.
Instead she pretended she did not see the Towel and typed, "My place. 123 Barn Owl Ct.". And then she signed him out.

For a while she wasn't sure what she had done. She yanked the charger out and sat with the white cord wrapped around her palm. She had never done anything like this before, never taken any momentous decisions except the one 21 years ago.

She sat there for a long time, time unfathomable, time beyond measures. Only when the vertical blinds started throwing long shadows and the big toe on her left food started pricking with pins&needles, did she get up and go to the kitchen. Carelessly she threw the charger cord in the vegetable basket and took down the okra and the bag of green lime.She washed the Toor Dal in several changes of water and pulled out the packet of MTR sambhar powder from the recess of her spice drawer.The okra she washed and chopped, not noticing its slimy strings drawing lines on the chopping board. She heated oil in her big stock pot.Lost in herself she threw in the mustard seeds which danced and fizzed, grumbling loudly.Next went the curry leaves, all dried and limp on their stalk. She didn't care.Once she had the okra sambhar going on the stove she juiced each of the limes carefully in a big bowl. The lime was sour and her lips puckered up with their severe tart-ness.

By the time it was 6:30 in the evening she pulled out her Accord from the garage. When the GPS lady instructed to take the first right turn, she saw her again, in her long hoops with little pearls hanging like grapes driving a Mini on the other side.

The okra sambhar, caustic sour waited patiently on the stove top.

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This is my entry for this month's Of Chalks and Chopsticks hosted by Jaya and started by Aqua. The cue for the Fiction was the above photo in the post which Jaya had given us. I have explored hitherto unexplored territories in my fiction and I hope you like it.

Friday, July 01, 2011

For a Cup of Tea

The Mashima* at 37B/1 was very stingy. Miser might be a better word to describe her. She complained about everything, about the corners not being swept, the brown stain not being scrubbed well from the teapot, the Rin bar getting over on the 28th instead of the 31st and about how much tea Manju drank throughout the day.

And the last one wasn't even true. But Manju kept quiet. The money here was good, Mashima's son who lived in Dallas made sure that Manju was paid well. And why only Manju ? He made sure that the cook Sarla's Ma, the watchman, the driver everyone got a good salary. Last time when he was here, he even gave Manju a perfume. It smelled of forest woods and dead flowers. One whiff and she would be transported to the tree laden haven of her childhood where the scent of new leaves mingled with wild flowers.

But Mashima was very unlike her son. As Manju swept the floors and scrubbed the bathroom, Mashima hovered along side always keeping an eye that Manju did not pour more bleach than necessary, did not run water for too long. And when Manju dusted the glass cabinets, carefully wiping the golden rimmed tea cups, the coffee mug with the blue windmill, the terracotta cups with white paisley pattern, Mashima sat at the dining table reminding Manju to be extra careful because they were all very expensive.

The only time she softened was when Manju took out the coffee mugs, the ones with pictures of two little girls smiling out of the cup, hair blowing in the wind and something written in English all around. They were Mashima's grand daughters. Every New Year, Mashima's son would send a coffee mug neatly snuggled in bubble wrap and ensconced in a colorful box. And every year the mug had a picture of the girls in different stages of their life.

Mashima never drank anything in those cups. Neither did she ever serve anyone in those.The cups and mugs in the glass cabinet sat just by themselves, supercilious and a tad bored .

"There is a story wrapped around each of them. Those cups are my memories", Mashima would say. The golden rimmed china was her wedding gift from an Aunt in England who is no more, the mug with the Eiffel Tower was from her honeymoon in Paris, the black tall mug with the warli painting was what her son got her on his first job and the New Year coffee mugs was her grand kid's life in front of her.

"If you ever drop any of them, I am going to fire you", Mashima would threaten, drinking her morning tea from a chipped plain white cup with a rounded bottom.Manju drank her tea from a steel glass.Wrapping the edge of her sari around its warmth, she took a long sip, making a sharp sound with her lips. The tea was lukewarm and not sweetened at all. Mashima had been stingy with the sugar yet again.With a sigh Manju poured out the tea from the verandah, onto the downstair neighbor's potted tulsi plant.

Really with tea like this, there was no reason to work here anymore. But she couldn't do without the money either. And then there were the afternoons for which she pined.

The afternoons, when Mashima would go for a walk and her evening gossip sessions at the nearby park, Manju would let herself in to do the dishes and sweep the floor for the last time in the day. This was when Manju would put water to boil in a kettle, pour a generous amount of milk, add spoonfuls of sugar and stir in the tea leaves. Lovingly she would peel a knob of ginger and pound it in the mortar and pestle, to put in the boiling tea.

She would then pour the pale brown liquor in a cup carefully chosen from the glass cabinet after much deliberation.

Sometimes when the day was cloudy and there was a wind rustling over the horizon Manju chose the one with blue windmill, on especially hot days she picked the cup with the smiling sunflowers. But most she loved to drink from the mugs with the two girls on it. She would sit in the verandah with the cup in her hand, staring at the two smiling girls and think of the long limbed, dusty haired, brown girl playing in her village where the scent of new leaves mingled with wild flowers.

As the tea grew cold, Manju sat, counting the days until she would next meet her daughter.

****************

*Mashima -- though it means aunt, elderly ladies in Bengal are respectfully addressed as Mashima

This is my entry for the Of Chalks and Chopsticks event started by Aqua and hosted by me this time. The photo cue for the fictions was here. I will be doing the roundup next week so if you are running late, please send in entries over the weekend.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Dal, Bhaat and Omelette or Strawberry

No, no, not me.

My wife.

Yes, the one on the far right, with the expensive camera around her shoulder. She is the Food Blogger. At least when our nosy neighbor asks her "What do you do?", that is what she says with a toss of her head. Our neighbor is stumped, I tell you. These people, our neighbors, they do not have a modern outlook. All they know is to eat dal, bhaat, maacher jhol. And they also speak Bengali at home. What is this ? How can you advance if you don't speak English all the time ? This is modern world, no. But who will tell them ?

They ask me, "If your wife is a food blogger, why do you do all the cooking in the house ?". "Arre Baba, I only cook dal, rice and chicken curry, my wife she makes rhubarb clafoutis", I tell them. Those moron neighbors look at me like they have never heard of rhubarb. People can be so closed and backward in this part of India, it is like you are in the forests of Congo or something.

But to tell you the truth if I don't cook, what will the kids eat, what will I eat ? I cannot live on Hollaindaise sauce all my life can I ? Or a Blueberry Flan or even a Rhubarb Clafoutis ? My wife, she cooks only that from expensive books with glossy pages and bright pictures. Shiny kids with golden hair and a fairness that hurts, smile out of them. In the book they smile at the strawberry muffins set out on plates in a green meadow.

Now my kids are not like that. They have black hair that catches the warm sun and they eat mangoes with juice straining down their brown elbows.I tell them to lick it up, like I did sitting on the branches of the mango orchard in my Grandma's village.

My wife does not like mangoes.She makes strawberry creme fraiche for them.She is very very talented.She also knows all the right places to get out of season imported fruits. In the heat of Indian summer she manages to get strawberries. Yes, they don't look plump and juicy and don't taste that good but so what ? Also I have to agree that it is very expensive and it is hard for me to pay every month for all this, but what can I say ? She is so creative, I need to support her Food Blogging, no.

The neighbors, the ones who do not know a rhubarb from a rabbi, tell me "Oh your wife must be making good money in blogging. Always she is buying celery sticks from Reliance Fresh , never kundru from the our local vegetable seller".Arre what money, who will click on those Google ads to give money ? Money minded they are as if everyone does things for money only. Did Van Gogh paint for money ? Did Steinbeck make rich in his life ? No, na. So ?

Now what can I expect from such morons whose only aim to cook, is to eat that food. They don't even know what "plating" is.

See, after my wife makes the creme fraiche or whatever it is, she does something called "plating". She puts the food in very beautiful plates, the ones we are never allowed to use for dinner and then arranges them with pretty flowers and napkins and silver candlesticks. Now I don't know why candlestick is necessary for food but it all looks very pretty. We watch from afar. The baby, the 3 year old wants to lick the creme fraiche but I hold her tight. My older child says he is hungry. I tell him to go do his Math homework till Mommy finishes work.

My wife then starts taking pictures. Sometimes she gets on a step ladder and click pictures from top, at other times she sets up the camera on a tripod. She changes the camera lenses, places the plate on the ledge our balcony, lets it hang precariously and balances herself to take a closer shot.I stand there, my heart going "thud-thud", fearing that those expensive plates can fall 5 floors down. If my wife was born a few decades back, Satyajit Ray would have been very proud of her.I look at her with admiration.

My wife takes like thousand pictures. In between she downloads them on her laptop and edits them.Too much work she does.

I know the kids will soon ask for dinner. So, I start getting dinner ready, I wash the rice and the lentils and then put them in the pressure cooker. I chop onions, peeling their magenta skin carefully and then slicing my knife through them. I like cooking our meals, it gives me a lot of satisfaction to see the kid's happy faces as they enjoy my chicken curry.

My wife used to cook before, 'before" as in before she became a Food Blogger. She would make charchari, jhinge posto, tyangra maacher jhaal. But now she only makes things we cannot even pronounce well. She says they picture better.Also everyone makes dal, shukto and chicken curry. What is so great about that ? It is all your middle class Bengali upbringing, she scorns.

All is well, I think. If she started taking pictures of our everyday food, we would never get to eat anyway. And anyway everyday she is so busy, where is time to cook ? In between Twitter, Facebook and her blog she can only make those things that she can blog about no ? Let her make creme fraiche and pour billows of shaving foam on it to make it look better. Who cares ? I am feeding the family, no. I am liking it also, so what is your problem ? Everyone cannot be a Food Blogger, can they ?

Only today I am late and don't have much time so I will make dal, rice and omelette. My wife likes omelettes with onion, green chili and tomatoes.I don't think she will eat the strawberry creme fraiche, what with the foam and the shriveled berries it might be actually poisonous. Tomorrow she can write how decadent and delicious it was, how her family enjoyed it and post pretty pictures of them with candlesticks around.

This is my entry for Of Chalks and ChopSticks, a food Fiction event started by Aqua last year. After a period of dormancy it is hosted this time by Sra. This time Desi Soccer Mom suggested there should be a photo cue and the picture Sra had showed a camera, some strawberries and a man's hand holding the camera.

Since I generally like to do timepass, I enjoyed writing a food fiction after a long time.Any resemblance to people in real life is totally unintentional.

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Omelettes are my all time favorite food. I can write lengthy paeans on it. If I did not have kids and did not have to blog, I could survive on Omelette alone. Toast & Omelette for breakfast, rice-butter and omelette for lunch, Roti rwapped around an omelette for dinner. Perfect, happy life and then came the vegetables and spoiled it all. Arrrrrrrgh.

To make an omelette like ours, crack an egg into a bowl. Add 1 tbsp of Milk. Beat with a fork till frothy. Add chopped onions, chopped green chili and chopped tomatoes. Add salt to taste. Mix. Heat Oil on a fry pan. Pour the pale yellow egg mixture and swirl the pan around a little, so the egg mixture makes a circle. At low heat cook till the omelette looks flippable(check the edges, should look done). Slide a spatula gently under the cooked side and flip. Cook the omelette on the other side.

Thursday, September 02, 2010

Doi Murgi -- Dahi Murg

She wanted to make Dahi Murg today. From that Madhur Jaffrey book sitting on her dresser. The one she had checked out from the local library three months back and never renewed or returned.

The book was a treasure of good life made better with excellent food. She wished she had that kind of life, the kind spiced up with green mangoes sprinkled with red chili powder, the one rich and sensuous like the Chicken korma on Page 123, the flirty kind with a dance or two and spicy bazaar wale aloo on the side.

But no, here she was doing her second laundry of the day, while folding the first neatly. Then she had to clean the kitchen, the breakfast mess from morning and vacuum the family room. By 9 she had to be out to her job where all she did was sit in a small cubicle and enter data on a dumb screen. 8 hours of that sterile environment and her was numb by the time the clock said 5:30.

The only interesting part of the day was the half hour lunch break when she could sample Cathy's ravioli, Sujata's rawa idli and discuss Ingrid's non-existent love life. The days the girls praised her aloo-paratha or drooled over her butter chicken life seemed a lot better though. Her kohl bereft eyes shone as they praised her cooking prowess.

They would ask her the recipe in details. How many onion, chopped or sliced, paste or not, red or white... so many questions. She would preen secretly and patiently answer. Her voice glided from dull to sensuous while explaining the onion's color and shape. With a sparkle in her eye, she could go into details about how exactly the oil separating from the masala should look and what it meant to beat an egg white to stiffness.

Today though nothing like that happened. No one said a word about her aloo-gobi. Instead they praised the Swiss chocolates Ingrid's boyfriend had got. She finished her lunch in a short fifteen minute span and went back to sit in front of her screen. "No point talking to these girls and wasting time", she thought to herself . She would rather go home 15 minute early and start on that Dahi Murg.

It was almost dark by the time she returned home. After school, she had to take Nutan for karate and Rakesh for his ballet lessons. Everyday there was some chore or other to be done after work and finally when she could plonk herself on the couch with a cup of tea she would be totally out. Today she sat at her exact spot, her back resting against the arm rest, her feet stretched out, her fingers flipping through Jaffrey's "Climbing the Mango Trees". Yes, there was Dahi Murg, Chicken in a Yogurt Sauce on Page 134. She read and re-read the one page recipe, raising a eyebrow there, furrowing a forehead here.

"10 cloves of Garlic. Ahhh, now that sure is much. What was Madame Jaffrey thinking ?", she called out loud. The children used to such ramblings didn't turn a head and continued their work.

"Some Kasoori Methi would deepen the flavor in this dish, I am sure. And cashew paste, yes that would be perfect. I will see how Sujata will ignore my Dahi Murg tomorrow", she said with a steely determination in her voice.

She then flipped her phone and pulled up the Address Book.

D -- for Desi Khana...naah they don't do non-veg.

G -- Ghar ka Khana ...their aloo-gobi today was a total failure.

H -- Hardeb Home Delivery...now this was a guy who could deliver. His Shahi Egg Masala on Tuesday was so delicious that Cathy had asked in an incredulous voice " How can you cook such difficult dishes after a long day ?". She had smiled and doled out Cathy some more of the Masala.

She quickly pressed Hardeb's number. Hardeb on the other side was clearly pleased to hear his regular and connoisseur customer's voice.

"Dahi Murg? Sure Madam. Tomorrow by 8 we will deliver at your home", Hardeb's greasy voice said. "Yes, yes, Kasoori Methi and Cashew paste Madam. No, no Kari Patta.Sure Ma'm. Thank You Ma'm"

She took a deep breath. She could smell the slender sticks of cinnamon and the dark, rough, tiny peppercorns dancing in the hot oil. The Dahi Murg was going to be lovely. Hardeb had never failed her.

Tomorrow she would explain to Sujata what exactly needs to be done so that the Dahi, the Yogurt does not break in the gravy.

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This is my entry for Of Chalks and Chopsticks hosted by Jaya @ Desi Soccer Mom and started by Aqua.

My Ma used to make a Doi Murgi -- a Chicken in yogurt sauce, long time back. Her recipe was based on the Doi Maach. I somehow never made it. Many years later I saw a Dahi Murg in Jaffrey's book which reminded me of my Ma's Doi Murgi. In between these episodes, Bong Working Mom had mentioned a Doi Murgi/Doi Chicken in her comments which I vaguely remembered.This recipe is an amalgamation of all the above recipes. I loved the addition of Kasoori Methi that BWM introduced and I really think it adds a wonderful flavor to this dish. You can skip Kasoori Methi and Cashew for Madhur Jaffrey's version.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Posto Bora/Poppy Seed Fritters -- to save the soul

Friday was her Ma's Puja day. A day of thorough cleaning, sparse vegetarian eating, smoky incense sticks and hour long prayers.

She didn't like Fridays much. Ma would not let her sleep in late. Early morning the swoosh of the water across the courtyard followed by the broom would wake her up. Thwack-thwack it would go clearing the dirt, chalk dust from yesterday's hop scotch and dry leaves from the Neem tree.That was a signal for her to get out of the bed and take an early bath to avoid Ma's ire.

Before the morning newspaper hit the front veranda Ma would be in the kitchen trying to remove the turmeric stains from last night's maacher jhol. All those sounds of scraping and scrubbing would trouble her innards as she hurriedly dressed to catch the early bus. She wanted to be out before Ma started cleaning the green slightly rusted gas stove and soaping the red gas cylinder. Ma was never one to enjoy such tasks and the rituals she thrust on herself visibly irked her.

Outside she would breath and laugh and discuss Ma's rituals as ridiculous. She would take a bite of her best friend's egg roll ignoring the rule of being vegetarian on Fridays. It never occurred to her to question Ma's belief, to defy Fridays with any more stronger rebellion than this.

Some Fridays would be different though. Manu'r Ma, the maid would arrive early and amidst the clanking and scrubbing, she would hear the harsh monotonous sound of stone grating on stone. Manu'r Ma sitting on the floor would grind posto on the sheel, a pock marked slab of stone, turmeric stained by use and age. The red and green glass bangles on her thin, rough wrists would make a sweet tinkling sound while she rolled the smooth black nora, grating the poppy seeds by rhythmic regular pressure of her hands.

This is the shee-nora/sheel-batta the flat stone used to grind spices back home. Pic Courtesy my Dad

Those days she rushed home early. There was posto waiting at home. Earthy posto bata mixed with a liberal dose of pungent mustard oil and kancha lonka, the lightly crisp, flat posto bora and then aloo posto. Those Fridays she spent five whole minutes in the Puja room, muttering the only shloka she knew and promising to eat only vegetarian on all subsequent Fridays.

She smiled as she thought of those Fridays. How long has it been ? 20? or maybe more ? Her coffee grinder made a soft purring noise as it pulverized the white poppy seeds to a fine Powder. The Merry Maids scrubbed the upstairs bathroom. As soon as the Posto Bora would be done, she would light an incense in the Prayer room. Today was Friday.

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Though this is fiction with heavy dosage of writer's imagination, Fridays were and are days we eat vegetarian and back home almost always my Mom would make posto on Fridays. She wasn't one to stick to rituals though. This goes to Chalks and Chopsticks -- 3 hosted by Sra and created by Aqua. I am not sure if this fits but this IS a very basic recipe/ingred/method in the Bong Kitchen so this post also goes to Jaya's B2B -- Back to Basics, if accepted, basically.

I am sure every self respecting middle aged Bong has made posto bora and know how to.

So this recipes is not really for them.

It is for those young bespectacled Bong grad students on their meager stipends and heavy work loads. Those who have used up all the minutes on their calling card for today is the 27th and pay day is not until end of the week. For those whose emotional balance is so skewed that desire of posto bora with mususrir dal and bhaat sits high up just next to an appreciative nod from the advisor.To give them some pleasure on a scorching hot Tuesday I will tell them how to make posto bora.

Read more...

Posto Bora/Poppy Seed Fritters

Today I will not use my Magic Bullet which will make a better paste of Posto or Poppy Seeds. Instead the Coffee Grinder will be brought out, it is an inexpensive and a familiar feature in a sambar smelling, begun bhaja greasing grad student apartment (I hope!).

Put 1/2 cup of Posto/Poppy Seeds in the coffee grinder and make a fine powder, as fine as the machine can without burning up that is. This will make 4-5 posto bora.

Transfer the powder to a bowl. It might be grainy, you can't help it.

Add approx 4-5 tbsp of water to this powder and try to make a paste. Throw is some finely chopped onion, 2 green chili chopped real fine, salt and few drops of Mustard Oil. You don't have Mustard Oil ? Ok forget it and weep.

The paste will look runny. There is no way you can make bora(fritters) with them. So add a little Maida/AP Flour. I think 2-3 tsp should be ok. Add a tsp of flour, mix well and see if the consistency is still very watery. If yes --> add a half tsp more.
Note: If you happen to have a Magic Bullet or a sheel or anything where you can wet grind the posto to a fine thick paste, you might not need the flour.

Grease a flat pan with oil and put on the hob. Very little oil is needed to make these, 2 tsp at most.Mustard oil is the oil of choice here. If you don't have that again weep and use Canola.

Shape a flat fritter/tikki/bora kind of structure with your bare hands, it will be irregular and just hold its shape. Put it on the pan and let it cook at medium heat. Once the edges have browned flip. Now it will be flippable.Do the other side till both sides are nicely browned.

You can have these just by themselves or with rice. Tastes awesome. Ok, you already know that.

Similar Recipes:

Alu Posto

Kundru Posto

Jhinge Chingri Posto

Sharmila's Posto Bora -- one of my fav bloggers and I hope she comes back soon

Friday, June 18, 2010

Of Chalks and Chopsticks -- 2nd Edition Roundup

Today I won't talk much. If I start there is no stopping, so I will be quiet, really, really quiet. I will do this so that you get a moment of silence, ok not a moment, you will need more.

And when you get that "chasm of silence" take a deep breath, sit, relax, and lose yourself in the wonderful world of food fiction where real life merges with the imaginary, where food conjures memories, where tales are weaved around life and where life evolves around food.

Presenting Of Chalks and Chopsticks -- 2nd Edition Roundup with stories from 26 very talented food bloggers whose stories are as delicious as the food.

Have a great weekend reading and thinking about your own food story.

Read more...

Entries are listed in the order I received them

"Except... Jam!! Sarita was terribly foodie. And her Mom's cooking was something she couldn't do without! And it wasn't just her dal and rice.. Mom's cookies, her cakes, her chicken, her fish, her smoothies, her shakes, her mutton, her quiche....and most of all.. Mom's jams!!!" -- Apple Jam -- Happy Mother's Day from SS@SS Blogs here

"He walked up to the pan which was on the gas burner. There was a strange sound of tiny pebbles clanging against a glass pane. He peered in and saw a kaleidoscope of images flickering in front of him. The pan was full of water. The water was bubbling. There was a thin film of yellow on top. He parted that with a ladle and was intrigued to see what was going on. There were white grains of rice and yellow dots of daal (pulses) circling all over the pan. Soaring up. Going down. Bumping into each." -- Playing 'House' : A Khichudi Recipe Story from Kalyan @ Finely Chopped

"It takes me to places that I lived as a 12-year old, in a house that had a huge kitchen, the time that we had the hottest summers in Kottayam and the baths we used to take under the backyard tap in the dusky evening light. The hot dosas for dinner and this sweet and slightly sour pickle that complemented the dosas like not even coconut chutney could." -- Sweet Mango Pickle - Amma's Recipe from Nags@Edible Garden

"It was hard to tell which came first - the rush of joy at the mention of that unabashedly unwholesome menu or the sigh of relief that the salad could be put off! Or was it neither of these but a surge of love, coupled with the reassurance that he had chosen right, after all? " -- Quinoa: A Love Story from Sra@When My Soup Came Alive

"She quietly eats up the dosa and even the two pieces of drumstick that fell on her plate. She couldn’t tactfully throw the green little sticks onto her brothers plate as she normally would, nor complain about it and chuck it in the garbage. And slowly chewing her food, she understood what the boy meant. She would never be able to say no drumsticks again." -- The Moringa Oleifera story from Denny @Oh Taste n See

"She could see and feel that fateful morning when her mother was preparing ingredients for Momo. It was she who had requested her mom to prepare Momo. From early morning her mom started chopping onions and garlic, kneading the dough, making small balls. She was served steaming hot Momos before she left for school.
Her mom promised Thukpa and Momo after she returned from school." -- Mom(o) from Balaka@Prathompadokhep

"When Shakuntala devi came in the kitchen, it was already 6.30 in the evening. Naren will be here in few minutes or so. She cleaned fish pieces hurriedly and then smeared holod (turmeric powder) and noon (salt) over each pieces well. She then started to make the jeerey/kalo jeerey/golmorich bata in Sheel nora.Then she quickly put the Kadai over gas stove. By the time kadai and shorsh'er tel (mustard oil) was getting hot, she was finished making the bata moshla (masala paste)." -- Tangra Mach'er jhaal from Jaya@Spice and Curry

"Raghu stretched himself up to his full height, took a full breath, and without a single stammer made an offer to the ice cream man "you give us two ice creams and we will give you two bigggg mangoes, what do you think?" The ice cream man thought hard, and drove a hard bargain "I'll give you two ice creams for 4 mangoes, deal or no deal?" Everything sounded fair for ice creams, Raghu ambled up the nearest tree and brought down 4 huge mangoes, they barely fitted into our tiny hands, still we managed to get it over to the gate. " -- Aam Panna from Rajani@eatWRITEthink

"She had borrowed some ingredients from her neighbor to prepare breakfast and she sat in front of the stone grinder and started grinding the batter and Niru came out rubbing the sleep off her eyes.She grinned at her mom who was holding the batter, for it was for her favorite breakfast -Kaara Rotti ,an rare treat!!!" -- Kaara Rotti and the light of dawn from PJ@Seduce Your Tastebuds

"Budhua got up and went to the mango tree behind his hut. Selecting some good sized stones, he threw them at a couple of mangoes. A good marksman, he got them down in no time.
Going inside, he saw the embers of last night's fire had not yet died. He had forgotten to clean out the chulha in his worries. So threw in the mangoes to roast them a little. He would make Aam Pora Sharbat for Moina." -- Aam Pora Sharbat / Aam panna from Sharmila@KichuKhonn

"He started cooking, methodically chopping, washing, sautéing and stirring. He was done in exactly 40 minutes. He transferred the hot risotto to a serving dish as the phone rang. “Hey, it’s me. I am on my way home,” she told him.
He looked around the kitchen and with a sigh started cleaning up. By the time he was done there were ten minutes left for her to reach home.
“Just enough time to set up the table,” he thought." -- Of Quiet Husbands and risotto surprises from Jaya@Desi Soccer Mom

"Maya's question reminded her of the origins of this infamous salad - a summer picnic at Nick's sisters house, when they wanted something Indian. Her sparse pantry had very few "Indian" ingredients but nonetheless this salad emerged as an "Indian" egg salad and stayed that way even when "they" were done." -- Zippy Egg Salad Sandwiches from Rinku@Cooking in Westchester

""Atthe, I cannot make these undes. They are just crumbling. Can you fix it?" girl goes and asks the old lady letting go of her 'Chef' ego. She is almost ready to cry imagining her mother mad because of this. Old lady asks the girl to bring some warm milk, sprinkles it on the mixture and starts making undes. "Thank God for Atthe" the girl sighs in relief and starts to make undes with the old lady. She then fries the ambode and is beaming with pride ear to ear when both the oldies praise her for her work." -- Mother or Not? from Champa@Versatile Vegetarian Kitchen

"That night she boiled some eggs, shelled them and put them in the refrigerator for the next day.She woke up early next morning and started making the egg salad. She packed it in the tiffin box. Mou came down for breakfast and looked glumly at the tiffin box."What did you pack today?Some rice again!" She smiled conspirationally at Mou."Its a surprise!Let me know how you like it." " -- The Tiffin Box from Tania@Experiments Of a Cooking Enthusiast

"He was no novice to cooking but he didn't want to waste his weekend over it. She had a dream the other day that he cooked a number of delicacies and served her. She woke up in the middle of the dream, but her joy and excitement didn't abate. She woke him up and narrated it to him. " -- Love, the Secret Ingredient from Nithu @ Nithu's Kitchen

"” I dont like tomatoes!” cried the girl. “ They are not for you, we are going to eat them.” replied her mum thinking that once the sauce was all mushy & done, the girl will not realise that she was eating tomatoes. " -- Gnocchi with a Tomato Basil Sauce from Bhagyashree@Taste Buds

"“Khe nay, baba”, she said seating herself on a cane modha in front of him. That’s when he started to howl. Just like a baby, bawling and muffling his own sobs. In between drinking water and stuffing his mouth with the sondesh. He choked, ate the sondesh and gulped the water down all at the same time. " -- Sweet Taste of Freedom from Pree@PreeOccupied

"Ma would eagerly empty the khaki bag on a big steel platter and examine the contents with gusto. On most occasions there would be the quintessential Rui or Rohu, the most commonly eaten fish in our house. And then there would be fishes of various sizes depending on what the market had to offer. Finger sized ones for chorchori, and palm sized ones for jhal. The bothi with its curved iron blade would be brought out. Amma would sit on a wooden piri on the floor and place the bothi in front." -- Fishy Tales from Piuly@A Pinch of This and A Sprinkle of That

"I was very afraid to travel alone.as since childhood my family never let me travel alone...my family is very strict...my brother used to follow me everytime i was out may it b my job,interviews,classes.." -- A sweet story and 3 dishes by my hubby from Sanyukta@Creative Sanyukta

"The next day, as Mrs. Kumar walked back from the vegetable seller carrying sweet tiny eggplants for the night's dinner, along with a small packet of gulkand burfi that she simply could not resist, she found the inspector standing at a street corner, staring thoughtfully at the ground. "Not again", Mrs. Kumar exclaimed. " -- Mrs. Kumar and the Sweet Tooth from Nupur@One Hot Stove

"Well, just boil some milk....add some maida and sugar to it. If you want, you can also add essence. Freeze it. Beat it twice in the mixie. That's it.
No amma.....that doesn't sound interesting in the least bit." -- Mango ice cream from Jayashree@My Experiments with Food

"Archana changed quickly, put some tea to boil and set about washing the rice and mixing the curd. “Everything is going to be ok,” she thought as she mixed the curd and the rice and prepared the tempering." -- Anonymous from Jaya@Desi Soccer Mom

"He snuck closer to Amma, who hurriedly put the ladle down, pulled at the sari tucked in at her waist, and smoothed it down with one hand. "Come in, come in!" She called out, picking up the plate of adhirasams. "Look what I made for you-- your favorite sweet."" -- Adhirasam from Vaishali@Holy Cow! Vegan Recipes

"Reluctantly, she ate a spoonful. It had the perfect balance of spicy, sour and sweet, with just the right crunch. A burst of freshness from the cilantro and grated coconut. Exactly the way she liked kairi chi dal.
Exactly the way her aayi used to make it, she remembered. Exactly the way it tasted the last time she had eaten it." -- Kairi Chi Dal from Aqua@Served with Love

""And I must repeat, there were no secrets. I just added a little extra bit of love. Plus, I always chose the fruits with care. The freshest possible, the best money could buy. After all, nothing but the best for you," he smiled." -- Fruit Chaat from Aqua@Served with Love

"Amu always ate last the advantage being that she could eat-heartily without worrying that the food might get short. But today she felt it was a bad idea. Because right in front of her Rati sat and ate and went on eating. And Amu wondered if anything would be left for her at all." -- Cravings from Bhagyashree@Searching Self (Bhagyashree is not a food blogger but her fiction is all about food)

"It would take more than an hour for the payyesh to come to the right thickness. And then Ma would take it off the heat and add the patali, the khejur gur, fresh and deep brown if it was dada's birthday in winter. The whole house would be infused with that rich, sweet smell, that reminded you of cold winter mornings and dew drops clinging on to the leaves." -- Chocolate Brownies for a Birthday from Bong Mom@Bong Mom's Cookbook

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Chocolate Brownies for a BirthDay

Tomorrow is Anu's birthday. Anu, her first born. It has been 8 years since that snowy day in Boston.The snow had been heavy that day, almost 4 inches had accumulated by noon. Her doctor, Dr.Richardson, could make it only 3 hours after the scheduled time of her C-section. Three whole hours after the time her Mother-in-law had deemed the most auspicious.

It didn't matter though. Nothing did except that a baby was arriving in their life that day, albeit three hours late.

She started taking out the flour, the eggs, the butter to melt, the brown sugar

When the Doctor finally congratulated and the nurse brought the wailing baby wrapped in a white hospital blanket with blue borders all she had felt was relief, a culmination of the journey she and her husband had undertaken over the years. Yes, that is what it was, relieved, tired and nauseous is what she had felt even later in that bright wallpapered room. When had the love come in, the worry, the protectiveness, the eagerness to change a diaper, wipe a snot, the enthusiasm to drive to a swim class and then the ballet ? She wasn't sure, they had just crept in as she folded the laundry, she guessed.

She took out Anu's favorite chocolate sprinkles and the Hershey Cocoa Powder

"Rrrrrrring", the phone went, in the monotonous tone, jolting her out of her reverie. She ignored it, thinking of the pile of work needed to be done before her husband and daughter came back from the piano class.

The sugar goes into the melted butter, mixed to be together

The phone went "Rrrrrrrrring" again. It was Ma, she was sure. Even after a decade Ma could never keep track of the time difference between the far east and west. She must be calling to wish Anu a day early. If told she would say, "Aaajkei to unish, ekhankar hisebe or jomnodin hoye geche" (Today is the 19th here, it is already her birth date in my part of the world")

Two eggs into the wet mix. A tsp of vanilla for the sweet smell

"Hello AnuMoni, aaj tomar jonmodin (Hello Anu Moni, today is your Birthday)", Ma said, without even waiting to hear the voice on the other end.

"This is me Ma, Anu is out and it is not even her birthday today, not until tomorrow", she said.

"Amader ekhane unish hoye geche (It is already the 19th here)", Ma continued, obstinacy and hurt in her voice. Ma had wanted to be there, to welcome her first granddaughter 8 years ago. But the straw haired, pale faced officer at the US Consulate in Kolkata thought otherwise. He refused Ma a visa. One stamp and a grandmother was denied the happiness of being united with her first grandchild.Ma still carried that grievance and some more.

The Flour, the coccoa powder, the baking powder and a pinch of salt. Dry into wet

"Paayesh ta baniye rekhechis? Kal to ar shomoy pabi na"(Did you make the Paayesh, you won't get time tomorrow), Ma asked.

"You know Anu doesn't even like Paayesh. What is the point ? I am sending cupcakes for her school tomorrow and at home I will make some chocolate brownies", she said

"Jonmodin e ektu paayesh banabi na. Paayesh ta shubho ( Paayesh brings good luck. Won't you make even a little on her birthday)", she could imagine her Ma sitting by the black telephone, a cup of tea in hand, her brows furrowed while the maid swept around the morning dust with a broom. Her Ma trying to send across good wishes over the oceans, trying to maintain the age old traditions, she steadfastly refused.

"Dekhbo (I will see)", she said. She didn't want to argue any more. There was no time really. She wouldn't make the paayesh, she didn't have hours to stir and thicken milk, to make a dessert her daughter would not even touch.

Mix till each component loses its own identity to be one

Busily she started taking out the flour, the eggs, the butter to melt, the Hershey cocoa powder. This was an easy recipe, the brownies would be in the oven by the time Anu was back.

She melted the butter and added the fine sugar, stirring with a steady hand, willing the sugar to dissolve.

She cranked up the oven to 350F. Greased and floured an 8 inch square pan and lined with butter paper. Poured the batter into the baking dish, smoothing out the top. Slivers of almonds placed gingerly on the surface would look lovely but Anu hated almonds

On her birthday and Dada's, Ma would be up early, very early. The Milkman would be there early too. Ma would have told him to get an extra liter of milk, with a special request to keep it water free because paayesh had to be made, there was a birthday to be celebrated. The maid would have scrubbed and washed the deep bottomed brass pot, the day before. It would be on the stove, gleaming as it caught first rays of the morning sun.

The brownies baked in preheated oven for 30 minutes.

Ma would pour out the pristine white milk, still warm, into the pot. A few tej pata and fragrant whole green cardamom would be thrown in. And then Ma would stir and stir, careful so that the milk did not boil over, careful so as to not scald the bottom of the pan. She wouldn't utter a word as she did so. For this was sacred, the paayesh would be first offered to the Gods, requesting blessing for the birthday child from the unknown.

As the milk thickened, she would put in a handful of gobindo bhog chaal, the short grained rice, smeared in ghee. The rice spread its fragrance as it cooked. Everything else in the house would stop that morning. Baba did not get his tea, breakfast got delayed and the maid was asked to come back later as the paayesh simmered on the stove and Ma stood watchful over it.

It would take more than an hour for the payyesh to come to the right thickness. And then Ma would take it off the heat and add the patali, the khejur gur, fresh and deep brown if it was dada's birthday in winter. The whole house would be infused with that rich, sweet smell, that reminded you of cold winter mornings and dew drops clinging on to the leaves. The thick paayesh studded with golden raisins would be kept in the Puja room till the Gods had their fill. And then Ma would bring in bowlfuls for her and Dada in silver bowls, scalloped along the edges, saved for special occasions.

She never liked Paayesh, she didn't like anything sweet, she would refuse to have more than a spoonful of that dedicated love. Dada would gorge on it.

Suddenly she craved some of her Ma's paayesh, bowlful of sweet creamy paayesh with plump golden raisins made perfect with time. The warm, chocolate smell of the brownie did nothing to satisfy that craving.Sighing she took out the milk and last of her patali from the refrigerator. Maybe two decades later, Anu would crave paayesh some day. Till then she would just keep the house smelling fragrant on this special winter evening.The blessings from her forefathers would pass on.

This is a part of my Food Fiction series. Anu is not my daughter, it is NOT my daughter's birthday, this IS fiction. It might seem strange but it is the simplest food that has all the fiction entwined around it. This post goes to Of Chalks and Chopsticks -- 2nd Edition an event started by Aqua and this time hosted by Me. What is your Food Story ? I won't be doing round up until Sunday, so if you are running late, send me your entry, I am waiting.

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Read more...

Here is the recipe for Khejur Gur er Paayesh

Here is Paayesh with Sugar

Today's dark, decadent, delicious chocolate brownies are from Sailu's Kitchen. Thanks Sailaja.
BS, deserves a special mention for this one, since she not only helped me bake, she also helped me take the pictures. We baked yesterday night and since I have no night time lighting equipment, BS held a flashlight, so that I could take my pics.

Chocolate Brownies

What You Need

All Purpose Flour ~ 1/2 cup
Unsweetened Cocoa Powder ~ 1/3 cup
Baking Powder ~ 1/4 tsp
Salt ~ 1/4 tsp or a pinch

Butter ~ 1/2 cup i.e. 1 stick
Brown sugar ~ 1/2 cup
Regular Fine Sugar ~ 1/2 cup

Eggs ~ 2
Vanilla extract ~ 1 tsp

Milk ~ 2 tsp(if needed)

How I Did It

Preheat oven to 350F. Grease and flour an 8 inch square pan and line with butter paper. I placed an aluminum foil inside my square pan and greased it.

Put butter in a microwave safe bowl and zap it for a minute so that it softens. Stir in the sugar. Mix with a whisk for 2-3 minutes.

Whisk in eggs, one after the other and add the vanilla essence. Beat with whisk or hand mixer.

Add the dry ingreds i.e. cocoa, flour, salt and baking powder into the wet mix until no trace of flour is left. Mix using a spatula. I had to add 2 tsp of milk at this point as my batter was very thick.

Spread batter into prepared pan. Smooth out the top. Add the chocolate sprinkles if you want.

Bake in preheated oven for 30 minutes. Do not overcook. After 25-30 mins, put in a knife to see if the brownies are done.

Cool on a wire rack. Cut into squares at room temperature and serve with cold ice cream. Store in an airtight container. Warm while serving.