Choti si Kahani Hai, Ek cup Chai Hai

I am a big time tea drinker. And I have a special fondness for only my kind of tea. The one with milk and sugar and then brewed with Red Label, with a single tea bag of Earl Grey for flavor. Dipping Marie in my tea and not counting them is another of my guilty pleasures. As I was browsing through my tea posts today I came across this post I had written for Of Chalks and Chopsticks -- a food fiction event some of us bloggers had indulged in for a while.

My story around a cup of tea is here (from July 2011)

And here is a list of all the entries by other bloggers for the same event and all of which revolved around a cup of tea.(again from July 2011)

If you are looking for great Tuesday reads do go through that list and you may find the perfect thing to pair with your morning chai.

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.

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

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.

Chalks and Chopsticks -- Roundup

At last it is here. The Chalks and Chopsticks round up that you all probably waited for and then politely gave up.

I will not bore you with lame excuses and sheer tales of my laziness; instead dig in and start on a wonderful journey of food and tales. If I have missed anyone's entry please do let me know and pardon my incompetence.

Next edition is at Jaya's. Hop over to see the rules she has for you.

"‘Vivek took permission from my hostel warden and would come to teach me English as well as the other subjects. He was doing his engineering those days and we would sit in the common room. I was comfortable being taught by him. His only demand was that I served him omelettes and tea."
"Omlette" -- by Bhagyashri who blogs at Searching Self

"With a sigh, Sunanda picked up the now empty cup and froze.
The bright, dark circle of soy stared up at her from the
lovely face of Gauhar Jaan*.
Sunanda gave a small sigh and closed her eyes in silent resignation."
"Hot & Sour Vegetable Soup for 'Of Chalks and Chopsticks'" -- Sharmila who blogs at KichuKhon

"Office theke phire ese chabi ghuriye ghore dhuke, juto chhNuRe khule, kobjike ghoRir fNaas-mukto kore, gaa dhuye, rannaghore giye burner jwalai. jol fote. Miss Marple-er boite lekha achhe, rolling boil howa chai. apekkha kori. aaNjla kore cha pata dhali. Second-er kNata 3 baar ghoRi prodokkhiN kore asa matro sada cup-e chhNaknir gaa chNuiye sonali srot naame. ami se sroter theke chokh pherate parina."
"Kintu sobar chaite bhalo" -- by Kuntala who blogs at Abantor Prolap . Kuntala blogs in Bengali but her story was so apt for the theme this month that I requested her entry.

"In the here and now, it’s another coast, another pot of tea. Shrugging at the undissolved sugar in the first attempt, one turns to a potpourri of mild spices – cinnamon and star anise – and the tang of lemons, to add a kick to the warm and properly sweetened new brew."
"Citrusy Sweet Tea, Y'all!" -- by R&R who blog at Tadka Pasta

"The mugs had held fond fancies, but she had squashed them with her penchant for practicality. Didn’t find a glass to mix her smelly Ayurvedic medicines in? Resort to the mugs. Didn’t find another mug to bake her one-minute microwave chocolate cake in? Use these....In her case, a one-pot meal involved putting a few tablespoons of rice into dal or curry heated in the mug and eaten with a long-stemmed spoon in front of the TV. Constipated? Drink mugs and mugs of hot water, alternating between the two. "
My Mug Shot and Masala Chai -- by Sra who blogs at When My Soup Came Alive

"She woke up when Ma's alarm went off but stayed still and pretended to be asleep. As soon as the toilet door closed behind Ma, she jumped from her bed, ran to the kitchen , took a small bowl, poured out some tea, drank it steaming hot (sieving the leaves with her teeth), washed the bowl, placed it back on the utensils rack, ran back to the bed and just pretended to be asleep again. Yes, in four minutes."
Tea-her first love ---by DR who blogs at The gift of Life

"After dinner, the kids were in their rooms, she and Saurabh sat on the sofa reading and quietly sipping their cups of satisfying cocoa. This was their late evening ritual for over a decade, it always allowed them to catch up together no matter how busy the day was. Today she looked troubled until her husband interrupted her thoughts by quietly saying, “She needs to find herself a little, it will happen. I know an accomplished musician who at her age wanted to spend her life behind closed doors, locked away from the world”."
The Cup Of Solace -- by Rinku who blogs at Cooking in WestChester

"Gradually, it became a routine for both the two ladies to sip their morning cup of tea in their respective balconies around the same time and chitchat. They both used to look forward to their "Me Time" together in midst of clear skies, piping hot cups of tea and lovely conversations. On days when the weather would be cold or windy or it would rain heavily, they would sit sipping their respective ginger teas and wave to each other and share a smile or laugh.
Both were totally addicted to their morning teas. "
Just One Cup Of Tea -- by Rujuta who blogs at the World According to Rujuta

"Another love of his was coffee. He would often tell Aarti that his life would have been an utter waste had he never tasted this enchanted drink. He loved to pour the decoction into his favourite white ceramic glass with a floral print on it. He would add an extra spoon of sugar and sip it away making a *sluuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrp* sound. He seemed to enter a transcended state, whenever he sipped from that cup. It looked like he was sipping from an eternal cup of bliss. That would irritate Aarti. Aarti hated coffee. She was more of a tea person. "
Eternal Cup of Bliss -- by Deepthi from Topsy Turvy Life

"It was still dark outside as Naina strained the two cups of tea and walked towards the picture window. She loved this time of the day, sitting by the window, reading a book and sipping her cup of tea. It was calm and peaceful, no jarring sounds of the television and no hustle bustle of daily chores. There was hardly anyone on the sidewalk except an occasional runner jogging past or an early riser walking the dogs."
To Stalk a Brinji -- by Jaya who blogs at DesiSoccerMom

"By the time she returned to her rocking chair with the coffee, the wind had picked up, bringing with it the earthy smell of wet mud. On the terrace below her apartment, she spotted Mrs. Joshi collect the papads she had left out in the sun. In the balcony opposite her window, she saw the maid hurriedly gather the clothes left to dry out on the clothes line. The people on the streets too were casting anxious glances toward the rapidly darkening sky and hurrying along. "
Indian Espresso Coffee -- by Aqua who blogs at Served with Love

"I remembered the baby eggplants I had purchased the previous day at the market. They looked so fresh and cute that, I could not ignore their baby voices crying ‘buy me please!’ So, what could I make with them? Yessss, Gutti Vankaya - a traditional Andhra Pradesh recipe for stuffed eggplant (or brinjal as it is called or even aubergine) fry."
Eggplant -- by Knot2Share who blogs at A Space to be Me

"The Chinese Breakfast.


Okay, so I was hungry. Thanks to the gastronomical disaster, which was my cousin's five-year anniversary lunch yesterday, I was terribly heartsick about any "bangalibarir dupurer nemontonno"{non-bongs, read luncheon to celebrate aforementioned anniversary} and decided to not eat anything, just to get rid of the taste of stale Fish Tandoori from my mouth."
Panu and the Earlymorning Foodpost -- by Panu who blogs at Presented by P

"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."
For a Cup of Tea -- by BongMom who blogs at Bong Mom's CookBook

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.

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*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.

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.

Read more...

Doi Murgi -- Chicken in Yogurt Sauce

What You Need

Chicken ~ 2lb--3 lb. I buy a whole small chicken which is almost 3lb, after removing skin etc. the weight would be around 2-2&1/2 lb I think.

I have given a range for the garlic, ginger etc. because I think it depends on individual taste. The original recipe suggests about 20 clove of garlic. Now my garlic cloves are much fatter than the ones I have seen in India so I think 4 fat ones is fine for me in this dish which has little gravy and in which I didn't feel the need of too much garlic. You are free to improvise.

For marinade

Ginger paste ~ 1 tbsp
Garlic paste ~ 1tsp
Corriander powder ~ 1 tsp
Cumin Powder ~ 1 tsp
Garam masala ~ 1/2 tsp
Turmeric Powder ~ 1/2 tsp
Yogurt ~ 1 tbsp
Salt to taste

For Gravy

Onion ~ 1&1/2 -- 2 cup of chopped red onion OR 1 large US size red onion
Garlic ~ 4-5 fat ones
Ginger ~ 1 heaped tbsp of chopped Ginger

Yogurt ~ 1 cup
Cashew ~ 1 tbsp

Kasoori Methi ~ 1/2-1 tbsp
Kashmiri Mirch ~ 1/4-1/2 tsp (depending on taste)
Red Chili Powder ~ depending on taste

For tempering

Cinnamon ~ 2" long & thin stick
Clove ~ 5
Cardamom ~ 5
Whole Black Peppercorn ~ 8-10

How I Did It

Marinate the chicken for 30mins to an hour with all ingredients listed under marinade.

Heat about 3 tbsp of Oil in a heavy bottomed pan or kadhai. Temper the Oil with
2" thin stick of Cinnamon,
5 Clove/Laung
5 Green Cardamom/Elaichi
8-10 Whole black Peppercorn

Add about 1&1/2 -- 2 cup of chopped red onion and fry the onion with 1/2 tsp of sugar till onion is soft and browned on the edges.

Make a paste of
4-5 fat cloves of garlic 1 heaped tbsp of fresh chopped & peeled ginger 2-3 green chili(optional) very little water

Add this paste to the pan and saute for 2 minutes, sprinkling water if necessary.

Add the chicken pieces shaking off any excess liquid and fry the chicken pieces till they are lightly browned. Let it cook uncovered at medium heat for the next 10 mins or so, with frequent stirring. You might need to add a tbsp of oil at this stage. This process of stirring and cooking is actually called "bhuno" in Hindi or "kashano" in Bengali. At the end of this process you will see the oil separating , that indicates good things are in the making.

Now add
1/2-1 tbsp of Kasoori Methi crushed between your palm
1/2 - 1 tsp of Kashmiri Mirch(or Red Chili Powder)
Saute for 1 more minute

Take the pan off heat and wait for a minute. Meanwhile prepare a smooth paste of 1 tbsp of cashew and 1 cup of thick Yogurt. If you are afraid of Yogurt tending to break, wait for the pan to cool a little before adding the yogurt. You can also add a pinch of flour to the yogurt.
Add this to the pan and mix with the chicken pieces so that all the pieces are uniformly coated.
Wait for maybe 1 more minute, to err on the side of caution, and then put the pan back on low heat.

Let it cook at low heat for 2 minutes. Now add about 1 cup of water, salt to taste, mix everything and let it come to a simmer at medium heat. Cover and cook till chicken is done.

Taste and adjust for seasonings. The gravy should not be too much but clinging to the chicken pieces. If you see gravy is watery reduce the gravy by removing cover and letting it simmer.
Serve with Rice or Roti.

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

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.

Of Chalks and ChopSticks -- 2nd Edition

I am sure by now everyone worth his or her salt of blogging is aware of Aqua's event Of Chalks and Chopsticks. She started it with a great vision, yeah there are visionary people out there if you didn't know, and a lot of bloggers believed in her, in themselves, in kayanat (as SRK would say) and wrote beautiful stories around their food. If you don't believe me and think I am just spinning yarns go check.

After your verification and validation, come back and read the post. I am waiting, come on.

Now that you have read the tales and lore in the First Edition, get ready, tap your brain, day dream, lose your job while doing it and write your very own Food Fiction for "Of Chalks and Chopsticks -- 2nd Edition".

Yes, there is a 2nd Edition. And don't you roll your eyes, what is wrong with a 2nd Edition ?

So please, pretty please, write a food fiction, a story around the food you cook, and eat and serve. Even if you don't like cooking, wonly eating is your motto of life, there should be a story around that food, write that while you eat, and send it to me.

Usually writers and creative people are ummm very creative and do not like to be restrained or curbed or told to walk on the pavement and not bang on the middle of the road. So I am not sure if you would like the idea of a theme to framework your food fiction on. But Sunday being Mothers Day and all, I thought what if your fiction has to do with Mothers, not necessarily yours, it is fiction so any Mother would do, any Mother who is human and has offsprings and has dealt with human poop and joy would do, a female one would be better.

But this is not necessary, just a suggestion.Your fiction can be anything as long as there is food going with it.

If the concept interests and challenges you, this is what you need to do(following rules are set by Aqua, I am just copying):

1. Spin us a yarn - an original one. It could either be based on a real incident or could be something competely imaginary. Explore any genre: humour, romance, mystery, paranormal etc.


2. The story you write has to be related to the food you will cook or eat or discuss in that post.


3. There is no word limit on the story you write, but it has to be written in one single post.


4. Archived posts are accepted (though writing a new one for this event would be highly appreciated).


5. Posts written for this event CAN be shared with other events.

6. Link your post to this post and Aqua's post
This post:http://www.bongcookbook.com/2010/05/of-chalks-and-chopsticks-2nd-edition.html
Aqua's post: http://servedwithlove.blogspot.com/2010/04/of-chalks-and-chopsticks.html


Post your story and the recipe between now and June 9th and mail it to me at: sandeepa(dot)blog(at)gmail(dot)com

Include the following details in your mail:

1. Name and URL of your blog

2. Title and URL of your post

Eagerly looking forward to your entries for "Of Chalks and Chopsticks" brainchild of Aqua, co hosted by Sra and me and written by all of you.

Happy Mothers Day !!