Eats, eats & eats ...

Sweet Nothings ... SHF #61

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 04:44:00 +0000

Is there a way, one can remove the brain from its cranium, give it a good massage, and pop it right back? Coz if there is, I would seriously consider it. The last few weeks have gone by in an absolute flurry. And it's going to get only worse. (Bangs head on table). Nope it isn't three-morsel-eater (THM) and her ways with food. Not even the cold. I am in the middle (well, not really, considering I started only two weeks ago) of my graduate core classes, and it's not a pretty sight.

Don't get me wrong, I love every minute of it. No matter my complaining. That's just me. I love whining; if nothing else, the weather it is. In this case, it's these response papers we have to turn in. The first week's readings were challenging, but stellar, so writing what I thought of it, wasn't a big deal. Being my luck, it had run its course by week two. Since the Tuesday of last week, I feel like a headless chicken that was first drugged and then injected with caffeine. (Shudders thinking about taste).

Now, this week's reading was interesting, but I am beginning to think the guy who wrote it, had unscrewed his head, and then put it on backwards. I mean, nothing else, can explain how someone could make intuitive processes of how we communicate into mumbo-jumbo-meets-abracadabra-and-falls-into-toilet. That doesn't make sense, does it? Exactly, my point.

Thankfully, the last few weeks weren't all about me-wanting-to-scratch-my-corneas-out. Eats got an award for being "kreative" (Thanks Swathi! That's awfully sweet of you!) AM made the most delicious, little egg tartlets following my dearest friend May's recipe, to cheer me up; I suspect he feared for his corneas too. And THM learnt to say Sawwwy (Sorry), Fla-wee (flower), Taw-wee (towel) and Kyawee (she likes to call herself kyari, short for Kyara). Weeee! It wasn't such a lousy week after all.

The award needs me to list seven things people don't know about me. In random order, here they are:

1. Coffee makes me bounce off walls. If you are one of those silent types, who likes to talk in monosyllables, don't let me near you when I have had a cup. Seriously.
2. I never say no to a good shoe. Even though I go on and on about Louboutins and Blahniks.
3. I (sometimes) skip brushing my teeth at night. (Sorry, mom!)
4. I like Valentine's Day, even though I pffft at it every, single year. (Hint, hint AM).
5. I love surprises. If they come packaged in little turquoise boxes, even better. (Art of giving hints 101)
6. I think I want to skydive, someday.
7. I can eat seven (big) cups of chocolate mousse -- in one sitting.

I am passing on the award to seven of my favorite bloggers ...

Manasi of kisss-the-cook
Ann of splitpearsonality
Priya of priyaeasyntastyrecipes
SE of denufood
Vinaya of foodtravelbooksandmore
Kate/Kajal of aapplemint
Sonia of 7spice

Here are the rules for the award peeps!

1. Thank the person giving the award.
2. Copy the award to your blog.
3. Place a link to their blog.
4. Name 7 things people don't know about you.
5. Nominate 7 bloggers
6. Place a link to those bloggers
7. Leave a comment letting those bloggers know about the award.

♣ A tartlet a Day ...

We tasted these over New Year's at our friend's May and Carl. Apparently these sweet nothings are quite a favorite among Chinese, and feature regularly on Dim-sum restaurant menus. May learnt this wonderfully, simple recipe from her Taiwanese friend, and usually reserves it for special or festive days. On the day she made these, and by the time we reached for dinner, Carl had polished off 20, and their son Wesley about seven. Yep, they are that good! These are going to a merrier world for SHF # 61 as my comforting dessert.

May's Egg Tarts

For the crust you need:
14 tbsp unsalted butter (at room temperature)
1/2 C sugar
1 large egg (at room temperature)
3 C All purpose flour
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp baking powder
4 tbsp milk

For the custard you need:
14 fl oz milk
1 C sugar
6 eggs(at room temperature)
1 tsp vanilla extract (optional)

Recipe:

Pre-heat the oven to 375F. (You have an oven thermometer, don't you? Shouldn't be baking without it. Trust me).

Start creaming the softened butter in a mixer. After a minute or so add the sugar. Beat until the sugar is fully incorporated. Then, add the egg and keep beating. Once incorporated, add the flour and keep beating. When the flour is lumpy, pour in the milk. After a little beating, the dough should come together. Wrap it in parchment paper and set aside for about 20 minutes.

For making the custard, combine all the ingredients and mix well with a whisk. I would whisk the eggs first, just so there are no lumps. I think using a vanilla bean instead of extract might give an interesting texture.

After the dough is rested, make small balls and roll them to cover the tartlet pan/shell you have. Carefully drape the dough so it hugs the inside of the pan/shell. Break off any excess.

Use a aluminum baking sheet to arrange the shells and then pour in the custard filling leaving some room at the top for the custard to expand. 1/8 to 1/4 inch from the top is about right. Remember, air bubbles are bad for custard integrity. Pour slowly and in a steady stream to avoid trapping air. You may tap the shells to release any air, but do it at your own risk. I say, a collapsed custard tastes the same as a perfect one!

Bake 25-30 minutes in the oven at 375F. Keep an eye on them from the 20 minute mark. If the custard is puffing up too much, open the oven door a little to stop the cooking. When you see small pin holes on the custard top and the crust looks done it is time to take them out. Sorry, you will have to wait for them to cool down completely before they are ready to come out of the pan/shell.

This recipe will make about 48 two inch tartlets. Trust me, you will need that many if you like eating good stuff! I would recommend using shallow shells/pan, but they can be hard to find.

Halwa, Oh Halwa! ... ICC January challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 01:37:00 +0000

As much as I like my quick-and-simple-eat-while-you-rush-rush-meals, I have a thing for traditional recipes that require slaving and a good dose of TLC. For one, they almost always reward you with unforgettable tastes and memories of home. And secondly, I really, really wish I can cook like my grandmother. Someday, at least.

So, when I sighted upon Srivalli's wonderful Indian Cooking Challenge, I jumped for joy (a couple of times. And then some) and signed up. As I clicked impatiently, my mind racing with images of perfect rava ladoos and chaklis, and me finally learning to make them, I was snapped out of my reverie with three small words. Moong dal Halwa. Oh, sweet lord! I read it a couple of times to make sure I had read it right. Alas, it was true! My halwa nemesis sat there blinking at me in print. To devour me whole in its silky smoothness. And this time around, I didn't have my mother to save me. Well ... that's kind of debatable.

To give you a low-down, a flashback is in order:

Late on a Saturday evening, my mother came home after her evening walk, to find me desperately stirring a wok full of gooey-yellow-stuff. No, it's not what you think.

Mum: Aiya! (my Maharashtrian mother uses this word to show a range of emotions) "Karte," who told you to do this? (Karte/kartya, depending on the gender, loosely means brat; But like Aiya! is actually used to replace words that mothers choose not to say.

Whisks the spoon, and turns down the flame. All this while, she also manages to glare at me. You know, that same interchangeable look mothers give when you touch a precious Tchachki at the neighbors house, or say something completely inappropriate.

Me (sheepishly): Moong dal halwa.

Mum (melodramatically thumps her forehead with the palm of her hand): Hey Bhagwan!! (Or, Oh Lord! Only when it's accompanied with the palm-hitting-the-forehead, you know you are in trouble. Deep trouble.)

And, so that's how it ended. My grievous and brief encounter with moong dal halwa. Ever since, I have all but run whenever it's even mentioned 10-feet in the vicinity of my hearing. And, it really didn't have anything to do with the trouble I got into with my mother. (Well, maybe just a little). If she hadn't come when she had, and whisked that spoon away from me, I am scared to think what I would have done.

Then, it occurred to me. I was no longer 19. And this wasn't my mother's kitchen. So, even if there was a repeat performance, it would be alright, really. At, the very least, it would make a hilarious post.

Gulp. Gulp. We'll know who will have the last laugh, won't we?

♣ Muhahaha!

(Gets melodramatic, and clicks fingers on countertop). Yep. When you have the right recipe, you can pretty much laugh like Mogambo every time you make it.

After reading both the recipes given by Srivalli, I decided I wanted to try the first recipe, as I had a bookmarked recipe for making khoya at home. And surprise, surprise! I not only got over my horror of moong dal halwa, but I successfully managed to make khoya at home. Yayy!

I think the only thing I will do differently next time is to use 3/4th C of sugar instead of a cup, and employ a heavy-bottomed-non-stick pan -- as the dal paste sticks to the pan, pretty much as soon as it hits the ghee.

Thanks Simran and Lataji for the wonderful recipes! My entry is going straight to Srivalli. (Hmm ... maybe a few taste-stops later)

Moon Dal Halwa

You need:

1 C (split-yellow) moong dal
3/4 C sugar
1/2 cup clarified butter or ghee
1/2 cup khoya
Cashews and raisins for garnishing

Recipe:

In a pan, over low-medium heat, lightly toast the moong dal. Wash the dal, and soak overnight. The following morning, blend it to a smooth paste, "adding very little water."

Heat a heavy-bottomed (non-stick) pan, and add in the clarified butter. As soon as the ghee melts, carefully add the moong dal paste, stirring quickly to prevent it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Stir until the dal is soft, lump-less, changes color to a pale tan, and you can see the sheen of clarified butter.

Mix in the sugar and khoya until well combined with the dal. Remove from heat, mix in a handful of raisins and some chopped cashews, and serve warm.

Note: Srivalli says, as long as you "keep the ratio of -- equal amounts of dal and sugar, half the ghee and khoya, constant" -- you can increase/decrease the halwa quantity, as you like.

'Tis the season to bake ...

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 01:37:00 +0000

I had all intentions of baking a cake for Divya's, Show Me Your Cake. But, between making moong dal halwa for Srivalli's Indian Cooking Challenge, and working on my graduate papers -- all my plans of baking-from-scratch have gone awry. Thankfully, there's the option to re-post. And fortunately, I am pretty much shameless about stuff like that.

So, without further rambling, here are my two entries:

Nigel Slater's Chocolate Beetroot Cake (read complete post here).

I have re-written, and re-arranged some of the steps, as originally given, because my husband found some of the instructions confusing. (Rolling eyes.) Oh bother! Original recipe here.

You need:

250g beetroot (I took about 2 medium-sized ones)
200g fine, dark chocolate (70 percent cocoa solids)
4 tbsp hot espresso
200g butter (happened to chance upon Grade AA butter, would have never thought butter has grades!)
135g plain flour
A heaped tsp baking powder
3 tbsp good-quality cocoa powder
5 eggs
190g golden caster sugar (I used Turbinado raw sugar)
creme fraiche and poppy seeds, to serve

Recipe:

"Lightly butter a 20cm (8-inch) loose-bottomed (spring-form) cake tin, and line the base with a disc of baking parchment. Set the oven to 180C/gas mark 4 (350F).

"Cook the beetroot, whole and un-peeled, in boiling unsalted water." (I had no patience to wait around for half-an-hour, so I pressure-cooked them for three whistles, instead). "Depending on their size, they will be knifepoint tender within 30-40 minutes. Young ones may take slightly less. Drain them, let them cool under running water, then peel them, slice out their stem and root, and blitz to a rough puree."

Now he gets a bit muddle-some. Or so says AM. So, let's re-arrange and re-word.

"Sift together the flour, baking powder, and cocoa. Separate the eggs; put the whites in a mixing bowl. Stir the yolks together."

"Cut the butter into small pieces -- the smaller the better," and set aside.

Nigel, asks to whisk the egg-whites later, but I found that hard in between other multi-tasking. So, "whisk the egg-whites until stiff, then fold in the sugar," and set aside.

"Snap the chocolate into pieces," and melt it, "in a small bowl, resting over a pot of simmering water. Don't stir. When the chocolate looks almost melted, pour the hot espresso over it, and stir once."

"Add the butter pieces to melted chocolate," pressing it down, "under the surface of the chocolate with a spoon, and leave to soften."

Once the butter has softened, "quickly but gently, remove the chocolate bowl from the heat, stirring until the butter has melted into the chocolate. Leave for a few minutes, then stir in the egg-yolks; mix firmly so the eggs blend into the mixture."

"Fold in the beetroot. Firmly, but tenderly, fold the whisked," egg-whites-sugar, "into the chocolate mixture. A large metal spoon is what you want; work in deep, figure-of-eight movements, but take care not to over-mix."

"Fold in the flour and cocoa."

"Transfer to the prepared cake tin," place in the oven, "and turn the "heat down immediately to 160C/gas mark 3/320F. Bake for 40 minutes." (It took me exactly that much time to bake), but ovens tend to vary. So, set the timer for 35 minutes, and check on the cake thereon.

Once done, "the rim of the cake will feel spongy, the inner part should still wobble a little, when gently shaken."

"Leave to cool (it will sink a tad in the centre), loosening it around with a palette knife after half-an-hour, or so. It is not a good idea to remove the cake from its tin, until it's completely cold." I kept it to cool overnight.

"Serve in thick slices, with creme fraiche and poppy seeds."

To reach nirvana, creme fraiche is a MUST on this cake. Talk later. Eat now.

Paula Deen's Red Velvet Cupcakes. (Original recipe here. For my post, click here)

Wohooo ... 2010! Brrrr

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 05:39:00 +0000

I am so frozen stiff, I swear I resemble one of them stalagmites. I had promised myself (here we go with the resolutions, already) to keep posting every second day (!) after Nupur's wonderful Marathon. And, here we are nine days into 2010, woe is me and all. But, really! I am unable to get beyond how cold it is. Highs of -15 F. Lows of -30 F. Kulfi anyone? It's on the slab of ice that was once my deck, getting frozen, right as we speak.

Just yesterday, when three-morsel-eater wanted more of her snackies, I found myself wishing for a Bot. Ahhh ... He/She would cook, clean, feed hungry little ones, and me. Change channels from HGTV to Travel in a jiffy. Change my socks, bathe me too. Er ... maybe that's going too far, even for a house-bot.

But, you get my point.

In this okole-freezing weather that's what every house needs, to pick up the slack, while you are buried under layers of sweaters, duvets, thermals and other woolies. Some passageway for the eyes to see television. Of course, somewhere to breathe from, and also a long, long, straw dipped into the never-ending-fountain-of-hot-chocolate-and-youth. And, then when it's time to eat, you are evacuated by said Bot into this warm, cozy bubble of a thing; the food here will take you back eons of years ago. Every morsel reminiscent of grandma's cooking ... ahhh.

But, what would happen to a body accustomed to only eating, drinking and watching tv? Still, in the bubble, people! Still in the bubble.

You know, we should be like those bears and chipmunks that hibernate during winter. That's so smart! No foraging for food = no cooking either. Not that they cook anyway, everything is salmon sashimi or peanuts. Frankly, I am seriously considering both.

Me: What's that, honey? I have a flu-flaw. What flu-flaw is the man talking about? That's exactly why you don't act like James Bond and shovel snow without a monkey-cap! Flu-flaw, indeed!

An epiphany ... and two minutes later ...

... Me: Oh! A food blog. Right. My food blog.

So, here I am blogging. Beyond stiff. But, cooking and blogging.

Happy 2010, everyone! Summer is not that beyond. Four months of frozen buttocks isn't that long, anyway. (FOUR MONTHS!)

♣ Slurrrp ... And Eat

Nothing can warm the cockles of the soul like a bowl of noodle soup, on a cold winter's night. And if its simple, and quicker to make, than wearing socks, I say eat first. Wear socks later. This recipe comes from one of my go-to Chinese cookbooks, "Authentic Recipes from China," by Kenneth Law, Lee Cheng Meng and Max Zhang, that I keep right next to my Ruchira, and Gordon Ramsay. I have adapted the following recipe for Hot and Spicy Sichuan Noodles, to suit the ingredients in my pantry and refrigerator. It's so versatile that you can easily do a switch-a-roo and no one would be the wiser. According to the authors, this noodle-dish is a favorite street-food in China, sold by hawkers on the go, or "mobile vendors."

Hot and Spicy Sichuan Noddles or Dan Dan Mian
Adapted from Authentic Recipes from China by Kenneth Law, Lee Cheng Meng and Max Zhang

You need:

1/2 tbsp Sichuan peppercorns or Sansho pepper (I substituted with chilli flakes)
1 1/2 tbsp peanut oil
1 tsp oil
8 oz (250 g) ground pork (I substituted chicken for pork and used this delicious authentic egg- roll stuffing from Steamy Kitchen; the stuffing tastes good even without any meat)
2 C (500 ml) chicken stock
1/2 C (125 g) preserved, salted radish, diced or 1/2 C of julienned parsnips (I found the Chinese salted radish a bit too fishy because of the oil used for preservation; parsnips were a wonderful, sweet replacement)
4 tbsp soy sauce
1 1/2 tbsp black vinegar
1 tbsp minced garlic
2 tsp sesame oil (I used sesame-chili oil)
1 tsp chili oil (optional if you can find sesame-chili oil)
1/4 tsp ground white pepper
1 lb (500 g) fresh wheat flour noodles or 8 oz (250 g) dried flat wheat noodles (Egg Fettuccine also works well)
4 spring onions, thinly sliced as garnish

Recipe:

On a low-flame, heat a small pan or wok. Roast the peppercorns or sansho pepper or chilli flakes for two-three minutes. Pour in the peanut oil, and allow to "cook over low heat for 10 minutes to infuse the oil with the flavor of the peppercorns," or chilli flakes. Then, cool completely, strain and leave it be.

Heat oil in the same pan or wok, and "stir-fry the pork for two-three minutes, or until cooked." If using chicken, be careful to cook the chicken on medium heat until it is cooked through-and-through, but still moist. Or simply, follow the steps of the egg-roll stuffing as given here.

"Combine the chili-flake/peppercorn oil, chicken stock," parsnips or "preserved radish, soy sauce, black vinegar, garlic, sesame oil, chili oil and white pepper in a saucepan. Keep warm over medium heat."

In a huge stock-pot of boiling water, sprinkle in some salt, and pour in the flat noodles. "Fresh noodles will take about two-minutes, dried noodles about four." Drain and run some cold water over the noodles, spooning them into serving bowls. Ladle in the "hot broth, top with pork," or chicken or mushroom-carrot medley, and "garnish with spring onion." Slurrrrp. And eat.

Just "Beet" it, 2010 ... DAY 7

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 00:03:00 +0000

Considering, how much I enjoy to bake, it's odd that I have never posted a from-the-scratch-sweat-in-your-pants, kind-of-recipe. What better than the last day of the year to rectify the anomaly, though. Ah the beauty of Dec 31st!

So, I thought long and hard. After, browsing through folder after folder, going over countless bookmarked recipes, and generally littering the living room with cookbook-upon-cookbook, I finally had several halogen bulbs light up over my head. Much like a halo, I might add. A chocolate-beet-root cake! What could be better than to pump some betaine to get the good, ol' liver in shape? Besides, I rationalized, this is the time to start things on the right foot. Knowing me, I will be on the other foot, faster than New Year revelers, down Tequila shots (and yell TEQUILLLA ... burrrp ... hick-kee-ick), anyway.

Thusly, (Thanks Alton, only you can make archaic words sound cool), began the frantic search for a beet-root recipe. My criteria was simple: I wanted it to be chocolate-beet-root-so-good-you-forget-to-swoon-yummy; I'd heard realms about beetroot cakes being gooey, moist and orgasmic-good-in the mouth. A must; And, lastly, it had to be simple.

The procastinating czarina that I am, obviously, there was neither recipe, nor file on hand. After, much googling, and ogling I found Nigel Slater, who I had only passingly heard of, before. Why I didn't bother to research someone who writes like this -- "I have always felt that a recipe should be something to inspire, remind and lightly influence rather than a set of instructions to be followed, pedantically, to the letter. Here, I offer a few ideas for the season, the sort of simple everyday stuff I eat at home," -- I will never know! The British have such, a pro-pahhly, charming way with words. And oh, my! The photographs on his website have me in a tizzy! So, sensuous, earthy and b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l!

"There is something quietly civilizing about sharing a meal with other people. The simple act of making someone something to eat, even a bowl of soup or a loaf of bread, has a many-layered meaning. It suggests an act of protection and caring, of generosity and intimacy. It is in itself a sign of respect."

Swooooon!

This is how the man describes spring and its flavors, "Clean, bright flavours - rhubarb, lemons, light, young goat's cheeses - are what appeal to me at this time of year. There is something uplifting about those first few meals out of doors, the first wild salmon at the market, the froth of white blossom against a clear blue sky. My cooking becomes lighter, fresher, sharper as soon as the sun starts shining."

Have dropped unconscious on the floor.

How, how, how? How does someone write so, so, so ... have no words.

So light. So fresh. So clean.

Ok. I realize you are probably waiting for me to snap out of it. Before, the husband comes with his smelly socks to do the needful, I think I ought to do so myself.

Sigh! So, long Nigel Slater. Even his name sounds sexy.

Needless, to say I jumped (no pun intended. Really. Giving wicked grin) on his chocolate-beetroot recipe, much like Scrat on nut. I know Scrat comes up a lot on Eats, but I just love that pre-historic squirrel. Maybe, it's that look in his eyes that I identify so much with. My sister thinks I look exactly like that when I go shopping (Need I say it? For shoes obviously, just in case you are new around here).

♣ Gone in 60 seconds!

I am too tongue-tied and lost for words, so I am going to let Nigel do the talking:

"The beetroot is subtle here, some might say elusive, but it is a lot cheaper than ground almonds and blends perfectly with chocolate. This is a seductive cake, deeply moist and tempting." (Between mouthfuls), Tefaw mwah abwa it, (tell me about it)!

“... It is true that I am rarely happier than when making chocolate cake."(Me toooo, Nigel, honey!) "I especially like baking those that manage to be cake-like on the outside and almost molten within. Keeping a cake’s heart on the verge of oozing is down partly to timing and partly to the ingredients – ground almonds and very good-quality chocolate will help enormously. But there are other ways to moisten a cake, such as introducing grated carrots or, in this case, crushed beetroot ...

"... The serving suggestion of crème fraîche is not just a nod to the soured cream so close to beetroot’s Eastern European heart, it is an important part of the cake."

mmmmm ... hmm ... hmmm!!!! That's all I gotta say.

Nigel's moist chocolate-beetroot cake

I am re-writing, and re-arranging some of the steps, as originally given, simply because AM found some of the instructions, confusing. (Rolling eyes.) Oh bother! Original recipe here.

You need:

250g beetroot (I took about 2 medium-sized ones)
200g fine, dark chocolate (70 percent cocoa solids)
4 tbsp hot espresso
200g butter (happened to chance upon Grade AA butter, would have never thought butter has grades!)
135g plain flour
A heaped tsp baking powder
3 tbsp good-quality cocoa powder
5 eggs
190g golden caster sugar (I used Turbinado raw sugar)
creme fraiche and poppy seeds, to serve

Recipe:

"Lightly butter a 20cm (8-inch) loose-bottomed (spring-form) cake tin, and line the base with a disc of baking parchment. Set the oven to 180C/gas mark 4 (350F).

"Cook the beetroot, whole and un-peeled, in boiling unsalted water." (I had no patience to wait around for half-an-hour, so I pressure-cooked them for three whistles, instead). "Depending on their size, they will be knifepoint tender within 30-40 minutes. Young ones may take slightly less. Drain them, let them cool under running water, then peel them, slice out their stem and root, and blitz to a rough puree."

Now he gets a bit muddle-some. Or so says AM. So, let's re-arrange and re-word.

"Sift together the flour, baking powder, and cocoa. Separate the eggs; put the whites in a mixing bowl. Stir the yolks together."

"Cut the butter into small pieces -- the smaller the better," and set aside.

Nigel, asks to whisk the egg-whites later, but I found that hard in between other multi-tasking. So, "whisk the egg-whites until stiff, then fold in the sugar," and set aside.

"Snap the chocolate into pieces," and melt it, "in a small bowl, resting over a pot of simmering water. Don't stir. When the chocolate looks almost melted, pour the hot espresso over it, and stir once."

"Add the butter pieces to melted chocolate," pressing it down, "under the surface of the chocolate with a spoon, and leave to soften."

Once the butter has softened, "quickly but gently, remove the chocolate bowl from the heat, stirring until the butter has melted into the chocolate. Leave for a few minutes, then stir in the egg-yolks; mix firmly so the eggs blend into the mixture."

"Fold in the beetroot. Firmly, but tenderly, fold the whisked," egg-whites-sugar, "into the chocolate mixture. A large metal spoon is what you want; work in deep, figure-of-eight movements, but take care not to over-mix."

"Fold in the flour and cocoa."

"Transfer to the prepared cake tin," place in the oven, "and turn the "heat down immediately to 160C/gas mark 3/320F. Bake for 40 minutes." (It took me exactly that much time to bake), but ovens tend to vary. So, set the timer for 35 minutes, and check on the cake thereon.

Once done, "the rim of the cake will feel spongy, the inner part should still wobble a little, when gently shaken."

"Leave to cool (it will sink a tad in the centre), loosening it around with a palette knife after half-an-hour, or so. It is not a good idea to remove the cake from its tin, until it's completely cold." I kept it to cool overnight.

"Serve in thick slices, with creme fraiche and poppy seeds."

To reach nirvana, creme fraiche is a MUST on this cake. Talk later. Eat now.

Hapwwy Nwee Wuer (Happy New Year)!!! This is going as my final entry to Nupur's marathon at One Hot Stove.

Mr. Prawn's salmon-pink mustachios ... DAY 6

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 23:13:00 +0000

Now that it's the dead of winter, I can't help but reminisce of the summers spent in India. They brought with them long visits to my maternal grandparents home, evenings spent with my aunt's, eating roasted peanuts from our favorite Bhaiya down-the-street; cricket with my uncles in the hallway between the balcony and living room; afternoons spent with my grandfather and his tales of King Cobras and tigers in the jungles of Matheran; and bushels of silvery Pomfret, fresh crab, delicate creek fish and my absolute favorite – the mustachioed, salmon-pink Mr. Prawn.

Baba Ajo, as I called my grandfather, hand-picked him from the fish market, every weekend. It was a custom at my grandparents – Ajo would wake up earlier than usual, dress up in a crisply ironed, cream-colored shirt, paired with his favorite tan-colored pants, and set off with his cloth bag, apropos the very color of fish curry.

As for me, I would wait.

By their fourth-floor window ledge overlooking the street, biding my time. As soon, as I saw my grandfather's familiar salt-and-pepper head emerge around the curve, I would run and open the main door. No sooner would he walk up the stairs, the tangerine bag would be whisked, and I would soon be chased around the house by my grandmother, Nanima, a very pale prawn hung on, meanwhile, by his whiskers in my hand.

We followed this tradition absolutely unfailingly. Every single summer holiday.

Finally, my grandmother would pretend to give up and I would be tricked into handing him over. Usually, Ajo got the delicately flavored Pomfret, pre-cut by the fish-monger into medium steaks. At other times there would be the meaty king fish, some cartilaginous Bombay-duck and the hearty Bangda, or Mackerel for company. Nanima, would then systematically divide the fish steaks for shallow frying, and steaming. The less-interesting bits, like the head and tail, would be reserved for curry or saar. She would then call her daughter's for shelling Mr. Prawn.

That was my least favorite part. To see him being skinned off his clothes, armor and whiskers.

He looked so much happier and handsom-er hanging by his thin, long bristles.

Amidst, gossiping women sitting on the kitchen floor, and chuckles of laughter, he would be disrobed, his tracts cleaned of lurking dark veins, then massaged in grainy salt, summery and fiery spices, a touch of green cilantro paste, coated with fine rice flour, and fried crisp to a beautiful titian with the rest of the sea-fish.

Soon after, we would all sit down to a very elaborate Sunday meal. I would always sit between Baba Ajo and my father, the others crammed around the corners of the modular table. My grandfather would cut the fried fish into little pieces, the bombay duck especially, with its tiny bones; while Dad would scoop them in between morsels of chappatis and feed me. Those lunches, were seriously sublime, and over before one could say holy mackerel! Then, I would curl-up on the skinny couch, or one of the armchairs in the living room. And, day-dream of my next sojourn with the salmon-pink mustachioed Mr. Prawn.

♣ A little bit of this, a tad of that!

After getting married, I realized my in-laws preparation of sea-food was slightly different from how we made it at home. Here, the flavors were heavily influenced by Malwani food, and made use of coriander seeds, and coconut milk, which we did not. So, when I started preparing curries and fried fish at home in the US, it took me awhile to tweak and figure out the best of both worlds.

The following recipe for prawn curry is just that.

I am sending it over, on Day 6, to Nupur's wonderful marathon at One Hot Stove. I am already feeling sad, that it will be over soon. On the other hand, I am truly grateful to her for hosting this fabulous event, where I got to meet, and interact with so many wonderful fellow foodies -- their hearts, and blog-spots ever so warm, always open, and willing with their insightful posts, out-of-the-box recipes, and delicious home-cooked meals.

Cheers, everyone! To old friends and new, here's wishing we keep bumping into each other oftener than often; sharing a quick recipe, or two, between wassup! and how-do-you-do's. May the coming year bring to you and yours, happiness, and all that you desire.

Prawn curry

You need:

1 cup of prawns
1 large tomato, finely chopped
4-5 kokum
1/2 tsp turmeric
4-6 tsp chili powder
2 garlic flakes, bruised and lightly smashed
1 tsp salt
3 tbsp oil
Coconut milk (from one coconut / one can of Thai coconut milk)

For masala:

2-4 tbsp coconut, grated
5-6 garlic flakes
1 tsp coriander seeds
4-5 peppercorn
2-3 coriander sprigs
1/4 onion, roughly chopped
1 tsp chili powder

Recipe:

Shell and de-vein the crustaceans, liberally sprinkle a few tablespoons of salt over the prawns, gently toss around to coat well, and set aside in the refrigerator for 10-15 minutes.

Meanwhile, blitz together all the ingredients in the masala list, to a fine paste.

Under a thin, steady stream of water, gently wash the prawns. Sprinkle with turmeric, and a teaspoon of chili powder.

Heat two tablespoons of oil in a heavy-bottomed pot, once it's nice-and-hot, add in the prawns, and saute just until cooked. Remove, and set aside. Add the remaining oil, and quickly add bruised cloves of garlic, one-two kokum, and stir until garlic turns a pale golden.

Stir in the finely chopped tomato, and stir well until it becomes soft. To this, add the ground paste, remaining chili powder, and saute until it releases oil, and comes together in a ball. Add prawns, and a tiny bit of water, to loosen any stuck bits and spices. Mix in the coconut milk, and enough water to get a curry of pouring consistency. Simmer to a gentle boil, stirring continually. Season with salt, and plunk in four-five kokum. Simmer for about five-seven minutes, taste for salt, and remove from heat. Serve over hot, steamed rice, with a side of fried fish, or prawns, and some raw onion.

All things fried and beautiful ... Day 5

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 01:08:00 +0000

Growing up, I have several, wonderful, memories of shopping with my paternal grandmother Aayi, at the crowded, and bustling vegetable market in Pune's, Deccan Gymkhana. First, a stop for white butter, which she later made into ghee; near, the butter-store, a narrow gully sold everything from roses, and fresh fenugreek to books, and trinkets; Sweet-smelling-tube-roses, a few rubicund roses, red Gladioli for my mother, Amar-chitra katha, fat tomatoes, and dewy cucumbers in basket later, we then set out to the fruit and vegetable market, across the gully.

Aayi would grab my hand, and walk quickly down a slim stairway, into a dingy, tiled-subway. Littered with newspaper, cellophane bags and hawkers selling cheap toys, balloons and flowers, where I always lingered on. Sometimes to watch the new-fangled, toy-boats whirling around hypnotically in a small tub of water. But, mostly at the woman who sold mogra and aboli gajras; Aayi as always complied to my demands of "just one." From there, it was on to the fruit and vegetable market, the way lit by bare and yellow bulbs, in the evenings. Seasonal fruit stacked high, greens interspersed with onion and potato carts; a special vendor who sold only curry leaves, chillies, ginger, and garlic. And a fruit-seller, who stocked the sweetest of grapes, around April.

Whenever I tagged along, my grandmother always bought plenty of two things -- okra and potatoes. My vegetables, of least resistance. But, what I remember most, is when she and I picked up purply-green colocassia or taro bunches, during the monsoons. These, were then transformed into either a peanut-dotted stew, which always made my nose crinkle all the way up to my forehead. Or each leaf would be slathered with a layer of bright, orange chick-pea paste, stacked one on top of the other, tightly-rolled, sliced into medallions, and steamed and shallow-fried, until they emerged beautiful and crispy-golden-brown. One bite, was all that was needed to get over yucky stews, or poor math scores.

Taro is more or less, widely available in Pune, throughout the year; but there would be times, when it was scarce. This was when my grandmother resorted to making cilantro (kothimbir) fritters or wadis. For this recipe, the cilantro was finely chopped, and mixed around with a generous helping of spices, chick-pea flour, some ginger-garlic-chili paste, chopped onion, and water for good measure, to form a thick batter. Served steamed, as a side to piping varan-bhaat topped with home-made ghee. Or fried to go with tea, Mawa cake, and Marie biscuits. I considered it as having hit the Bellagio jackpot, every which way.

A couple of days ago, while speaking to my mother, I happened to reminisce of our Deccan sojourns. As soon as I hung up, I suddenly had the most intense craving for my grandmother's wadis. Taro fritters were obviously out of question, but I was hopeful of discovering a hidden bunch of cilantro. Unfortunately, there was barely enough for garnishing a dal. As I peeked in, moving tomatoes, ginger, a head of cauliflower out of the way, I sighted upon the bunch of kale I'd bought for some chips. Hmmm ... sputter, sputter, said the brain.

... leafy, leafy. Green and leafy. Potential to shred or chop fine. Nah, I couldn't. Or could I? ... why not? why not? why not? shhhhhhhhh ... shooosh!! voice in head. Always so needy! Ok. Let's see. Far-fetched? No, not really. Besides, not like we are married to it. Done! Voice in head does the moon-walk.

Other than the minuscule amount of cilantro, there wasn't much by way of aromatics in the refrigerator drawer, either. But, I was determined to see this experiment, through:

Kale -- washed and dried. Individual leaves -- stripped of center veins. Stack and roll. stack and roll, a few leaves, at a time. Chop. Chop, (very fine). Sprinkle some salt. A quick rubba-dub-dub, turmeric, chili powder, a sprinkle of Bishop weed or ajwain, a few handfuls of besan (chickpea flour). Water (s-l-o-w-l-y) brings everything together. Pluck, pluck, pluck -- mini-sized-nuggety-balls. On to wax-paper spread over steamer, placed on a pot of boiling water for 10-15 minutes. Or, lets just say until nuggets, no longer sticky. Into hot oil, until golden-y crisp. Wire-rack. Two minute resting period. Bad, bad burn, not worth during marathon week. Taste. Burst of flavors! Smoky taste of ajwain outshines everything else! Makes kale-wadi's seem like fried Amritsari wadi's. Love it. Love it.

Not my Aayi's. But, a wadi to make new memories with. Certainly.

♣ "Bubbly Squeaky"

What squeaks while eating, is bubbly squeaky. Or Kale, dah-lings. So, says three-morsel-eaters, favorite little pig, Toot.

From the illustrious Brassica family, Kale shares its lineage with popular vegetables like broccoli, cabbage, collards, cauliflower and the (not so popular) brussel sprouts. "A descendent of the wild cabbage, thought to have originated in Asia Minor and brought to Europe around 600 B.C. by groups of Celtic wanderers; Curly kale played an important role in early European food-ways," as well. It was considered as "a significant crop during ancient Roman times and eaten by peasants in the Middle Ages. English settlers, are said to have brought kale to the United States in the 17th century."

Kale Wadi's

You need:

1 bunch of kale, leaves washed and very thoroughly dried
1 tsp chili powder
1/4 tsp turmeric
Generous sprinkle of Bishops weed or ajwain
Salt to taste
Besan (enough to bring everything together)
Oil for frying/shallow-frying

Recipe:

Place leaves on top of each other, roll tightly and chop fine. Season with salt and mix around well. Spoon in the turmeric and chili powder, and sprinkle ajwain. Mix well with your hands, and introduce besan, mixing well every time. Now slowly add water, just enough that you can make nuggets out of the mixture.

Place wax paper over a steamer and carefully place the nuggets. Over a boiling pot of water, steam for about 10-15 minutes or until they are no longer sticky. While the nuggets steam, heat oil (if deep-frying). Let the nuggets cool briefly for five minutes.

Then, deep-fry until crisp and golden-brown. Pop in two (or four at a time) with sauce of your choice.

The kale wadis will be seen doing the Rumba at Nupur's marathon. Bring on your dancing shoes, everyone!

On the TexMex trail ... Day 4

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 23:38:00 +0000

In a previous birth I had to be Latino. Or most certainly a Spanish conqueror, who fell in love with avocados, chocolates, and a beautiful chica who made the most, exquisite corn tortillas. Then, I died and was re-born a Chinese farmer. That explains quite a bit about AM's dexterity with egg rolls.

And, that my friend, is probably why I love my fusion food so. Right next to the paneer chilly, and American Chopsuey, is everything TexMex. Much maligned among authentic Texas-Mexican restaurateurs of yore, presumably because it wasn't bona fide enough. "Yet this insult launched many a successful story. For the rest of the world, TexMex reflected the wilder, untamed parts of Texas ... evoking images of cantinas, cowboys and the Wild West." I for one, have always been with everyone else on this. Besides, I am all for the concept of food without borders. And, TexMex to me is just that, a happy cauldron of ingredients. Perhaps, it has something to do with seeing the neighborhood bhaiya, dish out Szechwan dosas with elan. And, loving every bite of Tandoori chicken pizza. Sure, a Manolo is a Manolo, is a Manolo. But, imagine if it came together with the Jimmy Choo in one perfect shoe! Now, that's the kind of world I want for my grand-babies. On second thoughts, if said dream ever materializes ... grand-babies-shan-babies ... I call shotgun!

Needless to say, I am not much of a food purist. Yes, I will not tinker with perfected recipes-passed-down-by-word-of-mouth -- contradiction, thy name is woman -- those are as scared as my Loboutins. But, I have no qualms about sheetal-izing everything else that walks. What does that entail? AM (snidely) suggests, it's probably sprinkling an entire cargo of chili powder and a freight of salt. What-evaa, dah-ling. I will admit, I am quite partial to my spice and (sometimes) a bit too free-handed (note: free NEVER heavy) with salt. But, it's all in the interest of food. Honestly. That said, my idea of leaving my stamp, is all about mixing and matching. Eclect-izing, if you will. Pairing the rustic with the modern, pop-in-the-mouth with something-barely-there, to create food extraordinaire.

In many ways, that's probably why TexMex speaks to me, as much as it does. With its yellow cheese, and flour tortillas; its flavor-laden chimichangas, nachos and tacos; a mixed bag of flavors, begged, borrowed, maybe even stolen -- that's probably how the chica got under my skin, anyway.

♣ iHola!

The following recipe for chicken fajitas, is loosely adapted from Wholesome Meals for Babies and Toddlers. Over my extensive search for the three-morsel-eater, I came upon this wonderful wrap. She obviously didn't take to it, but AM and I did. With the same gusto as three-year olds (for whom it is is intended). So, much so that it has become our go-to dinner when we are craving something TexMex, but don't want to eat out. It's delicious, healthy, and did I mention delicious? The real star though is, Bobby Flay's Guacamole, which I have tweaked just a tiny bit. Spread it on the inside of the tortilla wrap or serve alongside as a dip for tortilla chips. It will not disappoint. The fajitas and guacamole are making an appearance on Day 4 at Nupur's seven-day-seven-recipe marathon.

Chicken Fajitas with Guacamole

You need:

1 tsp cumin powder
1 1/4 tsp chili powder (my addition)
1 tbsp olive oil
1 garlic clove, minced fine
Juice of 1 lime
6-8 chicken strips
4 soft flour tortillas
1 red bell pepper, seeded and sliced
1/2 of a large red onion (I substituted this for the suggested green scallions)
Salt and pepper to taste
1-2 tbsp + 1 or so tsp of vegetable oil

Guacamole

1 large, ripe avocado, halved and pitted, roughly mashed
1 green chili / Jalapeno, roughly chopped
1/4 red onion, roughly chopped
3/4 tsp salt (my estimate)
1/2 tsp black pepper (me)
Juice from 3/4th of a lime
Handful of chopped cilantro

Blitz avocado, onion and green chili to a chunky paste. Season with lime juice, salt and pepper, mix well and stir in the cilantro.

Recipe:

Mix cumin, olive oil, garlic, and lime juice in a non-metallic bowl. Season chicken with salt and pepper to taste, then add to the bowl, and coat well to marinade. Cover with plastic wrap, and let marinade in the refrigerator for an hour at least.

Heat a pan on medium heat, adding in the vegetable oil. Place chicken strips, and cook for two-four minutes on each side, until the juices are sealed in. Test to see if chicken is cooked through and through. Remove on to a wire-rack.

Then in the same pan, stir in the onion, season with salt and pepper, and saute until slightly golden, and set aside. Add in the bell pepper, season with salt and pepper, and saute for barely two minutes -- the crunchier the better.

Slice the cooked chicken lengthwise.

Heat a griddle, and warm the tortillas on both sides. Liberally smear guacamole on tortillas, place onions, bell pepper, and sliced chicken. Roll into a wrap, and eat it already!

A Toast ... DAY 3

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 23:20:00 +0000

While watching an episode of Man Vs. Wild, I couldn't help think what British adventurer, Bear Grylls would do, if he had to feed my toddler. Not that I think any less of his running-through-forest-fires-and-free-grappling-waterfall-ways. But, seriously, cooking for toddlers is right up there with the rest. Especially, if said toddler will have only three morsels, and then insist on feeding you. Thankfully, that is a thing of the past for us, and our three-morsel-eater, now eats more or less everything. Except for almost every vegetable there is. Excluding French Fries, obviously. So, what does that leave us with? All dairy, chicken (fried), rice, lentils, all fruits (other than bananas), flat-breads, and breads (off-late).

The path up has been nothing, but treacherous. Complete with landing on our heads and behinds. There were times when AM and I didn't know whether we should try new recipes. Or, simply give up, and pluck what was remaining of our hair. We tried everything -- mashed potatoes, un-mashed ones, juice of every kind, mac-and-cheese, just cheese. But the little ankle-biter wouldn't have any of it -- she was more than happy with her bowls of oatmeal, every single meal. How she didn't tire of it for one whole year, we will never know.

Then, somewhere in mid-August, the winds finally began to change. And, I think it has a little something to do with Alton Brown's double-fried plantains or Tostones. They looked so beautiful, and golden as Alton made them, that despite all odds, I knew I must make them. At the time, I remember saying to AM, if nothing else, it will make a nice post for the blog. Besides, I certainly never like thinking twice before attempting anything deep-fried and sinful.

Except for peeling the plantain (which took me a good 5-7 minutes), the recipe for Tostones is quite simple. Peel, cut, fry until slightly golden, flatten, soak in salted, warm water and deep-fry again. That's it! The final test of course, was whether three-morsel-eater would take the bait. She eyed me carefully, the wheels turning in that little head, I could tell ...
..."hmm, what's this? something new. Do I HAVE to?" "Like, really?" I imagined her thinking, as she picked the tiniest piece there was. A split-rolling-eyes-second-later. "Alright, if it will get you off my back, already." I can still see it. In slow motion, actually. Her eyes, the little hands turning the Tostone over. Then, ever so slowly IN THE MOUTH!! yaayy. Now, would she take another? Yep. Double yaaayy! And a third! You can imagine how hard it must have been for me not to break into an Egyptian dance at this point. But, now was no time to act Sphinx-y. This was the real test. Would she, or would she not take another bite? Typically, this was the point where she stubbornly refused to go on. But, change was in the air. It was a Christmas miracle in August. My little girl took another, and then another. And looked askingly for more.

This was what it felt like to free-fall down a waterfall. No two ways about it.

♣ Gimme More!

When I made this recipe a few months ago, it was without any dipping sauce. That, really was the least of my worries, back then. While, re-making it today though, I did some quick research online and found this recipe by Saveur magazine. I didn't have any Culantro, but the other ingredients -- garlic, cilantro and extra-virgin olive oil -- really complimented the twice-fried plantains, well. Also, do try to serve the Tostones with some orange juice -- the three are really dynamic together. This is my entry for Day 3 for Nupur's seven-day-seven-recipe-marathon at One Hot Stove.

Tostones

You need:
1-2 green plantains
Oil for frying
Salt to taste

Recipe:

Choose firm, green plantains for a savory version. In case, you crave for a sweeter version, wait for the plantain to ripen well beyond a few dark spots.

Cut off the ends of the fruit, and give it a deep nick to make way to peel the skin. Now, slice into one-two inch medallions. Alton shallow-fries his plantains in the first stage, but I found deep-frying for a minute or two, worked as well. Heat enough oil (as much as you would for fritters) and gently slide in the medallions. Turn them over for a minute-and-a-half, and remove on to a rack.

At this stage, Alton dropped the medallions into warm, salted water, but I skipped this step. All, it does is to salt the Tostones evenly, and lend some softness.

Gently press down on the plantain medallions to flatten them (you can do this between a couple of plates, a bottle with a rounded bottom, or between your palms, even). Deep-fry them once again, until golden and crisp. Remove on to a rack, sprinkle with salt to taste, and serve hot with garlic-cilantro dipping sauce, and orange juice.

Something Out of the Ordinary ... DAY 2

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 02:20:00 +0000

Last summer, my husband was hell-bent on inventing a new dish with watermelon and chicken. Expectedly, I was horrified at the idea, and cringed every time I thought how that might taste. I mean, sure, on paper it sounded do-able. And to be fair, far more frightening experiments have been successfully conducted in the name of food -- Pit-viper ice-cream, congealed blood soup, Kangaroo Tail soup, anyone?

When it comes to tasting the unknown, I am, what you would call a veritable chicken. Frankly, I'd rather be chicken, than be put off by food. Sure, I might miss out on wonderful, culinary experiences and such, with this attitude. But, cummon! I can just see myself keeling over with a spoonful of pit-viper. Of course, Andrew Zimmern also mentioned something about it tasting like bile. So, that was that.

That being said, I am not completely averse to experimentation (water-melon and chicken, not withstanding, obviously). For instance, a couple of weeks ago, I accidentally poured hot oil tempered with curry leaves, mustard seeds and asafoetida, into my idly batter. Dismayed, and not wanting to waste it, I decided to make pancakes. And, what do ya know? Not bad. Not bad in the least! The hot oil transformed the batter into crispy deliciousness, and the aromatics didn't seem out of place at all. I was so impressed with it, that I have bookmarked it for a later date. ... ooh, maybe I could make it on one of these days for the marathon. If I can only remember to soak the urad dal and rice, first.

You know, come to think of it, the idly pancakes aren't the only happy accident that I know of. My late, father-in-law, loved introducing the family to unique food, and is at the helm of many a cherished recipe. Amongst his many creations, two are outstanding. The first, involves serving phodnicha bhaath with sunny-side eggs. Phodnicha bhaath, the Maharashtrian version of fried rice, is typically made with left-over rice and is fantastic on a hurried morning, or on those days when there's precious little in the house. When AM told me, about his family's tradition of combining my beloved bhaath with eggs for the first time, I was as usual, skeptical. Besides, sunny-side eggs are not my thing. Unwilling to give in so easily, AM made the eggs well-done, (and knowing how I love my spice), seasoned them with lots of freshly, ground pepper. Now, of course I have happily consented to the match, and the fried-egg and rice will live happily, forever and ever in this house.

The other though, is a bigger favorite. And it just so happens, that it's something I would ordinarily scoff at -- Vangi and pohe or egg-plant with beaten rice. But, does it work, or does it work! We use the smaller variety of eggplant for this dish; if you can get your hands on the ones that come with prickly thorns on its short, stubby stem, that's even better. It lends a wonderful, smoky taste to the beaten rice, and really brings forth the sharpness of the green chillies.

Perhaps, water-melon and chicken might not be that far-fetched, after-all. (Oh, dear what doors have I opened).

♣ Vangi + Pohe = Deliciousness!

My mother-in-law tells us that my father-in-law came up with vangi-pohe, out of the blue, one Sunday morning. She didn't think anything of it, as she'd tasted an even more unusual, and delicious version -- mutton and pohe -- made by her mother for visiting company. Apparently, this version had some ginger-garlic paste to compliment the mutton, and was greatly appreciated by the guests.

Vangi-pohe is relatively simple, that way. AM's mum doesn't add potatoes, but I cannot imagine my beaten rice without them. During my trip to India, earlier this year, my sister-in-law Vaishali Vaini, gave me a fantastic tip for crisp potatoes. Seeing, how I was searching for some crispy bits, she mentioned I could always deep-fry the potatoes before mixing them in the pohe. And truly, even though it's time-consuming, it lends a wonderful crunchiness; combined with the crisp eggplant, it's really something else.

This is recipe no. 2 for the seven-day-seven-recipe challenge, over at Nupur of One Hot Stove.

Vangi Pohe

You Need:

1 1/2 C poha (beaten rice)
1-2 small eggplant (preferably the thorny variety), one minced, while the other cut-lengthwise
2 potatoes, sliced into thin quarter-rounds
3/4 large, red onion, cut lengthwise (if using Indian onions, use 2-3)
3-4 small, Thai chillies, finely sliced on the bias
A few curry leaves
1/4 tsp cumin
1/4 tsp turmeric
Salt to taste (I use scant 1 1/2 tsp)
1/4 tsp sugar
2-3 tbsp oil + oil for frying
1-2 lime(s), cut into quarters

For garnishing:

Handful of cilantro, finely chopped
Handful of fresh coconut, grated

Recipe:

Place the beaten rice in a sieve, and briefly run water to moisten it. Fluff with your hands, and set aside to drain. In about five-seven minutes, sprinkle over sugar and half the salt, and mix well.

Then, deep fry the potatoes and mix in with the resting beaten rice. Now, deep-fry the eggplant cut lengthwise and combine with rice and potatoes.

Heat a pan over medium-flame, and add 2-3 tablespoons of oil. Into it, add the minced eggplant, chillies and curry leaves. Stir until the eggplant begins to turn golden, and add in the onions. Saute, until onions are golden and start to crisp around the edges.

Turn the heat to very low, spoon in turmeric, and give it a quick stir or two. Now, add the beaten rice, fried potatoes and eggplant, and combine everything well. Squeeze juice of one lime, mix again and place a tight lid; steam for about five minutes.

Garnish with cilantro, freshly-grated coconut, and serve hot with a lime wedge each.

From the happy place ... DAY 1

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 23:10:00 +0000

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

To give you an idea. Really, I insist:

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

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

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

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

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

I think nothing could describe the holidays better!

♣ Not Without My Kidney Bean

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

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

Mummy's Rajma

You need:

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

Garam masala:

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

Recipe:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shtuffed ...

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 21:43:00 +0000

Burrrrp ... write later. Sleep now.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Adapted from Hello, Cupcake! by Karen Tack & Alan Richardson.

The Year That Was ... Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 01:30:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♣ The Simple Life

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

Kulith Pithi

You need:

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

Recipe

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

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

A small note about Vrikshavalli:

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

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

On Bombay-Goa Highway

Opposite Hotel Priya
Phone no: 91 2367 232 314

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

e-mail: vrikshavalli@hotmail.com

The Year That Was ... Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 22:36:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued ...

♣ Leena Maushi's Golden Dosas

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

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

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

You need:

3 cups rice (I used Sona Masuri)

1 cup urad dal (black gram)

1/2 cup toor dal (pigeon peas)

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

1/2 tsp fenugreek seeds

Salt to taste

Vegetable oil

Recipe:

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

When you are ready to make dosas:

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

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

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

Wok-ing the Wok

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 03:49:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

Then, began the rationalization.

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

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

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

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

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

You need:

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

Recipe:

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

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

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

Poof! Goes the Puff

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 22:37:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♣ "You Won't Believe it's Cabbage"

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

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

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

You need:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soup Summons

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 05:46:00 +0000

"To make a good soup, the pot must only simmer, or 'smile.' " -- (French Proverb)

... Even if it means dumping in chicken beaks and pigeon toes. Or leeks, potatoes, yellow squash and shellfish for that matter. Finely chopped, in lumpy squares or whole, you can add or subtract at will. That's the beauty of soup, it seldom minds a thing. I like to think of it as the non-judgmental, affable neighbor of food-ville. If the soup throws a soiree -- everyone's sure to be invited. Pig feet included.

No wonder then, it is such a hit with every civilization of the world. Whether, we are Indian, Spanish or Icelandic, there's a favorite version out there, slurped and slopped as we speak ... er ... read. The Japanese their Miso, Borscht made from beets (usually anyways) for the Russians, unrestrained and full-flavored Minestrone for the Italians, them French with their famed onion soup, fiery Goulash for the temperamental Hungarians, and us Asians with our lavish spread of noodle soups and Shorbas ...

Not surprisingly then, every one of us too, has at least one cherished soup. The one we like to have over and over again. Maybe when we are feeling low, or down with a case of the wheeze's. And then there are those weather-related days, cold, dry and as gray as it can be. All you can see is frosted glass, and sidewalks slick with ice. I am not much for winters, especially the Mid-western ones. They have this nasty habit of leaving my bones and extremities feeling like they have been chilled in the ice-trays of hell. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll take my hot Indian summers with a chilled bowl of aamras, please.

Of course, if someone were to make me a piping bowl of soup, now that would make winter worth living for. Then, I might relinquish my tropical day-dreams of mangoes, aamras and the like. At least for the time being. So, what's my favorite kind, you ask? (Even, if you haven't, too bad. I can't think of a segue). As an army brat, I absolutely loved tomato soup served in the mess. That and the one we had without fail on some train or the other. Whether it was Jammu-Tavi, Jhelum or Deccan Queen, their tomato soups always seemed beyond spectacular to me.

Growing up, my mother also frequently served different versions of tomato soup depending on what was in the chill-tray. Sometimes, she would splutter mustard and cumin seeds with some fresh curry leaves in clarified butter, throw it over pureed tomatoes and call it saar. On other days, she would combine tomatoes with beets, top it with cream and name it soup. Either ways it was delicious and oh, so filling.

AM's mother too, loves inventing and renovating soups. The ingredients are almost always simple, then she adds a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and presto! There's a steaming bowl of such goodness, it's almost ridiculous to call it plain old soup. Earlier this year, when Aai visited for the birth of her fourth grandchild, she frequently made soup for me. Vegetable and lentil soups are her specialty. Give the woman these two things, and a saucepan -- she invariably creates magic. One time, she sprouted some red lentils, flavored it with whole spices, a few errand spinach leaves. That's all there was to it. But, it was so overwhelmingly delicious, every spoon a veritable explosion of varied notes and flavors. So compelled was I, that I polished off soup meant for five. Obviously, the others didn't take too kindly to "I-am-still-eating-for-two" by way of explanation.

A couple of weeks ago, I wasn't feeling too enthused about anything. It was cold, gray and freezing outside, my refrigerator's chill tray wasn't any different. A bunch of broccoli was sulking in the far corner, a dozen Jalapeno peppers lay haplessly about, coupled with a few green pea pods, that had seen better days. I stood there, contemplating numerous ways to use the ingredients -- some seemed too fancy, others more complicated than I cared for. And then out of nowhere, I got a jolt of flavor! It was Aai's broccoli-green-peas-soup. 15 minutes later as the steamed and ground florets and peas, simmered in some creamy milk, I took in the soothing green of the vegetables, the gray world outside, and the sounds of my bubbling soup. Exactly the kind of thing that always makes me want to hum and smile.

♣ Just Souper

I like pairing soups with crusty bread, usually slathered on with garlic butter. Somehow the combination of garlic and soup always seems very appetizing to me. This soup isn't any different, this time I paired the broccoli-peas soup with some Ciabatta bread. Crusty bread and soup, there couldn't be a better match.

You need:
2 cups broccoli florets
Handful of green peas, steamed (optional)
2 cups milk
1 cup onion, finely chopped
4 garlic flakes, bruised and coarsely chopped
1 tbsp wheat flour
1 tbsp salted butter
2-3 tsp of oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Recipe:

To begin, break broccoli bunch into florets, wash and lightly steam along with green peas, if using. Set aside to cool slightly and blend to a smooth paste, with a little bit of warm water. In a heavy-bottomed pan, heat the oil and quickly toss around the garlic until fragrant and golden -- we want to remove and set this aside for later. Quickly add butter, as soon as it melts, toss in the onion, stirring until it blushes pink. Spoon in the flour and milk and give it a few quick stirs to avoid any lumpy bits. Now, pour in the broccoli-green-peas paste, and stir to combine. Finish by seasoning with salt and pepper. Garnish with sauteed garlic, ladle in bowls and serve with a side of some rustic country bread.

26/11

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 17:44:00 +0000

It wasn't an ordinary day. Just a terrible one. As we prepared to give thanks, others were in the process of saying good-bye to those they'd lost. Some others were surrounded by death. Perhaps being burnt alive. Women like me. With children, perhaps. 13-year-old's, their lives and dreams ahead of them. Men, who could have been my father. Or brother. Their lifeless forms caved under heavy limbs. Pools of blood intermingling freely. The Marathi Manoos' with the Bhaiya.

As I nursed my eight-month-old, I heard about the orphaned toddler. Found with his pants soaked in blood, they said. His mother was as old as I. In her late 20s. Moshe had miraculously escaped they said, his tear-streaked, frightened face said otherwise.

So the day went by. Amid news about "highly trained" killers in their early 20s. Assassins with no remorse. Perhaps without any parents or family either. Those were a dozen. The others govern still. From what I know, most have family of their own. Sons and daughters. Wives and husbands. Parents and siblings. Uncles, aunts and cousins. But contrition? That's too much to ask for. After all the ones burnt alive, cremated and buried were not their own. What's a mother or two? A police officer or three? There are million others in the slaughter house. "Gujjus," "Bhaiyas," "Madrasis," "Bawas," and "Mussalman." And oh yes, the "Marathi Manoos" too. Resilient as ever. 26/11s can come and go, the living can all die. But, lets keep the relentless spirit of Mumbai alive, shall we?

I watched until I couldn't anymore. My mind paralyzed and numb. As the TV sat silently and the baby slept, snuggled in her father's arms, I tried to cook. To relieve myself of the images from TV. To somehow lull my mind into a sense of calm, however false. To somehow rid myself of the guilt that all I was doing was intellectualizing. I cut open the two-pound pumpkin, truly admiring something for the first time that day. It was beautifully colored, pale orange, mixed in with some warm yellow. Almost peach, but not quite. I pulled the seeds out by the handfuls, placing a couple in the container that holds a mixture of tamarind, black-eyed peas, and coriander seeds. Then, I sliced and diced, finer than the recipe demanded. I am usually one to follow instructions precisely, but that day, dicing felt good. Therapeutic and cathartic.

I was about done with pureeing the pumpkin, when I heard my daughter cry and scream at the same time. The kind that meant she was petrified and wanted Mommy to pick her up and hold her close. As I rushed to her side, AM appeared with her from the bedroom. Her cherubic, tear-streaked face lighting up with an instant smile, when I took her in my arms. I hugged her close, inhaling her sweet baby smell. Then, as I looked into my daughter's big, brown eyes, I couldn't help but see the sweet face of two-and-a-half year old Moshe. And his mother in her late 20s. As old as I.

A little bit of Java

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 20:04:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

♣ "Pick me up, as you go, go"

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

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

From the Metropolitan Bakery Cookbook

You need:

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

Recipe:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Few Good Moons ...

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 20:07:00 +0000

There was a time when seeing the moon high up in the sky meant sweet dreams and a wholesome night of ZZZZs. This was when I had the luxury of eight whole hours of sleep (an hour or two thrown in like that surprise second raisin in rava ladoos), a late night movie, and that book I just had to read cover to cover all night long.

But, all that and more is a distant dream, now. Literally.

So, what's changed, you ask. Well, for one, I am significantly older (funny how a decade or so can turn you from a nocturnal creature into one of habit. By that I mean my parents, who need to turn in by 10 pm. That right there, is life playing its sadistic little joke. All my life I (privately) snickered at people who followed the early-to-bed axiom. But, what do you know? Now, that I am one of them believers, willing and ready to dim those lights by 10 pm, it's apparently too late.

As the cynically-wise would say: if you want something bad enough, chances are you won't get it. And if my six-month-old can help it, I certainly won't. Actually, if she can abet, neither will AM. This to a man, who all his life has been one of them early-to-bed people. Someone, who could well sleep at 9 pm, if he could help it, and wake up with our resident woodpecker at 4 am.

Of course, that's in the distant past too.

These days both of us clutch every second of sleep as babies do their binkies. Very tightly, indeed. In fact, I suspect, if someone were to try and pry those extra minutes from us, they would also have to contend with our digits, two pairs of flailing hands, complete with broken wrists.

Sometimes though, when we chance upon a good night, neither of us quite knows what to do with it. Take for instance last night. After almost an-hour-and-a-half of rocking and singing, the wee one was finally snoring softly. We waited with baited breath for 10 minutes. She didn't stir. So, we waited another, just in case. I was certain she was going to be up soon, and wanted to convey to the other-half to be on the alert. Under the given circumstances, as you can imagine, speaking audibly is out of question. As is speaking in hushed tones -- just coz she is snoring, in no way implies, she is asleep.

So, these days we mime.

But, apparently we need a lot more practice. At miming and at doing it without a giggle and a squeak. Between our furious miming and the muffled belly-laughs, we woke little Hitler (that's what I was trying to mime). I think we even woke up little Gracie next door.

And, we were back. With fewer ZZZs than we started, our dreams of counting sheep on a back-burner, and a childhood lullaby for company ...

"Nimbonichya zadamage chandra zopla ga bai,
Aaj mazya padsala, zop ka ga yet nahi
Gaay zopli gothyaat, ghartyaat chiu taai,
Parsaatlya velivar zoplya ga Jai-Jui
Mit papnyaa dolyanchya, gaate tula mi angaai
Aaj mazya padsala zhop ka ga yet nahi ... "

(The moon has fallen asleep behind the Neem tree,
But, why won't my little deer calf fall asleep tonight?
The cow has fallen asleep in her stable, the little sparrow in her nest,
On the trellis sleep the twin flowers, Jai-Jui,
Close your eyelids little one as I sing you this lullaby,
But, why won't my little deer calf fall asleep tonight?)

♣ A Sip of the Moon

AM and I have taken quite a shine to a White Hot Chocolate recipe that we discovered in our Better Homes and Gardens (BH&G) edition. Every so often, as the little tyrant slumbers, we couple the hot chocolate with a couple of almond Biscotti. What can I say? After a long, long night, it's our very own heaven in a cup.

You need:

3 C half-and-half (BH&G suggests low-fat milk or evaporated skim milk to cut fat)
2/3 C white chocolate baking squares, chopped
3-inch cinnamon stick
1/8 tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp vanilla essence
1//4 tsp almond extract
Ground cinnamon (optional)

Recipe:

Combine 1/4 cup of the half-and-half or low-fat milk, chopped white chocolate, cinnamon stick, and nutmeg in a saucepan. Over low heat, stir until the chocolate melts. Pour in the remaining half-and-half, and stir to a slow boil. Discard the cinnamon stick, spoon in the vanilla and almond extracts, and sprinkle some ground cinnamon over each serving.

This post is not complete without mentioning that I, in no way, want to minimize or condone Adolf Hitler's despicable actions and only mean to use his name as a hyperbole to exemplify baby tyranny.

Saying it with Pizzaz!

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 15:49:00 +0000

She was four-years-old when I first met her, the very first family member from my husband's side of the family since our big decision. Until then I was Sheetal, my parents' daughter, a grand-daughter to my grandparents. Or "Tai," an elder sister to my sister and assorted cousins. But, all of a sudden I was someone more. I was going to be a wife. A daughter-in-law. And "Kaki," her uncle's wife.

Frankly, it was scary to be "Kaki." Except, as the evening wore on I found myself less and less nervous. And more and more in love with my niece-to-be, so much so that I found myself wishing for a daughter just like her.

That's Shambhavi, she could make even an ice-cube feel warm all over. After all she is usually the one who breaks the ice first. Being quite the little Magpie helps a great deal too. Whether it is making conversation with an older grandmother, Kaki or someone her own age, Shamski does it with utmost alacrity and ease. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that she started talking when she was barely eight months old. I think though, largely, it's simply because of the way she is. Really, she is such an easy-going kid, anyone would be hardpressed to be anything but charmed.

Over the last few weeks, Shamski, as AM likes to call her, has been excitedly asking us our plans for her birthday on the 12th. She'd told us a couple of weeks ago that she would like it if we made her a cake and something Italian. Pizza to be exact. Both AM and I were ecstatic that Shyamu actually asked for something. She is one of those kids who would be happy even if someone were to gift her a cordless drill.

Given her affinity to pizza, it was somewhat a no-brainer -- bake a pizza-cake! We just used a simple cake recipe (you could use the boxed variety too) and focused much of our attention on decorating it with fondant toppings.

So, Shyamu, "Buon Compleanno!"

♣ The Magpie's Cake -- It's Different!

You need:

1 recipe for an eight-inch yellow cake
1/4 of a recipe of this cream cheese frosting
Colored red sugar
Ready-to-use white fondant
Icing colors: violet, brown, green, yellow and red

Recipe:

Preferably bake the cake the day before you intend to decorate, keep covered in the refrigerator.

For the olives: Mix in violet, brown and a tiny bit of red into a portion of the white fondant. What you are looking for is a dark gun-metal color. Then mold the fondant into a thick bolster shape, cut 1/4 inch pieces, and mold it very slightly to give a gentle circular shape. Try and keep the flat edges intact. We used the end of an oil funnel to give the olives their final doughnut shape.

For the green peppers: Mix in green, some yellow and a very tiny bit of red and violet. We found that the peppers needed a lot of green color to come close to the natural emerald hue of peppers. Sprinkle some confectioner's sugar on your work surface as well as the rolling pin and roll the fondant into a thick circle. Cut thin strips with a butter-knife or a fruit-knife, gently mold the tips and give them an inward curl so that they resemble the alphabet "c." Then, with your fingertips give it just a little bit of a kink in the center -- the end result looks sort of like pillowy lips.

For the melted cheese: Roll a small ball of fondant into a circle, and cut out abstract shapes to resemble pieces of Mozzarella cheese.

Whip the cream cheese to make frosting. Then, remove cake from refrigerator, leaving the edge of the cake all around to make it seem like the pizza crust, dig out a little bit of the cake to make place for the frosting. Drop in a few dollops of the frosting in the middle and spread it out evenly inside the "crust." Now, sprinkle in the colored red sugar all over the frosting. Place two or three olives, a few peppers. Then, drape the cheese pieces to seem like it has melted and melded with the vegetables. Finish off with the final olives and green peppers. Heave a sigh of contentment.

One powerful cupcake

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 19:23:00 +0000

Saee, our little niece, is quite the power-broker in the house. This "didi" (elder sister) or that "didi" is regularly bullied by this mighty four-year-old. To be fair to her though, the didi's do try to get rid of her, so that they can play their older sister games. But, Saee sees through it nine times out of ten. And then the older ones have to pay. Very heavily, indeed.

She is a sweet-souled dictator though. Always ready with her warm hugs and ready kisses. Habitually, the non-fussy eater amongst the kids, too. By the time the other three are done gossiping, their once warm food colder than ice on the sidewalk, Saee is usually done with her first helping, and in between asking for "some more, please."

A healthy eater and an admirer of all dishes chicken. In my family, that simply translates as being a very, very, good girl. She had two simple requests of her mother for her fourth birthday this month. First, she wanted home-made chicken biryani and mutton chops. Second, she wanted two varieties of chocolates -- one to distribute among her classmates, the other to gift friends at dance class. If only, all of us had such simple things to ask of life, happiness would be so easy to find.

For this little power-ball in our lives, we wish you grow from strength to strength. May we always be blessed with your warm hugs and happy kisses for the rest of our lives.

♣ Birthday Cakes

I decided to follow Paula Deen's recipe for Red Velvet Cupcakes with a cream cheese frosting and gave it a lottery twist for our fun little niece.

Which one of you
wants to party?!

An Egg-litist Toast

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 17:11:00 +0000

There are some ingredients I will cook with, special occasion or not. And then there are others I won't necessarily touch. Oh, I will eat them with glee, but wholeheartedly commit? Not so much.

Absurdly enough, eggs belong to my non-committal shelf. I love baking. And I am quite crazy with most stuff I can whip up with these. But, for reasons best known to me, I haven't warmed to dealing with eggs, yet. Give me a potato and I feel as if I am in my favorite thali haunt. There, I can eat, eat and eat. With my hands if I so want. Even let out the occasional burp or two to express my utter satisfaction. I am just so at home. With an egg on the other hand, it's like being at a fine dining restaurant. My face a few centimeters from the menu-card. Eyes in an unflattering squint, the tongue heavy and awkward around the fancy names.

In short, eggs are just too high-maintenance for the plebeian in me.

Whip 'em like this. Or stroke them like that. Soft peaks. Hard peaks. Fold them so. Cook them just so. Yada. Yada. Yada. Too many yadas if you ask me. And way too many ways to go wrong.

My struggle, in fact, starts right from breaking the darn things. As if I need more agony, along comes a recipe that demands the separation of yolks from the whites. Why we cooks cannot follow the natural order of things, I will never know. Those yolks are meant to be in the whites. Leave them be, people. It's nothing short of performing a Russian ballet, I tell you. Especially, for someone like me, who can't walk straight without stubbing my toe. Let alone balance on a couple of them.

Needless to say, I don't fry many sunny-side ups, omelets and such. My husband AM, on the other hand is quite the expert in this department. He does ...
... a mean French omelet
... a phenomenal boiled egg, sans ugly gray halo around beautiful yolk
... a perfect rendition of fried eggs, just the way I like them
... and I fall in love with him all over again, whenever he makes his house specialty -- an Indian version of the classic French Toast.

Now, if someone were to tell me to place a ring around this dream boat, I would happily do so. Bended knee and all.

♣ "Pass me some honey, Honey"

Aai, my paternal grandmother, did a wonderful version of the French toast. What I remember most is that she always added cilantro to her recipe. And she habitually cut the toast diagonally for me. That's exactly how I like my French Toast to this day. A little something to always remember my grandmother by.

What makes this particular recipe stand out is AM's addition of honey. It not only enhances the taste but brings out the heat of the chili powder beautifully.

You need:

7-8 slices of bread, preferably a few days old
4 large eggs
A pinch of turmeric (about 1/8 tsp)
A tsp of red chili powder
A tsp of salt
1/4 tsp garlic powder (optional)
1/4 tsp ground black pepper (optional)
1/2 tsp honey
Canola oil for frying

Recipe:

To begin mix everything, but the bread and eggs, together. Then, add enough water to make a barely thin slurry, and stir well to ensure uniform seasoning. Now, break in the eggs and whisk well.

Meanwhile, heat a heavy-bottomed pan on medium heat. Before adding the fat, (any will typically do, but AM prefers canola oil) ensure the pan is nice and hot, and pour in the oil. Dip each bread slice in the beaten eggs mixture to coat thinly and evenly on both sides, and slide into the waiting pan. Cook to a beautiful golden brown on both sides, cut into pretty diagonals if you so desire, and serve piping off the pan with your favorite condiment or Maggi's hot and sweet tomato chilli sauce.

A couple of things to keep in mind:

1. Don't leave the bread to soak in the egg mixture for too long. Not only does the bread become difficult to handle, but the egg reaches too far into the bread, and sometimes remains uncooked.

2. Keep the heat to a steady medium temperature, this way the egg cooks through without burning the outside.

Sweet September

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 17:29:00 +0000

September, is what I consider a very special month. My parents celebrate their wedding anniversary (their 32nd this year) around the time; it's the month when Lord Ganesha usually visits my maternal grandmother's house in Central Mumbai -- the previous month is spent in serious cleaning. Serious being the operative word here. All I can say is, if you walk in during one of these intense sessions, it will involve phenol. Bucket-loads of it. Whether you like it or not, you will be doused and scrubbed clean with said cleaner, and left to air-dry on her fourth-floor balcony.

But, I digress.

Other than the manic cleaning, the mere memories of celebrating Ganesh Chaturthi at my grandmother's gives me the warm fuzzies. As is with most Hindu festivals, the day begins frightfully early. What can I say -- our pantheon of gods do love their day break. So each year, our family scrambles awake to repeated warnings about the priest arriving at any given moment to perform the prayer ceremony.

As the saying goes -- "A family that ... "
... in our case, procrastinates together. Also rushes for the bathroom at the same time that the priest is spotted from the little window overlooking the street below. By this time, my grandmother is quite livid. Not to mention very high-pitched -- we have running theories (and jokes) about street dogs in her complex being partially deaf due to the whole frequency phenomenon -- it's just not what most people would call a pretty affair.

So imagine if you will. A flurry on legs. A vexed time-bomb scurrying between hall and kitchen, what with last-minute prayer paraphernalia to be placed for the ceremony next to the idol. A half-asleep, grumbling grandchild handed a toothbrush and shoved in front of the basin. And the priest -- sometimes mistaken as lazy progeny and hence yelled at -- repeatedly pacified that one of my uncles will perform the ceremony as soon as one of them can trace the singular Gandhi cap they share between themselves. Why they haven't bothered to buy its pair in the last 49 years is beyond all of us. Very warm and fuzzy indeed.

Ergo, the morning ceremony is conducted amid much chaos and an ever benevolent elephant God. Then, the women are quickly rallied in the kitchen and almost magically, the whole house is transformed. It metamorphoses into this smorgasbord of food and aroma. Intermingled with sweet vapors of incense along with the fragrance of fresh flowers adorning the Lord.

There's ...

... delicate ukadiche modak, each fold glistening and sharp. Heaps of soft polis. Vats brimming with delicious tangerine-colored vaalache birde. Piping onion bhaaji's or fritters. A flavorful green salad, by the name of khamang kakdi, made from finely diced cucumbers, flavored with powdered peanuts, sizzling mustard seeds and hot, green Indian chillies. Little mounds of steaming white rice with heart-warming kora varan, served with a generous dollop of home-made clarified butter and a small wedge of lemon. Two vegetable stir-fry sides -- one involving our beloved potatoes in a turmeric ensemble and the other with okra, a traditional preparation. Each, sprinkled generously with grated coconut and cilantro. A pungent chutney of fresh coconut, chillies and cilantro leaves. And my grandmother's mango pickle, from the farthest corner on the second kitchen shelf.

I suppose if my kids cooked such a feast to make up for some early morning madness, I would be prone to beneficence too.

It's been four years since I felt that kind of gooey all over.

But, I shouldn't complain. If I hadn't moved on from the love and comfort of my ajol (maternal grandfather's house), I would have missed out on another kind of love. One that walked into my life on September 13th, 2004. The father of my child, my best friend and soul mate from many past lives. He is way beyond what I deserve and had prayed for. For that, I will forever be grateful to my benevolent elephant God. And the month of September.

♣ Feeling the Filling

I have very distinct memories of both my grandmother and mother going quite red in the face while kneading the rice flour dough for steamed or ukadiche modak. Apparently, the dough must be kneaded immediately after it's steamed, or else there will be lumpy dough to contend with. Evidently, they are right. And obviously I had to find out the hard way.

I was elated when the coconut stuffing or saaran for the modaks turned out exceptionally well. But, the covering or the dough, that's another story.

It went thusly:

Attempt 1: I will not get into the nitty-gritty of things. All I can say is the outcome was lumpy. And I ended up with magnificently red hands.

Attempt 2: Since I didn't want to waste my beautiful stuffing, I consulted "Perfect Recipes" by one Mrs. K for a recipe of fried modak dough. I refer to this cookbook very often and it has never failed me. Turns out, there's always a first time. The recipe was pretty straight-forward -- knead a tight dough of wheat flour, semolina, piping clarified butter and water, and keep covered for a couple of hours. Then roll into small circles, stuff, gather pleats, shape into modaks and deep-fry.

So I did.

Once fried, the stuffing tasted like it was covered in a rubbery sheath and the sweetness of the jaggery refused to come through. Anything but perfect. Yeah, well. I should have known that the stuffing for fried modaks is significantly different from that of steamed ones. Had to be, Mrs. K is seldom wrong.

Attempt 3: Yes, I actually tried for the third time. My family and close friends will tell you, if I have my mind set on something, a pit-bull with a bone and I, can be astonishingly similar.
Lumpy, rubbery doughs notwithstanding, I was going to use the darn (good) filling. This time around I asked AM to help. As luck would have it, or in this case, lack of it -- we first messed up the quantity of water that needed to be boiled. Something, about me confusing him about halving the recipe. "Whateva." As a result, the rice flour kind of unnaturally coagulated around the water and then stopped doing anything.

I, of course, would have none of that. So, I quickly removed it onto a plate, set the water for boiling and followed the steps for steaming again. This time, the ingredients behaved slightly better. The rice flour came together, I screamed bloody murder while kneading it, things were soft and smooth. It was all good. We even managed to mold little modaks and steam them. Although I was mightily disappointed that they did not have the customary sharp pleats. But, I like to put that off as the after-effects of using old rice flour instead of lack of modak craftsmanship on my part.

The end result? Only a couple of blogworthy photos. I plan to now stuff parathas with my beautiful filling. Yes, I still have some remaining.

You need:

A cup of packed, freshly-grated coconut
1/3 cup of good-quality jaggery, grated
2-3 green cardamoms, peeled and ground
1/2-1 tsp of clarified butter or ghee

Recipe:

In a bowl, combine the coconut with the jaggery. Then, heat ghee in a saute pan and stir in the coconut-jaggery mixture. Combine until the jaggery melts, and beautifully mingles with the white coconut, turning it a delicious shade of light honey. As soon as the filling looks like it's losing some of its gooey-ness, remove from flame and stir in the cardamom powder.

Note: Some people add aromatics such as poppy seeds or khuskhus. In case you decide to add these, add them before you do the coconut-jaggery mixture. Once the poppy seeds crackle slightly, add in the coconut-jaggery combination.

Malgund Days

noreply@blogger.com (Sheetal Kiran) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 02:09:00 +0000

Her 70-year-old voice came crackling over the phone line, "Oh, how we celebrated the festival of Hartalika, when I was a young girl!" my grandmother laughed, as she thought back to the days when she was just a knee-high little thing of seven or eight in her coastal village of Malgund, Ratnagiri.

Even as we sat in our respective living rooms, oceans and miles apart, I could sense her memories, tangibly in our midst. I felt as if I was lounging right by her side on the divan, next to my grandfather's favorite side-table, placed below laminated childhood photographs of all their grandchildren. As she reminisced, I pictured her sitting cross-legged as she spoke, a familiar sparkle in her eyes -- the one she always gets, whenever she talks about her faraway maaher or maternal home.

"On the day that the goddess Gauri came home, my mother's married sisters, and friends. Unmarried cousins, my sisters and our other unwed friends, Usha, Shama, Lata, and Vasanti, from the neighboring houses, down the lane -- all of us women and girls -- would get together for a whole day of fasting and praying," she chuckled. Digressing quite suddenly, as she often does, about how the two statues of jyeshta and kanishta Gauri were made out of Konkan's famed red earth.

"Valucha Shivalinga, aani maathichi Gauri," she told me. It was such a profoundly poetic statement -- the god of sand, and a goddess from the humble earth. During those days, my grandmother further narrated, Haritalika was simple. Beautifully organic. Just as it must have been, she said, all those centuries ago when Sati made the Shivalinga from sand. Fasting and praying to it for 12 long years, with her sakhi in a forest, far away from her father's house. Surviving merely on the green foliage, she found all around herself. All for the perfect man.

Then, as the day wore on, she said, "the evening came alive." Women, old, young, and small would sing and dance the luminescent, lunar, Bhadrapad night away. With folk songs they'd heard, over and over again. All their lives. From mothers, grandmothers, unmarried young women, before them. The suvashinis or married women in beautiful nine-yard sarees and green glass bangles -- the verdant hue of their bracelets, symbols around their wrists of happy, long marriages. Teenagers and younger ones in silky long skirts and blouses, their plaits oiled and tied up high in bright colored ribbons, by elder sisters, mothers or grandmothers. All dancing, playing jhimma-fugadi, that ancient Marathi game where pairs of women, clasp each others hands, and swing around in circles -- shrieking as they go. As fast as their hearts can beat and the feet can dare.

"It was so much fun, all that long sleepless night of play, song and dance with family, siblings, and friends -- old and new," she said wistfully. "Before we knew it, morning would be upon us and it would be time to bid goodbye to both the Gauri's in the village river. Then, we would take a quick dip, and head home, where mother would serve us warm pithi with steamed rice, and tuck us into bed," she giggled.

At last, I asked her, what I had been meaning to all along. Had it all paid off for her? The fasting and the praying? "Of course," she replied simply. "Your grandfather was my perfect man."

♣ Sabudana Vada's for Me

I started observing Haritalika when I was barely 12 years old. It was one of the only fasts my mother reluctantly allowed me, at the behest of my maternal grandmother. Although, it is usually observed a day before Ganesh Chaturthi, at times, Hartalika is observed on the same day as Chaturthi. Whenever that happened, I would be quite sad to forgo the grand naivedya of steaming modak's, vaalachi usal, masale bhaat. Seeing this, my grandmother would always make a treat of sabudana vada's, especially for me.

After all these years, I have finally come to realize, that my will-power had nothing to do with the fact that I didn't miss a single fast.

If it hadn't been for my grandmother's sabudana vadas, perhaps, I wouldn't have found me my perfect man either.

You need:

1 cup Sago or sabudana,
1-2 medium potatoes, boiled
2 tbsp, roasted peanuts, powdered coarsely
A handful of cilantro, chopped
1 tsp chili powder
About 1-2 tsp of salt
1 tsp sugar
2 green chillies
¼ tsp cumin seeds
¼ tsp of lemon juice
Peanut oil for frying

Recipe:

Begin by rinsing sago or sabudana two to three times, pour water to just cover the sabudana and soak for three to four hours, at least. The sabudana is perfect, when it swells up beautifully soft, and when pressed between forefinger and thumb, turns slightly mushy.

Once the sabudana is ready, blend together the green chilies, sugar and cumin seeds coarsely. Then, take a handful of peanuts and dry roast over medium-heat until they are lightly toasted and give off a wonderful nutty fragrance.

While you roast the peanuts, set the potatoes for boiling. After they are done, peel and grate them over the drained sabudana. Once the peanuts are roasted, gently rub off their roasted, papery skins, between your palms and toss the nuts into a grinder to blend to a coarse powder.

Using your hands, mix in all the ingredients -- the blended green-chili-sugar-cumin paste, powdered peanuts, boiled potatoes, chili powder, salt, lemon juice and chopped cilantro -- into the sabudana. Taste for seasoning, and mold into small to medium-sized spheres. While you mold the spheres, heat peanut oil for frying in a wok.

Deep-fry the spheres or vadas until they turn up flush and golden-brown. If there are any left by the time you finish frying, serve with a mixture of two to three tablespoons of coarsely ground peanuts, a green chilli blended with half-a-teaspoon of sugar and cumin seeds, each, a quarter teaspoon of salt in three to four tablespoons of whipped home-made curd.