Kitchen Chronicles

Salad Days, with the Other Orange

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 09:51:00 +0000

I clearly cannot get over the gorgeousness of the orange this year — and it's not even my favourite colour!

They do say it's the runaway top trend on the summer runways; but I'm better at wolfing it down than at wearing it. I'd use them to accessorize my snack bag, but I don't think I'll be seeing any fresh ones in summer around here!

Yes, I strive to eat mostly seasonal and local (smarter for my wallet too, because I can then buy more). But occasionally, I will buy just the one piece of exotic fruit that I can't get around here — at least not in good shape. So a couple of times a year, I actually buy an orange.

Golden Mandarin Cake (or, an Abundance of Oranges)

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 17:55:00 +0000

Darjeeling oranges, five to a red net 'sock', are one of my favourite things about winter.

The perfect packaging-free snack to bring along when I go sit in the weak afternoon sun. The nicest prep-free, pre-portioned, no-cook, peelable dessert. They are always so sweet! Round and juicy, fragrant with that velvety oil, small wonder the Chinese use them for auspicious New Year tokens. (Yes, Gong Xi Fa Cai! Prosperous Year of the Water Dragon! to you too.)

The Chinese? What are they doing here, invading Darjeeling?!

Well, geography may not be my strong point; but in fact, the Darjeeling 'oranges' are mandarins — tangerines, according to some; clementines, to others — rather than true oranges.

Sunny Spinach Salad

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 04:51:00 +0000

It wasn't the most comforting of years, 2011 — no, it wasn't. It was challenging in more ways than one.

Contraptions around the house went kaput. The house itself creaked and leaked. Folks flew away. Things fell apart. Immunity and fitness wavered. Work schedules went haywire. Travel plans went awry. Wallets lost weight. The weight-loss plan piled on the pounds! The moods swung and rung like a carillon of bells. The summer was rained out; the monsoons were stormy; autumn sulked out of sight; winter was first warm, then wet...

Of course, challenges do create opportunity too. Contraptions were repaired and replaced. The house got fresh brick, mortar, plaster, paint, wiring, tiling, lighting... Folks flew in — and dropped in! Things came together, whimsically, when least expected. A fitness plan was resumed. Work got done, by the seat of the pants; concentration (to ignore the chaos) increased. Travelling took place. New work was sought — and found. The pounds finally budged. Moodiness was made room for, even enjoyed. The wardrobe rotation got a bit of a rest. The wellies came in handy. The garden was pulled up. Next year's seedlings were well-tested by the weather gods and goddesses...

But the best thing about challenges is the way they throw up surprises, pushing you to try something you never thought you'd get up to. Until it becomes a good, brave habit. Until — supermarkets refusing to stock your favourite South African pear — you bite the Chinese bullet: bring home the crunchy, sandy-fleshed Asian pear you used to abhor and let it mellow to nearly rotten. Until you find yourself at the wet market one gloomy morning, the last of 2011, delighted by the tender young spinach leaves and sunflower-bright pumpkin flowers — and come home whooping, 'Salad!'

Pod-pourri: Crunchy creeping greens :-p

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 13:47:00 +0000

Good golly, these crrrunchy green balls of Basella alba were as good as Christmas crackers!

So good, we're cooking them again. And again. With extra crunch. Before they disappear into flowers.

The sprouting buds of pNui shaak, aka Malabar spinach, creeping spinach, climbing spinach, or slippery spinach are called 'metuli' in Bangla (that's Bengali, to English-only speakers). While the heart-shaped leaves of pNui are cooked with a mish-mash of other vegetables — often with peels in, their texture serving to offset the mucilaginous quality of the shoots and greens — all year round, often partnering local freshwater fish too, the 'cream' of this crop emerges in winter.

Resolution: Have a blooming good year!

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 02:28:00 +0000

Brightening up my table on a new day, the first of a fresh year — these gorgeous sunny-golden pumpkin blossoms. Bought for a song, and destined to make the year's first lunch sing. Don't you just love kitchen ingredients and utensils that do double duty?

In the background, as the coffee drips, I hope to turn over a new leaf — which entails celebrating more of the local harvest (2011's last lunch was a revelation) and posting fresher!

Pumpkin-Eater's S(o)uper Supper

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 09:32:00 +0000

It's one of those things that has become, quite without design, a seasonal ritual and a family tradition: pumpkin soup.

There's something so soothing about it, not too sweet, nor too spicy, simple comfort in a time of change. There's something cheerful about a cup of the sunny liquid in a smoggy grey day or as the light falls to an early dusk.

As the festival of lights and the sibling-bonding rites bring the high Hindu festive season to a warm close, aglow with flickering diyas and satisfaction, the natural seasons flicker through their own change of guards. It's time for migrating wagtails to bob along the window sill. It's time to contend with flu-bitten family members and with one's own scratchy throat (a little too well smoked from the frenetic fireworks of suburban celebrants). It's not quite time for the winter glut of tomatoes, cauliflowers, broccoli and cabbages; but it is the season of fourteen greens, of sprouted palms and apples and other exotic fruits (like raisins, once the purview of the kabuliwallah), and of the fat marrows, gourds, squashes and pumpkins of cooler months.

The sweet yellow pumpkin turned up in the five fried or frittered vegetables of the Durga Puja feasts. The ash gourd has been looking to meet up with a few coconut curls for a while. The small, round, speckled green pumpkins have been turning up whole in their youth, rather than sliced into the wedges that maturity enjoins. And the courgette or zucchini — name determined by a marketer's whims, being both equally foreign appellations in these parts — is at its green or yellow best now, though considered a springtime special in the temperate zones.

So it was for many reasons fitting that Hallowe'en lunch fleshed out the cliche of a carved-up pumpkin and a sliced-diced-spiced green courgette ... in a cauldron of soup.

Jetsetting to Supper

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 00:30:00 +0000

A scramble for supper.

That's what happens when you're trying to claw your way back to control over a haywire week.

Alpen Essen. Ich liebe.*

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 11:56:00 +0000

October always promises to be entertaining.

So it made sense that September was about armies marching to conquer the mountains of clutter.

And this army marched on bread and cheese, a la Schweiz.

Yes, the festivities of Sharath involve rather more than the usual rounds of eating, and hence occasions more cooking. But first comes the godmother of all cleaning. Because, of course, any sensible cook makes all sauber first. So before digging out the deghs and dekchis, we got to clearing the decks for the hour of the Dark Goddess and the Light.

First, we had to make sure we would be fed while the stove and oven were taken apart for their annual ritual purification. (Just kidding! But between us, neither you nor the goddess would believe how grotty it gets underneath the burner tray and behind the oven fans after a year of feeding the heathens.) And how Annapurna came through! With troops all the way from over from the Alps — we hear Mt Kailash got a bit shook up this year.

Tomme and her Wild Garlic Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 00:30:00 +0000

This story begins with the usual cheesy line: Once upon a time...

...there lived a little Swiss miss. Young Tomme was a soft-spoken lass. Her gentle, easy-going nature was legendary in the land.

A barnyard girl, if her milky complexion was starting to get a little wrinkly from the rustic straw she was made to sleep on, Tomme was never heard to complain.

And if some scared old men led by an old goat called Pasteur decided to scald her to make her safer for children and mothers to hang out with, while her sisters swanned around in all their native glory (blame their promiscuous ways on that cow, their mother), Tomme remained a biddable dinner guest and was still very pleasant to all visitors.

So how does this naive, gentle 17th-century maiden go and get tangled up with that pungent Wild Garlic person?

Ode to a Tomato

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 11:22:00 +0000

The title's just a tall claim. I'm no poet, though this berry* made me wish I was. But since I can't rhyme to save my rind, I will stick to bald facts rather than even attempt blank verse.

It was as red as a pomegranate. Or a sunset. Rosy enough to send Snow White's apple into a sulk.

It was substantial enough to make sandwiches for two. Over four lunchtimes.

It was fruity. It was juicy. It was fragrant. It was meaty.

Seductively flounced though it was, looking all ready for salsa class, this was definitely no tart tomato. (If you made chutney of this berry, it would be a jam, certainly.)

It sashayed over from Switzerland in September, and found the perfect partner in an Appenzeller. But it was assertive, and liked to lead. (Good thing the cheese was meltingly pliant and the bread too well-bred to intrude. And if the mustard liked to spice things up, at least it was a good gossip and that's always welcome.)

Now that I'm done tom-toming the virtues of that tomato, I'm off to savour the last slice.

*A tomato IS a berry, botanically speaking.

The scent of spring is...rose apples!

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 17:15:00 +0000

It's coming up roses, weather-wise. That lovely, too-brief time of year when you pack away the woollies but not the silks; retire the water heater but don't call yet on the ice-maker; sun the pillows and air the quilts — and rush to get them out of the freak rain that reminds you it's not officially spring yet.

What? You say there's no spring in the tropics? Well, tell that to the birds and the trees. The roses aren't done yet, but the bottlebrush has gone a bright, bristling red that threatens a thorough spring cleaning. The spiders are shivering about their webs in the garden. The bulbuls and doves have gotten beyond chatter and coo to quite raucous courtship. And the elusive rose-apple is popping up in small, drab piles that lead us by the nose to roadside vendors.

Oh yes, the signature scent of a tropical spring is... rosy!

Should I buy some blue cocoa butter?

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 05:51:00 +0000

I admit I'm sorely tempted.

By this too. And this (c'mon, it's even on sale!). And also, astoundingly, this. And this shining instance of extravagance.

And why did no one tell me I could get Lorina delivered to my doorstep? Eh?! Here I've just sent the Boy on a wild-goose chase for Ikea Slom bottles, which are lovely and cheap and efficient — and fragile for flying home with... When I could drink pomegranates and lemons (both unreliable buys as fresh fruit around here), while I save the free, equally lovely and efficient bottle they came in?

They carry Ahana Organic's wild rice and basil oil too, would you believe?

It's only a promise to our two selves to tighten belts and be reasonable about the obsessive larder stocking that has restrained my mouse hand from clicking. At least, this morning I've won the battle with temptation. No more purchases of pantry fillers, or even staples, till we are running at least half empty in freezer and drawers alike. So we're saving with every meal we cook. (I give it a month, maybe two.)

But won't someone please stop by Delicious Now and tell me if they deliver as promised? Pretty please? With pearl sugar and caramel cream on top?

(Hmm. Wasn't it just this morning I was fantasizing about Swedish sweet rolls for my coffee...?)

Hairy Goat Biryani

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 06:54:00 +0000

Unlike your average Calcuttan, I'm not really big on biryani. And emphatically not enough to make a Sunday (or even month's-first-Sunday) ritual of it.

Yes, I'll admit the seared-steamed-roasted potato unique to biryani from this city, anathema to all others, is quite a golden nugget of fluffy fun-in-a-spud. But that's just the thing — a rice-and-meat steamed dish admittedly demanding of technique is one thing; the pursuit of the perfect potato is quite another.

And it's technique that lets down most biryanis. Oh, you can have each grain separate and the meat falling off the bones from many a roadside degh — but it's no good if it's so greasy as to stick together into a lardy lump the moment it cools to a tongue-friendly temperature. There's no joy in the delicacy of good degh technique when the spices crust the meat and dot the rice with coarse speckles; furring the palate with an excess of mace and screwpine. And the rubbery boiled eggs, so prized of some, I can do without the sulphurous stink of, though I admit they add much-needed colour to a monochrome meat-and-rice-(and-potato-perhaps) dish.

The other kinds of colour in your average box of biryani, now plastic-lined paper (to the convenience of your coat and the detriment of your health), are more worrying than winsome: traditional cochineal from a ground-up insect; turmeric that overwhelms flavour and fragrance, or worse, dishonestly dangerous metanil yellow, a carcinogen often sold under the guise of 'safe' tartrazine, itself an azo dye substituting the expensive saffron...

Hair-raising enough to put you off your lunch, isn't it? So why am I even thinking of dishing up any?

The recipe made me do it.

A lick and a promise

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 08:48:00 +0000

It's been a sweet beginning to 2011. It should have been a sweet restart to this blog as well. But what can I say? It was a sunny, smoggy day, and the strawberries turned out to be soporific.

No cooking was involved in breakfast. Just splitting of flaky croissants, slathering of Nutella, slicing of strawberries — and sandwiching to sit beside a tall, dark and hot espresso.

But not for long. The last chocolate-sticky flakes and fragrant, bleeding-red berry bits were gone in under 20 seconds, and the nap was irresistible — until it was time to turn out lunch (which is the tale on another post).

However, the milestone of that first meal of the year, the decade (and the revived blog) will be remembered — and, I hope, repeated — for long beyond strawberry season. It's my newfound favourite no-cook breakfast. Sure, nothing beats a fresh-laid egg freshly and simply poached — as friends wishing me a 'sunny side up' year well know; or a superior scramble alongside crisp rashers and smoky maple syrup; and I dare anyone to turn up their noses at the fragrance of blueberry-banana muffins just popping out of the oven. But there's a luxury about the lack of effort involved in these strawberry-chocolate croissants.

There's a lot else to love.

Goodies from Greece

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 15:24:00 +0000

Finally, a post!

Even though one in which the picture speaks for itself, I suspect this journal is happy for any crumb at this point. Put it this way: If I had been half as starved as this blog has been these many months, at least I wouldn't have had a beachwear breakdown before my trip to the Med!

Though somehow, that and assurances of terminal busy-ness on the Journal-ist's part don't seem to reassure the journal much. So, without more ado, some goodies from my trip to Greece are offered here to appease it. (And as requested, no been-there-done-that Kalamata olives in the lot.)

Any guesses?

Alright, enough with the suspense already!

Ta-da! These are, clockwise from top left:

Cretan thyme honey — there were so many honeys, Aegean and Cretan, thyme and pine and lavender and... I confess I finally closed my eyes, leaned back on the trolley, and went eeny-meeny-miny-mo!
Nope, not olives, non —that's an amphora-esque jar of preserved lemons (I rather suspect they are in fact citron, though; but taste will tell, later, I trust)
Spoon sweet with mastiha, the famed 'gum mastic' of Chios, resin of the Pistacia lentiscus tree which grows only on this Agean island. Baggage limit and fear of broken bottles prevented me bringing home the liquor, the 'original' chewing gum, the soaps and shampoos, the chocolate, the flavoured honey, the powder to cook with, the toothpaste...*
Baklava, without which no trip to Greece can boast a sweet ending!
Okay, I cheat — there's a missing corner to this pentagram. Not pictured here, it consisted of a block of Macedonian halva — sort of a sesame-paste nougat-cum-meringue I enjoyed for breakfast in Greece — that was cleverly sandwiched in wafers to prevent crumbling and even more cleverly dosed with some mastiha to hold it all flavourfully together! (This is MIA because it went to a friend, to steady nerves for a forthcoming wedding march. S-es both, I expect an update and you are hereby directed to the Comments box below!)

A Pot of Spicy Green Anti-Freeze!

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 06:04:00 +0000

Old Man Winter's stopped to do a war-dance, it would seem — one step forward, two steps back, turn around, take three paces away, pirouette and swing to centre... Or so it seems to us as we sniffle, sneeze, cough-cough-cough with the flu. He didn't quite take us down to zero like the BBC threatened, but 4° in February is quite perverse enough by me, thanks!

Unseasonal weather is what we're having this winter — even the capital, long inured to chilly Januaries, has found its many Jaipur quilts, surplus sweaters, Kashmiri shawls, export-market windcheaters and parkas, designer overcoats and 'local brand' room heaters inadequate to this frosty challenge.

Fingers are pale blue and refuse to address the keyboard. Hence the long pause between posts.) Our winter afternoon's delight in the patch of sun on the terrace or in the park has shrunk into the compass of four solid walls and tight-shuttered windows topped by a roof and heated by a radiator or blower. Our habit of clutching cups of hot tea has proved useless as the beverage almost ices over before we can sip. (Oh alright, that last is an exaggeration!)

The only thing that drives feeling back into our toes and revives our fever-numbed tastebuds is a tummyful of peppery, spicy soup. Preferably with potatoes in, to create that all-essential extra padding a la Santa's jelly belly! Which makes this one, starring red mustard 'greens', a souper-dooper discovery.

Cold comfort: From Sicily, via Sri Lanka

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 11:43:00 +0000

The cold snap shows no sign of abating. Not until the weekend at any rate (over which we are promised grey skies and rain — brrr!).

As compelling a reason as can be to seek comfort amidst a cocoon of quilts. With cups of hot chocolate, mugs of tea with tulsi (Indian holy basil) and honey, tumblers of rum or brandy toddies lining up along the dresser as the shadows lengthen. All of which might slake the thirst (these room heaters are notoriously dehydrating), but leave me with a craving for a starch-induced stupor come six in the evening.

Having grabbed a hurried bowl of soup and a sandwich or salad at lunch, by this time I am ravenous. No discourtesy intended to either soup or salad, both of which are amongst my favourite meals. Just that I now need a carbohydrate fix — a bone marrow-deep sensation not unlike the chocolate craving of 3-pip-emma. Or the caffeine cold turkeyhood of 6-ack-emma.

By the time this compulsive urge has brought me to my knees, it's too late to patiently roll out parathas or proof a loaf of dough (or even knead soda bread). Fast and furious it has to be. For the Boy, the fix could have been fried potatoes or (alas for my Mauviel that it must bear this dishonour!) a pan of Maggi 2-minute noodles. For me, it's usually a non-instant pasta, wholewheat (because I like the bite — and it helps assuage the guilt from not filling up on phytonutrients first).

Last week, when some work-weary friends joined me at this critical hour, I found a fair flower to bedeck the pasta pot with. And a darker, more exotic blossom too.

Dessert worth a long drive

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 20:51:00 +0000

I spoke, it would appear, too soon.

Not that there's a fresh crop of baby beets invading the cabbage patches in the countryside here in north India. But Old Man Winter has decided to pause, do a quick about-turn in honour — or so it seems — of the Republic Day parades on the 26th. And he's brandishing his gnarled, frost-rimed stick, which has got us all snuggling under the razai (the Indian quilts, famously of Jaipur in Rajasthan).

Yes, there's a cold wave on. Which also means too little power in our electricity grids all too often. In turn, fewer opportunities to blog, and cooking's not so fun either when the water out of the tap is icy and the kitchen criss-crossed by shivery draughts.

So we insisted on celebrating with ice cream.

And unlike many a midnight mouthful of cold that we've driven out for, this was one time I can safely say the journey was not the point. It was dessert that made our day, and made the long 2-hour drive down past Gurgaon and across rutted country roads worth the while, the bumps, the dust.

'Homemade' at the new Westin, Sohna-Gurgaon (India's first Westin in fact). But it wasn't quite the dessert we ordered. What I requested in fact — and you can see as much in the picture — was comfort food at its Sunday best: waffles, after much waffling over the rather unusually brave choices on the menu (for a 5-star city hotel).

Nor were we disappointed. Ah, but they were perfect waffles for a mint-new Sunday brunch — crunchy edges crumbling crisply against the fork, the pillowy honeycomb centres soaking up the maple-tinged smoky compote it came with. But it was the ice cream, its sidekick, that stole the show — and the attention of our tastebuds.

White chocolate and dripping honeycomb. Toffee sauce and macadamia on top. Frilled with a ruff of extra whte chocolate. Just one of a dozen-odd flavours they serve at the Living Room, the Westin's all-day eatery. (Next on my to-try list is the yoghurt ice.)

It inspired a baked bite soon enough. But that's a story for another day... For now, I'd rather close my eyes and savour that unexpectedly complex bittersweet (mostly sweet, but not too sweet, underlaid by the edge of the honey). And the sunshine through the glass, glinting on that melting white snowball of a scoop, warming our fingertips and cheering our hearts as it peeked through the ruby glassware.

Nope, Winter's no scary old grouch! He's the taciturn grand-dad who comes home from the fairgrounds to settle in his planters' chair with a grunt, whom no one dares approach until he's taken out his little silver snuffbox and had his tip. (Or smoked his chillum of sweet-scented tobacco, drawn burbling through the hubble-bubble.) And then he turns out his pockets, to heap on the floor and in outstretched palms treasures both mandatory for the season and unexpected until this very year.

For that, we salute him with our thick green glasses of masala chai and mulled wine.

Bye-bye beets

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 14:31:00 +0000

Sigh! The baby beets are all grown up, and ready to leave their nest.

And just like that, spring — never too far beneath the surface, so close to the tropics — is on its way. Yes, this despite the current cold wave conditions blanketing the northern belt, hunkered in the shadow of the Himalayas — as it does every year.

But Old Man Winter's last stride forth, his deepest step into the low plains, has been taken. And now he's turned on his heel again, and begun his trudge uphill, retreating back up into the mountains that we call the 'Abode of Frost' (that's himalaya in Sanskrit).

In our northern capital of Delhi, where I write, January's popularly acknowledged to be The Cruellest Month — at least until June's scorching sun comes hammering down, 'negotiating' for the title with its searing heat waves. Just now, though, you'd be hard put to convince the shivering schoolchildren waiting for the bus on the street corner outside my door. Impossible that Basant, lord of spring, is about to warm their pinched fingers, soothe the reddened Rudolph noses peeking out of swathes of shawls and scarves. Nope, they'll wait for the colours of Holi to convince them, thanks very much, Ma'am!

But the market stalls know better, as do the trees in the park. The colours are already changing in the greengrocers' carts cycling door to door. And for those of us who like to cook by the season, it's the last few weeks to celebrate the cornucopia of the cold season. (No, those gorgeous salads won't last in our tropical heat either...)

And so it's bye-bye beets. We saw, I suspect, the last of this season's babies last week. If we see the bleeding purple hearts of beetroot again in the vegetable tray again, those will have more mature heads — the tough old biddies that are good for pickling in spears, staining the white daikon radish alongside. The perfect crunch-along with a flatter of khubz, hummous and slices of chicken doner off the rotisserie. But no, they're not the sweet bulbs that jostle together in my roasting tin in winter, brightening up the dark cave of the oven. Or plop into a pot of meaty stock to melt into a ruby-red bowl of borscht to warm our insides.

Which is exactly what I did to that last lot I bought.

Ireland: Travel treat! (part 3: Back in Dublin)

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 19:20:00 +0000

Continued from previous post: "If Cork is a crock of preserved traditions with a layer of butter on top, Dublin’s dish seems to be the proverbial melting pot.

Take for instance the iconic cabbie’s late-night pub dinner — the Dublin coddle, a stew of sausages, bacon, potatoes (but of course!), perhaps cabbage in hearty broth. It’s legendary, it’s everywhere, but everywhere it’s different and at the small local pubs, it’s hardly found!

What you can find in this early-to-rise city is breakfast.

Ireland: Travel treat (part 2: Cork)

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 17:49:00 +0000

Continued from previous post:

"If Ballymaloe Cookery School is one of its kind, Ballymaloe House is a pioneer that has spawned many a follower. And Cork has since reinvented itself as the cuisine county for all the traditional foods that aren’t available elsewhere.

The extent of this is nowhere more apparent than at the venerable English Market, in Cork city, the nation’s ‘second city’ after Dublin. Cork has all the chain eateries and supermarkets, the brands and designer labels that Dublin does — it is, in that sense, quite as cosmopolitan. But duck into the wrought-iron arches of the English Market’s many gates, and suddenly you are in the stronghold of farm foods.

First up on the left from the Grand Parade entrance, the famous O’Reilly’s — astoundingly, this stall subsists on just two products: tripe and drisheen.

Ireland: Travel treat! (part 1: Ballymaloe)

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 17:08:00 +0000

In my last post, I mentioned owing the editors at the Outlook Traveller magazine for the trip of a lifetime.

Today, I give you details of that trip — by way of the (page-shatteringly) long version of an article published in the December 2007 of the magazine, reproduced here with kind permission from Traveller editor Kai Friese, garnished with links that print readers were denied (sorry, limitations of the medium):

"It’s the best breakfast of the year. Beats the pork bao in Singapore, the hoppers at Kovalam, the Dublin coddle and the choices of Paranthewali Gali. What convinces me is a single mushroom — the meatiest field produce I’ve ever ingested, grilled dark and juicy.

It grew in Shannagarry, where I’m staying in one of the 34 sought-after rooms in Ballymaloe House. Lady of the house Myrtle Allen made hospitality history here when, in a time of French food being the only fare worth serving commercially or socially, she went ahead and opened up the country seat her farmer husband was left by a local Quaker as a bed-and-breakfast — serving up the produce of her own yards, orchards, woods, fields and garden, cooked in the best traditions of a farmhouse family kitchen.

Today, it is a special stay for people from the world over — far from city lights and bustle, the nearest pub (in this nation of microbreweries and the world’s first distillery) over in Ballycotton, the few who value peace and excellence come to recede into an old-world idyll.

Lavender hearts for tea

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 16:54:00 +0000

Continuing with the roll call of thankfulness, here was a gift from one of the small bookshops that went out of business in Delhi last year. (Alas, there have been too many of those in 2007 — not least the venerable The Bookshop of Khan Market.)

This Conran Octopus publication was something they had by the crateful, stacked along the pavements of Green Park. And given I have entirely too many tomes on 'how to tie this radiant ribbon bow', it was only pity that urged my purse out. However, this book has since paid for itself at least 70 times over!

This Christmas, though, it found an unlikely partner in an Irish import. This was a bag of dried flowers of lavender, from the venerable English Market of Cork. For which another huge debt of gratitude is owed to the Outlook Traveller magazine (which you shouldn't judge by its website, alas, as the latter is cluelessly beyond the editors' curb!). More on the trip of a lifetime later; today, it is time to thank 2007 for one of those rare moments of surprised joy that meet you full on — which you don't, however, see coming!

I had one of those aromatic epiphanies in the kitchen, when I took this recipe on page 114 of The Art of Giving and steeled my heart to part with a precious few grains from that lavender stash in the closet. This has to be one of the easiest treats I have ever baked or mixed. One of the fastest and prettiest too.

Even the wooden spoon seemed to swoon under the wafting fragrance that drifted out of the oven within moments.

Pesticide-free plates

noreply@blogger.com (Rodosee) — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 09:45:00 +0000

A fresh new year.

A day to give thanks for all the lovely things that have hopped into our larders, our ovens, our pots and thence on to our plates... and also those popped into our inboxes! And oh, dear me, yes! A lot of lovely people too!
To begin with, thanks for all the enthusiastic eaters who have been kicking my procrastinating butt these many months to 'Get the blog up and going, already!' And thanks for the adventurous amigos who've helped me test-drive what's been gathering steam in the kitchen all last year. Oh, but thanks, above all, to good friendships found and cemented over plates of produce!

Foremost among those produce pals has to be Kanu Somany. This enterprising young lady sits on her family farm just outside Delhi, trailing her green fingers through the earth and coming up with handfuls of the most beautiful vegetable babies you ever saw.
Or never saw, for that matter. Because Kanu also loves a challenge — such as coaxing exotics out of our rich Indian soil. Little red currant tomatoes that bead on the vine as though waiting to be threaded into some ancient earth goddess' garland. Giant striped heirloom beefsteak tomatoes. Handfuls of spicy-sharp mizuna and tatsoi, red giant and green wave mustard, wild arugula and bull's blood, crisp chicory and flushed lollo rosso — for a salad bowl that plays prima donna at any dinner party.

Lest you think I'm exaggerating, take a dekko at this blossom-studded bagful (below) that she sent me for Christmas. My guests begged seconds, despite the heat shimmer rising from old favourites fish pie and roast pepper tart in the oven, despite the citrusy polenta cake waiting on the sideboard. Yes, those leaves were that delectable!

Kanu likes to have expatriate friends think of her farm as their kitchen garden once-removed. Though it was husband Sharad who first got her digging deeper among the seed sacks, when he deplored the absence of anything more exciting than limp 'saalaad pattaa' (aka, limp, browning iceberg lettuce) at Indian farmer's markets. (Which is not to badmouth the old-fashioned sabzi mandi — more about the virtues of which another day...)

And that's not to say she neglects the homegrown goodness. An earlier autumnal harvest got my doorbell ringing for — and my appreciative family ooh-ing and aah-ing over — the most delicate drumstick leaves (Moringa) and moonlight-pale mooli (white radish, or daikon). Note bene that their sprightly tops were lopped off my the pater for a stir-fry so quickly that my camera durst not follow. The roots were befriended, however, by these shy fronds of fenugreek (methi) so soft that a friend washing them for the pan remarked it was like having her fingers gently caressed. Just look at them (at the top of this post)!

I have to confess that while my Bengali culinary legacy is big on the boon of drumsticks — the mastication of the juicy, fleshy pods is elevated to an art in the gourmand's adda — I had never heretofore been tempted to throw the leaves into the pot after them. But how can you say nay to something that looks so fresh, so friendly, so utterly adorable?

We bestowed the blessing of methi on some fish, cooked to a recipe from my Andhra friend Renuka, whose home no one ever leaves without a full belly (and a shiny, licked-clean thali left in their wake).

The drumstick leaves partnered the humble split pea in a soupy sambar inspired by Paati over at en veetu samayal.

The radish themselves were grated and simply stir-fried with a tempering of a dried red chilli and a teaspoon of nigella seeds (kalonji) in mustard oil, with just a pinch of salt for seasoning.

And this tasty trio got served with rice for a satisfying, fingerlicking silence at the table.

As for Kanu, long and lush may her garden grow. Those living in the capital city can ask to be put on her mailing list for weekly updates on what's ripe for the picking.

Write to her at kanu_somany@yahoo.com and grow in good health all year round.