The Antiguan Old Timer

I feel great kinship with my Caribbean compatriots. Because, you see, Caribbean Standard Time (CST) is even more capricious than Indian Standard Time (IST). And while IST always means “late” – the only surprise element being how late, CST is far more wonderfully vague. CST could mean early or late, filling one with suspense-filled wonderment. Early? How early? Late? How late? What’s better than one surprise? Four of course! Keep ‘em guessing! 

Take for example, our very own experience. Just last week, we were sitting at Barbados airport at 6pm, for a 7:30pm flight. We were sipping cocktails and twiddling our thumbs, all at the same time, and having ourselves a jolly good time. When suddenly, we hear our names being called on the PA system. Uh oh, I think. This probably means something very, very bad. The PA person sounds cheerful. Not that that means anything given that everyone in the Caribbean seems to be in a perpetual state of cheer. With that weather, who wouldn’t be? Anyway, so we abandon our cocktails and head to the ‘white courtesy phone’ with great trepidation. To our immense relief, however, the person on the other end is merely requesting us to board our flight. It’s 6:15pm exactly. A bit early for a 7:30pm departure, but I can handle this; early boarding – not totally unheard of.  At 6:25pm, we are sitting in our seats, twiddling our thumbs (sans cocktails) and wondering what we’re going to do for the next hour and five minutes, when, exactly three minutes later at 6:28pm the flight pushes off from the gate! On anxious enquiry, the explanation from the very-smiley stewardess is as such: “Well, everybody was at the airport and everybody boarded the flight, so we decided to leave early.”

!??

Got to love CST!

So: to make a short story long, given the wonderful vagaries of Caribbean Standard Time, we are not too bothered when we are already 30 minutes late for an 8pm dinner reservation at Sheer, one of Antigua’s best fine-dining restaurants. The reason we are 30 minutes late is because we are completely lost. Sid is the designated driver and I, by default, am the designated navigator. I am a bad driver (despite having passed the notoriously failable UK driver’s test on first attempt), but an even worse navigator. Evidently. I am sitting in the passenger seat of our jeep with a map of Antigua spread-eagled on my lap. The map of Antigua is amoeba-shaped with lots of bays with pretty names dotting it’s circumference (Non Such Bay and Runaway Bay and Half-Moon Bay and... you get my drift) and a few random lines going through the amoeba. Yes, I understand these are roads, but for the life of me, I can’t find a single line that joins where we are, to where we need to go. I rotate it left and stare at it for a few seconds. Nothing. I rotate it left again. Still nothing. I do this a couple of more times and then realize I am back to where I started. Sid is looking patiently at me waiting for an answer, which of course I don’t have. I sigh. “You better ask someone,” I state, sadly. We are now 45 minutes late, pushing the boundaries of CST, even. And more importantly, we are oh-so-hungry.

We pull into the nearest Texaco and notice, immediately, a rocking chair on the side by the entrance, and perched upon it, a benevolent looking gentleman with a grey beard, eating his dinner. He looks somewhat like Morgan Freeman, but more importantly, he looks local. And we are so hopelessly lost at the moment that local is good. In fact, local could not be better. He is our man. The Caribbean Santa Claus for lost tourists. And from that moment on, he is forever etched in our memories as “the old timer” from Antigua.

We pull up next to him. The first thing I notice is that whatever he is eating – something in a white take-out carton – smells amazing. I’m trying to look at his face and not his food as I ask politely – “Excuse me, can you please tell us how to get to Jolly Harbor?”

He stops eating. Clears his throat. His voice is deep, resonant. I imagine he is a great baritone. - “Ya wanna ga to Jaally Aaber?”

We nod, yes. I hand him the amoeba-shaped piece of geography with which to direct us, which he politely glances at and then promptly proceeds to dismiss.

“Aarite,” he says. “I can tell ya by traffic lights. Ya see that first light, ya take a left. Then ya see a flashing neon sign – that’s Leroy’s car wash. Ya take a right at the next light, then ya count two lights. And ya take a left. Then ya don’t go right and ya don’t go left – ya just go straightees.”

I am trying hard not to laugh - “straightees?”

But I am also hoping that Sid has been paying attention to the directions because I’ve been focusing all my attention on the contents of the old-timer’s white take-out box. Chicken in some wonderful sticky Barbeque sauce and rice & peas (which in Caribbean lingo is yellow rice and kidney beans.) The steam is still coming off the rice, the chicken looks hot and freshly grilled, and the barbeque marinade is giving off the rich, smoky aroma of molasses. Really quite tormenting given that my stomach is about to eat itself.

We pull out of the Texaco and Sid and I are in both in splits of laughter - we’ve just been directed to our destination by counting traffic lights! Imagine that happening in London? As we drive off obediently towards the first light, Sid slowly sneaks it in: “Dude, his food smelled sooo good!”

“I know!!!” I agree. “I kept staring at it. In fact I hope you counted the lights, because I was looking at his dinner. I think it was Barbeque Chicken.”

“Should we skip Sheer and just go ask the old timer where he got it?”

For a moment, we are tempted. Terribly so. Because we’re ravenous and because I truthfully couldn’t tell you when I’ve smelled anything better.

We stop the car, stare at each other. Then I cave – “We can’t go back and say, sorry we don’t want to go to Jolly Harbour after all, but excuse me, where did you get your food from? I mean, I have no shame when it comes to food, but that kinda looks pretty bad. Plus, he’ll probably say his mother made it.”

After a few minutes of deep thought, Sid sensibly agrees. After all, the old timer did take the trouble of stopping mid-bite and counting lights for us. We owe it to him to go.

So, we count our lights, and go straightees, to Jaally Aaber.

And boy, are we glad we do!

Sheer is magnificently situated.  It sits on the western most point of the bluff, directly on top of the ocean. The seating area consists of stylishly designed, very private, tiered wooded decks, separated by white-gauze curtains that dance sensuously to the evening breeze. When you look down, you see the waves crash against the cliff; further out, the sea is illuminated by the moon, sparkling silver. It is stunning and utterly romantic.

And then – drum roll please – the food arrives.

There are times when words just cannot describe situations adequately. This is one of those times.  Let’s just put it this way:  If I went into labour while I was at this table, I would wait to finish my plate, in full, before I gathered my skirts and waddled to the hospital. It was that good. Maybe better.

But, regrettably perhaps, this post does not re-create our meal that night. Chef Nigel Marten of Sheer (now at the Non Such Bay restaurant), is of the Masterchef variety – gourmet, plus, plus. His food is simply exquisite. So I am not even going to attempt to go there.

Instead, I dedicate this post to the old timer, without whose perfect directions – by traffic light – we wouldn’t have found our way.

And although, his dinner was less fancy than ours, I am sure it was equally good. To the old timer, then – this is Barbeque Chicken and Rice & Peas:

Rice & Peas:

- 1 medium sized can red kidney beans (Caribbean for Peas!)
- 1 can coconut milk
- 1 cup water

- 2 cups of long-grain rice
- 1 small onion, chopped
- 1 clove garlic, chopped
- 1/4 tspn dried thyme
- 1 tbsp oil

- Salt, to taste

Heat the oil in a frying pan and fry the onion until translucent. Drain the liquid from the tin of beans into a large saucepan, and add the coconut milk and water.  To the mixture, add the onion, thyme, and garlic to the saucepan with the beans and bring to a boil, stirring to mix well.  Add the rice and salt and stir until it comes back to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover tightly and simmer for 20-25 minutes until the rice is cooked.

Barbeque Chicken:

While Barbeque connoisseurs are entitled to feel quite passionately about the “right” way to make the perfect marinade, there are many, many variations of Barbeque sauce – different flavours and different styles, originating from different parts of the American continent; from Kansas City to Memphis, from St Louis to Jamaica. Here’s my method for a sauce has a touch of heat, a touch of smoke, and, I like to think - a lot of flavour:

- 2 cups ketchup

- 1/3 cup brown sugar

- 1/4 cup minced onion

- 2 tbsp olive oil

- 2 tbsp water

- 3 cloves garlic crushed

- 1 tbsp vinegar

- 1 tbsp tomato paste

- 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce

- 1 tspn dry mustard

- 1/2 tspn cayenne pepper

- Fresh ground pepper, to taste

- 8 chicken drumsticks

Heat the olive oil in a sauce pan on medium, and sauté onions and garlic until lightly browned. Now, add the rest of the marinade ingredients, reduce heat and simmer over low for 20 minutes. Leave to cool.

Meanwhile, make 2 or 3 deep cuts in the meaty part of the drumsticks with a sharp knife - this helps them absorb lots of flavour from the sauce. Coat the chicken with the marinade, turning it around so all sides are well coated. Leave in the fridge to marinate for 3-4 hours.

When you are ready to cook the chicken, heat the oven to 200 C. Place the marinated chicken into a large roasting tin and space the drumsticks apart. Cook for 20 minutes or until golden brown. When the time is up, remove the chicken from the oven, brush it with the sticky glaze in the roasting tin, then return to the oven for 15 minutes more.

Enjoy, Island style, with a heaped serving of Rice & Peas.

Deepa's Chutney

My friend Deepa and I go back a long way. See, we keep following each other in turns. We first met at Sophia High School in Bangalore. She then followed me, slightly further, to Aditi's, in Yelahanka, New Town, for pre-university (the school is posher than it sounds, honestly). I then followed her out of India, to the United States for university (she was the brain, I was the drain). Then, several years later, she followed me to Harvard, to get her Law degree, while I was getting my Business degree (yeah, yeah, we all know which one is harder: she passed the Bar, I was passed out at the Bar...)

Which would now make it my turn to follow her. Where to next, D? Can I suggest Tahiti? We could become cocktail waitresses...?
No??
How about if I name a recipe after you? Let's give it a try, shall we?

So, this goes back to the years in-between graduating from university and starting with our respective Masters programs. For me, it was that decidedly unproductive time in my life where I would sit for 16 straight hours, from 9am to 3am (and they say a baby makes you sleep deprived. Try investment banking.) manipulating excel spreadsheets in some frigid cubicle in the corner, artificial air, artificial light, cold take-out Chinese on my desk - canya think of anything more dull??

The only silver lining in that great, big, black, bursting-with-rain cloud was that I got to travel to San Francisco on business about once in two months. Now, I absolutely love San Francisco. Liberal, cosmopolitan, bohemian and utterly beautiful, the City by the Bay is an easy place to leave your heart in. And, at the time, it also happened to be home to some dear friends of mine from school, including Deepa.

On one such visit, D invited me to her beautiful apartment in a charming restored Victorian in the heart of the trendy Haight-Ashbury.  Her kitchen was lovely, big and homey with brightly coloured flowers trailing down hanging pots, and we sat there for hours – cooking, eating and talking.

It was one of those perfect afternoons, sun streaming through the windows, bright but not hot, no sign of the trademark fog that usually blankets the city in chilly folds. And I spent it in the best possible way, with a person I have always loved talking to, who I can risk not keeping in regular touch with because I know we can pick up exactly where we left off.  Because D is that person who you always learn something new from, who takes you to an intellectually higher place than where you first started, who can engage you, quite effortlessly, for hours.

So, we sipped lemon-water with ice and I helped her make lunch. She had already cooked some rice and dal, she told me, and with it, she said, she was going to try a red capsicum chutney that she’d never made before. By the way, I love when people cook for me. I only cook for people I love, so I know how much it means. There is a value to the thought and the effort behind the gesture that cannot be measured in numbers or words – and D, I hope you know how touched I was. And so, we cut and chopped and she cooked and I watched and we chatted and before I knew it, we had created this yummy, tangy-spicy-sweet relish that served as a perfect accompaniment to our lunch of rice and lentils.

And it is the culmination of all that – the city, the person, the conversation and the cooking – that makes this recipe special.

Try it, this is Deepa’s Chutney:

- 2 large red capsicums, de-seeded and cut into chunks
- 2 dry red chillies (use more if you'd like more fire in the chutney)
- 1 fistful of channa dal (split Bengal gram)
- 1 tspn mustard seeds
- Zest of lemon, to taste

Making it took us a few minutes! Heat the mustard seeds in a teaspoon of oil until they begin to sputter. Now add the channa dal, capsicum and red chillies, and fry until the capsicum becomes soft. Take the pan off the heat and keep aside until cool. Add the cooled ingredients to a blender and blend until you get a smooth paste. Add lemon juice to taste. And Voila!

Incidentally, as I was researching the bell pepper for this post, (yes, I do research the material in my posts for factual accuracy, especially ones that involve recipes from my lawyer friends...) I was amazed to see the whole host of ailments it is antidote to - from heart disease and rheumatoid arthritis to lung health and better eyesight, the bell pepper and its fiery cousin, the red chilli, both of which we use in this chutney, are packed full of nutrients. Both varieties contain vitamins B and C, thiamine, beta carotene, folic acid and lycopene.  And thanks to capsaicin, the stuff that gives the chillies their characteristic pungency, they also contain significant amounts of phytochemicals, which in turn have exceptional antioxidant properties. So by polishing off all the chutney in one (albeit long) sitting, we were actually doing wonderful things to our bodies without even knowing it. (Please tell me you didn’t already know this, D!)

Closer to my heart – on taste – this chutney checks all the boxes - the red chillies provide the heat, the bell peppers - the sweetness, (the red bell pepper has a tangibly different flavour to the green one in that it is much sweeter, almost fruity), the channa dal provides the characteristic grainy chutney-texture, and the lemon juice rounds it off with a tangy hurrah!

What do you think, D?  To Tahiti then?

Mama's Moong Dal

Somehow, I just can't seem to get this dal to taste like mama's. I've probably been making it for 10 years now and try as I may, I just can't seem to match it. Mine's not bad, but hers just tastes infinitely better. I use the same ingredients, I follow the same recipe, but I still don't quite get there. I can't figure out why or what she does differently. Maybe there's je ne sais quoi in it. Maybe it's just because it's my mama's.

It's the same sort of illogical logic why as a child, food tasted better when mama fed me with her fingers than it did from a spoon. Apparently, I didn't eat as a child unless she fed me (I more than make up for it now, trust me). And as the story goes, my grandmother needed to resort to gimmicks such as standing in front of a mirror with me in her arms, one hand holding a spoon to my mouth, the other pointing to the mirror and saying, "see, that baby is eating, you also eat!"

I don't really remember this, you know, but I do remember, that ever since I was little, one of my favourite dishes in the world remains mama's yellow dal. Tasty, nutritious and easy to make, this is one of her trademark dishes, one that she is not allowed to leave without making, whether she visits for two days or two months.
"What shall I make?" she asks several times during her visits.
No brainer. "Yellow dal!" I reply.
"Again?" she asks, hands on her hips, brown eyes smiling with laughter, the way hers do.
But the she promptly goes into the kitchen and gets started on her labour of love, emerging some time later with a "it's done, want to taste?"
And I run giddily into the kitchen with childlike excitement. I lift the lid of the pot and am greeted with an aroma that makes my taste-buds tingle in anticipation. And then, I "taste." I serve myself large ladlefuls of this hearty, creamy, wholly-satisfying yellow lentil stew and feel like I am five again.

It's funny how certain tastes come back to visit you again and again, at different points in your life. I guess we've named them "cravings." Food-mad that I am, interestingly, I only had one craving through my entire pregnancy (lebanese shawarma in my fourth month, if you're curious), but in the few weeks after the baby came, my eating habits took on a life of their own (two new lives, just what we need). I'm not a picky eater - in fact there's nothing that I won't try - but in those days, for some reason, my body wanted very specific foods - familiar, comfort foods - the kind I'd grown up with. It was tough in those early days with all my energy and my sole (soul) focus dedicated to the wellbeing of the little life I'd just created. I felt I deserved a gold medal on the days I was able to work in a 10 minute shower, let alone cook the stuff I wanted to eat.
Luckily for me, mama was here. And as I fed my baby, she fed hers.

So, without further ado, I present to you, verbatim from mama, her Moong Dal:

- 1 large cup moong dal
- 2-3 medium sized tomatoes
- 1 tspn ground turmeric powder
- 1 tspn red chilli powder
- 2 tspn jeera powder
- 2 tspn oil
- 1 tspn sugar
- Salt to taste

For 'tarka/phoron' :
- 1 tspn whole jeera
- 5-6 pods garlic, peeled and thinly sliced

Dry fry the moong dal till you get the delicious, appetite-whetting aroma of roasting seeds. Be carefull not to burn, a light toasting is all you need. Cut the tomatoes into small pieces. Scarily, the perfectionist that she is, my mother's tomatoes are cut into identical small pieces. Rest assured, mine are not! (I mean they all get mulched in the pressure cooker anyway, so what's the point?). Boil the dal, together with tomatoes and all the spice powders, salt, and a little oil in about 4 cups of water. Boiling is best done in a pressure cooker for 3-4 whistles. Mix the dal well when ready. Add the sugar.  Finally, prepare the tarka by frying the whole jeera and garlic slices in oil, until light brown in colour. Add the tarka to the dal.

Lesson Learnt: If the dal is too thick and you prefer a thinner consistency, add boiling water to dilute it. On one of my early attempts, I unknowingly added cold water from the tap and had to go through hoops to rescue my dish! 

The secret behind the distinctive flavour and the nutty, warm aroma of this dal lies in the tarka (or phoron as the Bengali's would call it) of jeera and garlic. Jeera or cumin is a wonderful spice, apparently the second most popular spice in the world, after black pepper. These little seeds might look unassuming, but as you will realise, they pack a punch when it comes to flavour. I always use whole cumin for my tarka as it tends to be far more flavourful than its powdered form, and adds that teeny bit of crunch to my dal. This, combined with the earthiness of the burnt garlic as it fries in your pan, is the essence of your tarka, and really, this dish.

The dal, when it's ready, is a wholesome and complete meal in itself. Serve with rice, papads and if you like - some hot mango pickle.

Simplicity never tasted so good. I can promise you'll love it, but I can't promise the je ne se quoi, that might just be a mama thing!

Uday Park Chicken

I am so excited that Arjun and Radhika are moving back to London. Arjun is Sid's first cousin and Radhika is his wife, which I suppose, would make her my cousin-sister-in-law?! Anyway, so they were here briefly at around the same time I moved to London from the US (for love).  And with all the excitement of new job, new city, new life, new love (but then, that one never gets old)...sadly we didn't get to hang out nearly enough before they returned to India. Well - I'm REALLY excited you guys are headed back because one of the times we did  hang out was when you were kind enough to invite us to dinner to your immaculately kept flat in St. John's Wood. And, that meal is high, high up in my list of memorable foodie encounters (Hint, hint.)

The night progressed somewhat like this:

"I don't know how to cook, hanh, I'm warning you guys, I'm very bad...Arjun cooks much better..." was her opening line. No hi, how are you, huggie, kissie etc. Straight to the point, a girl after my own heart.
Radhika looks, by the way, like the Kareena Kapoor of the Yuva days (this is a compliment), and her pretty face looked visibly worried.
Naturally, Sid and I dismissed her concerns with the obligatory "I'm sure it'll be great," coupled-with-polite-smile combo. But then, equally naturally, her statement made me utterly curious about what she, "Ms. I'm a very bad cook,"  had cooked.

As Arjun, the bartender-cum-better-cook (allegedly), made us a (woah, strong) drink, Radhika started laying the table. If memory serves me right, I counted about 6 large dishes.
"Are you feeding all of St. John's Wood?" I asked her.
"No ya," our heroine replied, frowning with concern. "It's nothing. I really don't know how to cook, I hope its okay!"

Okay?? Haha. Talk about understatements.
You know, having married into a Punjabi family, I have learnt that there a few spheres of life where the Punjabis will never let you down. Ever.
1) The party-till-you-drop-absolute-and-unmatchable-fun at their weddings
2) The potency of their drinks
3) The taste of their food

As far as Arjun and Radhika are concerned, I was fortunate enough to vouch for #1 a few years ago, and now I was getting the opportunity to put #'s 2 and 3 to the test. And I, wholeheartedly, stick by my list! The less said about the potency of my drink, the better (Arjun, don't know about better cook, but you're a mighty good bartender). And, Kareena-of-the-Yuva-days, your food that night was brilliant!

It is one dish in particular that I am writing about, not only because it was soooo good, but also because as I was serving myself, it looked vaguely familiar. Which was odd, considering we had never tasted Radhika's cooking before.
But with the first scrumptious biteful, there it was - instant recognition, if there is such a thing.
I looked at her in surprise - "Is this Ammi's chicken?"
She smiled, looking relaxed for the first time that evening, "Have you had it before? Ya, it's Dadiji's"

Dadiji to her, Ammi to me - this recipe belongs to that wonderful woman who I wish was still around to read this. She was legendary, not only in her cooking, but as a person. Larger than life, full of energy, I am yet to meet someone with more Joie de vivre; she loved going out, she loved dressing up, she loved good food, and she loved us.

And so, this is for all the good times we had with you and because of you. With love.

Here's how you do it.

- 6 chicken breast fillets (roughly 800g)
- 6 onions
- 1 tbsp ginger-garlic paste
- 2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
- 2 tbsp garam masala powder
- 1 tbsp ground black pepper
- Salt, to taste
- Butter

Marinate the chicken with W. sauce, ginger-garlic paste and garam masala for 4-5 hours or overnight. Saute onions until browned, add marinated chicken and cook over low heat until the chicken is cooked through. Now, the "naughty bit" (as Ammi would say) - add a little butter to a pan, add the pepper, the salt and the cooked chicken. Serve with rice or a side of french fries. Finger-licking delicious!

Ammi, I would have called this recipe "Ammi's chicken"
But it's more than that now. It is Radhika's, and now it is mine. 
And so I have named it for the place where I tasted this dish for the first time, the place you loved and called home.  This is "Uday Park Chicken"
And something tells me, you would prefer it this way.

To the Girls of Sophia High School

A big thank you to all my Sophia girls for your many messages to me in anticipation of this. Thank you for the words of encouragement, and thank you for sharing your memories - you took me back 21 years, to a truly special time and place in my life. I don't know if this particular post is about the samosas or the memories, but I hope you enjoy both. Miss you all.

I joined Sophia's in 1990, in the Sixth Standard when my father was transfered from Madras (now Chennai) to Bangalore (now Bengaluru). My class was the corner room on the ground floor of the Mater (now Cuvilly) Building. My class teacher was Sister Mary Ranita (thankfully, still unchanged from Sister Mary Ranita). And I was petrified of her. I was petrified of everything actually. Sophia's - when I joined - petrified me.

There were girls everywhere. I wasn't used to girls everywhere. In Madras, I had gone to a co-ed. Two sections, twelve to a section, eight boys, four girls. There were so few of us girls that I think we became honorary boys. We wore shorts and climbed trees and played cricket.  At Sophia's - three sections, thirty to a section, all girls. So, there were girls everywhere. And I had no choice but to be a girl. And I was petrified.

Everything else was different too. Much stricter, much more formal. You had to stand up before and after a class started as the teachers came in and left. You had to memorise and recite prayers - there were prayers to help you in your studies and prayers to make you brave and prayers before a sports game. You had to sing songs together about love and truth and suchkind. At my old school, they didn't care if your socks "weren't pulled up" or your hemline "wasn't pulled down." Here, my hemline became a constant source of distress for the nuns - "Pull down your skirt, my girl" Sister Ranita used to say to me, almost every day, "Doesn't your mummy know how to stitch??"

But what was hardest for me was that everyone already had their friends. During tea break, the girls would break off into their "groups" chattering loudly about this and that as they headed together to the Tuck Shop to buy munchies to share. The same thing happened at lunch. Everyone was always very polite but no one invited me to join them. I was simply "the new girl." I ate alone in that corner classroom on the ground floor of Mater Building every day that first week, the tomboy in me refusing to cry even though on the inside, I had never felt more miserable.

And then, out of nowhere, in my second week, I got a peace offering. One of the girls - I know you're reading this, and I think you know who you are - bought me an onion samosa at tea break. I had never eaten an onion samosa before. So far, I was accustomed to the more traditional samosas, large and doughy with a half-mashed-potato filling. This one was different - a thin, crisp, perfectly shaped triangle filled with spiced onions. I smiled as I accepted it, and we both ate our samosas together, sitting on the "stage" in front of Duschene Building, our legs dangling down. The samosa was fantastic, the conversation flowed easily and
for the first time in a long time, I was happy. The next day, I bought two samosas, and offered her one. This slowly became a regular ritual and tea break became defined by samosas and chats. Slowly, others started joining in and before I knew it, I was in a "group," standing in line at the Tuck Shop, swapping homework and lunches, waxing lyrical about Tom Cruise, waxing (a bit less) lyrical about cute real boys, partnering up in chem lab, meeting on the weekends at Mac Fast Food and Casa Piccola followed by HCF at Corner House...(do they still do this bowl of heavenly wonderful-ness?)

And as they say, time flies when you're having fun. So in what seems like the blink of an eye, my high school years had passed and we were at our very-solemn 10th Standard Graduation ceremony listening to the "Happiness is a Butterfly" speech and biting our knuckles to stop from laughing out loud. The end of an era. But there we were, all grown-up and elegant in white sarees, signing slambooks and making promises to keep in touch forever - "A ring is round, it has no end. That's how long I'll be your friend."
I think some of us have. It was that kind of friendship.

And for me, it all began with a samosa.

Here's the recipe:

- 3 onions, chopped lengthwise
- 1 tsp red chilli powder
- 1 tsp ground coriander powder
- 1 tsp ground cumin powder
- A pinch of turmeric powder
- Salt, to taste
- Pastry sheets

I am cheating a little and using pastry sheets (Pepperidge Farm, Jus-Rol, Borg's - they all work!) instead of making the dough from scratch, but it's frankly just easier this way. I'm more than happy to share the purist option with anyone who wants it, so please feel free to email me. And while I’m positive the Sophia’s ones were deep fried, pastry sheets give you the option to bake if you prefer, with only a small compromise on taste. I'm doing both methods below.

Heat 1tsp of oil in a pan and fry the chopped onion with all the powders for a few minutes until soft. Set aside and allow the spiced onion mixture to cool. 

Separate the pastry sheets with a piece of plastic wrap between each. Thaw the sheets at room temperature for about 30-40 minutes. Unfold the sheets on a lightly floured board, countertop or pastry cloth and cut into small triangular shapes. If the pastry becomes too soft or hard to work with, chill it in the refrigerator for a few minutes. Top the onion mixture onto one of the triangles, cover with a second triangle, and seal the edges by pinching or pressing together with your fingertips. Repeat this for as many samosas as you want to make.

Baking:
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Place all your samosas on a flat ungreased pan and bake at 400 degrees F for about 10-12 minutes. To turn pastries a deep golden-brown, brush tops with a mixture of 1 egg yolk and 1 teaspoon water just before baking. The samosas cook quickly, especially if you’ve cut a thin layer of the pastry, so check progress at the halfway point. Remove when the samosas are crispy and turn a deep golden-brown.

Deep Frying:
Heat oil in a deep pan, and deep fry samosas until golden brown.

And as I crunch my way through these delicious, crispy samosas, the memories overwhelm me. I emailed a few classmates while writing this to ask if they remembered what subject a certain teacher taught. In her reply, one of them remarked "it's scary how much you forget." True, but it's also scary how much you remember. For while some memories have faded, others remain so clear, that when I close my eyes, I can feel them. And so, just for fun and in no particular order, here are my personal top 10 memories of Sophia's:

1) The neat brown and white checked uniforms, especially the universally loved chocolate-brown wrap around sports skirt - very sexy, no kidding.

2) Music lessons taught by one of two men in the entire school (the other was the PE instructor), Ashley Williams - God bless you, how did you put up with us?? And K and S - I hope you are still singing, no one sings better than the two of you.

3) Fainting, on Sports Day while standing at attention during 'March Past', waiting for the Chief Guest to arrive, customarily late.

4) Practicing for interschool competitions - elocution, debate and "what's the good word" (UM and SS - we kicked some serious St. Josephs bu**!!)

5) Imitating the wonderfully musical Malayali Christian lilt of our nuns. And getting thrown out of class for doing it.

6) Reciting "Our Father in Heaven" at Assembly every morning. To this day, it is the first prayer that comes to mind when I close my eyes to pray.

7) Mrs. Ponnappa, you taught me to love words, Mrs. Sen, I was so scared of you, I can probably still draw a perfect India on a TTK map in 5 minutes! Mrs. Belliapa of 7B, you go down for the loveliest historian in History; Mrs. Shivram, you made Maths fun (and that is really saying something); Mrs. Narayan, you taught me that Chemistry is cleverer than I will ever be; Mrs Sharma, meri Hindi abhi bhi nahi sudhri...  And so many more of our teachers, I remember you all. I may not remember your subjects, but I remember your faces, and in the grand scheme of things, I think that's the more important one. Thank you for making me a lady.

8) The Sophia Girls - You are too many to name, but you are in my thoughts, all of you. The times spent together, both inside and outside the classroom, remain among the happiest of my life.

9) Barat House. We always came last on Sports Day. But still, proud to have worn the RED badge! Go Barat!

10) And finally - aggregating daily at break time at the Tuck Shop. Try hard enough and I can still taste all those goodies: pink tuck - gooey, obscenely sweet and sort of flavourless; coconut tuck - same deal, but apparently with a coconut flavour (?!); stick ice-cream - orange and mango and grape - invariably leaving the corresponding colours on your tongue, sweet popcorn and 'khara' popcorn, hot and freshly made; 50 paise red boiled sweets, distributed by all as birthday treats....and of course, my favourite, honest-to-god-yet-to-taste-better, The Famous Sophia High School Onion Samosa.

I have to end this by admitting (to my great chagrin) that until he read this blog a few minutes ago, my husband of almost four years thought my old school was called "Sapphire High School." Now, he won't stop with the old "Oooh its SOFIA..." :(

Beat the Heat!

Today's note is short and sweet (literally) to make up for tomorrow's, which is considerably longer and much sweeter (but only metaphorically. Stay tuned - Sophia's Girls!!)...

So anyway, it's 30 degrees and HOT. And there's no ice-cream on this island.
At least, there's no ice-cream worth writing about. We ventured out to charming English Harbour a few days ago and gave their ice-cream a go. Let's put it this way - I offered my 7 month old a spoonful of the stuff and he made a face. This is from someone who eats mashed up broccoli with a smile. Hmm. My grandmother always says - if you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. So, mum's the word. Sid was brave enough to try it again today - different flavour this time. I took a lick from him and am keeping my vow of silence. Which sadly does nothing to beat the heat.

So home I come, and make my own. Give it a go!

- 3 eggs
- 2 cups heavy cream
- Sugar, to your taste
- 1/2 cup blueberries (or any other fruit you like - passionfruit, cut mangoes, oranges, peaches, strawberries...)

You need three separate bowls. Combine one whole egg and two egg yolks in the largest bowl. Combine the egg whites from the two eggs into another bowl. To the first bowl, add sugar and beat with an electric whisker for 5 minutes until the mixture is light and fluffy. Separately beat the cream in your last bowl until thick and fluffy. Add to the egg and sugar mixture. Mix well. Beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt until they are stiff and gently fold into the ice-cream mixture. Put into a metal container and cover with foil. Allow 4-5 hours to set. Top with blueberries!

Endorsed by my 7 month old.

Non Such Bowl

Picture this:

You wake up in the morning to sunlight streaming in through the sheer white curtains in your bedroom. You sit up and sneak a glimpse outside as the curtains flutter open, dancing to the gentle breeze. Beyond is the vast blue-ness of the Caribbean Sea, glittering gold in the sun. White specks dot the horizon, one of the many sailboats anchored at sea, in preparation for Sailing Week. You walk out of the bedroom, make yourself a cup of coffee and step outside onto the patio. The tiles feel cool to your bare feet, yesterday's swimsuits lie out on the chairs, drying in the sun in happy, cheerful colours. You hear nothing, except for the rustling of the palm trees in the balmy island breeze, and in the distance, the sound of the waves, as they roll in, one by one, to kiss the sandy shoreline, "Goodmorning"
"Goodmorning" you say to yourself.
Another glorious day in Non Such Bay.
Just the thing for Non Such Bowl.

Here's how you do it:

- 2 mangoes, peeled and cut into cubes. As I've said before, always Alphonso, if you can find them!

- 2 bananas, peeled and sliced

- 1 small fresh pineapple, cut into chunks

- 2 oranges, peeled and sectioned

- 2 kiwi fruit, peeled and sliced

- 1 cup seedless black grapes, halved

- 2 passion fruit, halved

- Zest of 1 whole lemon

- 1/2 cup coconut, grated and toasted

- 1/4 cup light rum

Any light rum will do, but I am using Wray & Nephew white rum. Native to Jamaica, this crystal-clear rum  gets soaked up beautifully by the fruit, lending a lovely rum-punchy flavour to my fruit salad. And it's never too early for Rum Punch when you're in the Caribbean!

Start by preparing the fruit. To stop the banana from going brown, squeeze the lemon juice over it. Mix all the fruits, except the passion fruit and the coconut, together in a glass bowl. Pour the rum over the fruit and mix it well. Scoop out the seeds from the passion fruit and top the remaining fruit with it for a wonderful tangy crunchiness when you take your first bite. I would allow the fruit salad to sit for a good 30 minutes for the flavour of the rum to really soak in. Finally, sprinkle the toasted coconut over the salad just before you are ready to serve.

Toasting the coconut:
You can buy toasted coconut ready-made from the store, but just in case you can't find it, it's easy to do yourself.  Buy fresh, grated coconut which is more readily available. Preheat your broiler, and place the grated coconut on a foil sheet under the broiler for 1 minute. Toss to make sure the coconut is evenly toasted. Remove when you start to smell the rich aroma of roasting coconut as the sugars begin to caramelise. Thats all!

While your fruit is soaking up the rum, walk a few steps out, onto the beach. Throw away your slippers. Feel the powdery, golden softness of the sand on your toes.  Look out onto the horizon where sky melts into sea in a one-ness of azure blue. Walk up to the water and sit down on the sand. Hug your knees as the shimmering waves lap at your ankles, cooling you instantly. Close your eyes and listen to the sounds of the sea.
Take it all in, every last bit of the stunning tranquil haven that is Non Such Bay.

When you are ready to come back, (IF you are ever ready to come back), head to your patio where the shadows play games in the sunlight. Pick up your fruit salad and dig in.
Take it all in, every last bit of the delicious fruity freshness that is Non Such Bowl.