Calcutta Egg Rolls

The weather is flirting with me today. One minute the sky is ominously dark and grey, and it’s chucking it down, as if rain’s going to go out of fashion, and then, as soon as I turn my back, it’s sunny again.

Whatever it is, this game of hide-and-seek makes for one of those lazy days when you don’t feel like doing anything at all. I need to sort out dinner though, and it has to be something easy. No marinating or grinding or simmering or standing for hours in front of the stove. No spices, no mess and no clean-up. So, here is the best example of taste without effort that I can think of:  These are Calcutta Egg Rolls.

Here’s what you need:

- Tortillas

- Eggs (1 egg for each tortilla)

- 1 tbsp milk (per egg)

- 1 red onion, thinly sliced

- Green chillies, chopped (as many as you like, for as hot as you like)

- ¼ cucumber, peeled and thinly sliced

- Lemon juice

- Pudina (mint) chutney, imli (tamarind) chutney or plain tomato ketchup

- Salt, to taste

Beat the eggs in a bowl, add milk (to make them fluffy), and add salt to taste. Smear a griddle or frying pan with little oil and pour the egg mixture. Spread it out in a circle.

Before the egg cooks fully, place a tortilla on top. Then, when you start to notice the edges of the egg browning, flip the tortilla over, so the egg-side is on the upside. Give it a couple of seconds for the under-side to brown.

Remove and assemble the filing on the egg-side.  The standard filing for a Calcutta egg roll consists of red onions, chopped green chillies and cucumber, all thinly sliced and sprinkled liberally with lemon juice. Add some of the chutneys to the filling, if you have them, or if not, tomato ketchup does the trick beautifully.

Roll, wrap it up in foil and tear as you bite your way through.

Super, super easy and super, super delicious!

Egg rolls are of course wildly reminiscent of Calcutta’s dusty streets, where the ubiquitous egg-roll walahs sit on street corners serving up their wares piping hot off the griddle. The best can be found at Kusum on Park Steet, Campari at Gariahat or Nizams, behind New Market (Nizams, I believe is where the Kathi Roll originated to begin with). Taste-wise, mine will pale in comparison to theirs. There is that special something about street food that makes it so good – I don’t know what it is, but really, perhaps in this case, ignorance is bliss.

Anyhow, writing about egg rolls has stirred up a deep longing for Calcutta that’s tugging at my heart strings. For it is the city of my birth.

By the way, I just can’t get myself to call it Kolkata. It’s perfectly acceptable when I’m speaking Bengali. But it’s mighty odd when I hear people referring to the city as “Kolkata” in an otherwise perfectly constructed English sentence. It seems unnatural to me, as much so as I would expect my German friend Romy to puff up her chest and declare, “I’m from Deutschland!”

So – really people –it’s Calcutta. Pronounced, if you like, with the border-line pretentious-Loreto-House-anglicised-lilt: “Calcaata”

Anyway, Calcutta is really the only city I know of that does not produce a binary reaction (love it or hate it). In fact, when people speak of Calcutta, you hear a term I’ve never really heard applied to anyone or anything else – “It grows on you,” they say.

Lord knows what that means.

But I? I just love Calcutta.

I never lived there long enough to ever call it home. And yet, I feel a great kinship to it.

Why, you ask?

I don’t know, is the honest answer.

Perhaps it’s because it is the city where my father first romanced my mother

Perhaps it’s because it is where I spent so many memorable childhood days with my grandmother in her New Alipur flat

Or perhaps, as the daughter of a Bengali mother, I just have Calcutta in my blood.

Don’t get me wrong – Calcutta has no dearth of the filth and squalor which sadly characterizes most big cities in India today. But still...whatever it is, I love it.

To me, there’s something utterly romantic and old school about it – like a place stuck in time.

Perhaps it’s the architecture: The Calcutta High Court, Writer’s building, the GPO, The Grand Hotel, the numerous buildings around Maidan Park and Dalhousie Square. These are perhaps some of the finest example of British imperial architecture one can ever see. Sadly, a number of these so called “Heritage Buildings” remain in various stages of dilapidation, blackened with dirt and grime owing to years of neglect and disrepair, defaced by rows of ugly electrical cables and posters of politicians with fake smiles and folded “namaste” hands. Yet, despite all this, there is something to be said for the glorious marble façade of Victoria Memorial at dusk, the dome lit up against the darkening sky, it’s rotating bronze winged angel calling out to twilight lovers meeting secretly in the shadows…

Or is it the people? Take for example, the Bengalis’ sitting on their verandahs clad in their dhoti-kurtas, engaged happily in animated discussion over endless cups of tea. Observe carefully and it’s none of this boiled-milk-and-tea-leaf-Masala Chai business (much as I love Masala Chai) – it’s perfectly brewed Assam or Darjeeling in a teapot (adorned with tea cosy), milk and sugar in separate containers, all served neatly in a tea service, English style. The discussions are really on any topic under the sun, and more often than not, for no reason other than the sake of debate. It is a rare sight in the world, this – people engaging in conversation with each other, in no perceivable rush to get anywhere. For these are a people strangely unmotivated by economics, choosing to live their lives in pursuit of some other-worldly happiness. Go figure.

There is more of course. Much, much more, but Calcutta is hard for me to write about. My memories of the city are disjointed, stitched together like patchwork from various sources including stories from my mother and my grandmother, old photographs and letters, snippets of my own memories from visits over the years...Sadly, the imagery is inextricably jumbled.

But here it is, in the spirit of creative writing – I give you the essence of Calcutta as it exists in my mind, muddled no doubt, but still beloved: hard boiled eggs at picnics in Alipore Zoological park; Park Street glittering at Christmas time, decked out with silver stars and fairy lights; the bearer at Tolly Club who’s been there ever since I was born (at least) and always recognises me with a “Gopal Babar mei na ki;” the Bengali peoples’ undying love for all things intellectual, their penchant for art and culture and music and education; the peculiar obsession with all things British; the street hawkers selling everything from newspapers to lychees to fresh vegetables to stainless steel cutlery; the faint strains of Rabindra Sangeet playing on All India Radio from a neighbours house; women in flowery nighties, foreheads adorned with large red bindis standing by their gates, waving goodbye to school going children and working husbands; the vibrancy and fervour with which the city comes alive during Durga Puja; Rum-soaked plum cake from Nahoum's, the Bengali habit of always carrying umbrellas, regardless of whether its raining or not – and as an extension – the endearing Bengali way of crossing the road (rotate open umbrella sideways, shade-side out, stick it in the face on oncoming traffic and cross)...

And the FOOD. My god, the food! Whether its momos on Lee Road, Indian Chinese in Tangra, Mutton Patties at Fluries, or Pineapple pastry at Kathleens, Calcutta offers – in my objective view – the best cross section of food in the country. I will hand it to Delhi for the best Mughlai, but really Shiraz and Dhaba will not disappoint even the most Punjabi Punjabi. I even remember on one visit, being dragged by my grandmother to some South Indian restaurant (Raj?) for Dosa. My parents lived in Madras at the time and I didn't know why I was being taken for Dosa when I lived in the Land of Dosa. 

“Why are we going for Dosa, Didima, I can get Dosa in Madras any time I want” I would ask.

“The Dosa in South India is hopeless dear,” she would reply solemnly.

“But Didima, Dosas come from South India”

To which she would roll her beautiful hazel-green eyes and repeat with infinite patience – “I know dear. But they’re hopeless.”  

And then you have the sweets. Even I, born evidently without a sweet tooth, find it hard resist the sweets of Calcutta. So – Mishti doi, Roshoglla, Chomchom, Shondesh, Rajbhog, Pantua, Pithe, Payesh...bring it on! Of course, if you are lucky enough to be invited to a Bengali home, authentic Bengali food is distinctive enough and numerous enough to fill volumes. Apt subject matter for a subsequent post...or many!

For now, enjoy the egg rolls – perhaps the most famous street food offered by this charming metropolis with its indomitable spirit, that truly does grow on you.

Butterfly Kisses

“Nobody can ever love you as much as I do.” Sid said to me on our wedding night. He was right. Until today.

Today, somebody proved him wrong.

Today, Ranbir gave me my first kiss.

It is often said that the first kiss – the romantic one – is the most unforgettable one.  Very, very true. But having just experienced this one, I gotta tell you, it comes pretty close. I feel like I have just died and gone to heaven.

I’ve asked for kisses before, many times. I’ve asked for them ever since Ranbir started responding to being kissed. Whenever he seems in the mood, I start with his cheeks, planting big loud kisses on both sides and then, I bury my whole face into his neck, kissing him under his ears and below his chin, making him squeal with toothless baby giggles that I just can’t seem to get enough of. And then I ask him hopefully – “mama kissy?”

But I never get one. Until today, that is.

Ranbir is an affectionate child. He loves baby cuddles, wrapping his arms tightly around my neck, rubbing his head against my face. He loves sitting on my lap, while we play “tuk tuk horsey,” turning back to look at me every now and again with his big brown eyes, just to make sure I'm still there. He loves being held in my arms as I put on some music and dance all around the room with him. But he hasn’t been one to kiss.

I figured that either he didn’t know how to physically do it, or he didn’t understand what I wanted or perhaps he was just plain shy, not interested in such a palpable gesture of affection.

Sometimes, when I put my face right up against his little mouth, he opens it as if to eat my cheek, making it not much different to any other object that comes near his mouth – toys, my mobile phone, his toes. Special? Not really.

But today? Today is different. He is sitting quietly in his rocker, watching me as I read the newspaper. I steal a quick glance at him and, he looks back, steadily holding my gaze. When he sees me look at him, he breaks into the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. On a whim, I get up and crouch down on the floor, beside him, put my face next to his and ask – “mama kissy?”

And there it is. Looking straight into my eyes, my little baby turns his face to mine, and gives me a kiss, right there in the middle of my cheek. It isn’t an attempt to eat me, it isn’t a slobbery lick, it is a proper kiss. A baby kiss.

It feels soft, gentle – like a whisper on my skin. A Butterfly Kiss. And I sit there, motionless, on my haunches, too moved to do anything. There are some moments in life when words fail us. This is one of them.

He, on the other hand, knows exactly what he’s done; the significance of this precious gift he’s given me. He’s sitting waggling his fat legs, looking delighted with himself.

When I regain my wits, I need to leave the room for a second, close the door, savour the private glow within me, just by myself.  I come back and stare at him, this child, who is part Sid and part me. I can’t yet find the words for the feelings his kiss evoked. But this is 100%, without a shadow of a doubt, one of those moments that make it all worth it.

I have had Ranbir for only 8 months now, but it’s hard to imagine life without him. The beginning was hard, but it passed. Quickly. And among all the glorious milestones in between those first 12 weeks and today, the marvellous unfolding of new discoveries – this one is my favourite.

I wonder if Ranbir will ever know how he made me feel today.

So, this is for him. It has honey for its exquisite sweetness, pecans for the hint of surprise, oats for the crumbly, crusty play of textures, vanilla for that gentle, whispering touch of flavour and raspberries for that final burst of pleasure.

Put it all together, and you get: Butterfly Kisses

Here’s how you do it:

Raspberry Filling

- 2-½ cups raspberries

- 1 tablespoon corn starch (optional)

- 1/2 cups sugar (less if you prefer your dessert tart)

- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Topping

- 1 cup all-purpose flour

- 1/2 cups honey

- 1/3 cups oats

- 1/4 cups pecans, chopped

- ½ cup butter

- Dash of salt

Preheat oven to 175 degrees C.
In a medium bowl, combine raspberries, corn starch, 1/2 cup sugar, and vanilla extract. Stir and set aside. Adding cornstarch gives berries body, as berries often have a tendency to get soggy while cooking. I personally use a little less sugar than the 1/2 cup written here - but I love the balance of the tart raspberries with the sweet, crispy topping; it's personal preference really, so go ahead and try what works best for you.

In a separate bowl (or directly in a food processor) combine flour, 1/4 cup sugar, brown sugar, oats, pecans, dash of salt, and butter pieces. Pulse in a food processor until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

Add the berry mixture to a small baking dish. Sprinkle topping mixture all over the top. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until topping is golden brown.

Allow to sit for ten minutes before serving. Scoop out with a spoon and top with vanilla ice cream.

There you have it: A crispy, crumbly, golden brown topping sitting atop warm, gooey, zingy berries, spreading a delicious warmth across your mouth that will make you tingle.

I waited 8 months for my baby to give me a Butterfly Kiss – It was his language of love.

Warm, zingy, sweet, fruity, crisp, and miraculous – This is mine.

Sidharth's Butter Chicken

"Amrita, puh-lease," my friend Aarti says to me, raising her eyebrows in disbelief of the question asked. "I hope you are joking."

I look at her confused. I am, you see, confused. It's the summer of '07 and I've just met a man who makes my heart lurch every time I see him. I've never felt this way before and I don't know what to do with him. So I make him meet Aarti. And then I ask her what she thinks of him. To which she raises her eyebrows in disbelief and says "Amrita, puh-lease."

Which really doesn't give me too much to go on.

"Carry on!" I say despondently, "What do you think?"

She sighs. Gives me a look. That look. "Have you totally lost the plot?” she asks me out of genuine concern.

I shake my head tentatively.

“Oh come on dude,” she says impatiently. “I've known you for years now. Everyone else you've dated all your life, and I mean everyone else - is yellow daal. This one is butter chicken."

Aah. Enlightenment. I feel like Buddha under the Bodhi tree. Which is all very apt considering the man we are discussing is called Sidharth.

For if there is any other being (human or otherwise) on this earth, other than myself, who gets as giddily excited about food, it's Aarti. So her analogy speaks volumes. It’s saying the same thing as my heart, except in a language I can understand. This one is a keeper.

Four years and one baby butter chicken later, I am glad I followed my heart. Because it continues to lurch every evening when the key turns in the door, and Sid is about to walk in. Still. Always. 

Now, all that aside, butter chicken has a very special place in my heart and for reasons that go back long before Sid came into my life. It was an integral part of my growing-up years, woven tightly into the fabric of some of the happiest memories of my childhood.

Every family, I think, has that one thing they do together, that one thing that slowly, over the years, becomes ritualistic. It could be eating breakfast together every morning, or watching a movie on Friday evenings, or going back to a favourite holiday spot every year. It could be a dish or an activity or an interest. Whatever it is, it becomes a cohesive part of your family life, at the core of all your memories. You begin to own it.

For my family, it was Sunday lunch. Every Sunday, come rain or shine, we would go out to lunch as a family. It gave the cook a break and it gave us the opportunity to celebrate together before the hectic school-work-week started again. No one made other plans on Sunday afternoons – this was our “family time,” as sacred as they come. We looked forward to it all week, everything to do with it – taking out our nice "going out" clothes, my mom looking beautiful all dressed up, my dad complimenting her adoringly, the drive to the restaurant in our cream coloured Ambassador, being greeted at the entrance by the friendly staff, entering the air conditioned, cavernous space, being escorted to our table all set up with starched white linen and gleaming cutlery, sitting down on the plush chairs, excitedly looking through the menus, animatedly deciding what we were going to eat...It was no big deal, but it was ours. And we never tired of it!

  

Food-wise, we would alternate between Indian and Chinese. This is India of the '80's remember - 1 TV channel, 1 domestic airline, 3 flavours of ice-cream and 2 choices of restaurant food – Indian or Chinese. Which was really absolutely fine if you don’t know any different! I especially didn’t mind, given that my lunchtime menu rarely ever changed. Chinese meant garlic chicken and noodles and Indian meant butter chicken, naan and raita. Always. Every Sunday. For years. We would only need to walk into the restaurant and the waiter taking our order would ask "...and the usual for baby?"  

Which is all a happy coincidence considering that one of the first stories Sid shared with me when we started dating was how, as a little boy, butter chicken was his “best food in the world” and how he could eat it “for breakfast, lunch and dinner.” Of course, this didn’t really surprise me. Most Indian kids love butter chicken – what’s there not to love? It’s creamy, mild, tangy and fantastically flavourful (thanks mostly to the butter from which it gets its name).

What did surprise me was that as I got to know him better, first as my boyfirned, then as my fiance and finally as my husband, I realised that it is still his “best food in the world” and – quite amazingly – he can still eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  

Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Sid is a Delhi boy, as Punjab da puttar as they come. And butter chicken is Punjab's National Bird. Haha. Seriously though, legend has it that butter chicken (or Murgh Makhani) originated in the 1950's at the Moti Mahal restaurant in Delhi. Famed for its Tandoori Chicken, the cooks at Moti Mahal started to recycle the leftover chicken juices in the marinade trays by adding butter and tomato. The sauce was then tossed around with the tandoor-cooked chicken pieces and presto - Butter Chicken was ready! 

So, maybe it's really quite natural for my Dilli-wala Dilwala to want butter chicken equally passionately at 3 or 30.  

Well. Sucks to be him. Because all the heart lurching notwithstanding, I don't make butter chicken very often. It's not because it’s hard to make – it’s not really. It’s because somehow butter chicken is one of those dishes that is always associated with eating out. Perhaps it’s because the traditional way of making it involves cooking the chicken in a tandoor-oven, which most people don’t have at home. Or perhaps it’s because of all the butter and cream that goes into it that makes one all huffy about making it at home. Funny how we proudly boast about our non-stick, oil-free cooking at home, but we’re quite happy to stuff our faces - and our arteries – outside, without a care in the world! I have no idea what the logic behind this curiousness is, but I have to admit, I'm a sucker for it. And with butter chicken, it’s the cream and the butter that give the dish it’s dreamy, creamy texture. So therefore, it’s really impossible to skimp on them. So therefore, I don’t really make it much. So therefore, sucks to be him, I say.

Anyhoo, on Sid’s 30th birthday, the love overcame the guilt and it was butter chicken for birthday dinner. It was the first time I had cooked it at home, and boy was it a good choice! I’ve never seen his eyes light up like that before. So much love for the chicken, I was almost jealous. I could have bought him a brand new Aston Martin and he wouldn’t have been happier. Ok, that’s an exaggeration, but only partly. Because it was butter chicken for dinner (his, not mine) for seven straight days after that until he had finished every last bit. Which I don't understand (one bit). But which makes me feel incredibly flattered. So, really it was win-win.

How my tall, lean husband manages to consume such copious amounts of the stuff is beyond me. I would kill for that metabolism.

So, here it is. I’m making it again: this full flavoured, rich, tomato-based, holy grail of all chicken dishes. This is occasion dining for me, and today is my son's 8 month birthday. When you make it, try to eat it guilt-free – it's allowed once in a while, even at home!

Here’s how you do it:

- 500 grams boneless chicken, cut into cubes

- Juice of 1 lemon

- 1 cup plain yogurt

- 2 tsp ginger-garlic paste

- 1 1/2 tbsp tandoori masala

- 3 tbsp butter

- 2 cardamoms

- 1 cinnamon stick

- 2 cloves

- 1 can tomato puree

- 1 tspn garam masala powder

- 1 tspn red chilli powder

- 1 tbsp honey (or sugar)

- 1 tbsp dried fenugreek leaves (kasoori methi)

- 250 ml thick cream

- Salt, to taste

Marinate the chicken cubes in lemon juice, salt, chili powder, yogurt, ginger-garlic paste and tandoori powder overnight or at least for a few hours for the chicken to absorb all the flavours. When you are ready to cook the chicken, preheat the oven to your highest grill setting and grill for at least 10 minutes on each side or until cooked. Allow the chicken to cook until it just starts to char. This way, it stays moist and succulent even after it’s mixed in with the gravy

To prepare the makhani gravy, heat and melt the butter. Add the cardamoms, cinnamon sticks and cloves. Stir fry until you get the warm, crackling aroma of the cooking garam masala, and then add the tomato paste. Let the mixture simmer on low to medium heat, half covered, for about 15-20 minutes. You will notice the gravy will start to thicken. Add the rest of the ingredients as well as the grilled chicken and simmer for another 15 minutes. For a thicker and richer gravy, cashewnut paste (soak cashews in water for an hour or so and grind them) can be added while making the gravy – just fry it along with the spice powders. And – that’s it! Serve hot with naan.

For me, the most fun part about making this dish today is watching my son, watching my husband as he eats. They have identical eyes, my two boys, long-lashed and almond shaped. One set of eyes stares excitedly at the other, alight with wonderment and glee. The other shines back, twinkling with delight. It is one of those times when it’s hard to tell which set belong to whom.

Grimsvotn on a plate!

Apparently, we have ash cloud disruption again this year, thanks to Iceland's Grimsvotn volcano, which started erupting a few days ago. I'm cursing Grimsvotn's grim timing. Now, if only it had been considerate enough to time its eruption a mere couple of days earlier, I would have been stranded on the sandy shores of Antigua. But alas, such good fortune was not to be mine. Boo!

I’m being facetious of course. Apologies to the thousands stuck in airports all over the UK and Europe who don’t find my humour funny. But if this makes it any better – I was you last year, stuck for weeks (and not in Antigua), because of that other volcano with the unpronounceable name. And in precisely such times – when you’ve done everything you can, planned all those little details so meticulously...and then life throws a curve ball (or ash cloud in this case) your way, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it – sometimes, a good laugh is just what you need.

So, just for a good laugh and in the hope that all you stuck people get unstuck very soon, I’m making: Grimsvotn on a plate!

This is chocolate at its shiny best.  Pure, unadulterated, liquid decadence.

To be perfectly honest, I'm actually not that into chocolate. I neither require it, nor crave it. I'd really rather have apple crumble. But then every once in a blue moon when I want chocolate, I want chocolate. And nothing else will do. And when I want chocolate, I want the dark, bitter kind. Rich. Seductive. Almost Sinful. Today is that blue moon.  

And this is Chocolate Lava Cake.

For all you cocoa worshippers out there, this cake is about as perfect a dish as you can imagine. It looks innocent enough on the outside, almost like the top half of a muffin. Yawn. But on the inside?  On the inside, lies pure magic. Seducing you. Calling your name. Whispering secrets of dark desire and unspoken pleasures.

Try it:

  

- 200g semi-sweet chocolate. Cooking chocolate works, as does a dark chocolate bar. I use the Chocolate Society's Cooking Chocolate, 70% cocoa-filled little ovals of heaven!

- 125g butter, plus extra for greasing

- 25g plain flour, plus extra for dusting

- 2 eggs, plus 2 yolks

- 100g caster sugar

Break or chop the chocolate in a heat proof bowl. Add butter and set over a saucepan of simmering water until the chocolate is almost completely melted. While that's heating, beat together the eggs, the egg yolks and the sugar with a whisk or electric beater until light and thick (about 3 mins. by electric mix and 5-6 minutes with the whisk). Add the melted chocolate-butter mixture into the eggs. Sift in the flour and gently fold in, until well combined.

Butter and lightly flour four 4-ounce muffin molds, custard cups, or ramekins.  When buttering, coat the bottoms first, then butter the sides using upward strokes - this causes the chocolate to rise and also helps get the cakes out easier when baked. Tap out any excess flour.  Cocoa powder, incidentally, serves the same purpose as the flour – it makes no noticeable difference to the taste, but you do away with any risk of white residue on the finished product. Divide the batter among the molds until about 3/4 of the way full. Bake in a pre-heated oven at 180 C for 6 to 7 minutes until risen and just firm to the touch; the sides will be set, as in a brownie or muffin, but the centre will be liquid (check with a toothpick if you like). Invert each mold onto a plate and the cake should slip right out in a soft upside down U. Eat immediately after baking so the centres are still hot – the best way to enjoy the perfectly liquid melted chocolate core.

I take my little volcano outside and sit down to eat it in the garden. The wind is still, the night sky is cloudless. As you know, I only crave chocolate once in a blue moon. And I’m really craving chocolate now. I look up and I can't see a blue moon, but I can see the stars shimmering like jewels in the spreading darkness. It’s a rare sight, this – a London sky filled with stars.  

I am transported back to another starry night in a place far away from here. Strangely, that memory too, has a volcano in it. Considerably more magnificent than the one on my plate, I have to admit. This is Kilauea, in the Big Island of Hawaii.

It was the summer of 2007. I had just graduated from Business School and was on a 2-week holiday in the spectacular Hawaiian Islands. Along with the many secluded beaches and undiscovered ocean pools, I was also eager to explore Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, boasting Kilauea, one of the world’s most active volcanoes. And so, as I get myself up to the public hiking trail that would have taken me to the Kilauea overlook, I am dismayed to find the path blocked off. A uniformed National Park guard is standing at the entrance, turning people back. “There’s a bit of unusual activity going on today”, he explains, “we’re not sure how safe it is, we’ve closed the trail.”

I am crestfallen. When will I ever get to come here again?

I am just turning around to make my way back to the car when I hear the rest of his sentence, “...but you can go to viewing area if you like, just follow this path...”

And so, I follow the path. It ends on a flat, smooth, cliff jutting directly out onto the Pacific. The edge of the earth. There are a few people there already, sitting cross legged, the wind in their hair, staring out in front of them in absolute awe. I look up to see what they are looking at, and even the memory of the sight in front of me sends goose bumps through my body.

For just about thirty feet away, towering high above us, is Kilauea. And Kilauea is performing. Every few minutes, from deep within its belly, it spews out smoldering embers that light up the darkening sky in bursts of flame. And then it rests. I sit there in silence, taking it all in, the unspoken significance of these intervals of perfect darkness alternating with explosions of fire. Kileauea, disappearing into the shadows and then appearing again, its outline dark and majestic against the burnished glow of the sky. Creation and destruction. Some of the molten lava emerges from the open mouth of the caldera and flows down the edge of the rocks, carving out zig-zag paths of liquid fire. Rivers of Gold.

And then, just when I think it can’t get any better, it does. A chunk of volcanic rock – a piece of Kilauea – aglow with blistering lava, breaks off in front of my eyes, falling dramatically, as if in slow motion, into the Pacific Ocean below. The spectators gasp. A thunderous splash, a cloud of steam. High, high into the sky. As earth meets fire meets water meets air.

It is the most spectacular show I have ever seen.

Back to Grimsvotn. Mine, that is. I look down at it, sitting demurely on my plate. It’s time to make it perform. I take my fork and break off the crumbly crust, savouring its slight sweet crispness on my tongue. And then I get to the core. And the magic begins. The liquid chocolate lava oozes out. Swirls around seductively in my mouth. Hot. Voluptuous. Molten. I feel myself sinking into the dark, satiny smoothness. It’s easy to lose yourself here...

These are fireworks of a different kind. The volcano has come alive.

 

Dipdelicious!

It’s one of those perplexing days when I can't seem to stop eating. I’ve had breakfast and I’ve had lunch, I've had dessert and I’ve had 2 large cups of tea, and that’s all I’m willing to admit publicly…
I think it’s the weather (ha! always blame the weather, what an English thing to do!) But I really do think it's the weather: It's one of those typically undependable London days when the sun can’t decide whether to come out or stay in. Like the sun, I can’t decide what to do with myself. I have half a mind to go out just to keep me from thinking of food, but who in their right mind wakes up a blissfully sleeping baby? So, I’m thanking the nap-gods for bestowing kindness upon me, and staying in, watching the shadows dart back and forth on my kitchen wall as the English sun plays tricks on me. And while I have no choice but to sit here, and think of food, I might as well make myself a snack and write about it. No?

I’m making myself one of my all-time favourites - an easy, can't-go-wrong, low-risk, ready-in-a-jiffy snack. It's a delicious black bean dip that is hearty, wholesome, and I hope – filling! It’s just the thing for a day like this, as dependable as the English sun is not!

Here's what you need:

-       1 can black beans, rinsed and drained
-       1 tspn olive oil
-       ½ cup chopped onion
-       2 cloves garlic, minced
-       ½ cup diced tomato
-       1/3 cup salsa

-       ½ tspn ground cumin powder
-       ½ tspn ground chilli powder
-       ¼ cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese
-       ¼ cup chopped cilantro
-       1 tbsp fresh lime juice

Empty the beans into a large bowl and partially mash them. Heat oil in a skillet on medium heat. Add the onion and fry until translucent. Now add the garlic and sauté until tender. Combine beans, tomato, cumin, salsa and red chilli powder to the onion and garlic mixture, stirring consistently until thickened. Remove from heat, and add cheese, stirring until the cheese melts. I'm using Monterrey Jack because it has a mild, mellow flavour that beautifully complements the sour-spice of the salsa, but also because it melts well, making it ideal for cooking. Finally, add cilantro and lime juice. Serve warm with tortilla chips. Done!  Easy, can't-go-wrong, low-risk, and ready-in-a-jiffy!

Amazingly, the nap-gods are still on my side and I’d be mad not to take advantage of this rare pleasure of snatched time. I’m taking my chips and dip and curling up with a good book. Crunchilicious!

Didima's Most Beloved

“Funny how you haven’t blogged any of Didima’s recipes yet,” Sid says to me in passing last night. And so I count. 20 posts now since I started writing, and of course he’s right. Not a single one is Didima’s recipe.  

Which is odd, all things considered. For Didima, my maternal grandmother, is my single biggest inspiration (and I mean in spheres of life that stretch far beyond the kitchen), the best cook I know, and probably in the top 3 of all-time favourite people in my life.

It’s also precisely why I haven’t attempted to document her cooking yet. Both the endless spectrum of everything she can cook, everything she has taught me, as well as the intensity of my own emotion every time I think about her, overwhelm me. And I simply don’t know where to begin.

I feel like there's no middle ground here. I either go with her most basic dish or her most beloved – one end of the spectrum or the other. So, I think a long while and decide to take the plunge. I'm reaching across the rainbow and digging for the pot of gold. I’m starting with the most beloved of her dishes. Because – like cracking those first 40 seconds of a job interview - if I get this right, the rest will follow effortlessly. I hope.

So here you go with what is perhaps my single most favourite dish in the world. It is rich, it is creamy, it is the perfect balance of heat and sweet. It is a Bengali Classic. And it is Didima at her finest. It is Prawn Malai Curry.

I put on some U2, take a deep breath and here's how I do it:

- 1 kg Jumbo prawns, peeled and deveined

- ½ cup plain yogurt

- 2 tbsp onion paste (1 large onion roughly chopped and blended should do the trick)

- 2 large cloves of garlic, finely chopped

- 1 tsp of chopped ginger

- 4 green chillies, slit lengthwise

- 1 can of coconut milk

- 5 bay leaves

- Whole garam masala: 5 pieces of cardamom, 5 pieces of cloves, 2 sticks of cinnamon

- 2 tsps red chilli powder 

- 1 tspn turmeric powder

- 1 tspn cumin powder

- 2 tspn sugar

- Salt, to taste

First, I marinate the prawns in yogurt, a little salt and turmeric powder and set them aside for 30 minutes to an hour. While the prawns are marinating, I blend together the ginger and garlic to make a paste. I heat oil in a frying pan and fry the onion paste until light brown. When I can no longer get the smell of raw onions, I add the ginger-garlic paste to the mixture. Next, I add all my whole garam masala to the onion-ginger-garlic paste and stir until the masala starts to crackle. I reduce the heat to a simmer and add my prawns, along with its yogurt marinade, stirring continuously to make sure the yogurt does not break. I add the red chilli, turmeric and ground cumin powders along with the sugar and salt. I pour in a cup of water and bring my gravy to a boil. I am starting to get a heavenly aroma from my pot now! I continue cooking until the gravy thickens and then I add in the green chillies. Finally, my last step is to add the coconut milk, and simmer for 2-3 minutes. The coconut milk thickens my sauce nicely, combining the natural flavour of the prawns, the spice of my dry powders and the aromatic heat of my whole garam masala into a rich, creamy, and totally irresistible gravy. Bono is singing “With or Without You” in that mesmerizing voice of his. My malai curry is ready.

I hum along with Bono as I ladle myself a generous serving over some long-grained white rice, take another deep breath, and taste it. I stop humming then, cause what I taste, baby, makes my taste buds sing!

In all seriousness, I'm excited that my dish tastes as good as it does. I am a confident cook, but I am insecure when it comes to replicating my grandmother's cooking. She's that good in my eyes. In every regard. If I turn out to be half the woman she is, I’d have achieved something huge.

I decide to call her. The phone is answered on the second ring, by the nurse who now looks after her full time. Even that takes getting used to. This woman, so full of energy and vitality just a few years ago – bustling in and out of her New Alipur kitchen, tending to the garden in our Madras house, bossing people around, brushing my hair (100 strokes every night), tirelessly making 20 hour transatlantic trips to New York to meet her son, walking the length of Madison Avenue... now needs help sitting down and standing up. Her body has betrayed her over the years. I realise this now as I picture her in my mind’s eye, thin and frail, back hunched over, making her way to the phone with baby steps. I realise it starkly. It is a betrayal of epic proportions. 

“Hello?” she says, her voice quivering. It is a question.

“Hi Didima!” I say cheerfully

“Hello, who is it?” she asks

I try not to let my heart sink. To put it in perspective. To be thankful for the privilege of still having her, to call when I feel like, even if she can’t recognize my voice anymore.   

I try again. “It’s me, Didima. How are you?”

She pauses as she tries to place my voice. Then –“Hello dear. I’m okay. I'm missing your baby.”

I smile then, to myself. What a funny thing to say. She’s missing my baby – my baby who I carried to her in my arms when he just 3 months old, a whole 91 years younger than her. But if she’s missing my baby, then at least she knows who I am.

“I made malai curry,” I say excitedly.

"Couldn't hear you dear" she says.

 “I made malai curry,” I repeat

"Couldn't hear you dear" she says.

I repeat the sentence, pausing after each word now; slow, deliberate.

“Didima. I. Made. Malai. Curry.”

"Couldn't hear you dear" she says.

I give up. Change tack.

“Have you had dinner, Didima?”

“Cinema?”

“Dinner!”

"Couldn't hear you dear" she says.

I'm mostly over being frustrated. It was hard a few years ago, when her hearing first weakened. I would get frustrated with repeating myself over and over again, at screaming futilely into the phone with no effect. I would get irritated with my mother for not fixing her hearing aid so it worked – “It’s impossible to have a conversation like this,” I would say. I would feel anger, at the pace of her deterioration, at this notion of aging but I didn’t know who to direct my anger to. And then I would feel sadness, that dull, throbbing sadness that comes with resignation. “It must be so isolating for her,” I would think to myself. But over the years, I know everyone’s tried and tried and tried. New hearing aid, new battery, new model.  Different hearing aid, new battery, latest model. Same result. There’s only so much technology can do. It’s humbling. So now I'm mostly over it. But I when I feel it – the frustration – slowly creeping in again, I know it’s time to say goodbye for now.

“Ok, Didima. I have to go now”

“Couldn't hear you dear," she says.

I sigh.

“Bye Didima,” I say. “I love you.”

I silently mouth the words "Couldn't hear you dear" and wait for her to speak them out loud.

But she doesn’t

And as she has done before, so many times, in the 30 years I have known her – this woman braver and stronger than anyone I know – she surprises me again.

Her voice is unexpectedly steady now as she answers. The quiver has vanished. She sounds secure. Confident. Young.

“I know dear,” she says as she hangs up.

Matunga Mango Madness

If cricket is India’s national pastime, the mango is India’s national obsession. So, with the Cricket World Cup proudly won and jubilantly celebrated just a month ago, it’s all eyes now on Mango Season.

And so, this year, as every year, when May arrives, all of India (and for that matter, all Indians the globe over) go Mango-Mad. From old-school (commercials and billboards) to new-age (Twitter and Facebook), the mango talk is ubiquitous. Facebook posts discuss everything from the price of mangoes in Singapore to the benefits of an only-mango diet (I’m not kidding!), photos show kids eating “the first mango of the season,” smiling widely as the delicious yellow juice drips messily down their chins, and – closer to home, I make Sid drive me to Neasden where I pounce on a box of Alphonsos, £10.50, a dozen. Which is a bargain, given that in India, I hear, boxes of a dozen are now selling for as much 2,500 Rupees. Gold dust. Literally.

I still remember vividly, years ago when we lived in Bombay, my father bringing home the first box of Alphonsos of the year (at a considerably lower price of course,) and the entire family going crazy after that for weeks.  We’d eat the fruit for breakfast, lunch and dinner, in every possible form – the whole fruit, as part of a barrage of mouth-watering desserts, in lassi, in milkshakes, as the protagonist of an otherwise boring fruit salad...all the way till the end of mango season. When we moved away to Madras, and later to Bangalore, Alphonsos became harder to come by.  And then, when I moved to the States for college, they became a rare luxury, enjoyed on the occasional trip to India that happened to coincide with mango season, or brought over by a well-meaning relative, bravely willing to risk US Customs by sneaking one or two into dark corners of suitcases. And so, in my mind, the Alphonso is woven tightly into the fabric of my memories of Bombay.

Bombay.  That frenzied melange of extremes where dreams are made and hopes are crushed, all at the same time. A heaving mass of humanity, an island of loneliness. Bombay, with its glitz and its glamour, its wealth and its filth, an inebriating cocktail of poverty and possibility, stress and solace. A city that evokes intense passion in some and unbridled repugnance in others; a city that, for all its faults, I will always love.

I spent a considerable part of my childhood in Bombay, but even after we moved, we still visited often, mostly on account of my dad’s job. I stayed on these trips with my uncle and aunt and my two cousins, Mini and Bena. They lived in Matunga, in central Bombay, in a small but airy ground floor flat, where my father was born and raised. I never knew my paternal grandparents, my grandfather having died when my father was barely twenty-two and my grandmother joining him soon after I was born. But somehow, strangely, in that house, I felt their presence, and staying there was always curiously comforting.

That aside, I absolutely loved visiting my cousins – it was like going on holiday, all by myself. I didn’t have my parents to tell me what to do, and, as an only child, it was wonderful to have the company of someone my age. Mini, older than me by a few months, was the good one. She would study hard, do as she was told, read, and was generally so sensible, diligent and obedient that we all looked up to her. Bena, the youngest of the three of us, was the total opposite. She would run around all day long, playing games with the boys in the colony, eating kaala khatta off the streets much against her mother’s wishes, and come back home in the evening – hair tangled, mud on her face, invariably cut or bleeding or bruised. I loved her!

And so, I spent my days with these two Rao sisters in reckless abandon and total happiness.

When I think back now to the many fun times I spent with them over the years, my memories are fickle, leap-frogging all over the place. Incidents, tastes, events, conversations come back to me in flashes, but I can’t isolate them to a specific trip, age or time. It’s amazing what one remembers and how much one forgets.

Anyhow, any description of Matunga is incomplete without a discussion of the food. And there is no debate on how clearly I remember the food. My aunt, that lovely lady who I haven’t seen in way too long now, cooked so many scrumptious things for us (singlehandedly and with so much love) that it’s taken me a while to decide what I wanted to write about. Her kitchen always smelled delicious, and her food was always simple, fresh, and tantalisingly tasty. She would always wait for my uncle to return from work to serve dinner and the foursome would eat together as a family, with me as the extra appendage, if only for a few nights.

After dinner, we would spread out blankets and duvets on the living room floor and lay down together, three abreast, talking late into the night. Mini, always the conscientious one, would repeat patiently, “Enough now, chup, go to sleep, you two.”  But Bena and I, we always had a never-ending stream of things to discuss, I don’t even know what we talked about half the time, but we talked and we talked and we talked.  

Often, in the summer nights when it got too hot or muggy, we would all tiptoe into the air conditioned bedroom where my aunt and uncle were fast asleep, waking them as we jumped into the bed with them, giggling loudly at our audaciousness.

We were blissfully oblivious to the concepts of “personal space,” or “privacy,” or “me-time” in those days; the notion of complex relationship-defining terminology just didn’t exist. This was family closeness at its most natural – genuine, unconditional and without boundaries. Somehow, life was just simpler this way.

So for simplicity’s sake, I am writing about a dish that may have been the simplest one to come out of Matunga’s kitchen but also – or perhaps because of it – the most memorable. This is something that on sight alone, would always make my eyes light up. It is Aam Ras-Puri. For the uninitiated this must feel like an awfully strange combination, but trust me, this duo of perfectly round, crispy hot puris, and chilled golden yellow, sweet syrupy Alphonso nectar, is absolute heaven on earth.

This is how you do it: 

Puris

-  2 cups wheat flour

-  1 tsp oil for puri mixture and some more to deep fry

-  Salt, to taste

Add wheat flour, oil & salt in a bowl and mix. Add warm water to the wheat flour mixture to form a firm dough, and knead till smooth. Cover keep aside for about 15-20 minutes, and knead again. Now, divide into small balls and roll out each ball into a small, round shape. Heat oil in a wok. Fry the puris, one at a time, holding them under the oil on the first side until they puff. Turn and fry till golden brown. Drain any excess oil and serve immediately.

Aam Ras (roughly translated as mango juice)

-  4 ripe Alphonso mangoes

-  ½ tsp powdered cardamom

-  1 cup milk

Peel the mangoes and extract the pulp (toss the pit after a good suck!). Blend with milk and make a thick paste. You might need to add a little sugar depending on the ripeness of the mangoes, but I generally don’t think you need any added sweetness. Finally add the powdered cardamom, mix well. Chill before serving.

I don’t know how much Aam Ras and how many puris I would go through at one sitting, but given how maddeningly addictive this stuff is, perhaps it was wiser not to count! This was pure madness. Matunga Mango Madness.