The Red Carpet

Alrighty folks, so this is the Part II of To Aimee, Bumbles, Max and Erma, Delaware, Ohio and The Great American Bird, where I promised you that I’d follow with some interesting and creative suggestions on how to adorn the Turkey Burgers that we’d previously cooked.

It might sound boring, but I promise to keep you entertained – and well, have I ever let you down?

So, don’t run away please!

And my Vegetarian friends (of which I have many, many) – Stay! Please! Because, a lot of the ideas below can definitely be adapted to go with a whole bunch of veggie fillings. Which of course has just given me some serious subject matter for a Part III of this wonderful series....(Once you get me started, I can’t stop. Such a problem!)

But, let’s do the impossible and try and stay in focus, shall we?

See, here is the conundrum:

The Burger is iconic. The Grand-daddy of all foods, if there were such a thing. Everybody knows and loves The Burger.

But: there is the burger, a dime a dozen, available everywhere for very little. And then, there is The Burger. Of the Gourmet Variety. You want The Burger. Without Question.

Just like the movies, really. There are scores of movies that come out each year, all hopeful of becoming The Movie. But very few do. Most get forgotten, lost in a black hole of movie-hopefuls. And the handful that do? Well, these become Classics. They go down in History. And we use all these fabulous adjectives in the English language to describe them: most loved, most remembered, top 5, best movie, greatest film, all-time favourite, etc.

So, just like a great Movie, what makes a great Burger?

Well, yes – the Director (i.e. the Chef) definitely deserves due credit, but the most important part, the part that is visible and on screen, is that of the lead actor and/or actress. In the case of the burger, this is undeniably, the part of the Pattie. The pattie is the indisputable Star of the Show. And for the pattie to work, the meat needs to be fresh, it needs to be seasoned creatively, and it needs to be cooked just right.  Mess up the pattie, and you’ve lost the plot. So hopefully, from my previous post, we’ve gotten past this bit.

But – and here’s what’s interesting – just like in the movies, no matter how brilliant the performance of the lead star, for the movie to be a runaway success, you need the rest of the cast to perform too. Think about all the great movies you’ve seen. Everyone stepped up. Everyone did a great job with their respective roles.

And so, even though the pattie forms the heart and soul of the burger, there’s really much more that goes into it that simply cannot be ignored. So, a good burger experience, like a good movie, depends not just on the pattie, but also on everything else that accompanies it.

In other words - a perfect pattie alone, maketh not a perfect burger.

The role of these other, less talked about characters – the bread, the relishes, the garnishes – is to enhance, enrich and enliven the flavour of the pattie. These are the supporting cast of characters, without which the leading actor or actress, is less effective. They may be less prominent, but they are essential, nonetheless.

And then of course, there is one other fairly important matter to consider: Who says burgers must always be eaten the same way?

Honestly, why must that poor old pattie just sit there on one half of a boring old sesame-seed bun, while we pile on the usual dull cast of characters on top of it – i.e. an octogenarian shred of lettuce, a lonely slice of beefsteak tomato and a sad looking ring of raw onion?

Doesn’t the burger deserve a little better?

Yes?

Right then. It’s time to roll out The Red Carpet!

So, without further ado, I present to you, my 5 movie ideas of the year!!

(All quantities below are meant to accompany the 8 Turkey Burgers I made here so if you’re making less of the patties, please adjust everything accordingly.)

1)      Casablanca

My first concept is a Moroccan inspired burger, stuffed into warm toasted pitas, and served with a generous dollop of tzatziki. I love this recipe because it really does redefine the traditional hamburger. Pita bread is wholesome and light, full of flavor (especially when toasted) and goes wonderfully with any kind of dense, cutlet-type stuffing, be it meat or vegetables or chickpeas (like falafel). As for tzatziki, I’ve always been a fan of this cool, creamy, garlicky dip. It’s one of those simple little dips, made in just a few minutes, that can skyrocket the taste of most things you add it to.

Here is what you need:

- 1 onion, cut into thick slices

- 4 wholemeal pitta breads, halved

- 1 tspn Olive oil

- Tzatziki sauce (recipe below)

 - Green salad leaves (please, the leaves should be fresh and young. Withering, eighty year old salad leaves do not taste good)

Heat a little oil in a skillet and cook the onion rounds so they are translucent and browned. The raw onion smell should no longer be there (very important if you want to have a conversation with another human being for the rest of the day).  Remove the onions, and in the same pan, lightly toast the pita bread so you get the heavenly aroma of just-baked bread. Do this for just a few seconds on either side, otherwise you risk the bread becoming hard.

Now, to make the tzatziki sauce, here’s what you need:

- 350g/12oz Greek yoghurt

- 1 cucumber

- 2 tbsp lemon juice

- 2 cloves of garlic, grated finely

- dash of extra virgin olive oil

- paprika, for sprinkling

First, peel and de-seed the cucumber, then grate it finely. Now, squeeze out all the excess liquid from the grated cucumber. This is really important, otherwise your tzatziki will be watery, which is really no good! Combine the yoghurt, cucumber, lemon juice and garlic. Add a dash of olive oil and sprinkle with paprika.

Now, please resist the urge to zip through the whole pot of tzatziki with a basket of fresh bread!! It’s gonna be a hard one to resist, but I know your made of strong stuff!!

Instead, once your tzatziki is ready, go ahead and put your burger together. Simply stuff each pitta half with the burgers, onions and salad leaves and top it all a generous dollop of cool, refreshing tzatziki! Yum!

2)      Breakfast at Tiffany’s

My second concept is dedicated - no, not to the beautiful Audrey Hepburn, but - to a guy who sat next to me for 7 years and ate a variation of this for breakfast, everyday. Yup. You heard me. Every day, for 7 years. I don’t exaggerate.  

(Warning, this one’s rather indulgent, but if you do it once n a while, it won’t hurt. My muse for this recipe, though far from looking like Audrey Hepburn, is still in pretty good shape!!)

Here’s what you need:

- 4 tbsp tomato ketchup

- 4 tbsp light mayonnaise

- 8 Eggs

- 8 slices havarati (or any other spicy cheddar)

- 8 grilled rashers streaky smoked bacon  

- 8 croissants, halved

Here’s how you do it:

Heat a griddle or large frying pan, and without adding any extra oil, first fry the bacon. Remove from pan, when done, and use the same pan to fry the eggs as well. Next, heat the grill, place the croissants halves in it, insides down, so they get lightly toasted. Place the cooked burgers on a baking sheet, put a slice of havarati on each, then pop under the grill to melt. Sit the burgers on one croissant-half, place the bacon on top, and slide the fried eggs on top of the bacon.

Now, mix equal parts of ketchup and mayo together (this is divine stuff folks – try it as a dip for French Fries and you will just die and go to heaven), and spread on the other croissant half. Place it on top and dig in!

3)      The Godfather

My third concept is really where it all began. This is how I was introduced to the Turkey Burger, folks, so in my view, it’s a slam dunk at the Oscar’s – Best Movie, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Supporting Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Best Musical Score...you get my drift. But sentimentality aside, it definitely gets my vote for “Best Dressed On the Red Carpet!” Try it and let me know if you agree, cause honestly, dressing a Turkey Burger just doesn’t get better than this!

Here’s what you need:

- 8 multi-seeded bagels, halved

- 4 ounces soft cheese (cream cheese or goat cheese should work really well)

- 2 tbsp sun-dried tomato pesto

- 4 tomatoes, sliced

- 3 whole avocados, sliced

- One bunch fresh basil leaves

- Salt, pepper and lemon juice, to taste

Here’s how you do it:

Melt a teeny-weeny bit of butter in a frying over medium heat and toast the inside of the bagels until golden brown. The centre should be soft and the edges should be slightly crisp.

Stir together the goat cheese (or cream cheese) and the pesto until smooth. (By the way, this is an amaaaaaaaazing dip for some toasted pita bread or crackers. I’ve been known to blitz through an entire box in one go!). Spread a generous amount of the cheese spread on each bagel half. Place the burgers on the bottom half, then top with tomato slices and fresh basil leaves. Place the avocado slices on the top half. Sprinkle a little salt, pepper and lemon juice on the avocados, then bring the two bagel-halves together! Really Flippin’ Delicious!

4)      The Italian Job

My fourth concept is Italian inspired and combines roasted cherry tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, caramelized onion and fresh basil. This is a mucho delizioso recipe because it combines the different flavours together to really hit the spot. You have the rich caramel smokiness of the onions, the tartness of the tomatoes, the creaminess of the mozzarella and the subtle aromatic sweetness of the basil. Perfecto!!

Here’s what you need:

- 300g pack cherry tomatoes

- 1 tbsp olive oil

- 3 onions , sliced

- 2 tbsp light muscovado sugar

- Bit of butter

- 1 tbsp mayonnaise

- 8 English Muffins, halved

Here’s how you do it:

Place the cherry tomatoes in a roasting tin. Drizzle over 1 tbsp of olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Roast for 12-15 minutes until just soft

To caramelise the onions, cook them with the sugar and butter over a very gentle heat for 30-40 minutes, stirring occasionally. Set aside. In the same pan, place the rolls downwards, so the insides get gently toasted.

Pepper the mayonnaise liberally and spread a good quantity of it on both halves of the roll. To assemble, place the burgers on the bottom half of the roll, then top with a thick slice of mozzarella, oven roasted cherry tomatoes and fresh basil leaves. Cover with the top half, and take a great big Italian-sized bite!

5)      The Road to Saigon

My fifth and final concept is an Asian twist on burgers, largely on account of the fact that I’ve become obsessed with Viet-Thai food of late. I want it for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and at all times in between.  This is an absolute PITA of course and it’s all thanks to Norav. Hmph. And if that little sentence makes no sense, then, well, you’ll just have to wait for my next post, called Norav’s Adventures with Thai Food, that’s coming up in just a day or two! Stay tuned!

Anyway, here’s what you need:

- Small bunch coriander , chopped

- 1 mango , diced

- 1 red chilli , finely chopped

- ½ lime , juiced

- Little Gem lettuce , to serve

Here’s how you do it:

So, firstly, for all the calorie conscious, no-carb readers out there – this one should get you to jump up and down in high excitement, because it’s a totally breadless burger. All you do is make some mango salsa, by mixing the diced mango, chilli and coriander with the lime juice. To assemble, place the burger on top of some little gem leaves and spoon over some mango salsa. I don’t know about the Road to Saigon, but after getting through this tasty monster, you’ll definitely be on your Road to Nirvana!

Well, that’s all for now folks. Five really simple ideas that will hopefully liven up your burger experience. The beauty of it all of course is that you can mix and match and add and subtract, and make your own little variations and adjustments to my ideas, let the creativity run wild, and come up with your own perfect combo of breads, relishes and garnishes!

Anyway, I started this post at night, and I’ve come back to it this morning, and in the 10 hours in between, my garden’s been blanketed in a bed of snow! It looks pristine and pure and untouched and clean! Of course what this means, is that going out anywhere today is going to be a royal pain. And of course, what that means is that I get a whole day to monkey around my kitchen with a view of my snow-covered garden, and make some great burgers! And then, pile the said burgers onto a large platter, curl up in front of the fireplace, AND?

You got it – watch a Great Movie!

Laterz!!

To Aimee, Bumbles, Max and Erma, Delaware, Ohio and The Great American Bird

I don’t have any photographs of my friends in the house.

I really should, but I don’t. I don’t know why this is. And this is not the time for conjecture. I’ve actually organized this post (ha!) with very serious and defined thoughts (haha!). So, really, this is not the forum for random musings.

But honestly, I’ve just about mustered up the energy to scatter around some pictures of my kid. And that too, after a lot of nagging from the mother-in-law. “What!” she exclaimed when she visited a few months ago, in distraught flabbergasted emotion (the kind that’s displayed exclusively by mothers-in-law and no other creatures on this Earth. I’m practicing already.)

Anyway: “What!” she exclaimed, “You don’t have a single picture of Ranbir in the house! What! Why! How!” Etc.

She was right of course. She often is. Sigh!  I really should have some pictures of my kid in the house. Most normal people do. Not that I consider myself evenly remotely normal, but you know what I mean. So I decided to get my act together.  And now, I have 5.

But pictures of friends? Haha. Now, that requires a whole new level of gusto...

But, I lie.

I do have a picture of a friend in my house. One picture.

I have a picture of Aimee on her wedding day. I’m there too. She is resplendent in full bridal glory. Her face is beautiful, alight with anticipation. My arm is around her shoulders; hers, across my waist.  We aren’t posing for the camera, I don’t know what we’re looking at. We’re both laughing.

I love this picture.

Now, the reason Aimee’s picture is in my house is because I actually did no work – Aimee very kindly gave it to me as a gift (edited, sized, framed and all).

Just Kidding.

The real reason Aimee’s picture is in my house is because she is more than my friend. Sometimes she’s even more than family.

Aimee is inimitable. Our relationship is inimitable.

And this is why I’ve taken this long to write about her.

Because words somehow aren’t enough.

I am doing so today because of one reason and one reason alone:  It’s because soon, very soon – today, tomorrow, in an hour or a few days, Bumbles will be born! (Babies, by the way, are totally inconsiderate like that. They just decide to show up without warning).  So, although I don’t know when exactly she’ll be here, I know she’ll be here soon!  And I am so happy for Aimee, I want to laugh and cry, all at once.

Which is also why, I wanted this post to be really good. I have no idea if it will be or not, but I will say that it took considerable thought and (argh!) planning. Structuring, order flow, section breakdowns. The toolkits of a serious writer. Ha! You believe me?? Please do! It’s true!

The other (and far less sappy) reason that this post took so long in the making, is that Aimee’s become bloomin’ vegetarian! Wouldja believe it?  And, for the life of me, I couldn’t think of a vegetarian recipe to associate with her.  Because it’s not how I think of her in my head, you know. Because, back when I first met her, she was a ruddy, mid-western, meat-loving cowgirl!

So, after much brain-racking and going back and forth, I arrived at the following considered opinion: Vegetarianism (for all its benefits) can step aside for just this once, because this one’s going to be about the Turkey Burger.

Now, this is not random. Nothing about this post is random. This is actually about as un-random as I’m ever going to get, so soak it in, folks.

I’m writing about the Turkey Burger, because the Turkey Burger is how we first met.

Just stay with me...

                                                         **

I’m taking you back in time now, to a sleepy little town called Delaware, somewhere in middle-America, right in the heart of the cornfields.  It was 2001, our sophomore year at college, and Aimee and I found ourselves together, in a drama class.

Neither of us had theatre on our minds (though in retrospect, it probably would have been far more enjoyable as a career choice than blah-blah-banking.) Anyhow, we were both there to satisfy our “distribution requirements” – this interesting concept, typical of Liberal Arts colleges in the United States, where one is required to take a certain number of classes outside of one’s core subject. There’s a whole wide world of such irrelevance-to-the-core. Such as Drama. Or Creative Writing. Or Spanish. Or Golf, if you so wish. All of which I did, by the way. And only one of which, if you care to know, has any bearing on my life.

So, yes, we both found ourselves by some miraculous feat of destiny in this 6:30pm drama class taught by an Elaine Someone (Denny??). See, I’m rubbish at names, but I’m great at faces. And expressions. Faces and expressions don’t just mildly interest me. They form my world. I read them. And then they become words. And words become memories. Faces and expressions are everything. There is no writing without them. And without food of course. That goes without saying.

Anyhow, Elaine Denny (so sorry if that’s not your last name, but it has a nice ring to it, so that’s what I’ve decided I’m going to call you) had one of the most incredible faces I have ever seen. Expressive, emotive, remarkable.  One that I will never forget. She was a petite woman, but when she walked into a room, she owned it. That was the power of her face.

Aimee and I met here for the first time. In Elaine Denny’s classroom.

I still remember what first drew me to Aimee. Even now, 11 years later, I can pinpoint the exact thing. She had eyes that twinkled.

I liked that.

We hit it off instantly. We talked effortlessly and incessantly. We laughed a lot. I noticed that when Aimee laughed, her eyes laughed with her. And suddenly, whispering to each other between role playing Rosalind and Portia, wasn’t enough.

You can’t fit a friendship like this into an hour.

So we took to going out for dinner after class every week. And we always did the same thing. Aimee would drive us to Max and Erma’s and we would both eat Turkey Burgers and talk for hours. It became “our thing.”

Now, I’ve got to tell you, having grown up in India, I had never had a Turkey Burger in my life. There aren’t any Turkeys in India, you know. Just chickens.  And random cows crossing busy, trafficked roads (which by the way, you're not supposed to eat.) 

So, frankly speaking, at first I was skeptical. I don’t think I ordered a Turkey Burger the first time.  But I think I stared so hard at Aimee’s food that I left her no choice but to offer me a bite. And then of course, there was no turning back. 

I don’t know if you’ve ever been a Max and Erma’s but man, do they know how to make a good Turkey Burger! Succulent, tender, cooked exactly right, seasoned perfectly – it is an absolutely flawless piece of work.  Plus, thanks to Max (or Erma, whoever the creative force is in that little relationship) they did away with the boring old sesame seed burger bun. Instead, the patty was served inside a multi-seeded bagel filled with some sort of cream cheese and pesto and avocado mush. It was flippin-delicious (no pun intended) ;0)

So, we’d eat our Turkey Burgers, Aimee and I, and talk and talk and talk. Until sometimes, they would have to throw us out. You know, when restaurants want you to leave, they first try to blind you by turning on all the lights to maximum brightness. And then they try to deafen you by moving furniture about randomly and clanking dishes etc. Yeah, we wouldn’t take the hint. We’d just sit there obtusely, sipping our pink lemonade, engrossed in conversation. Eventually they would physically throw us out. It’s great fun, if you haven’t tried it, this being thrown out business. I highly recommend it.

So, you see my friends, the Turkey Burger will always have a special place in my heart. Never, ever, do I see a Turkey Burger on a menu and not think of Aimee.

Here’s what you need (makes about 8 servings):

• 2 pounds ground turkey
• 3 teaspoons Worcestershire Sauce
• Handful shredded coriander leaves
• 1 whole Egg Yolk (optional, to bind)
• 1/4 cup Dijon mustard
• 1 tablespoon Olive Oil
• Salt and pepper, to taste

Here's how you do it:

Combine the turkey, Worcestershire sauce, Dijon, coriander leaves, salt, pepper and egg yolk (if using) in a large bowl. Knead together with your hands, then form into round, flattened patties.

Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Cook the patties at least 5-7 minutes on each side, until totally done. That’s all! Easy Poosy!

I’m actually not going to go into adorning the burgers in this post. Mostly because I’m terribly hungry and I want to eat what I’ve just cooked. But also because I’ve tried (and failed) to keep this short and I hate anything that is too long. So, some of my suggestions on various bun, relish and topping choices for your burger, follow in (a much shorter) Part II. So, stay tuned.

Although eating these burgers just as is, is really not such a bad thing. Burger aficionados might pooh pooh these little suckers and say they don’t hold a candle to their beefy brethren, but trust me, these are absolutely juicy, delicious and full of flavor – and not to mention, a lot healthier too!

So for now, it’s Turkey Burgers. Pure and Untainted.  

To Bumbles: I hope one day I will get to meet you and tell you how special your mother is to me.

And so this is for you.

Because this is how we were brought together, your mother and me. In Delaware, Ohio. By Max. And by Erma. And by the Great American Bird.

Of Mocktails and Ex-Girlfriends...

Hold on to your knickers my lovelies, and try not to let the excitement knock you over: Not my ex-girlfriends – Sid’s ex-girlfriends. Or ex-girlfriend. To be specific.  He likes to keep the tenses simple.

So, apparently the ex-girlfriend (one, uno, eins, ek) is in town and wants to have a drink with him.

We will get to the wants-to-have-a-drink bit in good time, but for now, lets focus on the one ex-girlfriend. 

I’ve asked Sid about this rather strange phenomenon several times, by the way. Because (and of course I'm biased) that when I chanced upon him, I do believe that he was quite the eligible bachelor. That, naturally, was back in his heyday. Just kidding, but, I mean – he’s not unattractive. And he’s mad brainy. And when he’s not grumpy, he’s actually quite funny. So, one ex-girlfriend? Really?

He has a stock answer, of course. Well rehearsed. So much so that it actually sounds somewhat convincing. Practice makes perfect, as the experts declare. He claims (I am absolutely serious here) that everyone he ever met was either “boring” or “ugly”

Don't laugh please. Because nobody's joking. We are all absolutely serious. This is what he claims.

Which should, in theory, leave me hugely flattered. And send me floating all the way to cloud 9. And some more, while we have one up on gravity, etc.

Except for one tiny little snag – I don’t believe him.

I rather think that not many, on this side of Saturn’s 62nd moon, are daring enough to endure his funny little ways long enough to figure out he’s not so bad after all. Not many – meaning two. Me, and the ex-girlfriend.

United together by unmitigated valour.

Not that I have a long list of spawned lovers waiting their turn to have a little catch-up when they happen to be passing through town. Come to think of it, I’m hard pressed to think of any of my ex-boyfriends (note, plural) who’d care to breathe the same air as me, let alone actually ask to have a drink!

But apparently the ex-girlfriend happens to be in town and wants to meet him for a drink.

Which is slightly bizarre but greatly intriguing.

“Why on earth” I ask, “would she want to do that?”

He raises his eyebrows till they disappear into his hair, sticks out his lower lip and gives me one of those famous shrugs. You know, the kind that’s supposed to mean “how would I know?” Or something to that effect.

“How come she doesn’t want to kill you?” I ask, from genuine curiosity.

“Oh, we had an amiable break-up...” he replies, with genuine sincerity.

Alien concept. Moving On.

Anyhoo – I’m all smiles and encouragement. “Of course, you should meet her for a drink,” I exclaim generously.

So, a few days hence and on the evening post the aforementioned occasion, Sid comes bounding down the stairs, into the living room, flings his coat dramatically onto the coffee table, grabs my shoulders, stares into my eyes and exclaims in a deep, husky voice: “Man, am I glad I am married you!”

I stare at him with a blank look on my face.

“She ordered a mocktail,” he declares in explanation.

“Let’s see...” I manage, unsuccessfully trying to free my shoulders from his steely grip. “...and that makes you glad you married me, why?

“Clearly, you don’t understand,” he says, his eyes darting frantically all over the place. “She ordered a mocktail!”

I narrow my pupils and pucker my mouth into an expression that resembles one of deep contemplation. Though it’s sorta hard to contemplate anything when you’re being held in a death grip.

But I stick with it. Courage, you see, is my strong suit.

And I stare up at the much-distraught eyes of my beloved husband.

“Ya ok, trying to understand.  She ordered a mocktail. So??”

He lets go of my shoulders with an exasperated sigh. Apparently only mind readers deserve to die of squashing.  (Hallelujah.)

“You know what? Forget it. Just forget it.”

Uhoh.

“Ok, wait, wait. What’s so distressing?  The fact that she didn’t drink alcohol or the fact that she called it a mocktail.

He looks at me now, with genuine annoyance. “Have you totally lost it? Who says mocktail?”

“Oh come on Sid! I say throwing up my (newly liberated) arms. Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? There’s nothing wrong with mocktail!”

“Are you saying I should’ve married her?”

Wow. The logic of the male species will never cease to amaze.

“No. Of course not,” I say rolling my eyes.  “I’m much prettier.”   “But, the real point is –

mocktail is a perfectly legit word.”

“No IT IS NOT. It’s called a non-alcoholic drink.”

“...Or a mocktail...” I suggest bravely.

He gives me a look of pure disgust and proceeds to drown his sorrows in watching footie on the telly.

I choose to drown mine in a large Vodka-Tonic. At least it’s non-controversial.

But for good measure and because curiosity killed the cat, I decide to Google “Mocktail.”

And discover, that first (whether my silly husband chooses to believe it or not) mocktail is a word. And second (as anyone with half a brain would have pieced together) it is a derivative of two words:  'mock' meaning a copy or imitation of something and 'cocktail' meaning a mixed drink.

Duh.

Far more interestingly, however, I chance upon a number of mocktail recipes that keep me gainfully employed for the rest of the evening. Which, given that my husband is sulking by himself in a corner, could not be more timely.

And I have to admit – though alcohol has its very distinct advantages – the recipes do look pretty darn yummy.

So, courtesy of Waitrose, and the mutiples boxes of half-priced strawberries sitting in my fridge (We are matching Sainsbury’s prices! they say. Yippee for supermarket wars! I say), I pick one that involves strawberries, add a little twist of my own and take the plunge into the exciting new world of Mocktails!

This is a Virgin Strawberry Daiquiri!

And here’s what you need:

- 3 1/2 ounces (discount) strawberries.
- 1/8 cup ice

- 1/2 fluid ounce sweet and sour mix

- 1 1/2 oz lime juice

- 1 dash grenadine syrup (my twist)
- something else (I'm not telling)

Here’s how you do it:

Place strawberries, ice cubes, sweet and sour mix, lime juice and grenadine (and the something else) in a blender. Blend until smooth. Garnish with a half, half-priced strawberry!

True to its promise, the stuff is oh-so-good. I pour some into two high-ball glasses, and offer one of them to Sid. Peace offering, shall we say?

He reaches for it, eyes never leaving the television screen, takes a gigantic gulp, nods his head in a mucho-satisfied manner and goes in a crazy high-pitched tone that would get Batman to emerge from his cave: “aaaaaahhh, this is gooooood”

Just like that.

And we both burst into loud squeals of laughter, that won’t stop. In a few minutes, we are laughing so hard that we have tears streaming down our faces.

Yup. We are certainly meant for each other. I can't think of anyone else mad enough to marry this crazy guy who’s lying on the floor right now, going “aaaaahhh” and laughing hysterically, over nothing.

He stops the squealing just long enough to point his chin to the glass and ask, "Hey, is this spiked?"
"Course it is," I say - "You married the real thing."

Breadomlate

So, obviously this one’s not about Turkey.
Happily,  I’m the one food blogger not blogging about Turkey at the end of December. Actually, I’m going to hold off on all Holiday Cooking for a bit. See, I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks eating Christmas food. Not that I have anything against eating Christmas Food. Or anything else, for that matter. I, as you well know, adore eating. But after two weeks of eating the same stuff(ing) in different shapes, sizes and forms, good as it no doubt was, I’m well and truly done for a while. 


Instead I’m going off on a tangent.

So, goodbye  Stuffing and Turkey and Cranberry Sauce and Sweet Potatoes.
And hello: Bread Omelette.

(I wasn’t kidding about that tangent)

But hold on to your knickers, my lovelies, because it is totally connected.

Because, Bread Omelette, you see, is how I celebrated Christmas a long time ago.
When I was young.
Ahhh.
It wasn’t that long ago, believe it or not. (Just give or take circa 18 years.) (ouch)
India in the early 90's and boy, were those great times!
No job, no money, no stress.
(What’s changed, you ask?)
(very funny) (not)

No seriously, Bread Omelette brings back old memories of younger days.
And is there, ever, a better thought than that?

I was a teenager. And like all teenagers, we’d celebrate Christmas (and every other occasion) at someone’s house - we took turns depending on when, whose parents felt brave enough. And there’d always be food and music. And disgustingly sweet cocktails mixed by someone who thought they knew what they were doing (oh no, you didn’t!). And dim lighting. So dim that you’d need to squint real hard to see who you were talking to. Which is ironic because my friends and I would discuss our attire options for so-and-so's Christmas party for for weeks on end. When actually it was so dark that one could have showed up in yesterday’s pyjamas and no one would have known the difference. Anyhow, so we’d eat and dance. And talk and dance.  And drink (many) disgustingly sweet cocktails (my head still hurts at the thought). And giggle. And admire each others' dresses that couldn't be seen. While the boys would stand awkwardly around, with a glass in their hands, gawking mostly. The “cool” ones would ask a girl for a dance. The rest would continue to stand awkwardly around, with a glass in their hands, gawking mostly.

And then at some point, someone smart enough to have resisted all those cocktails, would suggest “a drive.”

So, we'd take off, 5 or 6 of us, squeezed into someone’s red Maruti Suzuki, on empty roads, through the city, under dark skies full of stars, fast, with the windows down and the cool wind whipping through our hair.

You are fearless at 16.

How different the city would look in the darkness. Quiet. Serene. Free. Most of the time, we’d drive up to the airport, park and watch the planes take off – the International flights leaving in the middle of the night, for faraway exotic lands. We’d sit there, for hours, talking, watching the  lights flash with rythmic precision along the gigantic underbelly of the aircraft, as it lifted off above us. Above, and away.

We’d crane our necks and follow the plane with our eyes as it got smaller and smaller and smaller, until it was swallowed up completely by clouds. The lights, just moments ago so bright that we'd had to shield our eyes, would seem like a twinkle in the sky. Like a star in motion. The deafening whirr of the motors would slowly fade away. And in those few moments until the next aircraft was ready to take off, we’d be blanketed in a silence so thick, we could lose ourselves in it.

In a few hours, the sun would rise over the horizon, and the sky would turn pink. In a few hours, alarm clocks all over the city would go off, people would stumble out of bed and stare at themselves in disbelief into bathroom mirrors. In a few hours, the city would wake, the roads would get frenetic in the early morning office rush, the blaring sound of impatient horns would obliterate the silence.

In a few hours, before all of this – in that short, precious window of time between dawn and daylight, between quiet and chaos, between solitude and commotion – we would safely return home. Gingerly unlock the front door, tip toe silently up the stairs, carefully walk past the closed doors of fast-asleep parents, and into to the safe haven of our bedrooms.

In a few hours. But not before we made a (very important) stop first.

For Bread Omelette. (Of course!)

We’d stop at one of those many roadside establishments – the only ones open at 3 or 4 in the morning, the ones you drive past without so much as a second glance at other, more normal, hours  – called “Hotel” something or the other. On the placard, below its name, it would claim “Serving breakfast, lunch and dinner.” And if it was the ambitious kind, it would add “Indian, Chinese and Continental.”

Of course, none of these establishments were “Hotels” in any sense of the word.  The one we went to on the night in question, for example, was a tin shack, (sportingly adorned with Christmas fairy lights), a one room shed-like building with charpoys up front and a make-shift kitchen at the back, serving up piping hot, finger-lickingly-tasty food at any time of day or night. A jovial, moustached chap played the all-important role of owner/proprietor/cook/manager/order-taker and a skinny, smiley boy with surprisingly white teeth served as waiter/server/helper/dishwasher.

And the Bread Omelette they served?
A Class Act.

It’s gone 18 years now and still, I can think of absolutely nothing better at that time of the morning (or night, whichever you prefer!) than the Bread Omelette this place managed to dish up. Seriously.

Now bread omelette, for the uninitiated, is not, as one might assume, an omelette made out of bread. It’s just a regular, masala omelette (chillies and all) served between two slices of liberally buttered and toasted bread, eaten with chilli sauce or ketchup. Like a jazzed-up omelette sandwich. See?

At Rs. 10 a piece, (and perhaps only slightly more now) this simple meal was an Everyman’s favourite. For us, it was salve with magical cure-all properties. It satisfied our ravenous teenage hunger, warmed us up from the nippy bite in the 4am air, and ensured we would wake in the morning, hangover-free from those terrible cocktails. Three jobs in one; the perfect antidote.

Samosapedia, by the way, do a great job with their description of bread omelette (see http://samosapedia.com/e/bread+omelette). It is the best egg you’ve ever eaten, and it is the best bread you’ve ever eaten and it wouldn’t really be either, without, as they put it, that touch of roadside pollution! Anyhow, suffice it to say, when it comes to street food, this is undeniably an Indian Classic.

Mention “bread omelette” to anyone with any ties to the Subcontinent, and I bet it will conjure up visions of train travel. Because bread omelette is the food of the Indian Railway. Travel on a sleeper service and sure enough you’ll be woken up by the cries of hawkers (ahem – “pantry car attendants”) walking through the train compartment, calling “breadomlate, breadomlate” (one-word, repeated twice, and pronounced exactly the way it's spelt.)

And so, on that Christmas night, almost two decades ago, we sit there, a whole bunch of us – friends forever – under the starry skies, on straw charpoys, feeling nothing but quiet happiness, a sense of freedom, of infinite space, breathing freely, feeling powerful and content....and happy. And while we sit there waiting for our food, we sip steaming hot cups of freshly brewed filter coffee (which despite my attempts on my Coffee post, I will never be able to replicate).

And soon enough, out comes the little waiter/server/helper/dishwasher boy, with his 22 carat smile, effortlessly juggling 10 steel plates plus a bottle of Maggie Hot and Sweet. Which is indispensible, of course. On each plate, are two slices of toasted bread, filled with a generous portion of omelette, just off the tava, so piping hot that you can still see the rings of smoke wafting from it. So you simply lift off the top slice of bread, liberally pour the Maggie Hot and Sweet over the omelette, replace the slice of bread, and dig in. And there you have it: hot, crunchy, buttered toast, spicy, flavourful omelette cooked to the perfect consistency – creamy and fluffy and rich and light, all at once.

Here’s what you need:

- 4 slices of white bread
- 2 eggs
- 2 green chillies, finely chopped
- 1 small onion, finely chopped
- Handful, coriander leaves
- Pinch, garam masala
- Salt, to taste
- Butter (I'll leave the quantity up to you!)

Here’s how you do it:

Break the eggs in a bowl and add garam masala, salt, onion, green chillies and coriander leaves. Whisk well until frothy and light. Heat up some oil in a non-stick frying pan on medium heat. Pour in the egg mixture. The version we had was super duper basic, by the way, so feel free to add other ingredients – red peppers, spinach, diced tomatoes – all of these can be happy additions, if you so desire. Anyhow, back to the omelette – when the bottom is browned, flip it over until it is golden brown on both sides. Now set it aside for a moment while you butter the bread slices (both sides. Go on, go for it!) and lay them on the same frying pan until browned – they will beautifully absorb the flavour of your just-cooked omelette. Now, place the omelette in between the bread pieces to complete your Bread Omellete. And don't foget the Maggie Hot and Sweet (it really is indespensible and I think you can buy it off the web anywhere in the world now!)

Post Script: I’d written the word “omelette” about 50 times in this post  and according to spellcheck, apparently I had misspelt it every single time. It’s not really a very intuitive spelling, is it? So, after putting considerable thought into the matter, and as a tribute to this undeniabe Indian Classic, I vote for re-christening this dish “breadomlate.”

Whatsay?

Back to basics: Inspired by Ranbir

So here’s the thing. As 2011 draws to a close (already?), and I reflect back on the year that’s been, I realise that I have just wasted a whole bunch of time. And you know what they say about Time (and Tide) not waiting etc. Apparently Time (and Tide) aren’t very patient gentlemen.

So the lost time? I ain’t never getting it back.

And the culprit? Myself.

Know why?

(Confession time folks) It’s because I have spent way too much time moaning about things I can't always control. Like the rain. And delays on the subway. And noisy neighbours (I hear them right now – bang, bang, bang, bang – what on earth do you do all day long?) And lukewarm coffee. And bad food. Yes, I moan constantly about bad food. Especially if it's at an expensive restaurant. 

But, honestly, does it matter? Really matter?

Not really...
(Except the banging, that is. Now that might just kill me one day. If the bad food doesn't.)

But really. Think about it, if you will: every minute that I have spent moaning could have been put to far more productive purposes. Like hanging with my amazing husband or cooking a completely satisfying meal (and then eating it) or playing with my cutie-cute-cute son, or writing writing writing or never going back to an expensive restaurant that serves bad food, or going for a run in the park with Romy, or reading a book, or playing the piano, or watching an old classic with my girlfriends. Or (very important) drinking.

I’ve done so much less of all this glorious stuff that I would have liked, this past year.

Shame on me.

(I'm going somewhere with this folks, I promise, I promise)

“Simplify!” I often preach to myself – “Less is more!”

True. True, all that. But I’m somewhat ashamed to say, I’ve been preaching to the unconverted.

Because I allow these usual silly little things to niggle away at me. It is so silly. Imbecile really.

Now take Ranbir for example, if you want to know how not to waste time. And really live.

He has no memory of what happened 5 minutes ago.

Zero Recall.  Nought. Nada. Zip.

Like when he’s naughty, I scold him. And he cries. Or if he tries to touch “forbidden” objects, I give him a stern look. He obeys me, but he looks hurt. If I raise my voice at him, he whimpers. But then seconds later, he’s forgotten. He’s gone back to talking animatedly to Eddie the Elephant or singing to his Formula 1 car, or holding the TV remote to his ear and trying to say "Hello", cheerful as ever, his mind – once again – a blank slate. When he sees me look at him – literally seconds after I’ve yelled at him – he lifts his arms up and stares at me with his big brown doe-eyes. “Fancy a Cuddle?” he enquires, in his little body-language-speak.

And when I do, he smiles at me with a smile so sweet that it melts me from the inside.

He holds no grudges, feels no slight, bears no malice.

He forgives and forgets.

He eats what I give him. Even if it's steamed cauliflower.
That's a joke. I would never do that to my only begotten child.

He has no worries about the future, no recollection of the past. He lives for the moment.

And when you stop just to think about this - his belief and his faith and his love, it brings facets of yourself under the microscope. And makes you realise, really, how little one needs in life to be happy.

And it’s the same with food.
See, you can spend hours and hours in the kitchen and buy the most exotic ingredients in the world and go all out and dish up something totally gourmet, or (if you're lucky) get yourself into one of the The World's 100 Best Restaurants and break the bank for a meal to remember for-now-and-ever-more and that’s just great, and I'm sure it's worth it, but sometimes – astonishingly – it’s the simplest, easiest, most basic stuff that truly hits the spot.

I mean, lookie here for instance:

Last night, we found ourselves at one of those spendy-trendy places with the beautiful people and the portion-controlled plates with the zigzag sauces. I usually try and avoid places like this, mostly because after emptying out most of the moolahs in my wallet, I leave thinking that a pizza right about now would be great...
...And you know what bad food at expensive places does to me...
But this one bucked the trend. Generous portions and utterly perfect food. Almost of the kind that wakes you up at night and makes you want to lick your fingers again. Not you, I mean – me. I wouldn’t expect you to do anything quite so bizarre. I know, I know.

So, yup...
Here we are. And as a reward for good behaviour, we decide to take Ranbir along with us. And in return for our kindness and generosity, by some heavenly miracle (that I will not question for fear of jinxing it forever), the little fellow is being a cherubic little angel. Halleluiah.

He’s thoroughly delighted to sit in his high-chair and look around, (can't fault him, the place is teeming with beautiful people) not a care in the world, smiling good-naturedly at the pretty waitress taking our order for egg fried rice (for him) and red wine (for us).

Luckily for everyone involved, both are promptly delivered, and received with much hand clapping and glee (by all).

(Now I'm not an alcoholic or anything (yet), but there are some nights when a girl needs her Chianti. I am that girl and tonight is that night. Ahhhhh....)

Anyhoo, between sips of my truly marvellous wine - all dark-cherry-and-leather in a glass - I sneak a sly look in the vague direction of the high chair. And there he is, my little man, clad in cuffed navy blue shirt and beige khakis, looking very preppie, chomping away at mouthfuls of his rice, keeping himself amused and happy and thoroughly content.

Really, sometimes he is an absolute delight to take out. “Sometimes” being the operative word.

So Sid and I get to talk. Grown-up talk. What a rare treat.

And really, it turns out to be a lovely evening. Candlelight, soft music, good wine, great conversation.

And all this is even before our food arrives.

And the food?

The food is sooooo good that the conversation (which I've just been ranting about) comes - if only for a brief few - to a complete halt.

But here’s the rub. (I told you I’m going somewhere with this...)

Somewhere between mouthfuls of pan fried Ostrich with 3 chillies and Soft-Shelled Crab with Julienne Green Mango, I decide to taste a big spoonful of Ranbir’s rice.

And almost swoon.

It is utterly, utterly delicious.

Delicious in a simple, subtle, delicate way - scented with only the slightest hint of coriander, chilli, ginger and sesame oil.

It is simply: Perfection.

And when I’m sort of totally lost in fried-rice heaven, a voice rudely interrupts my reverie.

“Stop eating his rice!” it commands me.

“But...I can’t!!!” I reply helplessly. “It’s just too good.”

“Ams, look at his face and please stop eating his rice,” the cruel voice says again.

I obey. I look at my son’s face. His eyebrows have come together in one massive unibrow and he is giving me the mother of all frowns. I put down my fork instantly.

“Ooops, sorry munchoo,” I coo lovingly. “Here you go.” And I offer him a spoonful of rice.

He doesn’t take it.

I think he’s upset with me. Quite justifiably so. I’d be upset too if there was a plateful of food in front of someone and they decided, instead, to finish mine.

I try again with my peace offering.

He still doesn’t take it.

Instead, to my utter amazement, he calls out to me, “mama,” and when I’m near enough, he holds up a spoonful of rice and shoves it into my mouth.

I am gobsmacked. And ridiculously moved.

Wanna learn how to live?

Learn from a 14 month old.

So, it’s back to basics for me. I can’t do Ostrich pan fried in 3 chillies at home. And nor will I attempt to, but I can do egg fried rice.

And here’s what you need:

- 2 tbsp groundnut oil

- 3 free-range eggs, beaten

- 400g/14oz cooked brown rice

- 3 tbsp light soy sauce

- ½ tsp toasted sesame oil

- 2 tbsp chopped coriander

- pinch ground white pepper

- 1 large spring onion, finely sliced

- 1 tsp minced fresh ginger

Here’s how you do it:

Heat a wok until smoking and then add half the groundnut oil. Add the eggs and scramble for 1-2 minutes. Keep aside the scrambled eggs and reheat the remaining groundnut oil in the wok. Add the ginger and the cooked rice and stir well to break up the grains. By the way, it’s supremely important that the rice you use is cooked and stone cold by the time you are ready to use it here. With just-made rice, you’ll find the result is mushy and soggy. This way, you’ll taste every grain, which is what you’re after.

(And – if you want to be really good and squeeze in your “5 A Day” into this dish, you easily can – just add in any or all of 1/2 cup peas, 2 finely diced carrots, ½ cup corn, 2 sliced red bell peppers, and a handful of chopped green beans – at this point and stir fry for a few minutes until the vegetables start to soften)

Return the egg to the wok with the rice (and vegetables, if you wish) and season, to taste, with the soy sauce, sesame oil and white pepper. Stir in the sliced spring onion and the coriander and mix well.

Inspired by Ranbir. In more ways than one.

A Pumpkin that Smiles

So I experimented on Ranbir today.

No, I didn’t turn him into a Rabbit, in case you were wondering (which, by the way, is precisely what 'spellcheck' does to his name...)

What I mean by “experimented on" him is that I carved him a jack-o-lantern to see if he is old enough (or smart enough) to “get” it.

Ya, ya, I know it's way past Halloween and jack-o-lantern season, but we missed all of that, what with being in India and all, see. And better late than never, as they say. And anyhow, Waitrose still seem to have a large supply of pumpkin on their shelves, Halloween or not. So, I bought a monstrously large pumpkin, placed it at the bottom of Ranbir’s pram (see, I knew I kept my baby around for a reason), and effortlessly wheeled it home. It took all my strength, however, once I got home, to carry it down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I lugged it on the countertop, caught my breath, cut the top off, scooped the inside flesh out, carved a face, placed a candle inside and finally replaced the lid. 

And ta-da! We had a jack-o-lantern in December. Hurrah.

Sadly, it was a bit too early (circa, a year or two too early...) to be cheering because I got absolutely no reaction from Ranbir.

Who seemed far more engrossed in Sid’s Blackberry.

So, to be more precise, my experiment was a big fat failure. Big and fat. Like pumpkin big and fat. Cause clearly, my pumpkin’s (highly expressive) triangular eyes and (cute button) nose and (funny crooked smiley) mouth evoked no emotion in my little boy whatsoever. So: No. I conclude, sadly, that Ranbir is not old enough (or smart enough) to “get” it.

Sigh.

(Though some might argue that sending emails from his father’s work Blackberry demonstrates a level of intelligence far greater than reacting to his mother’s attempt at a funny-faced Pumpkin).

However – to quote Shakespeare (erudite chick that I am), “All’s well that ends well” and I’m still quite pleased,  because now you see, I have a whole bunch of pumpkin deliciousness to cook with!

And I LOVE pumpkin. Absolutely LOVE it. In any form.  I love pumpkin soup, I love pumpkin salad, I love pumpkin risotto and I love pumpkin subzi, cooked the Indian way with mustard seeds and amchoor and dried red chilies.

Pumpkin is really the ultimate Fall/Winter food – it’s a great accompaniment to a heartier, perhaps meatier meal, or it’s a perfectly delicious one-pot meal in itself. Apart from the undeniable fact that it is BRIGHT orange in colour, and by virtue of that alone, will light up the darkest, most dreary evening, it lends a sweetness and wholesomeness and comfort and warmth to the palette that is just fantastic.  Say "Pumpkin" in my ear, and I think of fall colours and log cabins and bonfires and marshmallows and the smell of wood smoke in the air…

I’m making a simple Roast Pumpkin for dinner tonight that is so good that I guarantee there will be no leftovers. And even though Ranbir isn't smiling at my smiling jack-o-lantern, I'm fairly sure he's going to be smiling after his dinner.

Here’s what you need:

- 1 large pumpkin

- 3 tbsn olive oil

- 6 stalks fresh thyme or 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

- 100g walnuts

- 2 tbsp dried cranberries

- 125g goats cheese

- Salt and pepper, to taste

Here’s how you do it:

Preheat the oven to 220°C. Quarter the pumpkin so it is of a manageable working size and then skin each bit. Scoop out the seeds, then cut into cubes, trying to keep the pieces uniformly small.  Add the olive oil to a roasting tin and then scatter the pumpkin cubes on it. Strip the leaves from 4 stalks of thyme, and sprinkle liberally over the pieces. Roast in the oven for about 30-45 minutes or until tender. Once out of the oven,  ladle the pumpkin into a large serving bowl and scatter the walnuts and cranberries over it. Crumble the goats cheese on top, then toss everything together gently.

I love this dish because it’s simple and aromatic and comforting all at once. You have meltingly sweet cubes of pumpkin offset with the fragrance of thyme, the warm crunch of walnuts, the tartness of cranberries and the rich, decadent saltiness of crumbly goats cheese.

Yum.