The Miracle Pizza

So China imposed its one-child policy in a manner that you'd expect from China. Rules are rules; no rest for the wicked.

India of course, decided to embark on it’s own population control measures in an ever so slightly different manner – It decided to appeal to logic.

“Small family, happy family,” said the slogans, followed by the catchy phrase that summed it all up rather eloquently: “We 2, Ours 2”

This was accompanied by the Government of India’s depiction of the model family. Mama & Papa smiling in perfect happiness. And below them – Baby & Baba, a spitting-image of their painted parents, albeit shorter and with rosier cheeks.

It was fascinating stuff, truly.

Anyhow, we were veritably bombarded by these posters, which were dutifully plastered on every surface that could be considered a surface. Indeed, for a great many years, no matter where you looked, there was a Happy Family smiling back at you…on billboards, stuck behind public buses, on placards atop taxis, painted on auto rickshaws, and glued onto every wall that expressly indicated it wanted no graffiti. For this was no graffiti. It was a message of National Importance. And don’t you ever forget it.

This, by the way, (in case you had any doubts) lies at the core of the difference between our two great nations.

Anyway, I'm not arguing for one over the other – I’m a food blogger, what do I know?

I'm merely propagating my very own (scarily effective) tried and tested method of population control.

And don’t worry – it’s totally PG 13 and involves neither violence nor sex.

 

I come in peace.

But, I’m telling you guys.  This is a serious test of one’s mettle. It takes all you’ve got. And it taught me that I ain’t got much. 

Oh and if you’ve got a few children of your own already (more than 1, that is) and you’ve still found time to read this and laugh at me, you're allowed. And well, then I salute you.

You're braver than me.

I'm a wimp.

A wimp who can cook.

And that about sums up my life.

So without further ado, this is how it all unfolds for me:

A good friend (whose permission I have taken, by the way, before writing this piece but whose children’s names shall not be disclosed for obvious reasons) shows up at my doorstep with her two progeny – all three dripping wet with rain – and begs to drop said wet progeny over, for "half a day" (gulp), because something "urgent" has come up at work and the babysitter is "otherwise occupied."

Sigh.

Question: How does one turn away a friend in dire straits? Especially one with water coming out of her ears?

Answer: One doesn’t.

I'm a nice person, I keep telling you. Foolish perhaps, but nice.

Plus, I’ve watched these kids grow up – the younger is just 2, slightly older than Ranbir, and the older is 6. And I remember them as being rather adorable. (Ah! How misleading is memory?)

So I say okay.

But. Half a day?

And especially half a day when my own child is not blissfully away at that utopian place called 'school' but very much at home, with me.

So – three children for half a day. A whole half of a day?

Phew.

Now, these children are supposedly half-Bengali and half-English although there's nothing Bengali about them. They speak in an English accent. They have golden curls and blue eyes the colour of the Thames on a sunny day.

(wait, what’s a sunny day?)

Anyhow….all goes peachily in the first hour or so.

The children busy themselves with racing cars. Nothing like racing cars, I tell you, when you’re dealing with boys. Entertains them for hours. (Or if you’re not-so-lucky, less that that).

“I’ll be the race car driver,” the older one decides. “You both be the road.” The toddlers try not to giggle as they lie prostrate on the carpet while the older "drives" the cars over them.

I want to protest at the seeming injustice of this little arrangement but the little ones seem delighted by the honour to be a road. And so a little voice inside me tells me to shut up and stop being such a Miss Goody Two-Shoes.

Instead I satisfy myself by casting a sneaky glance every now and then in the general direction of the car-and-road-action while curling up with a hot cup of tea, a book I've been meaning to read and the dim delusion of tranquillity.

Then, the first faint strains of trouble begin to emerge.

“I'm bored,” the 6YO declares.

“Okay, ” I say faking sparkle (many years of banking teaches you how to do that well) – "what shall we do"

“Let’s watch a movie,” he proposes, flicking through Sid’s DVD collection in an eerily adult manner.

“Okay,” I say once again, “what do you want to watch?”

“Let's watch Batman!” he announces, pulling out “Batman Begins.”

“Batman, Batman” the younger ones screech in unison.

At this point, I have no idea whether kids this age are even allowed to watch Adult Batman.

Then: “Do you know the new movie is out in a month?” the 6-year old tells me as articulately as if he were 60.

“Really?” I say, feigning ignorance.

Incidentally, it so happens that I do. My husband is a super-hero obsessed child who watches the trailer of “The Dark Knight Rises” (release date – 20^th July 2012) ritualistically twice a day – once right after he wakes and once before he sleeps (and when I’m not looking, several times in between).

Anyway.

I think: if the kid knows when the next movie’s coming out, he’s probably watched the other two. At least I won’t go to jail. At least I hope not.

So we attempt to watch Batman Begins. ‘Attempt to’, being the operative words, because the two little ones are terrified of Batman and scream every time he comes on screen – which, given the movie is called “Batman” – renders watching it more than a little challenging.

I shut off the TV.

The 6YO complains.
But the toddlers stop screaming in fear.

I sigh.

It’s only gone 2.5 hrs and I've done an inordinate amount of sighing already.

Meanwhile, my child’s climbed up on the sofa beside me to hide his face (whenever Batman appeared) and now that the TV’s off and Batman doesn’t appear anymore, he’s taken to pulling my hair.

Watching him, the other two-year old decides to follow suit. So, up he scrambles, onto my other side – and yup – now my hair’s been yanked from both sides. It’s a democratic world, folks.

 

They are having a grand old time. Even the 6YO is amused. But I am not.  This game gets quite tedious quite quickly. So I pick them up one by one and put them back on the floor.

But, now what?

I’m about to suggest playing in the garden but I don’t because no child in Britain has played in a garden in the last three months. That’s how long it’s been raining.

Then I have a brainwave.

Food! I think.

Why, of course! Food makes everyone happy.

Food sustains life.

Food is love, etc.

And so: In trying times such as these, Food shall be my deliverance. 

“Let's all cook something together,” I suggest.

This is received by much whooping and cheering, and for a brief but glorious period I think I've just scored the money shot.

“What shall we make?” I ask.

“Pizza” says the older immediately.

“Pizza, Pizza” echo the young ones.

I have a few frozen ready-to-eat Pizza crusts in-stock (sorry guys, but I just can't face dough after a day like this)

“Okay,” I say, happily. “Done.”

I take one out of the freezer along with some left-over sausage-meat I bought from the lovely folk over at Swiss Cottage Farmers' Market – and walk them over to the microwave to defrost

“What's that?” the 6YO asks, standing on his tippy toes and peering into the packet in my hand.

“Sausage” I say.

“Cool,” he responds.

After 12 minutes in front on the microwave in which I’ve defrosted about ½ a kg worth of the stuff, he declares: “My brother doesn't eat meat.”

The younger shakes his head. “No meat” he states

“No meat” my son agrees.

I sigh.

No meat it is. Fine, fine.

You win. I lose. As usual.

Well. Sid’s just going to have to eat ½ a kg of sausage for dinner, so maybe I’m not the biggest loser, after all.

I go back to the fridge, open it and take stock of its contents. What can I put on my no-meat pizza?

Carrots? No.

Broccoli? No.

Beans? No. Definitely not.

Then – like an oasis in the middle of the desert, a silver lining framing a dark cloud, the light at the end of the tunnel. Etc. – I spy with my little eye, the answer to my prayers, the creature that will lead me down the Path of Salvation.

It is a Brinjal.

A gorgeous deep purple Brinjal sitting coyly in one corner of the crisper.

A thought-bubble emerges.

Nick Nairn, it says.

Oh genius, genius Nick Nairn. I love you.

Barely do I grab the purple beauty and set it on the counter when I hear a voice shriller than chalk on board, piercing through my eardrums.

“You’re feeding us Begoon pizza?” It asks in horror

I gasp (not sigh)

There is something more than mildly disturbing to hear the Bengali word for Brinjal uttered in an English accent through the lips of a 6YO with golden curls.

“She’s feeding us Begoon pizza” he reports to the toddlers accusingly. Followed by a disgusted “eeeeeyuuuu”

His bother repeats faithfully – “eeeeeyuuuu”

Not to be outdone, my son (who hasn’t the faintest idea what “begoon” is) follows suit – 
“eeeeeyuuuu”

You know how I said these children have blue eyes the colour of the Thames on a sunny day? Well. I want to drown myself in them.

Honestly, it is a moment when I want to ring up my mommy and cry.

And I almost do.

But I know she will only laugh at me and tell me to get a grip.

So I do.

How can I let these little creatures – all three standing on each other’s heads would still be shorter than me – bully me like this?

What a wimp I am. I mean, really.

And so I take control.

“Yes,” I tell them firmly. “I am feeding you Begoon Pizza and if you don’t eat it, the bogeyman will come and eat YOU.”

This seems to do the trick.

The pizza is made (as below), consumed (rather surprisingly) with great gusto and declared (much to my pleasure) a resounding success.

I even get a bear hug from the 6YO, which I must admit, is rather gratifying.

And then – everyone is tired and goes to sleep, cuddled all together on 1 big bed.

The End.

But there is a great and valuable lesson to learn from this tale.

Which is that my duly revised slogan – V2R1 –  is going to be painted on my front door first thing tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, here’s Aubergine/Brinjal/Eggplant Pizza inspired by the talented Nick Nairn. 

(I’m skipping the making of the crust, so sorry, but I’m too tired to be bothered. I’m sure I’ll have it in some post or the other, sooner or later…)

Here’s everything you need for the topping though:

-   1 tbsp pesto (from a bottle), I use the Sacla brand that's available here in the UK

-   1 medium gorgeous, deep purple Brinjal

-   200g cherry tomatoes

-   6 ounces, fresh mozzarella

-   2 cloves garlic, peeled

-   1/2 cup grated parmesan

-   Basil leaves, to garnish

-   1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, for drizzling

Here’s how you do it:

Lots of slicing.

First, slice up the brinjal into relatively thin slices.  Then wash the slices in cold running water (I don’t know why. But this is what my mommy taught me) and pat dry. Lightly sprinkle both sides of the slices with salt.

Next, slice the cherry tomatoes in half lengthwise.

And then, slice the mozzarella as thinly as you can.

Now we’re done slicing. We move to chopping.

So, chop up some garlic.

And now we’re done chopping.

Spread the brinjal slices out onto a large baking sheet, drizzle some olive oil over them and put them under the grill for a few minutes. When they have just started to char, add in the tomatoes to the same sheet. This will help dry out the tomato juices, which would otherwise make your crust soggy.

And a soggy crust never did anyone any good.

Now put the pizza together!

Spread the pesto evenly over the pizza base (you can skip the pesto if you don't like pesto. I like pesto. But that doesn't mean you have to. You don't have to. But you can if you want to) and place the mozzarella slices on top. Top with the caramelised aubergine and tomatoes. Sprinkle some chopped garlic over the whole pizza, and then finally scatter the Parmesan evenly on top.

Place into a preheated oven at 200C for 10 minutes until the cheese is melty and oozy and the crust is golden brown and crisp. Garnish with basil for that final touch.

It's a miracle, my friends - it kept three boys from killing each other. Or worse, from killing me.

I’m going to eat my miracle pizza for breakfast, right after I paint my sign.

The Bengali Salad

So, first things first.

If you're Bengali and you're reading this, you're probably thinking – What a load of drivel!

Because, any Bengali worth his salt knows that the words ‘Bengali’ and ‘salad’ are not friends. They’re not even acquaintances. In fact, I will go so far as to declare that these two words have never before been seen together in serious print.

(Which is what I am all about. Serious print I mean).

(Ha!)

See, Bengalis eat their vegetables deep-fried, usually as the first-course of an elaborate and strictly-ordered meal. So, its aloo bhaja (deep-friend potatoes) uchhe bjaaja (deep-friend bitter melon), begun bhaaja (deep-fried aubergine) and so on. The more deep fried, the better – bring it on!

So a bunch of raw vegetables mixed together and served cold?

Why, what an absurd idea!

But here’s the thing – As much as I see the logic of starting every meal with deep-fried goodness, I do enjoy the occasional salad soooooo very much!

What can I say? I've been corrupted most happily by the ways of the West!

And so, I’ve found some happy middle ground. Because I like to see people happy. (I’m just that kind of person.) And I’m telling you, folks – If there is a happier place to meet in the middle, I haven't been there.

And this famously happy place is – The Bengali Salad!

Hold my hand and I'll take you there...

It's special. It's stunning. It's sublime.

Here, let me introduce you: Bengali, meet Salad.

First, meet butternut squash with its mellow, nutty sweetness. Next, say hello to some fiery chillies. Greet panch phoran (pure genius in a jar) for texture...and nuts for depth and crunch. Then, rub shoulders with coconut for its richness and tamarind for that dense delicious "sour". Get cozy with pomegranate seeds for some sweet juicy bite, and coriander for its fragrance, and finally give a big, cheery high-five to the yogurt-drizzle for that last cool-creamy zing!

Yum!

I know it seems like there’s a lot going on here, but the combination of ingredients is magical. 

You'll love it. I know you will.

Firstly, it’s beautiful. And anything beautiful gets me every time. I’m a sucker for beautiful. And it’s beautiful because of all the vibrant colours…orange and green and white and bright red. And isn’t that just beautiful?

Second – its huge on texture. And texture as you know adds depth and dimension to food. Texture is very important. Texture makes the world a more interesting place.

And third – and hands down the most important criteria for judgment – taste. And trust me, darlings, on taste, this dish is off the charts.

Really, not that I’m bragging or anything (well…) but it just so happens that my humble Bengali Salad received quite a reception on Saturday night – and dare I say it – quietly stole the show from under the noses of some seriously amazing meaty competition…

And even though it hurts his ego to admit it, I think my husband (who industriously barbequed the seriously amazing meaty competition) does (albeit most grudgingly) agree.

(Yes, yes we had the bbq despite the rain. Though we had to sit indoors, which was complete rubbish. Anyway, two bottles of wine down, it didn’t really matter. But one day we'll get this right, I swear)

But anyway, this dish is seriously good folks. Utterly and wholly Rad.

So:

First I'm making a butternut squash dish, and – the good, demure, little Bengali girl that I am – I’m making it in the traditional Bengali way.

And then – I’m rapidly doing away with that little imagery before you start to believe it (as if!) and messing with it with reckless abandon – much in my usual mad manner.

Now, here’s the thing:

I don’t love the term “fusion.” Fusion, in my experience, is a fancy excuse to serve very bad food at very bad prices. Which – as you know – is a combination that makes me very upset indeed.

See here's the problem with fusion, the way I see it – I believe that more often than not, the best food can be found in it’s place of origin. For example, the odds are the best sushi can be found in Japan, the best Biriyani in Hyderabad, the best pasta in Italy, the best Butter Chicken at Moti Mahal, the best paella in Spain, and so on. In fact, I just can’t resist not telling you, because all good secrets must be shared (!?) – the best paella (not on only on this earth, but far beyond it) just happens to be in Marbella, in this charming little local joint called El Gallo. There’s no website – when I mean local, I mean local – if you’re ever headed to Marbella, please give me a shout and I’ll tell you how to find it. You may decide to live there, don’t say I didn’t warn you…)

Anyway, back to the current discussion.

I do believe that the best food always has an element of authenticity to it. An old-fashioned, purist touch that inherently commands respect. And because of this – this stamp of originality – it becomes hard for anything else to compete.

And for fusion to work – it needs to compete with this.

Indeed, it needs to top this.

Which is just not easy.

And this is why fusion is, so often, just wrong.

And so, although what I’m doing here is some serious tampering with the tried and tested, I would hate to call it fusion. It’s just my somewhat contemporary take on a classic dish, without taking anything away from the flavours that define it. It’s not fusion. It’s evolution.

I just thought I’d get that out of the way.

And anyway, I think there’s something utterly romantic about East meeting West. But then, I would, wouldn’t I?

Here’s what you need:

First for the butternut squash.

- 1 medium butternut squash (or ½ pumpkin), deseeded and cut into rough chunks
- 1 tbsp mustard oil
- 2 tsp panch phoran (constituents and explanation here!)
- 3 whole dry red chillies
- 1 tablespoon unsweetend tamarind paste
- ½ tspn salt
- ½ tspn sugar

Now I wasn’t joking when I said I am making this entirely in the traditional manner. In fact, the Bengali name for this is Chaalkumro Bhaaja, translated as Fried Pumpkin (but of course). I’m using butternut squash instead of pumpkin, because it’s easier to find around here, but I’m pleasantly surprised by the substitution – the orange flesh is sweet and dense and pleasantly nutty. Anyway, I have no idea what butternut squash is in Bengali, so I’m going to stick to calling it Chaalkumro.

Also, I’m not deep frying (sorry guys!) Instead, I’m stir-frying chunks of the golden squash in panch phoran, tamarind and chilli tempered oil.

Here’s how you do it:

Heat the mustard oil in a pan. Add the panch phoron and whole red chillies and fry till the seeds sputter – you’ll be able to smell the aroma of the tempered oil. Add the diced pumpkin and stir well making sure the orange chunks are well coated. Now, add in the tamarind paste, salt and sugar.

Cover the pan and cook on low heat for 10 min. or till the pumpkin is tender enough to spear through with a fork.

By the way, you can stop here and eat this with some plain white rice. It’s sublime.

Or you can be like me and venture forth bravely into a new and wonderful world.

For the salad…

Here’s what you need:

- 2 tbsp raw cashews
- 2 tbsp sunflower seeds
- 2 tbsp pumpkin seeds
- ½ fresh coconut, finely grated
- Coriander leaves, roughly chopped
- Seeds from 1/2 a pomegranate 
- Juice of 1/2 lemon
- 2 tbsp natural yoghurt for drizzling

And here’s how you do it:

Wait for the cooked squash to cool a little – but it should still be warm. Stir in the cashews, the pumpkin and sunflower seeds, lemon juice and the coconut and toss well. Top with coriander and pomegranate seeds and then drizzle over with yoghurt.

And…I think I've just pioneered the Bengali Salad!

Are you proud of me?

Vodka Married Salmon

Pardon the pun, but it’s a right royal mess.

Nothing’s as it should be this grand Jubilee weekend.

Roads are closed, the tube’s suspended, rail projects are underway, rail-replacement buses are not running (please pause to ponder, thanks), crowd-control is a mess  – and most importantly and crucially, the sun has deserted me on an evening when I was planning to invite friends over for a barbeque.

Hmph.

Incidentally, “was planning to invite” doesn’t mean I am not planning to invite them anymore. Oh, sun or no sun, they’re coming.

And I have nothing to feed them.

I had plenty to feed them. Fresh from the lovely folk over at Kent & Sons. It would have been absolutely addictive, perfect and life-changing.

If, that is, the sun had graced me with it’s presence.

But no. 

The sun (the traitor) has disgraced me with it’s absence.

And as optimistic as I am (in general), today, I have conceded defeat.  The sad truth is, folks, that: 11 degrees + rain and lamb + mint really have nothing to say to each other.

Full stop.

So it’s 4 hours until my guests come and I have no Plan B.

And so (naturally) I start to panic (a little)

And when I start to panic (a little) it (naturally) helps to cook.

Which is exactly what I’m going to do.

I’m grilling salmon coated in a fresh orange and chilli marinade and eating it with some sweet and sour cucumber salad. Mmmm…

So, first things first, I need to make my “marry.”

I mix some orange juice and zest and honey and garlic and chilli sauce and blend the blessed lot.

Then I have a taste.

And then I do a very bad thing.

I pour a cup full of vodka into the marinade.

I don’t know why I do this.

I honest to goodness, cross my heart don’t have the faintest idea why. It wasn’t part of the plan. I swear.

Maybe my marinade needed some thinning, maybe I think it will quite nicely calm my frayed nerves. Or maybe, (deep inside my compassionate heart), I feel that even a dead fish deserves a bit of fun.

But anyway, whatever the reason, I’m happy to announce that it all combined very well and happily and joyfully. Which is really what life’s all about anyway.

So, here’s what you need:

- 4 salmon steaks (about 1inch / 2cm thick)

- 185ml vodka

- 60ml fresh orange juice + zest of 1 orange

- 
2 tbsp honey

-
 3 garlic cloves, chopped


- 1 tspn chilli sauce

- Salt and pepper, to taste

I’ve already told you what to do with the marinade.

If you don’t want to be like me, skip the vodka.

If you do, don’t.

Anyway, once that’s done (or not done), add salt, pepper and marinade into a plastic zip top bag with salmon filets. Remember to save 1-2 tablespoons of marinade to brush on salmon while grilling.

“Marry” the salmon in refrigerator for about 2 hours (Marination rule number 1 – the longer anything stays “married”, the happier it will be…) (as long as it’s married to the right person of course…)

It is so happens that Vodka is the right person. There’s couldn’t be a righter person. It’s the most perfect of perfect unions.

I promise.

Right, so when you’re ready, preheat your grill to medium high.


Place salmon on the grill and cook 5-6 minutes per side, depending on the thickness of the fish. As it cooks, brush with reserved marinade. And stop when it’s all bronzed and beautiful.

I’m serving the salmon with a cucumber salad that’s so easy, you’ll love it.  Just throw together the following ingredients and mix ‘em up well!

-   2 cucumbers (I like the peel on), diced

-   2 cloves garlic, sizzled in sesame oil

-    salt to taste

-   2 tspn sugar

-   2 tspn rice wine vinegar

-   ½ fresh pomegranate, deseeded

Enjoy!

Oh and this is not what I’m feeding the hungry mouths who are coming over - in about 4 hours. This is what I’m feeding myself - right now.

We’ll worry about them later.

For now, this stuff is so good, I want to kiss myself.

When Vodka married Salmon.

Isn’t it a beautiful story?