It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of free time, must be in want of a good series to binge watch. My love for Tom Hiddleston won the stakes this weekend, and I started watching Loki. It is a disappointment, to say the least. TH is completely wasted in this one. And so is the character of Loki. To be fair, I am only one episode in, but I like making these judgements ahead of time, and be proved right later. My binge watching is normally accompanied by chips munching. The kind where you have to turn the volume up a few notches because you can’t hear over all the continuous crunch. However, this year, we got our hands on some really good mangoes and they have replaced everything else in the house. Mallika, Imam pasand and Neelum - these are the ones that really feed my soul. Now Alphonso, that just sounds like it started out with an ambition to rule all of Spain but has given up midway for a career in the travel influencer business. It’s great to watch something adult again. The kid is at the grandparents for the weekend, and we don’t have to watch Spongebob or Shark Tank. We had somehow tacitly come to the conclusion that it is ok to let him watch Shark Tank. Time will tell how big a mistake this will turn out be. Ducky's running commentary through the entire show with things like “Mark made an offer but he actually took the money from Daymond? I don’t get it!”, “Seriously, she wants five hundred thousand? I can give you a fifty thousand”, is gold. Speaking of ST, I’d like to call the attention of all entrepreneurs and corporate biggies to the fact that giving your 110% is no longer enough. It is now upped to 120%. There are of course the noobs who say they’ll give their 300%, but you can tell right away they don’t mean it. Now 120%, that sounds like there is a concrete plan to get there. Speaking of more interesting things, in the sweetest gesture anyone has ever made, the husband has decided to cook something fancy this weekend so that I’ll have something to write about. A week ago, he ordered a bunch of pasty, saucy things online. Miso paste, Sake, Gochuchang, Mirin - all going into making some juicy Red Miso Lamb Ribs. While I was watching Loki, the man was cooking the sauce accompanied by some very appropriate music playing in the kitchen. I refer to the music that you hear in all Hollywood and Bollywood movies alike when they have to introduce something oriental. The notes that sound like a tea party has turned into a jaltarang competition. I am going to call it Miso music from now on. Miso music is like a yoga teacher walking barefoot, like the feet don’t wanna hurt the ground. The sauce, at various stages of cooking, was brought to me for tasting. It got better and better. He slathered it on the ribs and put them away to marinade. The recipe called for grilling the ribs for 4 minutes on either side, so they can come out medium rare. Which of course, we promptly ignored and went on to grill them for 15. I mean, we are not animals. We don’t mind being part of the food chain for meat, but eating it raw, that’s where we have principles. Out came the ribs, all juicy and yummy. A meal of just the ribs would be too simple for the man. So, he stir fried some vegetables and here we are! We’re now waiting for the bub to come back home. He sounded pretty excited about this misu pisu dish that appa rustled up. He insists on ending each of these experiments with a rating and a "for those reasons, I am out."
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It is my birthday week. The man isn’t showing any signs of making anything yummy. He keeps asking what he can buy for me. As if anyone needs anything nowadays, staying cooped up at home. Of course, I am not counting the vacuum robot and table top dishwasher that we have recently added to the pile of gadgets at home. More on how they don’t work later. Anyway, this morning, I let out a long sigh and announced “Do you know what I miss? What I really miss? The curry wurst. The one from Berlin, not the soulless, wussy weisswurst from Munich” “Do you now?” “Yes I do” “I thought I was making cake” “Do you not remember last week’s cake? We couldn’t even share it with anyone because the prosecution would have pressed charges for first degree. Premeditated.” Last week, when I was still pretending to be on a keto diet, a cake was attempted. To start with, sugar was substituted with stevia. The call to abandon ship should have been taken at this point of time, but he laboured on. To echo Ducky’s thoughts “I am definitely not ok with Stevia, who’s Stevia?”. The horror did not end there though. The one ingredient that could have salvaged the cake - heavy cream - was forgotten, tucked away between the basket of eggs and unused sugar. He tried to pass it off as a mudpie, but it was really just mud. It was partly my fault though. I keep forgetting to tell him I am only on a keto-ish diet and never on a keto diet. So, there really was no need for extreme stevia induced measures. “Ok let me check the curry wurst recipe” he said. “What is there to check? You take a 5 inch paper plate, place a large sausage, squeeze in tomato sauce from one end, mustard sauce from the other, hope they meet in the middle for a tango, sprinkle chat masala and stick two toothpicks in. Not very unlike the fruit salad person outside Cubbon park.” Ignoring me with a silent scoff and shaking of head, he got to it, “You won’t believe this but the sauce has 20 ingredients. Order curry powder.” “There is no such thing as curry powder. Unless you are in London and have gotten around to calling everything curry” “Also order worcestershire sauce” “This is getting complicated. There is no way I can explain to the dunzo guy what it is.” “Have you ordered yet?” Meanwhile, further research on Germany’s best sausages reveals the man is right. Apparently, a certain Frau Heuwer traded German beer for English curry and voila, the Currywurst was born. And so, the ingredients are ordered and the sauce is made. In a rare display of self control, we decide to put off digging into it, and save it for the picnic next day. The second half of 2020 was full of picnics for us. We were thrilled to have discovered spots around Bangalore that were full of lakes and trees, sprinkled with empty chips packets and premade cocktail tetrapaks crushed out of shape. All of that came to a standstill with 2021 turning out to be an apocalyptic action thriller. But it was time to pick up those trails again! Sunday morning, we packed off early to one of our favourite spots that was full of tall eucalyptus trees, with the basket of sausages, sauces, salamis and eggs in one hand and a football in the other. Just being outdoors does all kinds of good things to the heart. It did help that the curry wurst was spot on, tangy and wursty. An absolutely wonderful way to ring in the birthday I say!
Speaking of birthdays, I love all the wishes I get from banks and mutual funds. Makes my day, makes me feel my money is in the hands of good, sweet, caring people. This is a late post. It’s been 6 weeks now since we’ve cooked anything special at home or written about it. With everything going on around us, I just didn’t feel like cracking jokes, or looking for the funny side of life. A couple of days ago, a friend messaged, checking in on us. After we spoke about the absolute horror that is the world today, he said I have to keep writing; for him it was something to look forward to. Incidentally, on the same day, I also finished reading this book called A gentleman in Moscow. I don’t remember reading anything that so beautifully wove the awesomeness of the human spirit into a story. In the end, we all have to do what we are meant to do, what we naturally lean towards. In whatever way possible, and under whatever circumstances. And so, I opened this draft that I had abandoned all those weeks ago, with a resolve to get back to writing. Bear with me while I find my voice. Ever since we started on our cooking spree, Gawd (as the mister is referred to due to his ubiquitous nature) has been quite keen to feed diverse sets of people and bask in their praise. He particularly wanted to impress this couple who are known to experiment with very fancy stuff. The last time we were invited to their place, they fed us black rice biryani. It was the final frontier. Unfortunately, every time we made plans with them, we ended up canceling, for some or the other of life's mundane tasks came in the way. We had invited them over on the weekend of the Duck confit. But that did not materialise. This weekend, they called us and said they were quite tired of waiting for Gawd to cook, so they are taking things into their own hands and making some Miso glazed Fish. And we were welcome to join them. We gladly agreed. We made a trip to the in laws’, and had just finished a very satisfying meal of dal and potato for lunch, when they called us to ask if they could meet at our place instead. Not wanting to make a habit of canceling, and always happy to have guests over, we shook on plan B. They were getting the fish and we agreed we were just gonna order in the rest of the meal. I start rummaging the bar shelf to check what needs to be topped up. I notice my comments go unanswered and turn around to find Gawd ordering ingredients to make Mutton Varuval. With two hours to go, I tell him making an elaborate meal is out of the question. By now you already know, he doesn’t agree with most things I say. After much fight over who orders what and who cooks what, he finally relents and says he’s gonna make his go-to dessert even if he doesn’t make the full meal. Which, for the uninitiated, is the Tiramisu. Yes, he’s become that suave. We place orders for the ladyfinger biscuits (I’d draw the reader's attention to the post on said biscuits) and cream. This time around, he doesn't pull off all the peaks quite as prescribed. We order 3 different kinds of cream, and finally get one right. The recipe says we have to chill it overnight. Gawd scoffs at such recommendations. We’ll see, he says. The friends arrive with their fish and shove it into the oven. It looked glazed alright! It also smelt like what one would assume miso to smell like. Apparently it’s been marinating for over 24 hours. Meat appreciates patience. The fish comes out just perfect. And surprisingly, the tiramisu comes out great as well. We polish off a full bowl of it and stow away the other for later. The next day, the beneficiaries of the Duck Confit from the previous weekend call us home for some prawns and pork. Mangalorean pork and batter fried prawns they say, to lure us. This weekend was turning out to be all kinds of awesome. We postpone all other plans we have, and ask the son to get ready.
He says yes, but goes into the bathroom and starts his usual shower routine. Which is where, every time we peep in to ask if he is done, we find him holding the water wiper in a different position and singing into it, in what I can only imagine is his rehearsal for the Grammy’s performance. Anyhow, we pull him out, deposit him into a set of clothes and rush off, following the smell of prawns being doused in batter and dropped into the bubbling pan of oil. The softest pork with rice and the fried-est prawns with beer make for an excellent Saturday afternoon. We remember the remaining tiramisu stashed in our fridge. Taking advantage of living next door, we rush to get the casserole. This tiramisu was doused in coffee and dark rum. That meant we didn’t have to share it with the kids. Always a bonus. We sit around the table and finish it off in one go. Gawd’s balance of the universe is restored with all the praise showered on him. The end to my first draft read, “I hope we get to do this more often. Freeriding on other people’s kitchens.” That was probably the last time we visited anyone or had anyone visit us. The house definitely gets smaller when there are fewer comings and goings. Ten years ago, the mister had traveled to Prague. It was the first and only time he attempted a solo trip. What got to him in the end was having to call me multiple times to plan his day. There was however a thick silver lining. It was this dish that he claimed was the crowning glory of European food. The Duck Confit. Eating out was never the same again for him. Everytime we went out, he would eagerly grab the menu to see if they had duck and if they were confit-ing it. If by a rare chance the establishment had duck, he would immediately order it. The dish would be served the last, later than anything else we’d have ordered. He would look at it, tut-tut in disappointment and ask the waiter, “but my dear sir, where is the confit?” Ever since we started on this crazy cooking spree, I had been holding my breath, waiting for him to declare any weekend now, we were making duck confit at home. That weekend finally happened. I made a couple of calls to the meat stores on Saturday evening. One of them said, fresh ducks arrived just yesterday and asked me to hurry over. I took off immediately. I had been instructed to get 4 big leg-thigh cuts. The butcher asked me to take the entire duck or leave it. I made a quick mental calculation of the number of legs per duck, the weight of the duck and the number of people eating the duck. At 1.7kg a duck, I could afford to buy only one duck. I asked him to chop it up for me. While I waited, I walked around the store, and found this product. 3 dates to go. So many questions! The most important one being - To go where? It took me all of 2 mins to eat them, before the first chop fell on the duck. The second most important one was - Where does this madness stop? With the burst of energy the all natural snack provided, I gave my thumbs the usual workout with the doom scrolling on social media. An ad for an inner wear brand popped up “Matching underwear for you and your loved ones.” The creative showed 4 young people hanging out at their kitchen-cum-breakfast counter in matching underwear. Not at the beach, not 5 year olds, but adults inside the house. Do I not understand how life works anymore? Yes of course, I clicked on the Shop Now button. Luckily, the butcher announced he was done, and I could leave before more existential questions could assault me. I came home triumphantly. I offered to search for the recipe. The first link I clicked on led me to a recipe that read: Ingredients - 1) Duck 2) Salt. No more. Time and again, life proves that it is infinitely more amusing than anything I can make up. The mister sighed and took over and searched for his own recipe, treated the duck with the spices and love it deserved and stashed away the marinaded pieces in the chiller. The next day we began cooking what was the most time consuming dish to ever come out of our kitchen. He started with the side - red cabbage slowly simmered in vinegar, apples and orange juice. He left it on the stove and went to the balcony to catch up on his social media scrolling. In half an hour, the house went from smelling of sweet pungent potpourri to a dumpster on fire. Exhaust fans were switched on, black cabbage was scraped off the pan and eventually, the pan thrown away. We ordered a fresh batch of red cabbage and started the process all over again. Our oven, meant for a normal sized family, did not take all of the duck at once. There were 3 batches in all, with each one grilled for over 3 hours. The duck was roasted very slowly and patiently in its own oil, on a bed of semi mashed potatoes. Our guests arrived as the second batch was in the oven. We set up the table and served them the first batch of duck with the potatoes and passed the cabbage around. What goes with this - bread or rice they asked. Potatoes we said. They tried to hide their disgust and be polite. The mister insisted that the duck and potatoes along with cabbage was a complete meal and that, that was where the magic lay.
He kept asking everyone to have one more serving of the confit. Eventually one of the guests asked why he was calling the cabbage confit. We whipped out our phones and checked the facts. Turns out confit is a method of cooking. You see, the mister thought the cabbage side was the confit. Meanwhile, the son thought there was going to be 'duck on feet' on the table. The guests and the son alike accused him of trying to make cabbage cool. Various pieces of the puzzle fell into place. All those fights with the waiters, all those disappointments and declarations of breakup with the duck - they were all extra. There never needed to be any cabbage. Be that as it may, it’s safe to say there’s going to be more duck accompanied by cabbage in our house in the near future. I am a planner. When I say we need to look at the recipe and plan for the cooking two days in advance, I usually have a damn good reason. He is a procrastinator. When he ignores my call for planning, he usually has no reason. And when we have guests coming over, he goes the extra mile in the space time continuum. At 11 in the morning on Saturday, he messaged a list of ingredients to me. I made a stop at the regular gourmet store. To my dismay, apart from cabbage, they had none of the ingredients in my list. I pulled out my car and drove to a fancier gourmet store, the one with the basement parking, infinite wait time at the lift and expats shopping for their local ingredients in a global food store. I caught hold of the unsuspecting store helper in the sauces section. "Oyster sauce and Hoisin sauce", I rattled off. Without blinking an eye, he tossed them into my trolley. "Chinese 5 spice mix", I said. He directed me to a different section and a different helper. Helper #2 not only located the 5 spice mix (which I strongly suspect is our good old garam masala), he even offered to help with the recipe. I stopped him in his tracks. This is going outside my designated duty and I had no intention to over perform. "Char siu sauce and mongolian paste", I said. He sent me right back to helper #1. H #1 gave me the perfunctory smile, "Just what are you cooking ma’am", he asked. "Vietnamese rice rolls and chinese stuffed baos", I proudly declared. "Do you know the ingredients of the sauce, I can suggest a substitute", he said. I did a quick google search and it turned out char siu is made from hoisin, honey, soy sauces and the chinese 5 spice mix. In short, I didn’t need it at all. He sneered. I wilted. I took a unilateral decision to drop the mongolian paste altogether. It felt like summoning the collective wisdom of the great Khans just to cook a bao. It was way past lunchtime and the hour of the guests landing up was fast approaching. I hurried home and burst open the door to find him sprawled on the sofa, snoring. He doesn’t wake up until half past four. Eventually, he started off with the dough for the bao. The video showed the chef kneading the dough with chopsticks. I panicked. This was obviously not going to work. A mere 2 hours to go for the guests to arrive and we discover chopsticks are not just meant for poking around your plate of rice. Anyhow, sanity prevailed and he remembered the use of fingers and hands and got the dough all made and out of the way. In addition to the list I was given, he had placed online orders for rice vinegar, hot chilli oil, sichuan peppercorn and soy sauce. I could have just as easily got these from the store, but that would have been too easy and no fun. These were delivered in batches at our doorstep. The soy sauce was the first to be dropped off. He figured out he had ordered the Japanese soy sauce instead of the Chinese one. What is the difference you ask? It is the difference between being welcomed with open arms into the wuhan market vs our visas being rejected until further notice. But, we adapt and make do. We get on to making the minced meat for the stuffing. While the meat was being cooked, the sichuan peppercorn arrived. It was promptly ground and added to the mix. The meat was doused with multiple sauce combinations, leading to an aroma that lingered on for the entire evening. I was put in charge of the Vietnamese rice rolls. The hot chilli oil and rice vinegar were finally delivered and were whisked away to the sauce making corner. The rice rolls were the easiest item on the menu since the vegetables were already sliced into nice long strips. Must say, this is by far the healthiest snack we’ve ever made. The sauces is where the magic happened this week. There was a peanut sauce, a xxx sauce and a yyy sauce. All of them to go with the rolls and the baos. I have to go with xxx and yyy because he doesn’t remember their names. "How would Watson feel if Sherlock says he doesn’t know how he solved the murder at the end of it all", I asked him. "This is not him not knowing how he solved it, this is him not knowing the name of the guy who got murdered because he doesn’t care", he replied. I had to concede that point. As for the bao, I am happy to report we did not need to use the idli cooker for steaming. We discovered we had a steamer at home. We have unearthed many such appliances from our kitchen cabinets this year. If we take stock, I am pretty sure, we would find that 90% of the stuff in our kitchen is handed down to us from one of the moms. With the steamer, we went full legit, well as legit as we could, given that it was a plastic tupperware container and not the bamboo steamer that the panda in the recipe seemed to be using. Notwithstanding, the result was amazing. Trust me, the baos looked and tasted a gazillion times better than the wrinkled, rejected versions of uruk hai they look like in the photos.
I have been mulling over my writing a lot these days. Putting aside apprehensions on the style and content, I realised I really enjoy the process of writing. I might have even transcended the need for social approval. The last few posts I have written, I haven’t even bothered to share with anyone. I was happy to just have written something to serve me as a memory, of a time captured in words, to regale me in later years when I can no longer remember things in detail. In a world filled with pictures and videos to capture our daily life, I find writing to be very soothing and more accommodating of all my thoughts and feelings.
Hold on, I think I have just extolled the virtues of journaling, as though I have discovered it for the first time in the history of humanity. Oh, well! That’s what writing does to you, makes you feel like you are inventing all of life’s philosophy. As Wodehouse puts it "There is about the printed word a peculiar quality which often causes it to exercise a rather disquieting effect on the human mind. It chills." Having discovered this balming effect of writing, my mind ventured into evaluating how good I was at it. The report card did not look good. I promptly set about looking for writing courses that could hopefully set this right. I did boil down to one. Haven’t started it yet, but it’s there in this year’s to-do list. Intentions and everything. Meanwhile, I vowed to myself to continue the attempts. I have to admit the inspiration came from my dear son, over a conversation that went something like this D: Can you paint a masterpiece that is better than the Monalisa? Me: Erm, no. D: Why not? Me: I can’t even paint a masterpiece yet, forget about it being better than the Monalisa. D: Ok, can you at least paint a ‘piece’, doesn’t have to be a Masterpiece? Me: I guess. D: Well, get to it then. And so, I go on to the next episode in our cooking series. This week, Habibe dished out some Lebanese fare for us. It lasted us well into the weekday. First there was Tabbouleh, which conclusively proved that my disdain of salads throughout my uninformed life was completely uncalled for. Parsley, couscous, finely chopped vegetables - all served on a bed of lettuce - make for the yummiest salad ever. Then there was the Doner Kebab. The only reason I am even calling this a doner is to humour the dear husband. There was no vertical spit and there was no rotisserie, we didn't even use skewers to grill and carve up the meat later. We sliced the meat into the right size and shape and used a tawa instead. The spices were spot on though. The yogurt, cloves and paprika marinade was perfect and what the kebab lacked in authenticity, it more than made up in taste. The pita bread was a complete victory - it came out soft, fluffy and crusty all at the same time. The hummus not so much. Despite spoonfuls of olive oil desperately added to the mix, the hummus stubbornly refused to get the creamy texture required for a good photo-op. It continued to remain dry, much like my humour. So, a yoghurt and cream cheese spread was whipped up on the spot to add to the mix. In all, the pita pocket stuffed with chicken, hummus, tabbouleh and the spread was just what we needed for a sunny weekend afternoon. Oh yes, the summer is definitely here and we aren’t liking it one bit. A lot has been happening the last two weekends. The first weekend was mother in law’s birthday. She had been dreaming about stuffed cannolini for a few weeks now. So, the husband caved in and made it for her. I made a version of the Japanese Nama truffle which was so dearly loved that it might become a weekly thing I need to do. As I sat down to write about that weekend’s cooking, the son declared that stuffed cannolini is no different from lasagna and did not qualify as a new dish. One thing we were clear on, when we embarked on this resolution, was that we would make something new and different every weekend, otherwise it doesn't count. So, I had to concede and skipped the writing. This weekend, the parents had gone to get vaccinated. So the whole Sunday cooking had slipped our mind, buried under concerns of side effects from the vaccine, unfruitful discussions on the user interface of the website and zoom calls to exchange notes on the easiest ways to identify the nearest hospital. Meanwhile, I have been making an effort to get back on a keto diet after a full year of working from home. A year in which I made up the daily 10k steps solely with trips from the workroom to the kitchen and lockdown snaccidenting. So, in an effort to support the woman at home, the husband ordered some lamb and set out to make a dry mutton varuval. He has become something of an expert in cooking meat South Indian style. However, over the course of the 2 hours he spent grinding various kinds of spices and leafy things, he ended up with a gravy version of what tasted like pepper mutton. Nonetheless, I could not have asked for a better lip smacking start to the diet. The drama around the vaccination appointments and hospital visits took up the rest of the day, and it was evening by the time everyone was declared jabbed and packed off home. The next day started off with our cook waking us up with a gentle knock on our door at six in the morning. I tumble out of bed to open the door but then wake up the husband to discuss the day’s meals with her. I would do it, but usually I end up under planning and make at least one of us go to bed hungry. So, he insists on waking up and having the talk. We have a very beneficial symbiotic relationship with her. She usually goads me to have more than just eggs for breakfast (she isn’t aware of what goes into my tummy post the breakfast, or for that matter how many breakfasts I have), reminds the husband that he had made her promise to not give him anything more than eggs and indulges the son with whatever he asks for provided he first eats what she makes.
This morning, she takes over the reins and steers the discussion towards not only using potato but also mixing it up with a host of other vegetables. To be honest, I have never been a fan of pav bhaji. For one, I am wary of dishes where everything has to be smushed together. Are the vegetables too ashamed to be seen with each other? Why do they have to be made unrecognizable? Also, is it legal to have chat items in any other setting apart from the one where you are standing next to a cart in the middle of the street? But, decisions were made before I made it to the kitchen with a clean face and a clear head. The bhaji was ready and a dozen pavs were already ordered. Much later in the day, when the fingers were thoroughly licked and the bub asked for a second helping of the bhaji and rated it a 10, we realised that we had accidentally cooked our dish, ate it and didn’t photograph it. We had ended up making pav bhaji and pepper mutton in place of our specials. Do I regret that I have no photographs as proof? Yes. Am I tired of photographing the same pots and pans, on the same wooden table? Also yes. Do I need to upgrade to some respectable cutlery in the house? Strong yes. Am I ready to pause consumption, carry my plate of food into the balcony and take a fancy food shot with the foliage of DRDO and the construction dust of the new upcoming block as a background? No. And that, dear people, is how matters stand as of week 10, in the year of the cook. I finally got a chance to put my MBA to full use. I achieved Level 25 on the Ultimate Delegation Challenge. The cooking was outsourced to the husband and the writing to the guest. I did agree to find the answer to two critical questions though. First, can we agree on what the real name of this mouth watering dish from the hills of Kashmir is? The answer, is No. Is it Mutton Rogan Josh Or Mutton Rogan Gosht Or Rogan Ghost Or Gosht Rogan Josh? It is all of the above, except for the option where you mistake the mutton for ghostriders from Rogan. Secondly, is there an ideal pairing with the dish? The answer is Yes. Beer and Garlic Naan. If ever there was a complete meal on earth, to steal the words of Amir Khusro - it is this, it is this, it is this. Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast, Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this couplet, I leave the translation of this to your googling talents. And now, Ladies, gentlemen, overeaters, fellow slackers and free riders, I present to you, the one and only Jishnu Dasgupta, today’s guest writer on the blog. As regular readers of Assorted Items will know, these people have been killing it with one smashing gourmet meal after another. So much that self-respecting foodies such as myself often describe reading Icy's posts as arduous. But if you also live less than 2 minutes away from the author and her masterchef husband, it is pure torture. The knowledge that lasagnas, pilafs, sushi and other delicacies are being conjured up less than 300m away, is pain. So, this past Friday I swallowed my pride (I was hungry), and sent out a whatsapp feeler to see if we could invite ourselves (self, wife and 2 kids) to the Assorted Item Warehouse for one of their smashing lunches. Alas, I was shot out of the grey Nagavarapalya sky with a terse, "we're expecting company, so kindly stop inviting yourself over". Picking up remains of what I once thought was love for thy neighbour, I retreated to my phone looking up consolation biryanis that we could have at home. Sunday dawned, and my phone pinged. My heart leapt with an unnamed joy on seeing this “Buggaz you up for an impromptu lunch at our place? The guy who was coming forgot and is now in (location withheld) And we have a ton of mutton rogan josh lying around” The above message is the best appetizer I have ever had. Of course, I replied. When the Rogan calls, you answer with Josh! And like the SS Carpathia cheerfully sailing to the aid of the gravy-stricken Titanic, four hungry Dasguptas dressed in their Sunday best washed up at the Assorted Items Warehouse with shiny, hungry faces. Now I cannot fathom how the finest Mutton Rogan Josh I have ever tasted was rustled up by a relative first-timer like the chef. But be it known that the succulent, fall-off-the-bone meat was bursting with flavour. The gravy gave the meat a new life. The naans were simply incredible, especially the ones with a sprinkling of butter-fried garlic and coriander that was toasted just right. We literally moaned in sheer delight as we devoured one of the finest lunches in recent memory. I consider myself fortunate to have been given the chance to partake of this meal and then as dessert, be featured on the very blog that gave me the meal to begin with.
Burp. It was a long week of snacking. When I say snack, it might give the impression of a small dainty bowl full of small dainty things lying next to my laptop and me nibbling on them over the course of the day. In reality, I grab the entire family sized packet of salty goodness and go at it until my nails are scraping the assorted crumbs off the bottom. All this accomplished in under 3 minutes, sometimes without pausing for breath. Anyway, the weekend arrived, not a moment too soon. And brought with it the Chinese New Year and Valentine’s day. Any blogger worth her salt has to keep up with these things. I am already worried about the upcoming Women’s day. I could have written about the CNY if the other half of this resolution agreed to make momos. But no, he wanted to make a romantic meal. So, here we are. I was all for ordering cake and chocolate and calling it a day. By now you can guess, that did not cut it with the Valentine. So, long story short, we found ourselves researching dishes of the heart-and-soul variety. Once we ruled out the desserts, heart shaped pizzas and eggs cooked inside heart shaped holes made in bread, what we were left with was the Moroccan rice pilaf with olive and orange chicken. This was the obvious choice because there were two non obvious things going into the chicken. And let’s face it, pilaf sounds valentine-y, even when pulao doesn’t. The morning of the V day, I wanted to work out. He wanted to go out for breakfast. So, we walked to the breakfast place, 6km away. After gobbling down a ton of eggs, coffee mascarpone and other tasty, gobble-able things, we realised our car hadn’t followed us and quietly walked back the same distance. It was a bit much and naturally, we made up with many bottles of chilled beer. As the afternoon wore on and we could no longer keep off the hunger, we finally started making lunch. First on the assembly line was the making of the pilaf. All through the process, I felt the need to contribute relentlessly. “Too many raisins. Too few almonds. We should really have got those apricots...” This has always been the case. It all started when we first started cooking on our couchsurfing adventures, ten years ago. We were staying with a couple and their toddler in the lovely town of Graz, in Germany. We had carried along a ready mix for dosas and offered to make them masala dosa one of the mornings. It’s interesting how you naturally assume certain roles in a relationship. He started chopping up things and I started my commentary. “Too many potatoes, wrong ratio of masala to the number of dosas, too much spice...” Watching us bicker, they asked us who cooked at home. We had to admit it was neither of us - we had a cook at home, and this was one of the first times we were attempting to cook. Still, they were brave enough to try it and even claimed to have liked it. I’d like to think, we have come a long way since then. Soon, it was 3.30 in the afternoon and we were only done with the pilaf. He had not even started on the chicken and we were unbelievably hungry. I helped myself to some pilaf with mango pickle, thereby bringing the pilaf down to the level of pulao. And he slurped down the leftover chicken broth, giving it much the same treatment as filter coffee. Having nourished ourselves thusly, we got down to the flour covered chicken and doused it in orange juice and cooked it. With the olives thrown into the mix, the chicken was now perfect - bitter, sweet and sour - much like love.
Bam! Valentine-y end to the post. So, we really wanted to skip this weekend. He was in no mood to cook and I was/ am in no mood to write. But the son butted in and wanted the dad to make him sushi. He believes his dad is the best cook in the world. The only thing he credits me with making well is curd. Grudgingly, in search of some inspiration, we dined out on Friday night. We ended up at this newly opened sushi restaurant, which was thankfully empty (the things we are grateful for, these sucky days). The sushi was ok, but the paisa vasool was from the elaborate sauce quiz the waiter was subjected to by the man. The man and I made a trip together to the grocery store on saturday. After the noodles-spaghetti debacle, he didn’t entirely trust I’d come back with the right things. There was salmon, chicken, seaweed, sushi rice, avocado and a million sauces. I will need to dedicate a blog post to go into what these experiments are costing us. Of course, no price is too much to pay for experiences, and etc. I could write a bit more about what happened on Sunday, but I'd rather draw your attention to the fact that I don't want to write this post. So, moving on. When we finally got down to cooking, again grudgingly, many things started happening simultaneously in the kitchen. Chicken was cut into strips, rice was cooked in a pot with a cloth on top, cucumbers were sliced, vinegar was mixed with salt and sugar and even mushroom was brought into the picture. The man followed the recipe to a T this time. For him, that meant using glass bowls to measure and mix vinegar and salt, just like in the video. Vinegar was poured into the boiled rice, changing our perception of how rice can be eaten, forever. Chicken was teriyaki-ed. Cream cheese was taken out. Salmon was cut into pieces. And we were ready for the finale. The whole secret to making sushi is in the rolling of the roll. There were bamboo mats involved. In the video that is, not in our kitchen. At our most humble abode, as the Japanese would have put it, we made do with a plastic sheet. It took as much time to spread the rice on each sheet of seaweed as it did to cook the rice. Post seaweed no. 3, we got good at rolling the joint. I mean sushi. Sundays have now become something of a family ritual where everyone looks forward to catching up. As they say, food brings people together. No wait, I just remembered the beef over beef, and my own eye rolls at vegan substitutes. I meant sports brings people together. No wait again, that’s not it either, just remembered the cricket matches. Ah, now I remember! Nothing does. Nothing brings people together. Because people are petty and bicker at the slightest chance. I was told my posts have too much humour. So there, I hope you enjoyed the above nugget of darkness. Thanks to all the staying in during the past year, I have developed a rather unhealthy weekend FOMO. If I don’t do at least six different things, anxiety kicks in by Sunday afternoon and I make everyone around me miserable. But this weekend was right up there on my productivity scale. Saturday morning started off with a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle with the son. I squeezed in a book, a dosa at my favourite street vendor and put up some yellow shelves in the bedroom. All this before we even started thinking about the Sunday cooking. The time had come to experiment on a vegetarian dish. At first glance, it appeared only Indians knew how to make anything half decent without meat. Google tried to convince me dal makhani and misal pav were exotic dishes. The Western world seemed to have discovered only potatoes so far. So, we turned east. We figured Khow Suey was the best choice, considering how the son was chanting ‘noodles noodles’ for quite some time now. We were gonna invite some friends, whose kid is a dear friend of the boy. The boy wanted everything to be perfect, but also from past experience, didn’t in the least expected it to be. I made our list of ingredients to shouts of ‘we have beans in the house right, and I mean French beans?’ ‘Ice, is there besan in the house?’ ‘When I say beans, I mean more than 5 strands’, yada yada. Such a non believer! I zoomed off to the store and lugged in a whole lot of new stuff to stuff our small pantry shelf with. Come Sunday, the chef (I think he’s earned this upgrade in title, no?) decides he has to start cooking at 9 in the morning. The son’s friend was already at home. Both of them give us strict instructions - no broccoli, no spice, no coconut milk. So, we dice the vegetables, grind the spices and pour in the coconut milk. Which is when I discover this brady bunch of broccoli abandoned and sitting alone on the counter. One of the side effects of leaving raw material procurement to me is that I have no idea how much broccoli is required for any recipe. Luckily we are the kind of family that goes through an entire cycle of ‘dice vegetables, ensure all colours are represented, stir fry, sautee, toss, add seasoning, store in the fridge and let rest for 3 days’ before discarding the said broccoli. Guilt delayed is guilt denied (Did I just come up with the most amazing life hack or what?). The cooking this week was sponsored by Black Eyed Peas. That’s one chef and one bad line cook shaking their backsides to Hey Mama. It almost made us believe we were in a reality show. However, the post is dedicated to Sway, my current favourite track by Rosemary Clooney. The soup is done, and it’s time to boil the noodles. The chef discovers I have bought spaghetti instead of noodles. Did any of you know they are not the same thing? They are not. Much indignation later, online orders are placed. The wonders of customer entitlement combined with bad startup math ensure we collect them minutes later at our doorstep. While the noodles are boiling away, we turn to the garnishings. As everyone knows, the most critical part of Khow Suey is to have fancy bowls to serve the accompaniments in. Although, having seen it being made, I can tell you it’s not the bowls. It’s the deep frying. Everything and anything. The noodles, the onions, the garlic pods and, in what must be a culinary first - even the green chillies. The deep frying routine taught us quite a few things. For one, fried noodles confirm my theory that every cuisine has the equivalent of bhujia, thereby proving that bhujia is core to the sustenance of our race. For another, the time it takes for onion to get deep fried, is the time it takes to watch an episode of Brooklyn 99 and read that article on environmentally friendly products. Which is where I learnt about the “collapsible steel tumbler for easy travel”. One wonders, if you are the kind of person who is willing to carry a collapsible steel tumbler on your travels, surely you are the kind of person whose bag is the size of your car, and must be large enough to carry a regular steel tumbler? Is the tumbler the new towel now? Is that what we all need, to hitchhike across the galaxy successfully, while munching on fried onions in a steel tumbler? The chef made a meal large enough to last for lunch and dinner. The small humans called BS on it at lunch, and informed us kindly they meant maggi when they said noodles. I can’t imagine why they’d think we were gonna add broccoli in maggi! We have always endeavoured to never give them the impression that we were responsible parents. The big humans, however loved it and are now duly pressurized into returning the favour sometime to us.
The parents joined us for dinner. It is now difficult to say if they are just humouring us or really enjoying these culinary sojourns. Whatever the reason, their many epiphanies during the meal make up for it. Father says, “we are that 10% of parents who are fortunate enough to eat food made by their kids”, to which the father in law wisely replies, “eat slowly, you don’t want to finish the soup before more noodles come.” I had my own epiphany. We are not the clothes we wear. We are not the God we fear. We are not the food we eat. But if we are, I’m glad to report I am a burnt garlic pod dressed in coconut milk embracing the hot oils of hell. It was one long party. It started on Friday. We headed out to this beautiful place just out of town to celebrate our wedding anniversary. We landed there at 8 in the morning, just in time for breakfast. An excellent one at that. The butter meter indicated that the people were top notch in the service department. What is the butter meter you ask? Please. Allow me to explain. You can judge how much someone cares about you from how they serve the butter. If it comes to your table in single serve packets, know that they love you as much as I love staying off sugar. If it comes just soft enough at a spreadable temperature, they have warm cuddly feelings for you. If they mix it with garlic and herbs in addition, they are practically bending their knee with the Eiffel tower as a backdrop. This came with the herbs and garlic. Love declared and accepted, a day and half of debauchery followed from there on. We were too tired from all the eating to cook something nice on Sunday. Besides, Tuesday was father in law’s birthday. So, our cooking party was moved from Sunday to Tuesday. Given how he’s been asking if we were making a sizzler for the past 3 weeks, we decided to go for it this time. A roast chicken, with mushroom and pepper sauce, with a side of mashed potatoes and boiled vegetables. A plum cake from Thom’s bakery for dessert. Tuesday morning, I go out for a cycle ride and come back after an hour. The chicken is cooked, the vegetables are boiled and the sauce is done. My lone sauce making responsibility, taken away from me. At this point, it is safe to say not much is expected from me in these sessions. However, this was the week I discovered the husband’s methods. Apparently, he selects a recipe, gives me the list of ingredients and then makes a lot of disgraceful assumptions about how to actually make the dish. Like how it is enough to just mash the potatoes to get mashed potatoes. I swoop in, with zero humility and multiple instructions on mixing the butter, the hot milk and the churning (Btw, anyone realise this is how thayir sadam is made as well?). Meanwhile, with all the fancy cooking, we were fast accumulating ingredients that we didn’t know where else to use. We still had leftover bunches of thyme and parsley from the coq au vin and pasta sheets from the lasagna. It seemed sacrilegious to use paprika or parsley in sambar. I mean dhaniya has served us well for so many years. If I were a famous blogger, this is where I would slip in a product placement for the brilliant fridge-storage-boxes-for-greens that have kept the parsley and thyme fresh. I impressed myself by garnishing the mashed potato and the pepper sauce with the parsley. Having made invaluable contributions to the cooking, I proceeded to take bad photos of the food. The sizzler plates were brought in. Cabbage leaves were neatly spread on it. The chicken, mashed potato and sauce were laid out. Leading to discovery#132: You don’t really need an oven for this dish. The sizzler plate goes on the stove. Anti climatic, to say the least. We lift up the cabbage leaves and sprinkle a mixture of oil and water for the sizzle. Which brings me to my pet peeve - why do we need our food to sizzle? It is just plain uncivilised, uncouth and unwarranted to have your food sizzle. I, for one, was not looking forward to that. They say your emotions show up in what you cook. This time, how I felt showed up in the husband’s cooking. There was no sizzle. Not even a whimper. The dish tended to portray more of a demure South Indian bride look Arguments followed over whether the cabbage should have been boiled, or kept dry and raw, or boiled and then blow dried. But the damage was done. There were no fumes over our food. Nonetheless the fancy wooden sizzler plates were used and I got to tell my dad he won’t get a second helping of the mashed potato unless he finishes his vegetables.
We did the unthinkable this week. No, I am not talking about skydiving, or one of those quit-your-job-to-pursue-your-passion things. We had already done those, about two mid life crises ago. I am talking about setting out to make that pinnacle of desserts, the one “foodies” all over the world claim to know the exact authentic taste of. The Tiramisu. The previous two weeks of cooking has generated much amusement and interest amongst our friends. Amusement because the resolution we made was not the resolution Gotham deserved, or needed. Interest because they wanted to partake in the spoils of the Sundays. One such family, of the #friendslikefamily type, expressed the desire of the youngest member to eat Gawd uncle’s Italian cuisine. Dates were discussed, menu options were thrown around and long story short, we invited ourselves to their place. The woman of this house, who is the better cook, offered to make Spaghetti Bolognese with a side of fish. Considering how this all started because we were cooking fancy stuff, we offered to bring something to add to the mix. I suggested soup to il marito. Pappa al pomodoro. I am a closet soup fan. So closeted that I haven’t admitted that to myself. So deep in the closet that I would sooner fall out onto the other side into Narnia than come out on this side. The suggestion was met with incredulity. I could sense him questioning the fundamental building blocks of our marriage. I wised up, and dropped it. We fixated on our favourite course of any meal, the dessert. He gave the matter grave consideration and chose the tiramisu. Il marito is incredibly brave. It turns out Tiramisu is one of those recipes that is very simple on the face of it, and for that very reason, quite difficult to get right. We managed to find the ladyfinger biscuits at our gourmet store, ensuring we reduce our failure rate by at least 50%. Let’s talk about these biscuits and their nomenclature for a moment. These are a delicate, airy, sweet sponge biscuit variety that are a main ingredient in many desserts. They have a wikipedia page dedicated to them. You see these to the left of the picture below. And in the middle, you see the other kind of ladies fingers known to give Indian kids the ability to understand calculus. Wikipedia gently directs you to the Okra page if you want to know more about them. On the extreme right, are what actual ladies’ fingers look like. That is before we get into nail art and the associated horror. Wikipedia does not acknowledge their existence. Now, for more asynchronous learning, spot 6 differences among the three pictures The other ingredient that goes into the tiramisu is a mixture of eggs, mascarpone cheese, cream and sugar. The eggs of course, needed to be separated into yolks and whites and by their birth order. These ingredients were then mixed into three different combinations and beaten until different types of “peaks” were formed. They were all then folded into each other. Yes, folding is different from beating, which is different from whisking, which is different from spoonfuls of tasting during the making. Not to mention, there is a “gentle” version to all of these. Two hours later, when all of these were beaten into submission, the tiramisu was layered and shoved into the chiller to be set. The next morning, out of the fridge, emerged a dreamy sponge. Some cocoa powder was sprinkled for special effects and we were off to our hosts’ for the evening. After generous helpings of the spaghetti and fish, the piatto centrale was brought out. An emergency meeting was held around the table on how to cut a piece with all the layers intact. Knives and spatulas were brandished about. The youngest members of the households didn’t care for the scene at all, the dessert and the excitement around it included. They had their fun by stretching the dinner to a sleepover and then not sleeping for the better part of the night. The adults had the tiramisu over an extended conversation that involved three of us ganging up against il marito. This is getting to be quite the trend nowadays. But then again, il marito is brave. The gist though, is that debates that are had during dessert never end up in blows. It’s tough because no one wants to let go of their plate of dessert, and the moves you can make with a dessert spoon in one hand and a fluffy cloud in the other are quite limited.
This week’s adventure started on google with a hunt for the Sunday dish to be. An hour and five hundred links later, reading my way through “most popular foods around the world”, “average dinner in 195 countries”, “world’s most disgusting foods”, a quick backtrack and “top French foods to eat before you die”, I landed on “Easy French recipes”, a more accurate indication of aukaat. Before I do the grand reveal, a piece of trivia for you. There is a museum in Malmo called ‘Disgusting food museum’. Between the police procedurals and this, Malmo has got the gamut of human interest covered. Btw, the entry to the museum is 185 Swedish Krona for you and absolutely free for your toddler. You are welcome. Coq Au Vin emerged the winner. The dish eliminates the need to pour wine into a glass, both during the preparation and the consumption of the meal. Instead, it is poured directly into the dish. The original one pot meal. The French have obviously won at life. So Coq Au Vin it was, along with Lyonnaise potatoes. I can see now that I am going to be the one making the weekly trip to the gourmet neighbourhood supermarket. This time for Thyme, Parsley and the Vino. The friendly store helper asks me to buy rosemary as well. No sir, I am not going to be selling at the Scarborough Fair, none for me. Back home, mon monsieur puts the bacon on the pan. The grease that is generated is enough to fry the bacon, the chicken, the mushroom and just about everything else for the day. He wants to watch something while cooking, something 70s-ish Hollywood. Apparently, the perfect thing to go with the French cooking. ‘Grease’ literally suggests itself. In case you are wondering, the movie is still as terrible and fanciful as it always has been. My job primarily consists of following le monsieur, cleaning up after him, changing the volume of the movie in tune to the kitchen orchestra, and of course, assisting with the sauces and the broths. Nothing that can’t be thrown away and redone midway, if it all goes south. We discover just in time that the thyme leaves have to be taken out at the end. What? We clearly don’t know how such a task is accomplished. We end up placing them like this, hoping they stay that way. At this point, with the chicken, mushrooms, bacon, carrots and the thyme, it looks like something Getafix is brewing for the warriors of Gaul. I am trying to keep up with my other New Year resolutions as well. So, I open a book - Factfulness, which starts with Hans Rosling declaring he loves the circus. I steal sideways glances at the kitchen, he could have just visited us. It is a singularly uplifting book, for those of you looking to start the year with some positivity. He makes a point where he says the dim worldview most of us hold is not entirely true. For e.g the rich are not getting richer and the poor are not getting poorer. It gives me hope that maybe the fat are not getting fatter. This hope is essential when your only side dish is a bushel of potatoes. Which brings me to the soul searching question of the week - Why do we, as a race, love potatoes? How is it possible for one vegetable to get so much of our love? How shallow are we to be taken in by the dark wheatish complexion and the round shape? Back in the kitchen, the chicken has been drowning in the wine for a couple of hours and combined with the thyme leaves, it smells heavenly. Meanwhile, the twitter wars are raging on, between Sebamed and the rest of the soap world. I wonder why no one has made a soap with wine in it. That would resolve the pH debate once and for all. I’ll say it, everything should have wine in it. The potatoes are sliced and following the steps of this recipe reveals that we just made good old aloo fry. Which means, it tasted like la bombe. The whole family was called in for dinner, attempts were made at plating and all of the coq au vin mopped up with some amazing sourdough. In short, to paraphrase Danny Zuko aka John Travolta “We got chills, they are multiplying”.
Like all regular couples, on New Year’s eve, the man and I pondered over what resolutions we must make for the coming year. We went over the usual - eat perfectly, exercise regularly, throw in meditation for good measure, read a book a week and solve global warming. Given the number of times we went around the Sun, this of course, was a pointless exercise. So, we decided something unusual - that we would cook something fancy every Sunday. 52 fancy meals for the year. So, here we are, the first Sunday of the year. I receive a forward from my mum that says “start this Sunday with a clean heart.” So, I wipe the kitchen counter clean, call the man in and ask him to get to it. The dish for the day is Chicken Lasagna. The fancy ingredients, viz. pasta sheets, Thai basil leaves, paprika powder and grated parmesan were procured the day before. The fact that we thought lasagna is a fancy dish gives you a good baseline of where we are in this journey. The man begins by putting two mobile phones into action, one where the Youtube recipe lady is droning on, the other where he is playing a video game. The scene is enhanced with a half-filled, precariously-perched wine glass and bottle next to the stove. I am in the living room trying to set up a board game for the afternoon (the rules are as complex as the fancy dish). A few minutes on, I hear the first of the profanities from the kitchen. Turns out the recipe asks for the chicken to be cooked and then minced, instead of just suggesting we buy minced meat. I carry on. Nary a quarter of an hour passes, when I hear the sound of glass shattering and more profanities. It seems the paprika bottle was sacrificed at the altar of the aforementioned cacophonous scene. The game set up is paused. I roll up my metaphorical sleeves. Which brings me to this - how are women supposed to roll up their sleeves and get work done if most of our clothes are sleeveless or worse, so tight around the arm that you have to roll the skin up along with the sleeve? But I digress. Some of the paprika is rescued, the glass pieces are swept away, the counters are wiped clean and eyes are rolled at the man. Son rushes in wanting to know what happened, he is asked never to enter the kitchen again without slippers. He consoles us with the fact that at least the glass is not outside the kitchen. He’s very wise, like that. A quick google search on whether eating glass powder kills you, reveals that it is in fact ‘ineffective’. The recipe lady now says a béchamel sauce is required. I am enlisted and called to report immediately. I cook the sauce, while the man cooks the chicken. The pasta sheets cook themselves. A fine lesson in independence. I take out the very new, very cool baking dish that my mother in law had entrusted me with earlier this week. We take about another hour to line the dish with infinite layers of chicken, sauce, sheets and cheese. The oven is warm, the time is 1.30pm, the wine bottle is empty and the son is wondering if we are now doing lunch less Sundays, when all of a sudden, the oven refuses to be big enough for the cool new dish. Not vertically, not horizontally, not diagonally. The man is close to tears, we hug it out. We start the process of moving these layers into three small dishes. With each transfer I make, he does wild hand gesturing and makes cooing noises in fear. The Thai basil leaves end up not being neatly arranged on top. No matter. The oven is warmed yet again. The dish is shoved in. The son is given strawberries. 30 mins on, it is finally done. It doesn’t look bad and is obviously the best lasagna we’ve ever had. 30 mins further on, the board game is still half set up, one dish is fully polished off, one transferred to the fridge for tomorrow, and one baked and standing on the kitchen sill, waiting for orders.
PS: The Thai basil leaves were burnt to a crisp, a complete waste of fanciness. PPS: If anyone knows what to do with leftover boiled pasta sheets sticking to each other and daring me to throw them away, ping me. |
Aishwarya KalakataThe loss of and search for individualism has never been felt more acutely. Everything changed after I had a kid. But this blog is not about me being a mom. It’s about the things I do when I want to stop being a mom. It’s about telling myself that it is possible and that it is ok. It’s about my little escapades. Mostly travel - sometimes physical, sometimes mental. A desperate bid to stop my identity from being rolled into a single word. CategoriesArchives
March 2021
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