Nikita's Journal

Photos: Passport & Plate - Chutney from the Skin of a Bottle Gourd

deepblueruin — Fri, 14 Mar 2014 05:59:00 GMT

Ingredients
Calabash or Bottle gourd (doodhi) - One
Green chillies (hari mirch) - Seven
Sesame Seeds (til) - 1/4th of a small bowl
Cumin seeds (jeera) - by the pinch
Mustard seeds (mohri) - by the pinch
Asafoetida (hing) - by the pinch
Turmeric (haldi) - 1/4th of a teaspoon
Rice Bran Oil - 3 tablespoons
(Rice Bran Oil is a lighter, healthier alternative, although Indian cooking also employs Sunflower Oil)

How to prepare this recipe
Recipes from Maharashtra (the state in India I come from) are largely about what we like to call "Andaaj". An estimate. Most spices, herbs and vegetables are cooked by instinct and their quantities are determined by experience and rough estimates. So I was unsurprised when my grandmother repeated to me the following instructions:

Start by grating the skin of the Bottle Gourd finely. Maharashtrian cooking uses the Bottle Gourd in many recipes but the skin is always thrown away. Today, we use just that and ensure that no part of the vegetable is wasted.
Heat rice bran oil (about 3 tablespoons) in a wok (kadhai).
Test the heat of the oil by putting your hand a few feet above the wok. When you feel the heat reach your hand, you'll know the oil is warm enough.
Add two pinches of mustard seeds - wait for a few seconds till they crackle.
Add two pinches of cumin seeds. These will crackle instantly.
To this, add a pinch of powdered Asafoetida and a quarter of a teaspoon of powdered turmeric.
Break chillies into small pieces using your fingers and add them to the wok. These chillies change color upon making contact, giving you an instant hiss and crackle.
Add the grated skin of the bottle gourd. Toss it over with a spatula.
Turn it over, twice, then add sesame seeds.
Turn the contents of the wok over repeatedly until you feel an easy movement in the vessel. You will sense it has become lighter and easier to stir.
Add salt by the pinch.

Leave the wok uncovered and keep stirring it from time to time until your mixture turns a crispy dark brown.

Serve with with Indian butter (ghee) and steamed rice or chapattis.

The story behind this recipe
When I was in school, I'd come home running in the rain, bag moving from side to side under the weight of all my notebooks. I specifically remember 7th grade, its pages highlighted in neon markers in my memory because that was the year I was bullied. Aai (my grandmother), would be waiting at home and a combination of Scotch-Brite like hands and cotton sari would begin to wipe my face dry. If the day was bad, she'd be wiping the grime of recess tears.

Her hands smelled like a dozen things in those days. Mostly green chillies, broken by hand, like wishbones.

My grandmother was raised in Lahore. When India was partitioned after Independence, her city became a part of Pakistan. Overnight. The family had to flee, taking with them only the essentials. They lived in refugee camps, taking turns to find food locally, depending on the charity of those that had retained their lands.

When I fussed about food, I heard these stories all the time. With the underlined moral that I must eat what's put on my plate because not everybody gets to have a plate. "We wasted nothing," she told me in Marathi, "from the rinds of fruit to the peels of vegetables."

On my return from school, I ate strange things at lunch. Gruel made from stale bhakri, honey and milk. Last night's chapatis fried with curry leaves, lemon, garlic and onions. Sago cooked in milk and sugar to make a studded kheer pudding.

And then there was the chutney of cooked bottle gourd skins: hot and crunchy, with chilies and sesame seeds and magic spices from Aai’s spice box. Rolled into hot chapattis with butter, straight off the stove, it became potion for a heavy heart.

Now, I return from work to the comfort of salt and spice after bland days. I enjoy the chutney and its beautiful, cliched metaphor of how something so heartwarming could've been made from the remains of the day.

Catching a Moment - Magic by Moonlight

deepblueruin — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 02:54:10 GMT

There's a definitive buzz in the air as people go through layers of tight screening. Shawls come off, pockets are patted down, shoes ride on metal detectors and special passes are stamped in the security office outside the Taj Mahal in Agra. "Once in lifetime experyens," I hear a sari-clad lady say to another with a serious nod. I want to point out that the experience is technically possible once every month, but I hold my tongue. We are there to see one of the 7 wonders of the world under the light of the full moon. And the Taj by moonlight is a thing of pure beauty. So says the tourism brochure.
I couldn't see it. I had come just this morning to behold "the monument of love" but the moment I stepped through the red stone gateway that led to it, the hype melted away. Over the heads of hundreds of tourists milling about in the blazing sun, it appeared ordinary. Its marble dome looked like a white chocolate Hershey's Kiss, stained with smoke from the factories that flank the Yamuna River. The mausoleum to Shah Jahan and his beloved wife Mumtaz was littered with guides telling their story in industrial monotones to large groups. So it is, that when I return tonight, I come with little enthusiasm.
By nightfall though, there is an unbelievable quiet inside the walls. No wailing babies or photo-hungry tourists, not even a single street lamp. The breeze blows lightly over our heads, beckoning us through the Darwaza-i-Rauza; its cool metal doors like giant twins, separated at birth. This time I see the Taj's reflection first, blurred and pale in the water of the rectangular pool before it. Its vision undiluted by crowds.
The moon plays truant at first. I feel the impatience rise in waves around me. Our passes grant us only half an hour. And yet, I am awed already, by the perfect symmetry of everything: trees planted as companions to one another, having rustled conversations over the wind; slender minarets looking like rooks in an ivory chess set, standing guard over the tombs within; and finally, the tombs themselves - Shah Jahan and his Mumtaz, united in death, asleep under silvery engravings of the Quran.
We retreat back to the viewing plinth. Out of divine co-incidence, the moon comes out of hiding with six minutes to spare. The light hits the white marble and magic happens. The whispers stop. People hold hands. She transforms before us, from wan teenager to glowing bride, illuminated under the veil of the night. And I finally see the monument to love.

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food

deepblueruin — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 05:13:20 GMT

We were seated in long rows in the temple's hall, facing one another in polite silence. Bright green banana leaves were placed in front of us – beautifully austere place settings for the wedding meal. As I watched a couple of pigeons trying to find conjugal bliss in the courtyard, a bell rang inside. A row of efficient-looking Thambis streamed into the hall in their cotton shirts and lungis and began to serve our food.

My favorite cousin, a Maharashtrian, and her gorgeous Tamil husband had been pronounced married this morning, in a quiet ceremony at a suburban Balaji temple. The two families had convened, rather reluctantly, for the happiness of their kids. You see, in India, the 28 states are not only separated by geographic boundaries; they each have their own language, culture, caste system, Gods and Demons. Some of these Demons had been unleashed in the last month, over relentless discussions on how, when and where the couple should be married. Today they were growling in subtle rebellion in our bellies, demanding to be fed food appropriate only to their culture.

The elaborate meal was served all at once: fried poppadums in bright candy colors, tangy “koshimbir” salad with groundnuts, crunchy vadai, spicy pickled gherkins, potato bhaji with crescent-shaped pooris, piping hot rasam curry with steamed rice and a warm, indulgent payasam pudding. Both sides dived in ravenously, surprised at the flavors they were being introduced to. We each looked to the other side for information – the Koshimbir for instance, was downright Marathi. The deliciously thick Payasam was anything but.

For three hours, both cultures suspended their claim to hegemony, culinary or otherwise – and ate in the comfortable silence that usually precedes raucous burping. By the time we finally walked away from the temptation of another helping of tamarind rice, we had found much in common. We were traditional, belligerent, stubborn and at the moment, satiated. The Demons had been appeased.