Cooking had never been by forte, until the past few years. My only record of having ventured the kitchen was during my engineering days, at 2 am, when in the last minute preps for the semester exam, I would render a quick cheese sandwich (recipe courtesy Preethi). But for all those adventurous cook outs at divku’s and home alone parties, I was a mere connoisseur of food cooked around me!

Ousting this reflection of mine, I have indeed taken to cooking in the past two years of my life here; partially due to the lack of amma’s presence and partially due to my genuine likeness to eat sumptuously. It had begun with many unwarranted experiments during graduate years and accommodated to more intricate dishes as work life set in. And like an answer to the old me, last weekend I had, with N, prepared a challenging menu for eleven odd friends who had dined with us; I believe the food wasn’t half as bad.

With the proclivity to cook, comes a tendency to venture into many boundaries. And living in a city like Boston with variegated cuisines, there are many choices to make. On one such mission, we had dined at the Addis Red sea restaurant in south Boston on Sunday. The little diner in the basement on Tremont Street, speaks of the Ethiopian culture even in the cane made dining tables called moseb. We were in for a surprise, as our seats were nothing more than the uncomfortable ‘moda’ backless chairs centered on the circle topped ‘moseb’.

When our curiously named meals arrived, we were served a large plate to be shared among the four of us. Four ‘injera’s, the Ethiopian bread made of barley and wheat, which looked and felt like the ‘aapam’ from kerala, lined the plate, with the curries ordered dropped at its core. Unlike a western dinner, the food is a compulsory eat-with-hand, owing to the dosa like injera, which is too soft for a knife or fork. Yet, in all its novelty and traditional setup, the curry had not appealed to our well spruced spice loving Indian tongue. To me the food seemed healthy and bland, with a twist of creativity, adding up to a fat check. And if you are looking for an unconditional change of ambience and taste, this is definitely a place to try.

For the less ambitious, is another of my favorite restaurants ‘Helmand’ in Cambridge. And as the name suggests, it’s an afghan cuisine, with a friendlier menu. The very familiar spicy rice and jeera rice are intriguingly named pallow and challow. For the meat lovers, the place holds a wide range of ‘murgh’ and ‘ghosh’ dishes. But barring it all is the desserts of kheer, custards and icecream with a dash of awareness and attractive names. Nevertheless to say, we often haunt the place for birthday parties and order every dessert on the menu.

And as for the twist in taste to hold the Asian touch, is the ‘Brown Sugar’, a sundry street diner on Jersey Street near Fenway. Being a lover of egg and accustomed to a coconut flavor, the Thai omelet is definitely my favorite. But my luncheons there are never complete without the melting hot and cold fried icecream.

If I were to recommend a local gastronomy, it would be the veggie burgers and flat bread pizzas at Uno Chicago grill. The rustic American set up of the 70s and 80s combined with the sides of French fries and coleslaw, I have dined here one too many. But for that burning tongue feel, the jalapeños coasted food with the Mexican flavor, “on the border”’s ‘chimichanga is a must try!

It takes a food buff to make a good cook they say. I am not sure if that really holds, but I have definitely speculated and played with ingredients ever since I have learnt to understand their flavors. On one such undertaking, I ended up with an eggplant curry and recipe goes thus –

Ingredients –

1. One or two large eggplants.
   
2. cumin
3. mustard
4. curry leaves
5. Ginger ( 2 cm cube )
6. 2 small flakes of garlic
7. green chilies ( 3 or 4 )
8. 1 tblsp of coconut milk
9. chilly powder according to taste
10. Coriander powder, if available.
11. Onion ( 2 )

• Preheat the oven for 350 or more and bake the egg plants for half n hour, continuously pricking them with a knife.
• Make a fresh coarse paste of ginger garlic and chilies.
• Cut the onions long and fry them in olive oil, with popped cumin, mustard and curry leaves, until golden brown. Plop in the ginger garlic mix until the raw smell gives way to a smooth flavor.
• Add chilly powder and fry until the dry pungency is lost.
• To this brown mixture on fire, drop the coconut milk and let it simmer at a low flame, so that the unrefined coconut tang nullifies.
• In the meanwhile, scoop the well baked egg plant, leaving the darkened violet skin. Cut it into smaller pieces if necessary.
• To the well cooked, aroma emanating semi solid paste, add the eggplant pieces.
• Now sprinkle coriander powder and salt as the eggplant cooks and blends with the gravy.
• Let cook for 15 minutes. Serve hot with garnished coriander leaves. Very good for chapathis.

To each reading this, you are welcome to share your novel recipe. Till then happy cooking and happy eating!

Boston – Sands of Time

Its summer-time; Boston is beguiling and beautiful as ever! It is a welcome respite from the light-thick-layers of warm clothes and the cottons and coolers are back. Though I love being in this “Bean Town” all year round, reticently I prefer the three summer months for reasons beyond the weather!

My exodus to this ‘walking city’ was a year ago, when my summer sojourn was made possible by the much unanticipated internship. Boston was my first big city and I had instantly fallen in love with the felicitous and serene pace of life, much unlike New York. Though my first month here had sans company, I had found a myriad of things to do and places to see and revived ‘me’ from ‘I’ walking the lively streets.

As the promenade was accompanied by a bunch of wonderful friends, Boston had smoothly transitioned to a second home. The jog by the scenic Charles, tranquil evenings by the reflecting pond, an office cube by the window on the majestic Prudential, lumbering tour of the museums, coffee shenanigans and poker, shopping for hours at Lechmere, dining at the gamut of restaurants, rocking the hard rock café were the little big raison d'être for making my rendezvous with Boston a very happy one.

This year, though living a few train stops away from the hub of the city, I have been making avail of the sunny weekends to horse around, owing to the never dying wont to stay out of house as much as possible! Last weekend we had lazed at the Carson beach and stayed in the sun enough to be tanned ten layers deep. What baffle me more is our voracious appetites to glutton French fries, muffins and onion rings at the beach; and later dine at P F Chan’s for that early supper.

As it is with all Asian restaurants we fare, the fortune cookies enclose those little notes of wit and morals. What ironically morales our dinner is reading out those notes to the table, footnoting it with “in the bed”. The ones from the last dinner simply marked the day –

Div: Every person is the architect of his or her own fortune …………….

N: An exciting opportunity lies ahead of you …………….

Size: Adventure can be real happiness ……………….

San: Two small jumps are sometimes better than a leap …………..

I guess nothing beats the facetious moments of sheer joy and mindless laughter and this was one of those.

Tryst with coffee

I don’t recall when the frothing cup of aromatic java had become an imperative part of customary mornings; but I do reminiscence the times as a child, when I would be refused the coffee stating it as a grown-up’s cup of tea! However, beyond disceptations of “coffee will turn u coffee-skinned”, I had turned myself into one among the gazillion lovers of the brown beverage and places that brew it.

My first encounter with coffee places was the rustic ‘Madras coffee house’ in Trivandrum. The much habitual pale steel dawara pedestal to the brimming tumbler of incense kapi was sipped amidst sultry ambiance and raucous ceiling fans above. As the commercial value of this vestigial drink gave way to Barista, Coffee day, Starbucks and a whole lot more I am unaware of, I too took to the much unanticipated coffee cupping of the sundry flavors that darn ‘hang-out’ with java.

Conversely, over the years, coffee places had woven pieces of a lifetime together, midst the warm cups. Going back to the appositely located coffee-day in Ispahani center at numgambakam, I am but traveling to rudimentary days of college life and how the mundane conversations over the obscenely priced cold coffee had shaped friendships that have come a long way. It makes me wonder why being the ever-broke student, sharing one cold coffee among a group of five and digging out crumpled notes and coins to share the brunt of the fat bills; had always made these little coffee-sojourns so very special.

Last evening I had spent a good hour, hiding from rains and sharing some laughter with friends at the regular Starbucks around the corner. It was not just the balmy ambience and the vagary of friend circle that made the experience different; I was ironically at a loss, though, each of us had grown beyond sharing one cup among us, to be able to afford a cup each. It made me realize that the only time one enjoys being bankrupt is the unmatched student life.

As I walked out, tarrying the smooth tang of cappuccino, letting the rainy weather take over the gripping nostalgia, I couldn’t but understand the uncanny relationship the brown beans and ever-lasting friendships shared; yet, in everyway my tryst with both of them is one of unparalleled joy.

Bundle of joy

A week ago I received the three covers, dandily packed and cellophane taped. They carried the redolence of amma's hands and the warmth of Chennai house. It contained the carefully chosen perky Patiala skirts, two jeans from the very own Lee shop at Pondy Bazaar and not to forget the sealed boxes of home made, ghee emanating sweets, rarified 'chakka varati' (jackfruit jam) and my favorite murrukkus from Krishna sweets at Adayar.

This was one among the many bundles I have received from home in the past two years. That moment of turning into a five year old holding those doled out packages is an inexplicable bliss of its own. It may be difficult to comprehend the feeling as one of nostalgia or maudlin or happiness; but all of it in one sheer moment. I gladly undid the parcel, gathering the niceties inside, realizing how unknowingly dormant that part of me was, which ached to be a daughter and pampered.

Being the much hyped "Only Child" of the family of three, I had my share of being coddled and protected; not just by parents but for being youngest in family circles as well. I still recall the night, when eight year old veena akka was scolded for venturing into my space of the bed, spread in the long hall of grandpa's adobe. I, the cocker-ed five years old, pretended to be asleep and willingly rolled over to her side sauntering all over her, giving her a hard time.

When I had weaned off being the wicked spoilt brat, I was still fussed around as a teenager and loved unremittingly. Somehow, I had till date remained the divu all my life. It made me wonder if I had grown up, without appa and amma by my side and if only I could be their bundle of joy forever. I uncannily remember the elaborate arguments, when amma refused to let me cycle to school alone at thirteen, unless accompanied by a friend who would have to come over to my gate n pick me up.

Though the wiles of her shielding nature were pertinent, it was only after living seven seas away did I know that my contestations of “When will you ever let me be independent?” were not easy for her to grant, since she possessed more gray hair to know that living life is not easy. Ironically, I was brought up to believe in myself and urged to attain independence; but not of the foolhardy nature I was asking for.

It brings to my mind the incident of an equally cosseted cousin, who had made the much unanticipated STD call from his hostel room complaining “Amma, there is no mug in the bathroom. What should I do?” And today standing thirty something he is turning a dad himself! These little episodes make me believe that even the most grown-up adult still lives in the womb, wanting to be the child. And contradicting, there is no such thing as a grown-up; you are always a child to somebody all your life.

I copiously grab the home-made ribbon pakodas, munching down the sweetness of amma’s love wrapped in them, smiling to be the daughter which is the priceless gift of all times!

Vishu- kani

Yet another ‘vishu’ came and went by. This time I had spent it cooking a hearty meal to my capacity and dawdled with pals indoors, rapt in a movie, owing to thunder storms outside. It has been two years since I experienced ‘vishu-kani’ (the first sight on vishu day) and the lovely feast amma would dole out for the genial vishu lunch, on the banana leaf. Warm afternoons of festive filled ambience, family banquet and sumptuous burps intermitting the post-lunch laughter marked ‘vishu’ as the most sought for festival, next to ‘diwali’, in my life.

The eve of vishu was often spent shopping for the little big niceties that went into making the first sight on vishu day graciously positive and meant to make the year ahead a very lucky one. I would look forward to take the seat next to appa, watch him gracefully arrange the ‘urali’ with rice, the coconut filled with ‘parupu’, the cucumbers, melons and fruits, all reflecting on the mirror that was adorned with gold chains placed behind the delicacies decked out on the ‘tambalam’. The ‘kani-konna’ (the yellow flowers that bloomed to aptness, during the vishu season) added the final touch to the festooned ‘kani’, prepared carefully to be harbinger of joy for the year to come.

A contented sleep was soothingly interrupted by amma at the crack of dawn. She would walk me down, closing my eyes, saving them from seeing anything else before I set my eyes on the bedecked ‘vishu-kani’. Slowly, appa would dampen my eyes and gesture me to open them to the sight that even after twenty odd times of redundancy over the years, still swelled my heart with unremitting joy. I would ritually go over the details of the kani I had helped appa ornate last night. It always seemed different from the night before, as if blessed to completeness on a vishu’s first light. Smiling, I would make a stamp of the sight in the memory lane, adoring every intricacy.

As the vishu day unwinds and the cucumbers and melons of the vishu-kani make a delicious meal for the afternoon, followed by the showers of blessings accompanied with 'vishu-kaineetam'(money) from elders, a pleased I would sink with happiness on the perfect day. This year, living a life that sans the presence of appa and amma and the beautiful vishu-kani, I simply reminiscence the vishu days back home and recite a prayer to keep the family hail and healthy for ages to come!

Amma’s bajjis

It has been a week of incessant rains and intermittent wet flurries in Boston. The murky skies, punitive droplets and frosty winds give no indication of the spring that is supposed to have set in almost three weeks back. As I snuggle in a blanket watching the romantic showers trickle down the window, the whims of piping hot red molaga bajji dipped abundantly in coarse white chutney, complemented with sips of dicotion kappi in a tumbler, grip me. I fantasize the oil-laden golden bajjis and almost scent the mesmerizing aroma, so apt for the chilliness outside.

I suddenly shake back to life realizing that the wafting redolence is now replaced by the rustiness of a closed heated room. I dotingly remember amma, who would have, as if read my mind, walked in with a plate of bajjis and masala tea. I smile traveling back to evenings spent over warm tea (amma always preferred tea to coffee) on the huge dining table, cooling the tea back and forth from dawara to tumbler, table-talking about everything under the sun. It was those little moments of sheer nothingness and smiles, which brought me closer to her.

Amidst phases of elaborate arguments and instances of puerile laughter, amma and I had created a world of two of us for three years, in appa’s absence to Goa. She was my confidant, friend and fighter-cock sibling back then. As I look back at my engineering years; they wouldn’t be complete without this fifty something (still looks thirty eight), cherubically puny, enthusiastic, subtly pious, cleanliness freak, childish laughter filled and marvelous cook, my mother.

I grab the packets of chilly powder and besan, enclosed with love and emanating reassurance of amma’s touch to the perfect taste, enthused to try my first bajji. I imitate the unconscious observations I made watching amma cook, sitting on the kitchen platform munching down half cooked pieces of food, much to amma’s kind indignation. As I eye the amateur half brown bajjis floating in oil, I let out a little sigh and a sweet tear, missing amma and her golden bajjis.

The Family Dinner

Having brought up without siblings, in a nuclear family, I had grown to accept friends, family-friends and cousins as closest family. As a child I always looked forward to the three month beguiling yet burning summer for the company of cousins for the midnight capers, loads of ice creams, visits to the zoo, never ending picnics, thrilling rides in amusement parks and temple sojourns with grandpa. Later as we let life grow out of this phase of chaste, it was only at an obscure wedding or family-function that I spent quality time over a meal with cousins, uncles and aunts. Later even this dwindled down to once in a few years with family strewn all over the world map and camouflaged in the name of “Busy life”!

Amidst this transition, I have had moments of sheer bliss and loneliness, which has made me realize that home, is where you want it to be. It can be made at the very familiar coffee place you hang out with friends or the dinner table where you dine with parents. For me it is the few minutes I spend on phone yapping with appa everyday and the brief weekends of poker and dilly-dallying with pals. Yesterday was one such Sunday when I not only laughed mercilessly with my friends but found a family to share the joy.

We were visiting Vikram’s family in Mansfield last evening to congratulate his sister for her 15 day old baby. Having spent ample amount of time shopping for the little one's dresses and box of sweets for the older four year old shruti, I was but scared to hold the cherubic and delicate sleeping baby. I had reclined to playing Barbie and pacifying the four year old. As the evening unwound over the hot cup of tea and levity of old jokes lingered over the comfortable couch I recalled the very scene back home. As if breaking into my reminiscence, Vikram’s mother came by to ensure we don’t leave without a heavy dinner she had started to cook for the hungry grown ups!

Having tried my hand in playing dart, laughed incessantly over Vikram’s spontaneity and Vilas’s PJs, and cheered little shruti for her gymnastics skills I was all set to devour the amma-made food. Along came the many shenanigans over the dinner table in the four course meal which extended way over dinner time. It’s my experience of all times that the best conversation and laughter you share with family is post-dinner until the plate goes stubbornly dry. It ranges from healthy arguments to old stories re-told and guffawed over. I fondly remembered my mother’s cooking and her child-like loud chortle that I missed so much.

As it happens to all good times, when time flies by and you have not had enough, it is time to stop and get on with monotonic routine. As we drove away from that place last night, I felt I had left a part of me behind, one that had missed home, enjoyed family-dinners and got excited being with people I love. I gave in to the unparalleled love that came wrapped in the sugar coated 'gulabjmuns' of last night, before I let sleep take over my relaxed weekend.