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when my soup came alive

March 10, 2010
15:25
What's Your Tradition?
» ‎ when my soup came alive

This is something that has been on my mind for a while but reading Indo's and Sandeepa's latest posts, I decided it's time I did some musing too, though my post is not directly related to theirs.

As bloggers, and those who write mostly about food, there's a lot we write about 'the tradition in my family'. We romanticise (me included) how our mothers and grandmothers made this or that, how a recipe is traditional, peculiar to our homes, or twisted (you know what I mean - with a twist in it), etcetera etcetera. In my case, it's not only the loss of these treats that makes me nostalgic, it's also that I sometimes cannot bear to face what I've cooked myself that makes me miss them, the people and the dishes, all the more.

I would even go so far as to say that I really don't know much about my community's special culinary tradition, if it has one, or that in the home I grew up, we just didn't discuss food much (unless it was to tell me to eat less of it). It was there, it was tasty and varied enough to make us look forward to it and we ate it. Of course, if there was some new-fangled dish, like cauliflower pickle, it would be discussed and perhaps forgotten promptly, I really don't know.

My mother works, and so doesn't have any time to spend in the kitchen unless the cook takes a day off. My grandmother cooked for us as long as she could, and then a cook took over. Excited about a new cook, who came from a canteen, we asked him to make something special, and he was handed the vanilla essence when he asked for something that sounded like essence. We had chilli chicken flavoured with vanilla essence that day.

None of the women on either side of my family were taught to cook. It was always 'Study, study, knowledge and career aren't as easily achieved as cooking'. In fact, an aunt says she would often wish her mother had taught her how to cook - when she migrated to a new country, she found herself at a loss, not knowing what to make or how to make it. Perhaps my grandmothers' unfulfilled dreams for their own lives made them decide their children shouldn't end up just cooking and planning meals day after day. Some of my aunts are great cooks but I think it was their own interest and circumstances that helped, but no one, not even my great-grandmothers, as far as I know, said anything about it.

It's a life skill, of course, but to women who were immersed in housekeeping, probably not one of great consequence. One of my great grandmothers, who passed away just 12 years ago, would always ask me if I'd got a raise, but never a traditional question. At the most, she would tell me to spend well and eat well, but that's it. And some of the aunts were so uninvolved with food that after a hard day's work, they would heat up cold rice, mix it with salt and chilli powder and make a meal of it.

I don't know what I'm trying to achieve through this post, probably trying to say how 'traditional' isn't always traditional. And that perhaps, 'no tradition' is a tradition all its own. I'm no authority on anything but it is generally agreed that the 'masala box' is quintessentially Indian. But in fact, we never had one at home. I do, but not my parents. Even if they do, it's probably tucked away somewhere in the storeroom. My grandmother, and the cook after her, mix up the mustard, cumin and the urad dal in a jar and just throw in a bit of it when they need to temper something. The cardamom and cloves are in the storeroom as they aren't used as much as the other spices, and the salt, turmeric and chilli powder are in their own containers. So strange, and novel, was the discovery of a masala box to me - everything in one place, in plastic, steel and even Tupperware (not that I possess the very latter).

Then there's the spice level. Just as Sandeepa gets "Rosshogulla" each time she tells someone she's a Bengali, I get "Oh, spy-sssee! (spicy)" or "I love the avakai pickle you guys make!" I have to confess we are a great avakai family, with vats of it being made every year for our own consumption as well as that of aunts and uncles living overseas, but the funny thing is, we don't call it avakai. We just call it 'mamidikaya pachchadi', avakai coming from the mustard powder that goes into the pickle.

And I don't ever remember eating food so spyzee (spicy) that it would have you burn and bleed over the toilet the next day - that was more or less the odd case, it's not as if we Telugus uniformly make that kind of spicy food. And I hate it when 'Andhra restaurants' paint their food in red (chilli powder) just so that they can keep up with the popular image of the mouthwatering, and yes, eyes-watering food the State is supposed to produce!

Am I giving you the idea of a very practical, even boring, family kitchen? Practical, maybe, but not boring. The cooks themselves (grannies) did not go into raptures over this recipe or that, they must have had enough for a lifetime, or perhaps believed in the 'eat-to-live' principle. (Two generations later, younger now than they were then, and on a bad day, I feel the same way.) But parties always saw cocktail sausages and French fries on toothpicks, pressure cooker caramel custard; festivals saw the traditional pulihora and payasam. And to me tradition and habit were as much those as rice and curd and pickle as well as ootappam with tomato ketchup, milk without sugar, and tiffin with anything but coconut chutney.

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March 03, 2010
5:38
An Education From Stalks
» ‎ when my soup came alive

We all know that a cauliflower is nothing but a cabbage with education, right?

"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."

So here's a lot of education for you, about four cups of the stalks.

Waste not, want not, we say. Waste I didn't, but would I want it?

As it turned out, (a resounding) YES!

The recipe is from here. The measurements are mine.

Cauliflower stalks, chopped up: 4-5 cups
Jeera/Cumin seed: 1 tsp
Asafoetida, a pinch
Salt to taste
Turmeric powder: 3/4 tsp
Red chilli powder: 1 tsp
Coriander powder: 1 tsp
Amchoor/dried mango powder: 1 tsp
Garam masala powder: 1 tsp
Oil: 2 tbsp
Coriander leaves: To garnish

Heat the oil in a pan and add cumin seeds. When they change color, add the asafoetida.

Now add the chopped up stalk, salt and all the spices except the amchoor and garam masala. Mix well.

Cook covered on low heat till stalk turns tender.
(When it felt like this was taking ages, I transferred it to a pressure cooker and pressure cooked it for three whistles with half a cup of water.)

When the pressure falls, open the pressure cooker and add the amchoor and the garam masala. Mix well and simmer till any residual water evaporates. Garnish with the coriander.

This cauliflower fed us for three days. Call it kima (mince) or upma, here's another thing I made with it.

The stalks are off to Susan who's hosting Kalyn's Weekend Herb Blogging this week, now administered by Haalo.

Weekend Herb Blogging Cauliflower stalks Vegan This feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
February 24, 2010
16:28
Mt Nacho
» ‎ when my soup came alive

We scaled its heights - and grimaced. I didn't really know what I was letting us in for when I ordered this starter. (Yes, it was an 'appetizer', not the main dish.) I thought it was a typical menu illustration where the picture has been magnified a hundredfold. It was, but that didn't mean the original was a rational size. I have a little more respect for menu illustrations now. Needless to say, our meal ended here.

(We had also ordered some corn and cheese poppers. They were only marbles, in comparison, and disappeared as soon as they appeared on our table.)

The dish itself underwhelmed, despite its overwhelming proportions. Beans in a hot cream sauce with some vegetables and lettuce swimming in it? Nah!

Want to try some brilliant (literally - look at the colour) potatoes? Here's my post on The Great Vega'n Vegetarian Project.

Eating out Humour Mexican NachosThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
February 17, 2010
6:00
Couscous, And Some News
» ‎ when my soup came alive

The appearance of some live forms of protein was no deterrent. It had cost good money, and it had to be used, so this was what I made with the last of my last batch of couscous.

I now have another batch of two big packets. It made its way here last January, a year and a month ago. I finally managed to inaugurate it last week. Along with that batch of couscous came a batch of other Mediterranean delights, which included sumac, thyme mix, zatar and orange flower water. I've used some of them on and off in the past year, the last is waiting to be opened. When that momentous occasion occurs, you, dear readers, will be the first to know.

Some chickpeas were waiting to be used up; so was a pack of commercial tomato puree. (I don't remember why I bought it, as I don't like it.) I thought I need to make a beginning on the couscous before it attracted life again, so out of the first 2 lb packet I had, I used half a cup.

I cooked this couscous by following the instructions on the other couscous packet, substituting plain water for stock, so I suggest you just follow the pack instructions if you make this dish. (Why didn't I do as I say? The pack I used didn't have instructions.) I had made savoury couscous just once before - it was bigger, and while the sauce used some of the same ingredients, the spices added to it made it very different so it was a new venture all over again for me.

Here's how you make the sauce:

Tomato puree: 200 ml (or just a little short of 1 cup)
Chickpeas/channa: 1 cup, soaked overnight, drained, washed, (pressure) cooked
Green thyme mix: 2-3 tbsp (Mine contains thyme, coriander, cumin, anise, fennel, sesame and salt)
Onion: 1, sliced
Garlic: 5 cloves, sliced
Olive Oil (EVOO): 1 tbsp
Salt*

Heat the olive oil gently.

Add the onion and garlic and sweat them lightly.

Now add the tomato puree and 2 tbsp of the spice mix.

Mix well, keep stirring till well mixed.

*Taste. The spice mix already contains salt so make sure the sauce isn't salty, or overpoweringly spicy.

Depending on this, add salt, and more of the spice mix if you like.

Add the chickpeas and let it cook on simmer till it absorbs the flavours.

Now, I have some news for you. As if work, reading, this blog, a year-round photo-a-day project, insomnia and other businesses aren't enough, I've volunteered to collaborate on a group blog, The Great Vega'N Vegetarian Project. The initiative of Cynthia at Tastes Like Home, this blog was born out of her realisation that much of the food we cook is naturally vegan and vegetarian, and often, unconsciously so. As most of the food that I cook routinely (and does not make it to this blog) falls into that category, I will write about it there.

I'm sending this couscous and the chickpeas off to Presto Pasta Nights hosted this week for Ruth by Mrs Ergul - Passion for Life and Food as well as My Legume Love Affair hosted for Susan by The Cripsy Cook.

Presto Pasta Nights Couscous chickpeas VeganThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
February 13, 2010
11:01
To Market, To Market ...
» ‎ when my soup came alive

I've done a guest post on Bong Mom's Cookbook. You can read it here.

Travel Humour Musings Vegetable market Pune wholesale marketThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
February 01, 2010
15:57
Mellow Mallum
» ‎ when my soup came alive

There was Baby Bok Choy,
There was Big Bok Choy,
Then there were incessant
Cups of chopped choy.

In went the leek,
Garlic and salt
Green chilli, turmeric
Spicy things all.
Steamed was the mix,
Covered for ten minutes
Stirred now and then
In my li'l kitchen.

Off with the lid
So went the liquid
In went the coconut
Shredded and grated.

Mix it well
Mix it nice
Wait just a minute (or two),
And there's a dish
For your rice!

As in all great literary works, there is much creative licence in this poem too. (One instance of it is that you don't need the rice.) I will not bore you with the technicalities of meter and rhythm, but hasten to assure you that truth has its place in this licentious (poetically speaking) piece.

The weekly shopping expedition resulted in many greens, including a first for me - bok choy. (I've eaten it on the rare occasion, but I have never processed it myself, ever.) I got some fine specimens and though my head told me to search for adequately apposite recipes, my heart immediately knew it would go into only one, a formula I had discovered a few weeks ago when Cynthia wrote about how she made mallum (also mallung, a Sri Lankan dish) for her vegan guests.

The better part of this morning was taken up with cleaning and chopping the bok choy, it came to nearly 12 cups, stalks and leaves together. I had a couple of leeks too, so one of them went into it, sliced. I added some salt, turmeric and five cloves of garlic, minced, mixed it all up and set it to cook, covered, on medium high flame for 10-15 minutes. Stir it every 3-4 minutes. The greens will give off some water so do away with the cover after a while. When the chopped stalks turn a transparent green and the leaves have wilted just enough, add about one-and-a-half cups of grated coconut and cook for another minute or two.

Bok Choy Mallum

Cabbage mallum
In the other mallums I've made, I've used French beans, cabbage and hyacinth beans. With these vegetables, I did not even wait to add the coconut at a later stage, it was a one-shot attempt. With the hyacinth beans, which was more experimental than the rest and did not contain any coconut, I added red chilli flakes (not a cupful, no!), salt and turmeric alone.

French Bean mallum
Truth be told, this is not very different from most South Indian stir-fries but what I'm chuffed about is the absence of oil (other than that contained within the coconut) and water, and the novelty of mixing everything together and letting it cook entirely on/in its own steam!

Your pan needs to be suitably thick-bottomed, or you could end up with some charred coconut and vegetables.

Here are some links I found useful:

Leafy vegetable mallum (mallung)

"Mallum is usually shredded vegetables cooked with spices and grated coconut.

Cabbage is commonly used to make mallum, but Sinhalese also use jackfruit, breadfruit, ash plaintain and unripe papaya."
- From here

"Mallum combine one of any number of vegetables (on Sri Lanka, we most often encountered carrot mallum and green bean mallum) with chiles, onions, coconut, and turmeric. Once the ingredients are mixed together in a heavy pot they're steam-cooked over medium heat. Mallum require minimum attention once they're on the fire, and make an excellent side dish."
- From here

This goes to Simona of Briciole, who is hosting this week's Weekend Herb Blogging, created by Kalyn of Kalyn's Kitchen and administered now by Haalo of Cook (Almost) Anything At Least Once.

Weekend Herb Blogging Leafy vegetables Bok choy Vegetarian/Vegan Gluten-free HumourThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
January 21, 2010
16:05
An Accidental Recipe
» ‎ when my soup came alive

This is an accidental recipe full of familiar flavors: too much salt, too much grease, un-soft rice, brinjal/eggplant, lime juice.

Funnily enough, some discussion on BT brinjal had me buying two packets of the vegetable, the brinjal part of it, that is, not the BT. They didn’t look oversized or particularly beautiful, which meant that they probably weren’t extra-chemically treated than the other vegetables around them, so I brought them home. I made a simple stir-fry with one packet, but it was so salty that even the juice of one big lime couldn’t redeem it. I refrigerated it in despair, trying to put my fears in cold storage along with it, but come dinner tonight, I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

There was also some plain rice that went wrong very badly - I cannot cook rice to expert softness but I’m not this bad either - and by the time I scraped it out of the pressure cooker and into a container for the fridge and then brought it out again today, it was hard and dry.

At dinner a couple of hours ago, the rice was brought out and microwaved with some water, upon which it achieved its my-usual level of softness. It was then mixed with the eggplant curry in traditional style - full hand on, palm pressed, literally, into action - to ensure that the spices were well distributed and blended. Then it was tasted.

Voila! You know what it turned into? It turned into pulihora (lime rice) with the brinjals providing a - ahem - a wonderful accent. In one shot, I had it all - instant lime rice and a magically redeemed brinjal curry. The microwaving had turned the old, odd rice into rice of the perfect consistency for pulihora.

So here’s the method for the stir-fry, which is all that you need to know:

Depending on the size of the brinjal/eggplant, halve or cube 250 gm of the vegetable into salted water.

In a pan, heat 4 tsp of sesame/gingelly oil. Temper it with ½ a tsp of mustard seed, ¼ tsp of cumin, 1 tsp of urad dal (split, hulled black gram), a few curry leaves, 2 tsp of red chilli flakes (or 1-3 split, dry red chilli). The urad should turn pleasantly brown.

Add the brinjal and saute for about half a minute.

Add salt and turmeric.

Mix well and saute some more.

Turn the heat down to simmer and cook till the brinjals are at the almost-beginning-to-turn into-mush stage.

Douse liberally with lime juice.

Of course, if you want it exactly the way I came about the instant rice, you should oversalt it deliberately - that involves much overconfidence in one’s abilities to shake out the exact amount of salt that one deems right (or exactly too much) directly from the salt box into the pan. Then you can experiment with the amount of cooked rice that you need to add for the perfect mix I chanced upon.

If that sounds incoherent, you've got it - no, you've got ME - right. That's how I cook(ed).

Psst: Turns out I’m not the only bold one to put brinjal and lime/lemon rice together. Check out this and this.

Rice Brinjal/Eggplant Lime HumourThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
January 19, 2010
6:29
When My Soup Didn't Come Alive
» ‎ when my soup came alive

Recently, I failed at making chaaru.

Like I had failed with this staple many times in the past, even with ready-to-cook packets and powders that ensured I didn't have to do anything much.

I don't even attempt the varieties made back home, except for tomato chaaru (rasam), and that's mostly only when the several shrivelling tomatoes inside the fridge loudly call out to be pressure-cooked into rasam. Now, tomato chaaru, that sure gets me drooling - it was what I ate as a nine-year-old recovering from jaundice, mixed with rice and some minced lamb on the side, and if I remember right now, that was my staple diet for the next few days. But more on that later, perhaps.

I am fond of the rasam that has some daal in it - the black-brown, plain rasam of the tamarind alone doesn't enthuse me. So when we recently had guests for two days and I had to churn out some decent and tried-and-tested stuff to eat, I attempted chaaru because I thought they would expect it. To satisfy my own self, I decided to add some daal to it.

I asked the lady who helps me at home to instruct me and first off, she told me that the tamarind extract I had was just too much.

What I needed, she said, was to soak a lime-sized ball of tamarind in about half a cup of water, and dilute that with a litre of water.

Then, she said, coarsely grind some pepper, cumin and a couple of red chillis and add it to the mix.

Add a few curry leaves and some coriander.

Squash a tomato, throw it in.

Add about a ladle of cooked-to-a-mush toor daal (split pigeon peas).

Set to boil and turn off the fire the moment it comes to a rolling boil, she said.
Oh, and some salt and turmeric.

So I did (but not without taking pictures of it for this. I never imagined it would make it to this blog, much less to an event.) Switched it off, and it tasted raw. It's not all right, I said. No, switch it off and cover it, she said, threatening bitterness. I did so, thinking that probably it would cook some more in its own heat and the flavours would meld.

Come lunchtime and I had every single eater reassuring me that the rasam was fine.

All I needed to do was add some more salt.

All I needed to do was boil it a little more.

All I needed to do was add some more daal.

But it's nice, they said.

Come dinnertime, I rescued it by adding two more ladles of daal and some more salt.

It was much improved, good, even.

Much better now, the diners said.

All I had needed to do was add some more salt.

All I had needed to do was boil it a little more.

All I had needed to do was add some more daal.

But it had been nice, they said.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

But wasn't a tempering needed? I didn't remember that until now, when I wrote this post, so considering it was so nice, finally, probably it wasn't.

I fail at making quite a few staples - rice cooked to such softness that you can't discern the grains, so good with rasam and pickle and curds; sambar, idlis and chapatis(I do not know how nor will I learn to grind or knead) and rasam (well, hopefully I've got it right now).

What are the ordinary, everyday dishes that defy you?

This post is off to EC who is hosting MLLA for Susan this month.

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January 15, 2010
4:33
As Nutty As Ever
» ‎ when my soup came alive

My first ever blog post was about breakfast which could double up as dessert. It was a mixture of several nuts and dry fruits. I was inspired by something I saw in a boutique that positions itself as selling healthy food. All for a very high price tag, of course. Apart from the vegetarian protein that it offered, there would be the odd creepy-crawly in the pack, which I did not care for; neither did I care for the odd wheat pop and jaggery that was added to it.

One fine day, I bought all the ingredients necessary for this and made my own breakfast mix. I dry-roasted everything I bought (including the fruit), put it in a tin and then in the fridge. There were toasted sesame seeds, walnuts, raisins, dates, almonds. It was a very satisfying breakfast and used to satisfy my need for a non-oily beginning to the day. I would even have this for dessert if I couldn't ignore the call of the sweet tooth. It left me feeling very virtuous, if not thin. (With all that concentrated sugar in the dry fruit, it's a wonder I didn't gain weight.) The sesame seed would add a nice, nutty feel and the curds the right amount of tang.

This post went ignored for a long, long time (about a week, actually) - My parents tried to comment on it but they couldn't get through, and my father said make sure the curds aren't sour. My first ever comment was on the second post. "Bring on more crazies," it said, and that's exactly what I've been doing these last few years.

Thanks to Jaya's repost event, I get a chance to resurrect that post, and redeem the picture with a better one. The breakfast (I had it for lunch, actually) in this picture is a many-layered affair of cashews, flaked almond and pistachio, raisins and a couple of apricots and curds. I haven't had this in a while, but thanks to this post, might make a batch again.

Event Curds/Yoghurt Vegetarian Nuts Dry fruitThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.
January 06, 2010
4:15
Hosting, Feasting
» ‎ when my soup came alive

When was the first time you cooked a meal for someone? What were the reactions? Humour, encouragement, sarcasm, mute acceptance?

Probably the first time I invited someone formally was in the summer holidays during college. In those days, I would only bake though I don't remember why I made a meal too. Maybe it was to make recipes other than the traditional dal and gravies we ate routinely at home, maybe it was to impress my friend - I don't remember. My grandmother kept saying why do you have to bother with it, let the cook do it, but I told her the cook could do the meat, and I would do the vegetable, and I made stew. There was other stuff too, and I must have baked or made some dessert, because I don't believe in putting my guests on a diet, I just don't remember the details after all these years.

My friend came and we sat at the table. I must have told her only then that I had cooked most of the meal, and I received one of the most incredulous looks I've ever come across. (My friend is good at looking outraged.) "Nuvvu chesava?"("YOU made it?"), she asked me, one eyebrow rising rapidly, but she seemed to like the food and we had a good and uneventful time, gossiping over the meal.

At around the same time, perhaps, I made something completely my own, something I conjured up myself - stuffed ridge gourd (beerakaya). I think it was also the time I was experimenting with some make-up, because I remember Kid Brother making the usual aggravating cracks, the rest of the family ignoring him (and me) and my father piping up, amidst the mild clatter of ladles and steel plates, "What is this Beerakaya Horrible?"

The name had such a comical ring to it that I probably took it in good humour though I remember explaining what it was, and of course, Kid Bro latched on to this for the rest of the meal. As I write this, I find many recipes for stuffed ridge gourd on the Net but most of them involve peeling the gourd. Mine didn't, and I must have chanced upon particularly tough-skinned specimens for my venture, which, as my dad's reaction reveals, must have added to the horror. Or caused it.

Last night at dinner in a restaurant, we asked what 'Special Sindhi Chapati' entailed, and the waiter, who seemed to be in an unholy hurry, smiled extremely tolerantly and thin-lipped, and said, "It's phulka." The Spouse wanted paneer so we ordered Seyal Paneer from the list of 'special Sindhi dishes' and I waved off The Spouse when he began to ask what it was, saying it must be just as special as the Sindhi chapati. It was - what else - an oily mix of tomato and onion, but the real surprise was the Hariyali Naan from the Tandoor section. I imagined from the name that it would come flecked with coriander and mint and fenugreek; the waiter said there was spinach in it, but we didn't bargain for this:

Now would you go for this, my stew or even my Beerakaya Horrible? In any case, don't forget to answer the question I asked at the beginning of the post!

I didn't make any lofty resolutions for the New Year, but I did set myself a goal and a mission. Wish me luck! There's a link at the top of the sidebar too!

Musings HumourThis feed contains copyrighted photos and text from http://www.whenmysoupcamealive.blogspot.com. If you are not reading this material in a feeds aggregator or by e-mail subscription, the site you are viewing may be guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact srablog (at) gmail (dot) com.

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