Modak and its cousins bind two states

Pithey, puli, and modak offered to Ganesha

Recently, my wife prepared modak, a kind of sweet dumpling eaten during Ganesh Chaturthi, the start of the Indian festive season. Modak is a Maharashtrian specialty. We grew fond of modak in Mumbai, the capital of Maharashtra, where we stayed for 5 years before returning to our home state of Bengal earlier this year. Modak, like the festival of Ganesha itself, is a strong connection we have developed with Maharashtra.

My blog is about the food of Bengal, yet here I am writing about modak and Ganesha, both part of Maharashtrian heritage. For Bengal and Maharashtra share a food connection. In Bengal, home-makers and shops prepare pithey and puli, sweet dumplings akin to modak. My wife even created a clay idol of Ganesha to replicate the Maharashtrian home on Ganesh Chaturthi. On that auspicious day, the elephant God reigned in our home, feasting on modak, pithey, and puli. How similar our festival customs are and how unified all of India is in spite of differences! And God is one. Dear reader, do you find any common food connections among states during the festive season?

Learning to cook home food in a faraway place

When I think about how I learnt to cook Bengal's food, my journey is amazing and ironic. True, the seeds of cooking were sown early in me during adolescence in India, but it was not until my stay in America, 10,000 miles away, as a graduate student that I really learnt to cook.

Books and mandatory cooking turns in a house shared by room mates did the trick. It was by chance that I found a book in the library where I worked part time. The book, a yellow hardcover, was written by an author from -- of all places -- Texas. That book taught me a lot about how to cook Bengali dishes. I learned to cook alu dum, and potato and cauliflower curry, which my room mates and friends adored. Thanks to that book and my deep interest in cooking, I developed a reputation and found fulfilment in a foreign land.

Bori brings back boyhood memory

I recently ate bori in our office cafeteria. Boris are sun-dried lentil dumplings popular in Bengal. Bori is comfort food, made usually at home, though the tradition of the home-made bori is fading. You can get bori these days at your neighborhood grocery store. But my best memory of bori belongs in the home.

There is something, apart from taste, about bori that endears it to me -- bori's grandmotherly or motherly connection. I remember my mother making boris with various kinds of lentils -- red, orange, and yellow -- each having its own texture and flavor. I also remember grandmothers in my extended family lovingly making boris, which are shaped like Hershey's Kisses. The store-bought ones, however, have other shapes, less attractive and authentic. The red lentil, or masoor, bori is good for frying and dropping in a tok, or tamarind-based sauce. Ah, the pleasures of bori, and the hazy memories of a boyhood spent on the red soil of small-town India!

I remember also the boris sold outside, but not in a store. Those boris, along with pickles, rode a cart, a covered kiosk, with glass walls, pushed by a man whom I can't recall anymore. His cart had a bell underneath that he would ring, pulling a rope, to entice the women of the neighborhoods he would pass through. I remember how his cart would come trundling into ours, and I would run out to greet the mobile grocery store. Women would follow soon and gather around the cart.

Boris have a rustic charm and flavor. Lau-bori, or bori with bottle gourd, is a classic. Savor it if you get a chance. It is amazing how simple food can transport you to a time long past, when the world was colored with innocence.

Bengal, Bombay, Boston, Budapest -- They're all one

This blog is about the food of Bengal, a state in India, but all food is one. Foods of the world all converge somewhere. Read an essay, "All the World's a Platter," on InMamasKitchen.com. Your feedback and comments are welcome.

Water spinach: Weed or soul food?

Photo courtesy WhatamIeating.com

This weekend my wife cooked water spinach, a leafy vegetable eaten in Bengal, India, and South-East Asia. The leaves are also called Chinese water spinach or water ipomea; its botanical name is Ipomoea aquatica. My family loves the vegetable as a side dish, but I discovered during my research on the vegetable that it's considered a weed in the United States!

Sure, it is cheap, but I reject the classification. I love it stir-fried with garlic. I would say it is a soul food for Bengalis, who call it "kalmi saag" -- "saag" meaning a leafy vegetable, like collard greens.

Have you eaten water spinach? If yes, do you like it?

Mulling over mullet

Parshey bhaja
Photo courtesy: Siddharth Dasgupta, WhatamIEating.com

I wrote about Bengalis' love of fish a while ago. I hesitated to write this post and, especially, to carry the photo, for I do not want to put off vegetarians. Bengali cuisine has a great variety of vegetable dishes to please vegetarians; however, fish takes centerstage. One such fish that is a favorite of our family is parshey, or the silvery Indian mullet. The photo you see is of parshey bhaja, or fried mullet. Bhaja is a classic method applied to many fish in Bengal. The dish involves marinating the fish in salt and turmeric and deep-frying.

Profile in magazine brightens up day

This is a post to acknowledge a gesture, not to write about a specific food topic. This afternoon took on a bright flavor when I saw in our company's house magazine, I Can, a profile of me, "A writer who loved his kitchen," as part of a column, Pet Pastime. The article, written by a team member, Noopur, and copy-edited by my supervisor, Nandu, talks about my passion for both writing and cooking -- and my reverence for my mother, whom I credit for providing first inspiration. The feature also mentions this blog. I wish I could share the article with you, but, unfortunately, the magazine is for internal circulation only. Anyway, thank you, team, for a glowing profile.

Nothing fishy about it

If you are an Indian, that is, an Asian Indian, you might already know that people in the state of Bengal are fish-lovers. Bengal, being a state full of wonderful rivers and deltas, is rich in fish. Even though I consider myself a global citizen, I am at heart a Bengali, and I love fish.

Recently, I bought a book, The New Fish Cooking Encyclopedia, by Kate Whitman, that covers fish widely -- casts a wide net, if you will -- and I found several kinds of fish in it that my family loves to cook and eat. One such fish is the mullet. But that is another post -- stay tuned! In the meantime, you might like to read as a prelude an article I wrote several years ago about how I came to love fish.

The bitter truth

When you think of greens, what comes to mind? Spinach, kale, rocket leaves (arugula), lettuce, even mustard greens? How about bitter leaves? People in India eat leaves of the neem tree, a member of the mahogany family native to this country and Pakistan. The leaves are bitter, but take on a distinctive flavor when sauteed in oil or ghee. In Bengal, neem leaves are especially popular this time of year, when they are tender.

I remember eating, under coercion from my mother, fried neem leaves during childhood and adolescence. My parents always said neem is good for health -- it helps clean the blood and, of course, it helps diabetics control blood sugar. Later, I ate neem leaves voluntarily whenever the dish was cooked. The medicine became palatable, even delicious. My mother swears by tender leaves fried or sauteed. You can eat it another way if you want to follow the Bengali tradition. You can saute the leaves first in a kadahi, or wok, to crispness, and then, after removing them, saute diced eggplant (aubergine), and, finally, mix the two, adding seasoning (which in Bengali homes means salt and turmeric).

Have you tried neem? How does the idea appeal to you?

Summer’s still far, but the pointed gourd returns

Summer is still a month or two away in India, but here is a seasonal vegetable featured in fulfillment of a promise I made a long time ago. It is a recipe involving parwal, or the pointed gourd. I have my mother close at hand; the credit for the recipe goes to her.

Potoler dalna

Ingredients
1 lb (450 gm) parwal, peeled, and sliced into 1/2-inch rounds (small ones cut crosswise into only two pieces)
½ lb (225 gm) potatoes, peeled and diced into 1/2-inch pieces
½ tsp coriander powder
½ tsp cumin seeds, plus ½ tsp powder
½ tsp turmeric powder
¼ tsp chili (cayenne) powder
1 bay leaf
½ tsp ginger paste
¼ tsp garam masala powder, dry-roasted
Salt, to taste
½ cup water
½ cup mustard oil

Method

1. In a kadahi, or wok, fry parwal and potatoes, until light brown (no need to crisp) in mustard oil.


2. Drain and remove, setting aside and leaving only 2 tbsp of oil.


3. On medium heat, sauté cumin seeds, bay leaf, and ginger paste for a minute or so.


4. Add coriander and cumin powder, turmeric, and, chili powder, sautéing for another minute.


5. Add water, return parwal and potatoes to kadhai, and simmer, covered, until vegetables are tender.


6. Sprinkle garam masala power.


7. Serve with steamed rice, roti, or paratha.

Upholder of Bengali cuisine passes away -- II

Last week, I wrote a brief tribute to Chef Udit Sarkhel, who departed early in February. The news had come as a shock to me because I was expecting to hear from him and looking forward to seeing him. I have been unable to forget him. So I invite you to a longer and better-written tribute by another food writer, William Sitwell.

Upholder of Bengali cuisine passes away

This past Sunday started on a sad note for me. I learned from India's The Telegraph newspaper ("Lord of spices," in the "Eye on England" column) that Chef Udit Sarkhel, who had made it good in the United Kingdom as a doyen of Bengali cuisine, had bid his final goodbye. What made the news all the more saddening was that he was an acquaintance whom I revered, even though I had never met him. We had exchanged e-mail messages and talked on the phone only. Yet, I felt an affinity for him because he had shown empathy toward me when I was trying to get a memoir published. He had patiently read a chapter and said words of encouragement. More important, he had, like me, just returned to his roots in Kolkata from a faraway place of work, or, if you will, a self-imposed exile.

In fact, both returned to Kolkata about the same time -- late January or early February. Just before that, I had received a LinkedIn invitation from him and, after accepting it, written to him an e-mail expressing my delight at his return and looking forward to a long-awaited meeting. I was beginning to lose patience when I hadn't heard from him. I was wondering whether he would reply. Little did I know then that I was waiting to hear from someone who had ceased to exist.

Returning home

I am back! I am back in Calcutta -- or Kolkata, if you will -- and to the blog. It has been dormant for months, and I have no excuse, except commitment to job and family, especially my 6-year-old daughter.

I hope you understand and I hope you will continue to post your invaluable and inspiring comments. Thou be my muse!

If writing be the food of life, play on. For I love to eat -- and write about food. Even the sight of food -- raw or cooked -- fills me with delight. This morning I walked the same farmers' market in my neighborhood as I did 5 years ago and savored the lovely sight of winter vegetables. Plump, round "desi" tomatoes, stalk attached, first said hello to me. I paused and took them in. I saw the bright orange carrots, which only winter can provide. Next, I bent to touch and buy small, shiny, green limes.

How happy I am to return to the city and this vegetable market. Linger, dear winter, for I am hungry for more.

Baking in a Bengali home

This blog is about Bengali cooking, but our home cooking history and account would be incomplete without a mention of baking. I love baking, and so does my mother.

When I was a child, the only Western food concept that was firmly set in our house was cake. My mother was an expert in baking simple cakes. I would be her assistant who gladly volunteered to stir the batter. I remember the frothy egg in a large bowl after vigorous whisking. I remember the gradual addition of sugar, butter (white, unprocessed and unsalted white butter), flour (mixed with baking powder), essence (usually vanilla), and, sometimes, nuts. She would put the batter in a pan and the pan into an oven that might have become an antique by now. It was a dinosaur. The oven was a big black iron box with a glass door secured with a little latch. The oven’s source of heat was not inside it; it would be placed on a chulha.
But the cake that would come out would be perfect.

Another way my mother would bake a cake was by putting smouldering coals on the lid of an aluminum pot with the batter in it set on a chulha. The cake would turn out just as fluffy, rich, and light.

Whether it was the low-tech gadgets or my mother’s magic I don’t know, but something worked well every time. The cake would be just right – light, moist, yet fluffy and flavorful. (The only thing my mother never learnt to do is icing. My father often urged her to learn icing from the Russian women who lived in Bhilai, but she never took active interest.)

Ghee vs. butter: Two siblings, rival

I love ghee, or clarified butter. For too long, ghee has been closeted or relegated to Indian cuisine. I grew up eating ghee in my home, and still love the incomparable flavor of pure ghee, and I think it could give butter a run for its money. I prefer the more delicate flavour of cow’s milk ghee to that made from buffalo milk. I am glad that ghee is finally emerging from the Indian pantry to win the hearts of Western cooks.

Recently, I read in Mint newspaper the column of a British baker and blogger who substituted pure ghee for butter in shortbread cookies (close cousins of nan khatai). She found the results more flavorful and crispy than what butter had earlier produced.

In the same newspaper, I read a few weeks ago another column, this one on healthy food, that provided a recipe for preparing ghee. Ah, making ghee from scratch! The recipe calls for cream skimmed off fresh milk over several days and cooking it until the ghee separates. Another way to make ghee (even though the article didn’t mention this) is to, well, clarify butter, especially unprocessed.

I remember my mother making ghee both ways when I was a boy. When she would make ghee from white, unprocessed butter, she would ask me to go tear some leaves from a lime tree growing in our backyard. She would put a few in the sizzling butter to infuse the ghee with a limey flavour. How I long for the heavenly fat!

Which of the fats do you prefer?

Chutney: Homey -- and exotic

Chutney (chuht-nee), n. From the East Indian word chatni, this spicy condiment contains fruit, vinegar, sugar, and spices. It can range in texture from chunky to smooth and in degrees of spiciness from mild to hot.

I grew up, as most Indians do, eating chutneys. We never seem to think much about chutneys, do we? At least, I have always taken chutneys for granted. I have eaten since childhood unripe mango and papaya, pineapple, amla (Indian gooseberry), and, of course, tomato chutneys. A chutney is something that Bengalis eat at the end of a meal in small quantities, sometimes merely as a ritual, to give the repast a finishing touch, perhaps just before dessert, if that is served, too.

Over the past several years, though, I have seen the chutney going upscale – some creative chefs from all over the world are using chutney as a garnishing sauce or a special touch for their creations. The humble chutney, if you will, is becoming exotic. It is, in fact, earning its rightful place.

I gave the chutney dignity in my own way this past week by replicating a simple, but classy recipe conceived by my mother and executed by – of all cooks – the housemaid in our Kolkata home a few weeks ago, when I was visiting. The chutney is made from fresh strawberry, which is prohibitively pricey in some parts of India -- for a chutney. (My wife glared at me and called me extravagant during preparation!)

The strawberry chutney, prepared Bengali style, turned out to be delightfully rich in color and velvety in texture, with some chunks thrown in for some bite. Have you eaten strawberry chutney, dear reader? If not, I will show you how to prepare it. Stay tuned for the recipe.

Burnt milk: Stink or flavor?

I burnt something the other day in the kitchen. My family was away in Kolkata, and I was working at my computer, all by myself. I was engrossed in my work when I smelled something smoky and pungent. I realized I had put on the gas stove a pan of milk and forgotten all about it.

I ran to the kitchen. By that time, much of the milk had overflowed, bathing the burner. I regretted my mistake and filled with the burden of cleaning up the mess. After I stood there for a moment, though, I smelled something more pleasant than the bitterness of a silly error. I smelled something smoky, but nostalgic, reminiscent of my mother's fondness for something -- the flavor of half-burned and caramelized milk.

As I took off the pan of milk from the stove, I inhaled deeply. I smelled "kheer," or evaporated, half-caramelized milk. I could eat the remaining milk in the pan with roti.

Putting my regret behind me, I recalled my mother's liking for burnt milk. She had always admitted with embarrassment her weakness for the flavor, a singular fondness for half-burnt milk that she would scrape with a serving spoon to eat.

She now lives in Kolkata, about 2,000 miles from my home in Mumbai; she is now sick and old in an equally old house in the heart of an older city. I remembered her. And I remembered something -- my own fondness for a sweet, a dessert that is almost the same as burnt milk. I remembered "pora pithe" -- a sweet famous in the state of Orissa. That is similar to creme brulee, too!

I love it. I have begun loving burnt milk! What about you, dear reader?

A vegetable both plain and exotic

I am on vacation in Calcutta, my home town, and I can’t find a topic better than parwal, or pointed gourd. For this vegetable is native to this part of India. While this is a familiar vegetable for people in eastern India, it’s relatively exotic in other regions, like Maharashtra, where it is four times as expensive as in Bengal (an eastern state). And in the United States, it sells for $7 a pound!

Parwal’s Latin name is Trichosanthes dioica. Called parwal in Hindi and potol in Assamese, Oriya, and Bengali, it is widely cultivated in the eastern part of India, particularly in Orissa, Bengal, Assam, and Bihar, and parts of Uttar Pradesh.

It is a vine plant, similar to cucumber and squash, though unlike those it is perennial. The fruits are green, mostly with white stripes; the size can vary from small and round to thick and long — 2 to 6 inches.

It is used as ingredients of stew, curry, or eaten fried and as “dorma” with stuffing. Pointed gourd is also converted to a sweetmeat in Bengal.

For more on the possibilities of parwal, please be patient. This post is merely a prelude. For what you can do with parwal, watch out for another post. I will need to ask my mother for help on that.

Let us make an omelet

I love egg in all its forms: omelets, and fried, boiled, and poached egg. But, I have a special weakness for omelets.

Omelets come in varied forms, too – what infinite variety egg provides! There is the classic French-style omelet, folded, with stuffing inside – cheese, sautéed vegetables, chicken, fish, or pretty much anything that tastes good. And there is the frittata. But, the homiest – at least for me – is the Bengali-style omelet, which is a cross between the French style and the frittata style.

The Bengali style involves mustard oil, which adds a strong, distinctive flavor. (Unlike extra-virgin olive oil, mustard oil doesn’t lose much flavor even on heating.) The omelet has chopped onion, green chilly, and tomato – sometimes chopped cilantro, too – along with seasoning, all stirred into the egg and whisked vigorously. The frothy mixture is then poured into a pan lined with heated mustard oil. The omelet is cooked in the usual way (tilting the pan and lifting the edge of the omelet to let uncooked egg run underneath) or flipped; it is then folded.

The result is a fluffy, tangy, strongly flavored breakfast – or lunch accompaniment. This is no gourmet stuff; roadside eateries, even vendors on the sidewalk armed with nothing but a “chulha” or kerosene stove, make the omelet perfectly. (Egg is egalitarian; that’s one more reason I love it.) Try making this omelet!

Mango makes summer mellow and fruitful

Earlier I wrote about the bounty of summer in India. In spite of the sweltering weather that summer brings, it is worth living because of the several juicy fruits that nourish, sate, and delight us during the season.

One of those fruits, mango, deserves special mention; it’s definitely worth a blog post. Mango is the king of fruits. Mango brings memories of a boyhood spent in the heart of India, where my father bought different varieties – langra, dussehri, himsagar, etc.

In my present life, in Mumbai, I have access to another, the alphonso. In Mumbai, alphonso is king, considered the choicest variety for flavor and juiciness. But, it’s also the most expensive (a dozen cost, on an average, about Rs. 350.) So, I have few alphonsos and a lot of other varieties, some of which are cheaper but equally delicious, e.g., himsagar and badami.

(Now, that could be a bone (or pit) of contention. Those who swear by the alphonso or export it for business may draw their daggers on reading this. But the business focus on alphonsos is good for us lesser folks: the humble himsagar lets us indulge our love of mangoes without burning a hole in our pockets.)

Anyway, expensive or affordable, mangoes are a delight of the summer. If there is one thing that makes summers bearable, it’s the mango's magnetic charm.