| |
|
 |
|
|
Articles > Magazines > Gourmet > God of Small Feasts
|
|
|
God of Small Feasts
- By Shoba Narayan
(This article originally appeared in
January 2000)
|
|
|
|
"Here," said my mother, pressing a dark-brown slab of one of her mysterious cooking ingredients into my hands. "Smell this." I was nine. I obeyed. "It smells stinky," I said, wrinkling my nose as I turned over the hard, pockmarked resin in my palm. "Like a ... ," I giggled, unable to say the rude word. My mother smiled, as if I had understood some fundamental cooking concept. "It's asafetida," she said. "You sprinkle it on foods like beans and lentils so they won't give you gas.
We were standing in our cavernous kitchen, the mosaic-tiled floor cool against my bare feet, my mother in her starched cotton sari and me in my pigtails and skirt, ready to flee. On the raw cement walls, smoke from the wood-burning stove left stains in Rorschach-like blotches. My mother was making yet another attempt to reveal to me the mysteries of South Indian cooking. I was more interested in fighting with the boys over cricket balls.
Cooking and eating in India is a communal activity governed by a complex system of rules, rituals, and beliefs. My mother recited examples to me whenever she got the chance. Cumin and cardamom arouse, so eat them only after you get married, she instructed. Fenugreek tea makes your hair lustrous and increases breast milk, so drink copious amounts when you have babies. Coriander seeds cool the body during summer; mustard and sesame seeds lend heat during winter. Cardamom aids digestion, cinnamon soothes, and lentils build muscles. Every feast should have the three Ps: pappadams, pachadi, and payasam (lentil wafers, yogurt salad, and sweet pudding). Any new bride should be able to make a decent rasam (dal-and-tomato soup). If you cannot make rasam, do not call yourself the lady of the house. And so it went.
At nine, I had little interest in such matters. The kitchen was merely a place I might dart into between aiming catapults at sleepy chameleons and playing under the banyan tree in our overgrown garden. And, in a household headed by my grandmother and teeming with 14 cousins, four pairs of aunts and uncles, numerous servants, and any number of visiting relatives, there were always plenty of others to do the cooking.
The only time we youngsters were conscripted into helping out in the kitchen was during the annual shraadam, a daylong ceremony, celebrated on the anniversary of my grandfather's death, when the entire clan gathered to pay obeisance to our ancestors. The servants were given the day off, and the women cooked an elaborate 24-course feast with enough food to feed not just the family but 12 Brahman priests, our two cows, and all the crows in the neighborhood. The women would lay down banana leaves in the grass, arranging food as carefully for the birds as they did for the guests indoors. Crows are believed to carry the souls of forebears. The more crows we fed, the better it would be for our lineage.
On shraadam day, the whole household awoke before dawn. My grandmother stood in the middle of the kitchen, bellowing orders like an army general. There were strict rules. Everything had to be fresh and prepared according to a menu that had been decided on generations ago. Dairy and grains couldn't mix and were placed at opposite ends of the kitchen. Later, hands had to be washed after touching leftovers.
Blurred figures rushed about within the smoky mists, boiling water, stirring the ghee, grinding coconut, roasting spices. Coal embers glowed like beacons under heavy bronze cauldrons filled with rice. My cousins and I scampered between pantry and kitchen, ferrying ingredients back and forth. My mother and aunts chopped vegetables at a furious pace as my grandmother presided over the stove.
There were many such feasts in our household. After a meal's end, the curtains were drawn in the living room. As the ceiling fan swirled lazily overhead, the women sat cross-legged on bamboo mats, a brass betel tray in the center. In it were stacks of betel leaves, chewed as digestives, surrounded by crushed betel nuts, tobacco paste, and an assortment of fragrant spices-- sugar-coated fennel, nutmeg, and cardamom wrapped in pieces of silver foil.
The women brushed the tender betel leaves with tobacco paste, filled them with the nuts and spices, then folded the leaves into triangles called paan. They popped these into their mouths, chewing gently until their tongues and teeth were stained red from the opiate combination. With each paan they chewed, their jokes grew more risqué, their gossip more personal, and their bodies more horizontal. Soon, the room would be full of red-toothed, shrieking, laughing, swaying women that I hardly recognized as the same harassed housewives who were constantly shooing us children out of the way.
I would rest my head on my grandmother's squishy abdomen and feel her soft flesh rumble as she belly-laughed her way to tears. Although I didn't realize it at the time, this would be the closest I'd ever come to feeling totally at peace. Inevitably, however, the conversation would turn toward errant offspring and how young girls ought to learn cooking as preparation for later life. I would sneak a betel leaf and scurry away. I had no intention of being court-martialed by a bevy of relatives trying to entice, entreat, or threaten me into the kitchen.
I continued to spurn cooking into my adolescence. When I reached 14, by some mysterious alchemy--was it genes, Destiny, a passion for the sensuality of food slowly, slowly began to take root. Ever the rebel, I kept it a secret.
Madras, India, 1986. At 18, I have just been accepted into Mount Holyoke College, in South Hadley, Massachusetts, but the consensus in my family is that I shouldn't go. America is full of muggers and all kinds of criminals, my teenage pest of a brother proclaims. No unmarried girl should venture into such a promiscuous society, my septuagenarian grandmother adds. Why go abroad to study when there are world-class Indian institutions to choose from here? an uncle asks. Get married first, my mother says with finality, then go to Timbuktu if you want.
After days of pleading, the elders relent a bit. I am to cook them a vegetarian feast with the perfect balance of spices and flavors. It is a test, one they are sure I will fail. And in it lies my destiny. If my meal is a success, I can go to the United States. The elders pick a Friday, considered an auspicious day by many Hindus, for my debut as a cook. Though they've given me this advantage, they try to hide their smirks as they inform me that I need not stretch myself. They are not looking for complex masalas or complicated curries, merely good food.
I begin with tender green beans, forgiving and flexible, which I cut into small pieces and sauté in oil with mustard seeds and urad dal. I sprinkle the beans with desiccated coconut, watching as the thin strips flutter downward: falling tea leaves foretelling my future. I chop cucumbers, tomatoes, and red onions for the pachadi and douse them in thick yogurt, over which I arrange fresh green cilantro in concentric swirls. Under the yogurt-white landscape the red onions appear like bluish veins. Red tomatoes, white yogurt, and blue onions. Red, white, and blue. Is it an omen, or just my imagination?
I tease some spinach over a low flame until it blossoms into a green as deep and bright as the eye of the ocean and smile with secret satisfaction. The spinach is for palak paneer, the one dish in my menu that is not from South India and that will stand out as a misfit. Renegade food made by a rebel; the thought pleases me. I purée the spinach and stir in asafetida, tomatoes, pearl onions, and cubes of creamy fried paneer-- fresh cheese with the texture of warm tofu-- suppressing a bubble of laughter.
Tomatoes brew in tamarind water with turmeric and salt as I cook red lentils. I blend them in, garnishing the rasam with cilantro, mustard seeds, and roasted cumin. The scent of cilantro perfumes the air and soothes my soul.
Tomato rasam is the vegetarian's equivalent of chicken soup. It's the only comfort food I know. When the monsoons ravaged the red earth of my homeland, my grandmother would purée the rasam with sticky rice and add a spoonful of warm ghee. We would watch the swaying trees arch under the sheets of rain, contentedly spooning the rasam-rice mixture from silver bowls.
I hover over virgin rice, cooking it until each grain is softened but doesn't stick. I stir in turmeric soaked in lemon juice, then ginger, peanuts, and curry leaves I've fried in oil. The rice looks like a painter's palette. Cadmium yellow speckled with burnt sienna.
As sweet butter turns into golden ghee, the food of gods, the litany I learned at my mother's knee echoes in my head: Ghee promotes growth, ginger soothes, garlic rejuvenates. My grandfather eluded the cholesterol police by drinking a tumblerful daily and living till 104. Dessert is a simple payasam, rice pudding, with roasted pistachios, plump raisins, and strands of saffron strewn on top. The feast ends with aromatic South Indian coffee, a mixture of ground plantation and peaberry beans with a dash of chicory. I filter the coffee powder through a muslin cloth, then mix it with boiling cow's milk that froths on top and, following my mother's prescription, just enough sugar to take out the bitterness but add nothing to the taste.
The elders arrive, resplendent as peacocks in their silk saris and gleaming white dhotis made from spun Madras cotton. Even my teenage cousins are dressed to kill. They survey the ancient rosewood table that totters under the weight of the stainless-steel containers I have filled. I arrange banana leaves on the floor and invite everyone to sit down on the bamboo mats.
My guests pick and sample, judiciously at first. They don't want to eat, but they can't stop themselves. They fight over the last piece of paneer, taste overtaking caution. Grandma leans back and belches unapologetically. I can go to America.
Try our version of Narayan's menu, which you will find on page 60.
Thakkali Rasam
Tomato Dal Soup
Makes about 5 cups, serving 6
Active time: 25 min
Start to finish: 1 hr
We liked this soup on its own, but in India it is frequently served over rice and topped with a spoonful of warm ghee.
5 tablespoons picked-over split skinned toovar dal
4 cups water 1/2 tablespoons ghee (recipe follows)
1/2 teaspoons black mustard seeds
1 fresh hot red chile such as serrano or Thai, halved lengthwise
1/2 lb plum tomatoes, seeded and chopped
2 tablespoons finely chopped peeled fresh ginger
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon tamarind concentrate
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon asafetida powder
3 fresh hot green chiles such as serrano or Thai, halved lengthwise
Garnish: fresh cilantro sprigs
Wash dal in several changes of water until water runs clear and drain well in a sieve.
Cook dal at a bare simmer in 11/2 cups water in a 3-quart saucepan until most of water is evaporated and dal has consistency of a paste, 40 to 45 minutes, stirring frequently during last 15 minutes to prevent scorching.
Heat ghee in a 6-quart heavy saucepan over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then cook mustard seeds and red chile, stirring, until seeds begin to pop.
Add 11/2 cups water and remaining ingredients (but not dal paste). Bring to a boil and simmer, stirring occasionally, until tomatoes are softened, 6 to 8 minutes.
Add dal paste and remaining cup water, stirring to incorporate.
Bring rasam to a boil, stirring occasionally, and season with salt.
Cooks note: Rasam may be made 2 days ahead and chilled, covered. Add water to thin, if necessary, before reheating.
Ghee
Indian Clarified Butter
Makes about 1/2 cup
Active time: 10 min
Start to finish: 20 min
2 sticks unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
Special equipment: cheesecloth
Bring butter to a boil in a small heavy saucepan over moderate heat.
Once foam completely covers butter, reduce heat to very low.
Continue to cook butter, stirring occasionally, until a thin crust begins to form on surface and milky white solids fall to bottom of pan, about 8 minutes.
Continue to cook butter, watching constantly and stirring occasionally to prevent burning, until solids turn light brown and butter deepens to golden and turns translucent and fragrant, about 3 minutes.
Remove ghee from heat and pour through a sieve lined with a triple layer of cheesecloth into a jar.
Cooks note: Ghee keeps, covered and chilled, 2 months.
Elumichampazha Sadam
Lemon Rice with Peanuts
Serves 6
Active time: 20 min
Start to finish: 45 min
2 cups basmati rice
3 cups water
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 teaspoons black mustard seeds
1 tablespoon minced peeled fresh ginger
1/2 cup finely chopped salted roasted peanuts
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon julienne strips of fresh lemon zest
Wash rice in several changes of water until water runs clear, then drain rice well in a sieve.
Bring rice and 3 cups water to a boil in a 3-quart heavy saucepan and cook, covered, over very low heat until water is absorbed and rice is tender, 20 to 25 minutes.
Remove pan from heat and let stand, covered, 10 minutes.
Fluff rice gently with a fork.
Heat oil in a deep 12-inch heavy skillet over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then cook mustard seeds, stirring, until seeds begin to pop.
Add ginger and 1/2 cup peanuts and cook, stirring, 2 minutes.
Add turmeric, rice, and salt to taste, stirring to coat rice thoroughly.
Remove skillet from heat and stir in lemon juice. Sprinkle with remaining peanuts and zest.
Palak Paneer
Fresh Cheese with Spinach
Serves 6
Active time: 2 hr
Start to finish: 3 hr
For variety and extra convenience, try substituting firm tofu for the Indian fresh cheese, or paneer.
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
2 cups water
1/2 lb paneer (Indian fresh cheese; recipe follows), cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 bunches spinach (about 1 lb), coarse stems discarded
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 teaspoons finely chopped peeled fresh ginger
6 tablespoons ghee (this page) or vegetable oil
11/2 cups pearl onions, blanched and peeled
2 tablespoons coriander seeds, toasted, cooled, and finely ground
1 teaspoon Indian red chile powder (see page 89)
1 teaspoon asafetida powder
3-inch cinnamon stick
4 plum tomatoes, peeled and chopped
Stir together turmeric, 11/2 cups water, and paneer and let stand 20 minutes.
Drain cheese in a sieve and gently pat dry.
Cook spinach in remaining 1/2 cup water in a large saucepan, covered, over moderately high heat until wilted and tender, about 2 minutes.
Coarsely purée spinach, without draining, in a food processor.
Mash garlic with ginger to a paste.
Heat 6 tablespoons ghee in a large nonstick skillet over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then brown paneer in 2 batches, gently turning to avoid breaking up and transferring to a bowl as browned.
Add onions and sauté, stirring, 5 minutes. Reduce heat to moderate.
Add garlic paste and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 1 minute.
Add coriander, chile powder, asafetida, and cinnamon stick and cook, stirring occasionally, until onions are tender, 4 to 6 minutes.
Add tomatoes and spinach purée and simmer sauce, stirring occasionally, until thickened and almost all of liquid is evaporated, 2 to 4 minutes.
Gently stir in paneer and salt to taste.
PANEER
Indian Fresh Cheese
Makes about 1/2 lb
Active time: 10 min
Start to finish: 11/2 hr
10 cups whole milk
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
Special equipment: cheesecloth
Bring milk to a full boil in a 6-quart heavy pot, stirring occasionally.
Reduce heat to low and slowly stir in lemon juice.
Cook until milk begins to separate, 1 to 2 minutes.
Remove pot from heat and let milk stand 10 minutes.
Pour mixture into a colander lined with a triple layer of cheesecloth.
Rinse cheese curds under gently running lukewarm water.
Gather up edges of cheesecloth, twisting gently to squeeze out as much water as possible, and transfer cheese in cheesecloth to a bowl, flattening into a disk.
Weight cheese with a bowl filled with water or a large can. Let paneer stand at room temperature 1 hour, or until firm, and pour off any liquid that has accumulated in bowl.
Cooks note: Paneer keeps, wrapped well in plastic wrap and chilled, 3 days.
Beans Poriyal
Dry Curried Beans
Serves 6
Active time: 20 min
Start to finish: 11/2 hr
1/2 cup desiccated coconut or 1/2 cup finely grated fresh coconut
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
11/2 teaspoons black mustard seeds
11/2 teaspoons cumin seeds
11/2 teaspoons picked-over split skinned urad dal
11/2 teaspoons picked-over split skinned chana dal
1/2 teaspoon asafetida powder
1 fresh hot red chile such as serrano or Thai, halved lengthwise
4 fresh curry leaves
11/2 lb green beans, trimmed and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1/2 cup water If using desiccated coconut, soak in warm water to cover 1 hour and drain well in a sieve.
Heat oil in a 3-quart heavy saucepan over moderate heat until hot but not smoking, then cook mustard seeds, cumin, dals, asafetida, chile, and curry leaves, stirring occasionally, until mustard seeds begin to pop.
Stir in beans, water, and salt to taste and simmer, covered, until beans are just tender and most of water is evaporated, 6 to 8 minutes. Stir in coconut.
Cooks note: Beans may be made 6 hours ahead and chilled, covered. Undercook slightly so beans retain color when reheated.
Vellarikkai Thakkali Vengaya Pachadi
Cucumber, Tomato, and Onion Yogurt Salad
Makes about 3 cups
Active time: 15 min
Start to finish: 15 min
Pachadi is the southern version of North Indian raita. You can substitute plain low-fat yogurt for the whole-milk yogurt here, but drain it in a sieve overnight first.
1 English cucumber, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 plum tomatoes, seeded and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 onion, finely chopped
2 cups plain whole-milk yogurt
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 teaspoon picked-over split skinned urad dal
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh cilantro
Stir together cucumber, tomatoes, onion, and yogurt.
Heat oil in a small heavy skillet over moderate heat until hot but not smoking, then cook mustard seeds, cumin, and urad dal, stirring, until mustard seeds begin to pop. Pour oil mixture over vegetables and stir until combined. Stir in cilantro and salt to taste.
Cooks note: You can make pachadi 6 hours ahead and chill, covered.
Paal Payasam
Rice Pudding with Pistachios, Raisins, and Saffron
Serves 6
Active time: 11/2 hr
Start to finish: 11/2 hr
2 qt whole milk
1/2 cup jasmine rice
1 cup sugar
6 green cardamom pods, lightly crushed
1/2 teaspoon crumbled saffron threads
2 tablespoons ghee (page 94)
1/2 cup shelled natural pistachios
1/2 cup golden raisins
Simmer milk with rice, sugar, cardamom, and saffron in 7- to 8-quart heavy pot, stirring often, until reduced by half, 45 to 50 minutes. Discard cardamom. Heat ghee in a heavy skillet over moderate heat until melted, then cook pistachios and raisins, stirring, until nuts are lightly browned, about 2 minutes. Stir half of pistachio mixture into payasam and sprinkle remainder on top. Cooks notes: Serve payasam warm or chilled. You can make payasam, without pistachio mixture, 1 day ahead and chill, covered. Cook nut mixture just before serving. Lamb Kolumbu Lamb in Fennel-Coconut Sauce Serves 6 Active time: 50 min Start to finish: 21/2 hr For coconut spice paste 1/2 cup desiccated coconut or 1/2 cup freshly grated coconut 8 garlic cloves, finely chopped 2 tablespoons finely chopped peeled fresh ginger 1 cup water 1 tablespoon fennel seeds, finely ground 2 tablespoons ground coriander 11/2 teaspoons Indian red chile powder (see page 86) 1/2 teaspoon turmeric For lamb 1/2 cup vegetable oil 1 teaspoon cumin seeds 1 teaspoon fenugreek seeds 1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds, finely ground 4 green cardamom pods 3-inch cinnamon stick 10 fresh curry leaves 1 large onion, chopped 2 plum tomatoes, chopped 1 teaspoon salt 21/2 lb trimmed boneless lamb shoulder, cut into 11/2-inch pieces 3 cups water 1/2 cup finely chopped fresh cilantro Make coconut spice paste: If using desiccated coconut, soak in a bowl of warm water to cover 1 hour and drain well in a sieve. Purée coconut, garlic, and ginger with 1/2 cup water in a blender, then blend in remaining 1/2 cup water, fennel, coriander, chile powder, and turmeric. Make lamb: Heat oil in a 6- to 7-quart heavy pot over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then cook cumin, fenugreek, fennel, cardamom pods, and cinnamon stick, stirring, until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add curry leaves and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add onion and cook, stirring, until softened and begins to brown. Add tomatoes and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 1 minute. Add coconut spice paste and salt and cook, stirring occasionally, 5 minutes. Add lamb and cook, stirring occasionally, until no longer pink on outside, 2 to 3 minutes. Add water and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, until lamb is very tender, about 11/2 hours. Transfer lamb with a slotted spoon to a bowl and simmer sauce until thickened. Return lamb to pot and season with salt. Just before serving, stir in cilantro. Cook's note: Lamb may be made 1 day ahead and chilled, covered. Editors note: Try deep-frying store-bought pappadams in about 5 cups of oil to add extra crispness to the lentil wafers. Eat them with each course.
This article originally appeared in
January 2000.
Copyright © 2001 Gourmet. All rights reserved. |
|
|
writer :: reporter :: foodie :: mom
