Tag: food

Kitchen for One : Kombucha Mocktail

On Sunday mornings (or whenever I wake up) I put on music and it’s nuts how happy I get. Psychiatrists should be more concerned than they are about this dopamine phenomenon. Sometimes it happens on week nights and my brain decides a cup of coffee would be a great idea – and I only noticed this pattern last week after a series of bad decisions and messing up my sleep schedule. It’s like my subconscious calls for more fixation and chaos at the same time.

Recently somebody asked me what I did till 1.30am every week night. Which is, you know, a valid question and one I hadn’t given much thought. I mean do you think about what you do everyday? I should – I make to-do lists almost everyday. Once some four years ago Bhavana, my senior at work, had said my Chrome always has a 100 different tabs open – Fabric Lore, Stack Overflow, Team Naach, I don’t remember the rest. The sad part is it’s true even now.

Like 70% Indian students in the US I had self-diagnosed myself with ADHD three years ago (“this explains so much!”) but don’t think that’s true anymore. But I try to stay off coffee. I go nuts and my primary emotion is Why isn’t everyone conquering the world right now, there’s so much to see and do before we die!.

So after cleaning out my fridge this morning I was going to visit this Asian market to buy supplies for Korean Army stew, and finally try out Enoki mushrooms from ASMR videos. Then I stopped myself. I was going to publish this mocktail recipe first. Let’s finish 1 out of 389 things that are in progress.

I made this recipe last night, it’s a a 3 ingredient mocktail, 4 if you want to add honey but it’s optional. It’s by Zaynab Issa from Bon Appetit and it came up on their YouTube channel.

All you do is crush blackberry (or any other fruit) and mint (or basil), add to it a Kombucha of your choice, stir (don’t shake) and serve in a nice glass. I initially strained the mixture for a picture, but didn’t want to waste any so it’s been added back in. This second picture turned out better too. Here’s the original recipe on their website, I don’t think you need the honey if your fruit releases enough sweet.

I started drinking Kombucha last year after my cousin and my aunt, who’ve both been in the US for a while, recommended it for my gut and acidity. Yoghurt is the alternative, but prolly won’t work for this drink 🙂
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Kitchen for One : Skillet Mom

I love that after a day when nothing is sure, and when I say ‘nothing’ I mean nothing, you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. – Julie Powell

Life is uncertain.

That means, I can do my dorsiflex exercises every night yet not know when my ankle’s full range of motion will be back. My physiotherapist that I pay $100 per session can’t guarantee it will. But I do them everyday and it does get a little better every time, but I don’t know when and whether I’ll attend the jazz classes I signed up for.

It means I can go to bed at 1.30am hoping to get 6 hours of sleep but stay awake until 5 only to wake up at 8 with burning eyes. Or that I might spend another winter in Texas. Or only meet guys who always want something short-term, or watch my favorite bedsheet get stains on it because my dryer decided to act up in that same drying cycle.

But that’s why we love cooking. Because we know that after a long-ass mentally tiring day or week, after lining up that long list I just cranked out, if you cook bacon on your newly seasoned cast iron skillet, the fat will bubble like so and the bacon will crisp up like so and your skillet will be all the better for it.

Plus you end up with a nice breakfast for yourself. 🙂

I love that after a day when nothing is sure, and when I say ‘nothing’ I mean nothing, you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick.

Julie Powell (1973-2022)

PS : I bought a new cast-iron skillet and had bacon for breakfast thrice this week to “season” it!

Kitchen For One

The lady in the apartment across from mine has a view into my living room-kitchen situation. Only she knows (well, now you do too) the way I chomp down boiling Wei-Wei noodles straight from the pan first thing after I’m back from a grocery trip, standing at the sink with abandoned bags on the floor, leaving the the icecream at peril and the frozen fish to thaw.

Living alone has been a humbling affair so far. I finally realized that the unholy hair that grazed dishwashers in previous apartments must’ve been mine and not a roommate’s. There’s been so many other discoveries from living alone, of course I have to enjoy it since I chose it (and since I pay a ton in rent).

I always wanted to live in Mia’s house from Princess Diaries. With cozy, lived-in cushions strewn across rooms and throw blankets laid on mismatching couches that you could throw yourself onto after a long day at school/work. And most importantly, the many ugly, wide-mouthed mugs.

These were obviously picked up off shelves at a neighborhood Ikea or Walmart by the budget-conscious artist battling Targetly tendencies (we know they’re not from Target cos they’re – did I mention this already? – not pretty). The mugs were the nicest characters in that movie. Held in warm palms at windows as evening rain beat against car wipers working relentlessly on the street, while you’re safe at home with nowhere to be.

So I would’ve never imagined that kitchen towels and not mugs would become my best friend. My palms are constantly wet and they have indeed been saved.

With great freedom comes.. interesting discoveries

The best part about having my own kitchen is obviously the freedom. Last week I found that I can fix the sweetness of my pineapple snack by simply drizzling a little honey over it. This was a snack to sustain me while I waited for my dosa to cook. I should.. elaborate.

Not for the faint of heart – the dosa wait

In the time that dosa crisps (on its first side), I can put together a sandwich from scratch with neatly zigzagged mustard AND ketchup on it AND eat it. So now I’ve lost my sentiment attached to dosas. I like idlis more anyway – practical, fluffy, easy on the stomach. The 20s shifted my priorities and ruined me, and the near-absolute freedom means dosa batter often lives in my fridge for over 3 weeks.

There’s also been more concerning findings. I can and will consume a whole pork curry prepared with 1.25 lbs of meat within 24 hours simply because it tastes good. (It always tastes good too, which might be a problem and is most definitely a brag)*. Boiled milk can last for a week in the fridge, circumstances that led to this finding remain dubious. Costco hotdogs will taste exactly the same at home, nobody misses the crowd.

Of course all personal preferences had to be reaffirmed in the new apartment – do you like eggplant in your sambar, ginger in your dal and tomatoes in your meat? Will you be depressed if you don’t eat rice for 3 days straight? Do you truly like aromatics including the divisive bay leaf, or was that before gaining kitchen real estate?

Then there’s the random lessons I brought with me picked up over time watching homecooks and reading recipes at the back of magazines. Stay away from vinegar when you poach an egg, poaching only needs a vortex – I’ve held on to this theory despite never having done a practical. Add salt to water while it boils to avoid spots on the bottom of pots. Raise the heat when you add mushrooms to anything and do not cook with a wine you wouldn’t drink.

The nice thing is life is long enough that I can hope to slowly put them to use one by one. (:

Leaving you with a little bit of Nigella I borrowed.

#21 Postcard – I cooked (and ate) well last week

I didn’t cook or eat properly the last couple of weeks, so I made a conscious effort to not let perishables go to waste the past week.

Warning – I bought pork chops last Saturday that I didn’t want to freeze so you’re going to see a lot of pork. The cooking was almost entirely done in the evenings after work. Also no breakfast – it was mostly leftover hummus or avocado on toast because they’re the easiest things to do on week day mornings.

Everything I cooked was yum! 😀

Pork fried rice/pulao thing. I cut the chops into thin strips, seasoned with paprika and salt, fried them to give a nicely colored crisp. Saute vegetables and ginger-garlic in oil, season, add the pork, then the sauces, then mix in the cooked rice.

Also curd for the tummy ❤

The heart wants what it wants – Rice with rasam and pork!
Cooked rasam on Tuesday night. Lazy pork with curry leaves, red onion and chilly powder, turmeric. I slept so well!
The rasam lasted me for another 3 meals.

Sandwich with lazy pork but without aromatics
I used a peeler to make thin carrot shavings because chopping carrot isn’t worth the effort plus the long slivers sit well within the bread. It wasn’t as crunchy as I’d like though. I coated the vegetables in the leftover fat from the pan.

Crab-cheese poppers – okay this came frozen and I just had to bake them in the oven. Ugh I didn’t click a photo of the dip – it was a ranchy something with bites of pickle.

I worked from office on Thursday. I had avocado toast for breakfast that I took with me (do not compromise, even if in office :P), and had packed orange marmalade sandwiches with me for lunch. They obviously paled in comparison with the lunches I ate all week, and I couldn’t wait to get home to have the rest of my rasam-rice 😀

#20 Postcard – Homemade Hummus

There was a Mediterranean restaurant two minutes from my Atlanta apartment where I ate at least once a month, and I loved their hummus and all their homemade dips.

I’ve tried a couple of store-bought hummus since then and found they all have added preservatives that my body doesn’t take well, and recently found how quick and easy it is to prepare hummus. It only takes 10 minutes to make it at home, especially if you can buy pre-cooked chick peas (get the canned chickpeas if you can so you can use them straight off the can).

The recipe turns out to be economical if you’re making large batches for a party or so, it compares to the price of the store-bought version if you’re only preparing it for two people.

Mine (in the picture) lasted 8 days, I simply stored it in the fridge and didn’t do anything else to preserve it. It was as creamy on Monday morning as it was last Sunday, and didn’t develop a crust at all.

I thought it’d be interesting to do a price breakup like they do on vegan YouTube channels, but the recipe mostly uses partial ingredients (and I’m tired after the week). One full bowl comes to around ~$2.50 and there’s easily more than 15oz of it. To compare, store-bought hummus costs $3.34 for 10 oz, minus washing the dishes and blender etc.

You need two tablespoons of Tahini sauce (recipe below) for 1 can of chickpeas, but I dunked in more than that. It turned out well 😀

Recipe

Ingredients

Chick peas – One can (15 oz) $1.22. You don’t have to remove the skin if you don’t mind it, the canned ones usually get well blended.

Garlic – three or four big cloves, more if you love garlic like me! ($0.25/4)

Tahini (2 tablespoons)

Sesame Seeds – almost one-third of a 35oz jar for Tahini sauce. Basically enough to make at least 2 tablespoons of Tahini

Olive oil – 2 tablespoons

Lime juice and salt – to taste

Tahini : Blend sesame seeds, olive oil, lime juice and salt to a paste.

Blend chickpeas and garlic to a rough paste (I added just a bit water to help), add tahini, add more olive oil if you’d like to make it richer. Blend until it’s smooth or reaches the texture you like. I like mine a little gritty to have with toasted bread 🙂

Spread on toast or enjoy it as a creamy dip with pita bread, chappathi or even kebab!

#5 Kumbalangi Nights/All my meencurrys

To everyone that asked how my first semester went, I’ve told I’m glad it’s over.

A painful majority of my week nights (or whatever remained of them considering I went to sleep at 3 and woke up late) were spent listening to Cherathukal in my bed. During week days I draw the blinds but keep the shades parallel so light can filter into my room, in case I over sleep. There’s a streetlamp right outside and there’s these trimmed grasses and short plants by my window throwing shadows on my walls to keep company.

(Only on week days because weekends are more cheerful.) Some days I turn on the fairy lights in my room. It’s a little weird because it’s sad yet it’s a good way to sleep, away from deadlines and college. The song reminds me of all the good fish I should be eating. All the meen-curry’s at home, basically. And I’m not even a meencurry person.

Kannan loves meen curry. Me-not necessarily. When coming home he asks if there’s meen curry to decide if he should eat from home. A yes suffices, never fails to amaze. I would have different questions. What other curry? Thoran entheluondo? If meencurry then what meen? And what meen curry? Because there’s so many.

The tame, orange, slightly watery kind made with puli and fine arapp so that the coconut doesn’t stick on to the rectangular or square choora kashnams that you can peel off layer by layer like kitkat. The red one with mathi is my favorite, with lots of ulli and tomato paste, sweet and spicy and sour and heads (with eyes and brains as well, for all you folks too puny to eat the best parts of mathi), and skeletons that you can chew and grind and yes, swallow (well muringakka allalo mathi alle). The fat juicy neymathi bought fresh from market that oozes bursting fat onto the frying pan, filling the entire two storeys of the house with the smell of mathi fry, it’s criminal to eat it cold.

Or even the netholi curry made with curry leaves and thick coconut paste that sticks to each shockingly yellow piece? On some days, manga pieces creep into the yellow curry (I’m not a fan). And that lame ass meencurry I ate from the roadside thattukada with a huge fish head-piece and was all the hype but tasted like an average emotionless curry even compared to my mediocre cook Amma’s worst.

And all those Sundays with fish bought from the market and onto the meenchatti straight with some arapp from the mixie, split green chillies, curry leaves and/or drumsticks. The fat fish that broke apart as you gouged out a big piece burning the index and thumb fingers and revealing white flesh underneath that turmeric coated yellow paleness and escaping fumes. And the greedy you go for it again before your finger has even cooled down and it goes straight to your mouth, the taste of fresh fish that you don’t get once refrigerated. Gulp. Another bite and another and another. You need more pieces. Chatti evide? 

They say the arapp gets better and the curry tastier the next day even if a bit sour and if you’ve had your amma give you undas of that with pazhinji you’re as lucky as me, but there’s nothing quite like cooking fresh fish. The cheli of the market and the heat of a Sunday noon culminates in those easy burns, accompanied fumes and the juiciness in your mouth. Or even the coarse varutharacha meencurry for ayala that’s brick red and thick and you cannot see much else apart from the likely contours of pieces and a stray white eyeball floating here or there. Curry leaves? Somewhere there. Drumstick? That too. Less on gravy but amazing with kappa. 
Kappa. Goddammit. *pause for a dramatic sigh*

The best I came to making fish curry here was with grated coconut and puli and tilapia. It tasted good, edible, but nothing like a meen curry should taste like mostly because the fish has unfamiliar un-fishy flavors here. So like every other night I go to bed on Wednesday after a marathon to submit an assignment at 11:54pm for a 11:59pm deadline and I listen to cherathukal and imagine all the types of fish curries I could be having at home, if the kid in the film knows all of the different varieties, of the gleaming skinned fish in his curry, of his favorite way to make konj – with lots of ginger and garlic or with thakkaali or frying them deep red with crispy curry leaves or a glowing curry with coconut or?

This is not meencurry, this is fish moly. For a horror from this Christmas.
(It tasted great, lime juice FTW)

#1 Uppmaav

Of all the things I do on a weekday, cooking is probably the most rushed. At least as rushed as it possibly could be.

The good news is, you can only rush it so much. That is if you’ve learnt your lessons, want the intended results and not spend an hour scrubbing the vessel after.

So you start by heating some oil – vegetable oil cos it’s cheap, coconut oil if you can afford that wherever you are, peanut if you aren’t allergic and any others if you’ve explored more. The vapors are rising off the oil surface so you now add your black mustard seeds. (no I will never side-note “or cumin if you’re North Indian“. Just don’t bother if you want to add cumin to uppmaav).

So this is where cooking begins to test your patience.
Was the oil hot? Of course.
Are the seeds crackling? No not yet.
Let’s wait 15 seconds. It usually happens in 15 seconds considering 15 is longer than you and I and all of us think it is.
Is it happening yet? You know, if I were home, I’d add some curry leaves at this point to induce crackling, never mind if it’s only the leaves and not the seeds.

Okay it’s finally happening! So now we add diced red onion – the rationed red onion that cost $0.75 each and was chopped while calculating its worth in rupees. This time you really can’t tell why the tears.

Also add some salt at this stage to accelerate the cooking and browning like that uncle/aunty in the TV cookery show told you. (If you opened this article I’m assuming you’re at that age). Keep sauteing – toss and toss and toss.

Is it browning? No not yet.
Did you add the salt? Of course.

See, at this point, you’ve given up trying to rush this. Cooking will take its own time. Which is why it slows you down, often when you absolutely need to and just aren’t aware of it.

I know it’d be low-key insulting to even bother to tell you the rest of the recipe. But to finish what I started, once the onions are translucent, throw in chopped carrots, bell peppers and whatever else is in your kitchen that can be eaten half-raw. Saute for a while. Add the rava, mix well until you’ve slightly roasted the granules. Pour in water and keep stirring until it boils, evaporates and reaches the consistency at which you like to have the meal.

Turn off the heat, take in life at a slightly slower pace than before you embarked on the uppmav.

Bon Appetit!

Pothichor

The only early memories I own of pothichor are a misshapen package wrapped in banana leaf and newspaper, that Manichechi brought home when I was younger, with ammumma’s food inside.

Like everything else she cooked, there was as much coconut in the accompanying dishes as there was white rice (read: a LOT). Pink lovelolikka (is that how you spell it) and mango pickle staining a corner of the white rice with a shocking yet warm red. Red chilly chammanthi in very generous amounts. Two different thorans, one always being beetroot, both with lots of grated coconut. A separate tiny banana leaf wrap that you eagerly open to find the insides bathed in fried oil, with pieces of fish fried until crisp and more (well, almost black), yet surprisingly white and soft inside.

Amma talks about choodu pothichor that maaman brought to her medical college hostel from Vakkom early morning before classes, that stayed warm and succulent until afternoon and even up to dinner. She would wait for lunch time quite like Imran Khan did at work for his dabba in The Lunchbox, the anticipation of the banana-leaf parcel tingling her tongue. (And did I tell you she doesn’t care much about food? Oh not yet.)

As I grew older, especially in college, I saw more pothichors brought from home, sometimes for groups of 5 – 10. My own mother never cared about cooking much – eat to live, not the other way around she says. My father, an upholder of the other way around, still holds it to heart and lives a battle.

In circles when people said, “Mother’s food is always best”, I was always the sole one shaking my head. Once a friend said “Come on, you’re just exaggerating, I’m sure your mom cooks well”. The next day, I brought her my mom’s prepared lunch and she didn’t contest me after.

Once while my brother was admitted in the hospital for jaundice, my uncle and I were exiting the ward around 8pm as we saw an aunty eating from her pothichor. My uncle suddenly commented, “Did you see that.”
Assuming he wasn’t referring to the only thing I’d noticed, I cautiously asked, “See what?”

“That woman was eating pothichor.. kothi ayi”, he grins.

“Oh yesssss”


In the past one year there has been this mad rush in social media over the nostalgia and memories associated with pothichor.

So a couple of months ago, when my parents were leaving on a train to Thrissur at 11AM, I suggested to Amma, “Let’s pack pothichor for you guys?” I knew she’d be excited, she hadn’t had one in years. While packing, my father said “It’s been decades since I last packed one.”

We packed 2 separately, it was vegetarian with an omelette for each, and they gobbled it up as soon as they got on the train, amma said.

Last week, my parents and I were travelling to Belgaum. Our train was at 12:50PM, and obviously it was time for another pothichor episode. An elaborate one this time.

Amma first fried large kilimeen (pink perch, from Google) with spices. She separately cooked onions with masala and added tomatoes to it, and finally mixed the fish pieces into it. Chammanthi from roasted coconut. I made a double omelette with lots of shallots (small red onions) and green chillies. There was cucumber thoran with fair quantity of grated coconut (by amma’s standards, not manichechi’s), and another kovakka thoran.

Last time, it was achan who did the packing, but he was busy eating Puttu with the fresh fish masala (LIVE TO EAT manifests in opportune moments such as these).
I was already a tad bit hungry but saved the hunger for my long-awaited pothichor. Amma laid out the leaves and I apportioned.

A piece of fish in each, no pickle for Amma, more for achan, no omelette and more chammanthi for me.
(Yes I agree, pothichor without pickle and chammanthi is just blasphemy).

Spicy onion from the fish stuck to my fingers and I licked them clean – yum. Yet I conquer my urges again, for later.
“Should we add another fish piece?” Amma asks. Of course we should.

I wrap them up, two rubber bands each, neat and nicely shaped.

Needless to say we forget them at home and realize on the train by 1:30PM when we’re hungry and start checking bags. There is no pothichor.
We buy a biryani and a Veg Meal at Kollam railway station. I could only be jealous of my father who’d atleast tasted the fish (so much for conquering urges. Live to Eat, guys).
Two others in our compartment also brought pothichors. One of them had fish masala.

Food Writing is the best! – Books

Hard-boiled eggs, ham sandwiches, bacon, jars of potted meat, scones and homemade jam, crusty loaves of freshly baked bread, slabs of butter, fresh farm cheese, red radishes and lettuce, apple pies, short bread biscuits and homemade lemonade. Ring a bell? There’s more  –

Tongue sandwiches (that’s the giveaway), cold ham, bacon and egg sandwiches, pork pies, tinned sardines,  bars of chocolate, potatoes gleaming with melted butter, jars of fresh clotted cream, fruit cake, jugs of milk, cherry tarts, and ginger beer.
(I got real hungry when I put this list together).

Food Writing must be the best thing in the world – in what other genre would you not be irked by the author’s overuse of ‘fresh’? Fresh farm cheese and fresh clotted cream are a blessing!
I first read Enid Blyton without a clue of what scones/bacon/tarts/pies were and could only hope tongue sandwiches didn’t serve real tongue. When Famous Five and Secret Seven went on their picnic/teaparties, I would re-read the list of foods they got packed, savoring every single one, slowly. As if drooling the first time wasn’t enough.

The Faraway Tree with its Land of Goodies and Birthdays was every kid’s dream treat, though after sometime I restlessly turned pages to find the Land of Stationery (there was none). I mean what about tiny, aesthetic perfect-edged Faber Castell erasers? What kid isn’t obsessed with sketchpens and color pencils? Only flavored jellies and macaroons, honey-filled pop cakes, popsicles and icecream, pound cakes dipped in white candy and Blyton’s regulars of boiled eggs, ham, bacon and cucumber sandwiches could make up for it.

But the start-of-term Great Feast fare in Hogwarts was never as tempting as a plainly-written Enid Blyton afternoon-tea menu. Roast chicken, boiled and mashed potatoes are all I recall (and the movie scene where Ron chows down chicken legs). Of course there were grand coursemeals with bacon, beef, lamb and steak, Yorkshire pudding and gravy, but I was happiest during The Burrow visits, where Molly Weasley perpetually tipped sausages and fried eggs onto plates and sent extra helpings of chicken pie flying around.

Would I want to indulge in the elaborate spreads described in books? Not really, rousing (or is it torturing) my senses is indulgence enough. And only Enid Blyton can make cucumber sandwiches seem so appetizing.
Though I’d like to taste the gruel/porridge from Oliver Twist – because the way Sister Pramila mouthed “thin watery soup“ in Class 6 English made it sound like she regularly prepared it at the convent and it was in fact delicious.

And French onion soup! There was so much of it in the Harry Potter series, it pushed me to google the recipe (I mean I’m not that kind of person). I had pictured it a faded pinkish-brown, with soggy yet not mushy half-rings of onion submerged in a thick creamy broth. Savory than sweet.

Maybe I’ll try cooking it someday.

I like soup.

PS : I think this is the most fun I’ve had making a blogpost. My salivary glands are exhausted.

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