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Recipe: Let’s Chaat – Green Moong Bhel

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When it comes to Indian street food, the first and last word is always “chaat”. Yes, the vendors of sundal and cotton candy on my beloved Marina Beach will put up a fight, but when it comes to tastes savoured throughout India, chaat wins hands down. Chaat is a catch-all term, and extends from fried breads like pav bhajji to pastries called puris, filled with everything from potato to spiced water. Among the popular ones is bhel, also known as bhel puri.

Bhel is usually made with puffed rice as the main ingredient. As I’m always trying to make all the food we enjoy healthier, without compromising on taste, I substituted the puffed rice for the humble and very nutritious mung bean, also known as green gram or moong.

 

 

Moong is a versatile legume, used extensively in Asian cuisines. It can be eaten sweetened as a filling in pastries like mooncakes, stir-fried with vegetables, soaked and softened into a dal, ground into paste for crepes like dosa, and even made into noodles once starched. Moong beans are high in protein, low in carbs as compared to other legumes and pulses, and rich in antioxidants, phytonutrients and fibre. Unlike various other kinds of beans, they are also easy to digest, meaning you won’t feel bloated after eating them.

This Green Moong Bhel brings the tanginess of authentic streetside chaat, thanks to a blend of two chutneys, to the wholesomeness of mung beans. Like all chaat, it’s an anytime dish – and like all chaat, once you’ve enjoyed it, you’ll always have a craving for it.

 

Green Moong Bhel

Ingredients
Bhel (Yield – 4-5 small cups)

½ cup moong beans
½ cup finely cut cucumber
¼ cup finely cut onions
¼ cup cut tomatoes
¼ cup cut raw mango
¼ cup finely chopped coriander leaves
¼ teaspoon roasted cumin powder
3 cups water
Salt to taste

Date Chutney (Yield: 3 Cups)

1 cup jaggery
1 cup chopped dates
1 cup tamarind
¼ cup sugar
1½ + 1 + 1 cups water
2 teaspoons roasted cumin powder
1 teaspoon black salt
¼ teaspoon chilli powder
Salt to taste

Soak the moong beans overnight, or for 6-8 hours. They will triple in size when they have been well-soaked.

On a medium flame, add 3 cups of water, ¼ teaspoon of salt and a pinch of turmeric to the beans and allow to cook. This will take 15-20 minutes. The beans should be soft to the bite.

 

Strain the beans and allow them to cool.

 

 

In the meantime, put all the cut vegetables and the raw mango into a bowl. You can add any vegetables of your choice, whatever you find handily available, and increase or decrease the quantities to your preference. My selection here is a very typically “chaat” selection of fresh, affordable local produce. Keep aside some coriander for garnishing.

 

To this bowl of vegetables and fruit, add two chutneys. You can find the green coriander chutney recipe here (if you’re on a health kick, try not to get distracted by the banana-methi fritters recipe!). It’s an extraordinary simple just-blend-it-chutney, and you can use it in versatile ways.

The date chutney requires just a few more steps. Soak the jaggery, chopped dates, tamarind and sugar in 1½ cups of water for at least half an hour. Then blend this very well with 1 cup of warm water. Sieve the mixture to remove any sediments. Now, add the roasted cumin powder, black salt, chili powder and salt, as well as an additional cup of water, and boil for approximately 15 minutes. You will notice the mixture thickening, and you can adjust this to the consistency you desire by adding more water. This recipe yields a generous three cups of date chutney. Use only as much as you need for the green moong bhel dish, then save the rest in the fridge.

Blend 2 teaspoons each of the two chutneys into the bowl of cut vegetables and raw mango. Then add all the spices as well as the cooled moong beans to the bowl. Mix all the ingredients together nicely, making sure the chutneys coat them well.

Now, serve the green moong bhel in smaller bowls, garnishing with the coriander leaves. I often like to add a bit of crunch on top too, such as crushed peanuts, pomegranate, fried crisps or the puffed rice that is reminiscent of traditional chaat.

You can put this healthy snack on the list along with sundal, pea-pomegranate kachoris, sweet ghugras and, of course, banana-methi fritters and enjoy it with some piping hot chai or coffee. Or have it as an alternative to salad or quinoa, and enjoy a big bowl as a full breakfast or a light lunch. As simple as the dish looks, it’s absolutely loaded with flavours. Healthy can taste so good, sometimes!

 

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Recipe: A Sip Of Warmth – Homemade Masala Chai Powder

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Standing at that quaint tea shop in Kolkata that early November morning, I realised that the city had been awake for hours. We were on a guided tour, and as we found ourselves there for our first cup of the day, I noticed how around us were people who had taken a pause during their work. All of us – locals and tourists, at leisure or on the job – were treating ourselves to a small terracotta or glass cup of warm chai. In just five minutes, I saw not only a classic street-style chai-making procedure, but faces from everywhere – each of them enjoying a rejuvenating sip of this quintessential beverage.

I couldn’t resist picking up my camera. I was so pleased that these men, for whom this particular stall is a routine, were happy not just to be photographed but also to chat! They say a cup of tea brings people together – and for a few minutes on a morning in Kolkata, that’s exactly what happened.

 

 

It was this man’s mashk – a goat-skin bag – that caught my eye. He sells water from it, at ₹10 a serving. He proudly told us that the neighbourhood we were in is colloquially known as Bheeshti Para, an homage to the traditional occupation of the water-carrier (known as “bheeshti”). He also shared that the etymology of “bheeshti” comes from the Persian word “bihisht”, which means “paradise”). How poetic – the water-bearer from paradise, bringing succour to the thirsty.

 

 

We also met this money-lender whose family is from Afghanistan – one of the many communities who settled in Kolkata, who have carried the trade on for generations. In fact, Afghani money-lenders were popularised in Rabindranath Tagore’s short story “Kabuliwala” (literally, “the man from Kabul”), which was also made into a number of films.

Kolkata is home to many such communities of foreign origin, who have enriched it. For instance, it is the only South Asian city with a Chinatown, thanks to several generations of people originally from China who have made it their home. There are also Anglo-Indians, Parsis and numerous other uniquely Indian cultures. And there I was, a Tamil Nadu-raised Gujarati, sipping from my terracotta cup too.

 

 

It’s always a pleasure for me to watch another culinary expert at work. Look at the precision of this chai-maker’s tea-pouring technique!

 

 

The street was abuzz with life that morning, as the fogginess gave way to bright sunlight. A recycling truck was passing by. Right next door to the tea stall was a food stall selling breakfast: pooris, pickles and savouries. Somewhere nearby, I am sure that the famed Bengali milk sweets were being made and sold too.

And how amazing is it that one morning I was drinking Bengali tea at a street-side stall in Kolkata, and the next morning I was back here in Coffeeland aka Chennai, a land famous for its filter coffee? I love my coffee anywhere in the world, but the moody monsoonal rain and my recent trip inspired me to recreate that hot, spiced tea here at home.

 

 

Masala Chai Powder

(Yield – approximately 100 grams)

Ingredients
¾ cup black pepper

½ cup cloves

3 tablespoons peeled cardamom

½ cup cinnamon sticks

1 tablespoon ginger powder

1 tablespoon pipramul powder

 

Tea is so quintessentially Indian that it’s easy to forget that it was actually introduced to India by the British. Originally from China, the tea shrub was found to grow well in hilly regions like Darjeeling and Assam, and closer to my home, in the Nilgiris. In fact, the word “chai” is from the Mandarin word “cha”.

I grew up watching masala chai powder batches being made for a year at a time during the hot summers.  This is what is now known as a Macrobiotic approach, making use of the logic of the seasons, in this case the heat. I have found that sun-drying makes the flavours bloom. But masala chai was originally had in the winters, as the herbs and spices had a warming effect – even roasting in the winter sun was sufficient, provided there was no rain.

If you’re trying this method on a warm day, roast all the ingredients except the ginger and pipramul powders in the sun. If you’re in a rainy or wintry season like I am right now, simply roast the ingredients (except the ginger and pipramul powders) on an iron pan for less than five minutes.

If you’re a fan of spices, the other ingredients will all be familiar to you, but if you’re wondering, pipramul is also known as Indian long pepper or ganthoda, and is a rhizoid similar to ginger. It aids digestion and helps with any kind of gastric trouble.

Once the ingredients have cooled, blend them into a powder. Add the ginger and pipramul powders and mix thoroughly. Store in an air-tight container.

If kept dry, you can use this powder for months at a time. It’s used only for chai and added into the boiling process of tea making, as is the Indian way.

My few minutes at that chai stall in Kolkata that morning made me ponder what a privilege it is to have tea at home, and not on the go while on the job. Tea is said to be a contemplative beverage, and is such a wonderful companion to both conversations with others and moments of musing alone. I’m contemplating the people I met that morning as I savour this cuppa. What’s on your mind today?

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Recipe: Festive Feasting – Sweet Ghugras

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I want to begin with a word of thanks to all my readers around the world. Many of you have stayed with this blog for a whole year! I hope you’ve loved peeking into my kitchen, and I’m so glad to have you here as re:store grows. As the festive season is in full swing here in India, I thought this would be the perfect time to share my mother’s recipe for sweet ghugras, which was promised many posts ago when I gave you my mother-in-law’s recipe for pea-pomegranate kachoris.

Whether you know them as samosas, kachoris or ghugras, these fried stuffed pastries are a timeless favourite. It’s the fillings that make the difference, and the one I’m sharing today fills my heart with so many beautiful memories of childhood. It was one of the food items that my mother reserved exclusively for Diwali. In the same way that most people make modaks only on Ganesha Chathurti, she made these sweet, nutty ghugras only on Diwali.

Let me paint you a picture of just what these ghugras evoke in me. It’s amazing to recall now just how consistent the scene was: coming home from school year after year the day or so before Diwali to my mother standing in the kitchen, preparing the sweets. The anticipation, and the enjoyment. How does it feel like it was the exact same sight every year, even though both she and I grew older? The scents of that kitchen, the sheer delight of it all!

In those days, all the sweets and savouries were made at home. Each family would make 3 or 4 variants, depending on their status. The preparations began a couple of days before Diwali, and the treats would last for a week – and therefore, in a sense, the celebrations too. It was customary to visit one another’s homes, where we would eat versions of the same sweets. Back home, those who cooked in the families – usually our moms and aunts – would trade notes. Did that person’s cardamom twist suit the sweet? Was her own ghee-rich version of a treat the tastier one?

I grew up in a middle-class home where everything was rationed. Two sweets per child, and the rest for guests – but first, if you remember from my jaggery-whole wheat prasad recipe, to God. Those two sweets each were so relished, and to this day I believe that fulfilment and gluttony are two different things when it comes to dining.

The day after Diwali is the Gujarati New Year, and these two festivities are indelibly linked in my mind. Growing up in Chennai, the latter was not a public holiday, so school remained open. I remember the mix of restlessness and excitement I’d feel through classes all day, waiting for 3pm when our parents would come to pick us up. For that one day of the year, we did not have to take the school bus home – and just having our parents come to collect us to take us for our New Year prayers was such a thrill!

There is a beautiful old haveli, a traditional mansion, in Chennai’s Kilpauk neighbourhood that I still go to every year, and this was where we would drive to – still in our school uniforms, so happy to be celebrating this special day with our extended family and community. Dedicated to Lord Srinathji, the haveli observes an annakut darshan – an unlimited offering – made to the deity on New Year. In the spirit of abundance, it is forbidden to count the number of food items given as prashad. In order to achieve this, the cooking tasks are divided amongst several people. Each person makes a different kind of sweet or savoury, and the total collection is presented to the deity at once. It was always such a wonderful experience, a time when so many families came together and enjoyed ourselves – praying, playing and eating together, keeping our traditions alive through simply being joyous.

Diwali is in fact only one day in a string of special occasions. For us Gujaratis, the season began with Dhanteras (in which goddess Lakshmi is worshipped for prosperity), followed by Kali Chaudas (where a fried vada, a lentil doughnut, is thrown over one’s shoulder at a crossroads; my modern version of this custom is to serve thayir vada, curd-soaked vada, at home on this day), then Diwali (the festival of lights, which invariably falls on a new moon – on this day I make a broken wheat and jaggery dish for good luck). Diwali is followed by the Gujarati New Year (on which I make specialties like kesari or lapsi), and subsequently by Bhaibeej (the day when brothers visit their sisters’ homes to feast, the reverse of which happens on a day in August known as Raksha Bandhan). As you can see, feasting is an integral part of our festivals!

And to your own feasts, this year and for all time, I hope you’ll add this heirloom recipe of mine…

Sweet Ghugras

(Yield – 15-20 pieces)

Ingredients:

Filling

½ cup white raw almonds (with skin)

½ cup shelled pistachio

½ cup powdered sugar

2 tablespoons ghee

1 – 2 pinches of saffron

½ teaspoon cardamom powder

 

Pastry

See here.

 

If you tried your hand at my sweet-savoury pea-pomegranate kachori recipe, you’ve already had practice at making the pastry for these ghugras too. The ingredients and technique can be found by clicking through to that post.

Here, let me share the recipe only for the filling of the sweet ghugras. It is the filling that makes each samosa, ghugra or kachori different.

Roast the nuts until they turn into a light golden colour (you may replace the pistachio with cashew nuts if you wish). Allow to cool. Once cool, blend them to a coarse powder.

Now, add the powdered sugar and ghee. The ghee binds all the flavours together. Next, add the cardamom and saffron. Using your hands, gently blend the ingredients together.

The filling is as simple as that. Most Gujarati households will have a similar recipe for sweet ghugras. Many will use mava (known in Tamil as palkova), which is a sugary milk reduction. The mava version was my brother’s  favourite, and my mother made it for him for over five decades of Diwali celebrations – even the one in the hospital. But if you don’t like extreme sweetness in your desserts, you will prefer this nutty variation I’ve shared.

If you made the pea-pomegranate kachori recipe given earlier, making, rolling out and delicately folding the dough into a pretty shape should be very easy for you.

If this is your first attempt, do watch the video below to see how to stuff and fold the pastry casings. You will be able to make between 15-20 ghugras using this recipe, depending on the size. I like mine small and dainty, so that you’re both satisfied in a bite and have a slight craving for one more.

Once the pastries have been filled with the sweet, nutty stuffing, they must be fried.

I prefer the traditional method of deep-frying them in ghee over a low flame, but you can use oil if you wish. After a couple of minutes, increase the flame for about 15 seconds then lower it again for a minute. Continue alternating high and low flames. The ghugras will take 12-14 minutes to turn to a light golden colour. And then they are ready to serve.

These sweet ghugras have travelled a long way with me, from childhood. Isn’t it funny how we take our mothers’ food for granted? I’m so glad I made the effort to absorb her culinary wisdom. Now, during special occasions, my kitchen smells just like hers did when I was growing up – and I am filled with all the love she raised us with.

Heartfelt festive wishes from re:store to you and your family!

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Recipe: For Festivals And Cheat-Days – Banana-Methi Fritters

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If you’ve been following my blog, you’d have noticed that despite my quintessentially Gujarati sweet tooth, my culinary adventures are often based on healthy eating. I hardly ever reach for a fried item first, but these banana-methi fritters are a part of our wide kitchen repertoire at home during Diwali. Perhaps one just can’t feel guilty about indulgence when it comes to special occasions! The festive season isn’t far away, so you may want to try your hand at these fritters and see if you’d like to share them with your friends and family too this year.

Growing methi (known in English as fenugreek, and in Tamil as vendeyakeerai for the leaves and vendeyam for the seeds) is as easy as throwing a few seeds in the soil and allowing them to sprout in a matter of days. This is why I can use freshly-plucked methi leaves for so many of my dishes. Alongside tulsi, lemongrass and numerous herbs, fruits and vegetables, it flourishes right in my home. Whether it’s a traditional Indian staple or a salad (Chennai’s weather makes fresh lettuce difficult to find in the city sometimes, and I love experimenting with healthy substitutes), these pretty greens are a familiar ingredient in the re:store kitchen.

Methi has an array of health benefits. Among them, it helps improve digestion, tackle respiratory allergies, cure anaemia, and lower cholesterol and blood sugar levels (which is why it is used in diabetes management). Due to its high estrogen content, it even helps lactating mothers in the production of milk – I remember being given lots of methi laddoos after giving birth. In addition to these benefits, methi is also known to have a beautifying effect on the hair and skin when used in a paste form as a mask or conditioner.

I’m telling you all this to put a healthy spin on the recipe below – which is a fried indulgence!

The other ingredient in this spicy, crispy snack I’m about to share with you hardly needs to be promoted on the basis of health, because it is so very sweet and tasty. That filling, versatile, portable and very nutritious fruit – the banana! It just so happens that bananas are rich in potassium, fibre, antioxidants and share blood sugar-lowering, cholesterol-management and overall wellness-boosting benefits with methi.

Hundreds of banana varieties are grown in India through the year, and with Tamil Nadu being the source of 23% of the country’s supply, we really have our pick of the fruit here. In fact, the banana tree is auspicious in many Indian cultures, and has a place in wedding and fertility rituals. Similar to the coconut, its various parts have many uses. The banana flower, known as vazhaipoo, is diced and eaten in Tamil cuisine – and traditionally, South Indian food is always served on a banana leaf.

So we have here two key ingredients so nourishing that you can forget you’re chomping on fried deliciousness. Without further ado, here are my banana-methi fritters, served with a green coriander chutney.

 

Banana-Methi Fritters With Green Coriander Chutney

(Yield: 20-25 small fritters)

Fritters
¾ cup chickpea flour
¾ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon turmeric
½ teaspoon cumin powder
1 teaspoon grated ginger
1 finely chopped green chilli or 1 teaspoon chilli ginger paste
¾ cup methi leaves, washed and finely chopped
½ cup ripe banana, pulped or finely chopped
2 cups of oil + 1 tablespoon hot oil
¼ cup water

Chutney

1 cup coriander leaves, washed and finely chopped
1 green chilli
1 tablespoon peanuts
1 teaspoon lemon juice
2-3 tablespoons water
1 generous slice raw mango (optional)
Salt to taste

In a mixing bowl, add the flour, salt, turmeric, cumin, grated ginger and green chilli and mix. To this, add the banana and the methi leaves. Mix them well with your hands, adding enough water to make a paste-like consistency. Allow this batter to sit for a minimum of half an hour.

Heat the 2 cups of oil. Add 1 tablespoon of hot oil to the batter. The hot oil in the batter helps make the fritters soft. Blend well with your hands.

The remaining oil should be in a pan on the stove, and you can check its heat by adding just a drop of the batter into the oil to see if it sputters. If it does, the oil is ready. Lower the flame and add small spoonfuls of batter into the oil.

Keep the flame low and allow the fritters to fry well. Once the fritters have cooked on one side, flip them over using a butter knife. At this point, you may increase the flame slightly then lower it again, ensuring that the oil doesn’t get so hot that the fritters burn and blacken. You want them to be fried to a golden colour on both sides. Once this colour is achieved, remove the fritters from the stove and drop them onto an absorbent paper to remove excess oil.

Serve hot. I like to complement these crispy banana-methi fritters with a green coriander-based chutney. For this, I use coriander, green chilli, ginger, peanuts, salt, lemon juice and water, usually with a generous slice of raw mango. Simply blend all the ingredients together well in a mixer-grinder. The result is a flavourful chutney that perfectly accompanies the fried fritters.

Between the sweetness of the banana, the bitterness of the methi and the tangy kick of the chutney, you won’t be able to stop at just one! Try it for yourself and see. Let me know what you think in the comments.

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Recipe: Ragi Kanji – The Proof Is In The Porridge!

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When I was a little girl, the month of Aadi in Chennai meant music being blared from temple speakers and a general atmosphere of colour and sound on the streets. Just like with the funeral processions full of flowers and drumming, I thought all of it was pure celebration. Now, as an adult, I appreciate the nuances, but there is still something about this month that catches my eye – and more accurately, my sense of smell. For temples small and large through the city make ritual offerings to the Goddess, which are then distributed to all. The scent of freshly made koozh (pronounced koo-lu), a millet-based porridge, fills the air along with devotional songs.

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Recipe: Lavender Shrikhand – A Little Lavender & A Lot Of Love

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Being born and brought up in Chennai into a traditional Gujarati home has given me a more expansive way of thinking, which is what opens one’s mind to explore. There are times when I think in Tamil while I’m cooking Gujarati food! Even as the world becomes a smaller place, I love keeping local culinary customs alive – but every once in a while, my imagination will take me on an adventure in the kitchen. So it was while making shrikhand one day, a sweetened Gujarati dish made of hung curd. I’d played with various Indian flavours for shrikhand before, including mango and an almond-saffron blend. But I had just met with a friend, Siddharth Murthy, who has an organic lavender farm outside Melbourne in Australia, and he had gifted me one of my favourite foreign ingredients. Next to rose, lavender is the scent I enjoy adding most to my cakes. I wondered: how would my family like to end a meal on lavender shrikhand?

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Recipe: Rolling Out The Rotis

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The very first recipe I learnt from my mother was the foundation of all Gujarati meals: the humble yet hard-to-perfect roti. Or as we call it, rotli. The ideal Gujarati rotli has to be as thin as muslin, and it took me years of practice to expertly knead the dough and roll it into perfect circles. My mother insisted that a good Gujarati girl’s rotis had to be dainty and delicate. My early ones often turned out like Punjabi parathas, large and thick – and by the norms of the Gujarati kitchen, totally wrong! Curious about this cultural difference, I asked a Punjabi neighbour why their standard for the perfect flatbread was so unlike ours, and she gave me a beautiful answer: the big Punjabi paratha reflects generosity, large-heartedness and the desire to share what you eat with the world!

Rotis, known by many names and variations, originated in the Indus Valley civilisation, where grain grinding is said to have been invented. Indian breads are different from other loaves in that they do not contain yeast. This soft form of unleavened bread comes in various forms, shapes, sizes and flavours typical of the region it is prepared, with flour made of millets, wheat, rice and other grains.

All over India, the basics of a good roti are flour, fat and flavour. The fat comes from oil, butter, cream or ghee. There are so many kinds of flavourings and stuffings – from green chilli paste to potato to cauliflower to the quintessentially Bengali renditions made with fish.

I’d like to tell you more about a few Gujarati variants: the herbed thepla, the crispy bhakri, the sweet puran poli, the seasonal juwar and bajri, and the simple rotli. Of these, I’ll share two recipes – both are meant to be eaten hot, and bear in mind that an average person can easily eat several at a time! Some notes for kitchens outside India: while binding the dough, I work with my hands. However, if you’re used to the food processor, please do utilise it. You can use a standard rolling pin.

 

Rotli

Lunch during our summer holidays as children was a competitive affair: who could eat the most rotlis? These rotlis were the simple, everyday variety, washed down with aam raas, a seasonal mango purée. A blissful siesta would ensue, the heavy lunch and the heat lulling us to sleep to the sound of old Hindi songs on the radio…

The rotlis we had then were made from balls of dough joined together, then roasted and peeled from each other. They were as fine as skin. We also ate a sweetened “children’s” version, made with jaggery water. Another way to sweeten a rotli, if you want to, is to eat it with a strained yoghurt dessert known as shrikand. I’ll be sharing a recipe for that soon, and if you subscribe to this blog, you’ll be the first to know.

 

Thepla

 

(Yields: 12)

 

1 cup methi (fenugreek) leaves, picked and washed

1 cup whole wheat flour

1 teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon turmeric powder

2 teaspoons cumin powder

1 teaspoon white sesame seeds

1 teaspoon crushed green chili (adjust to your taste)

½ teaspoon ginger paste

1 tablespoon yoghurt

1 tablespoon sunflower oil + oil for sautéing

100 ml water or less

 

Traditionally, theplas are often made with leftover rice or khichdi, so as not to waste food, but you can make them fresh too. In a mixing bowl, add all the dry ingredients and blend them gently. Now add the 1 tablespoon of oil and the yoghurt. Slowly add water and continue mixing, until you feel the mixture is slightly tougher to the touch than bread dough. You do not need to use the entire 100ml.

Dust both sides of the ball with flour. Make small lemon sized balls and allow them to sit for at least half hour. Now, dusting more flour as you do, roll out the dough into discs. Make them as thin as you can.

On a heated iron pan, place the thepla on a medium flame for 30-40 seconds. Then turn it to the other side. In another 30-40 seconds, add a few drops of oil. Make sure the oil is spread to the edges too, as the thepla may dry out. Press down with a spatula to help it cook. Flip the thepla a couple of times until it is golden on both sides. Remove from the pan and fry the next disc, and so on.

As you make each thepla, either store it in a hot case, so it remains soft and warm, or pile them up on a plate. Serve hot, with a curry of your choice or a sweet mango or kumquat pickle, or simply enjoy them as some Gujaratis do – with a lovely cup of chai.

 

Bhakri

 

(Yields: 15)

 

2 cups whole wheat flour

¼ cup semolina

¼ cup oil

100 ml warm water

¼ teaspoon salt

 

A bhakri is really a type of biscuit, made with a greater quantity of oil than water. A version with jaggery water was my standard after-school snack while growing up. You can make this in the sweetened (what I call “children’s”) version too, by substituting plain water for jaggery water.

Assemble all the ingredients in a large bowl. Add water slowly as required and bind the dough together. Continue pressing firmly, until it all comes together and does not stick to the bowl or your fingers. The dough should appear as a smooth, firm ball. There’s no need to dust this ball of dough with flour, as it is quite tough and will not stick while rolling. If it does stick, you have probably added more water than required, and only in this case should you dust a little flour. Now, divide the dough into 15 smaller balls and keep aside.

Heat an iron pan. Roll out the dough into discs of about 1 cm thickness – this is where the thin-as-muslin standard doesn’t apply! Place the discs onto the hot pan and reduce the flame. Since bhakris are thicker they need to cook on the inside too, so it will take longer to cook. The flame needs to be maintained between medium and slow. Flip over each bhakri a couple of times until golden. If you’d like to, use a pair of tongs and roast the bhakri directly over the flame towards the end of its cooking time. This is the traditional way – dough to flame, directly, just like in this video!

Once they are crisp and golden, remove from the pan and let a trickle of ghee melt onto the bhakri. Serve with tea. They also travel well, so consider packing them for journeys. As my mum would say, a well-made bhakri will be like an easily chewable cookie – it can be eaten comfortably both by the elderly and by children alike.

Puran Poli

Sweet, stuffed and festive, the puran poli is enjoyed not just in Gujarati cuisine but throughout India. Made of toor dal (pigeon pea) and jaggery, it is a stuffed and folded variant that is half-roti, half-dessert.

Juwar & Bajra

It’s only after years of practice with the other rotis that one comes to seasonal variants like juwar and bajra, which are even more difficult to make, let alone master. Gluten-free, the juwar roti is made of sorghum flour while the bajra roti is made of pearl millet. These thick flatbreads were traditionally eaten during winters, roasted on a charcoal flame and thus imbued with a different flavour. They were most often relished with a thick layer of white home-churned butter and sugar or jaggery. Leftover juwar and bajra make delightful, healthy cereal when crushed and eaten with milk.

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Many Gujarati rotis were created to satisfy two specific purposes: to suit the extremely dry summers and cold winters, or to be travel-friendly, a fact proven all the way from the traders of yore to families like mine who took cross-country train rides. Whether unpacked during a picnic or a road trip, or eaten fresh and piping hot from the stove, the roti satisfies.

Throughout the subcontinent, we eat with our hands. According to Indian philosophy, the 5 senses are at our fingertips, and the act of eating activates all of them. Eating is truly a multi-sensory experience: presentation, ambience, mood and texture (even the texture of the thaali or plate – is it silver, terracotta, bell-metal or steel?), who serves us, who we eat with, the memories we recall or create through the meal – all of these matter as much as the taste itself.

 

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Recipe: Rose-Coconut Kheer, As Sweet As Memories

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When I was a girl, the full moon known as Sharad Purnima, marking the end of the monsoon, was a special occasion among a group of close family friends, who would enjoy the evening by the beach. The parents would chat as the kids played in the sand on Marina Beach, which was then pristine and beautiful! These outings were special as they created a special bond within the Gujarati community in Chennai.

So my earliest memories of kheer are to do with these nights, when my mother always carried her dudh-poha (beaten rice) variation, soaked soft in milk. Dudh-poha kheer is a customary Sharad Purnima dessert. There was such simplicity in that dish, yet how fantastic it tasted! Even now, it takes me back to those nights. I distinctly remember the almost silver sands and the beautiful moon reflecting upon the sea, and how we kids ran about and were warned not to go into the sea to wet our feet, for the waters were choppy and full moons always cause higher tides. We marvelled at the waves from a distance, all the while waiting to be called to have our cup of kheer. I remember the excitement of waiting the entire week for this outing as my mother called the other aunties to make the plan.

Kheer is basically an Indian rice pudding, with variations across the subcontinent. In South India, it is known as payasam, and is made using a number of different recipes with ingredients as wide-ranging as jaggery, vermicelli, sago, coconut, carrot, ghee and jackfruit. A Hyderabadi version even uses bottle gourd. A sweetened, spiced North Indian version rich with nuts, enhanced with rose water, is known as rabri.

Significantly, the old and infallible combination of milk and rice has traditionally been used as a ritual offering in Hindu customs. The practice is that food both cooked and uncooked is served to the Gods, thereby rendering it holy. It is then distributed to all present as blessed food, and is known as prasad or prasadam.

Kheer is so simple, yet profound, which is why it is so popular both as a prasad and as a regular treat: rice contains life within itself, while cow milk is considered sacred. Sugar, of course, is what turns many a dish into a dessert.

My mother’s kheer was sheer simplicity, but also sheer perfection: poha, milk and sugar with a pinch of cardamom. The one I will pass on to my children, and which I am so delighted to share with you, is almost as simple – but with that signature re:store touch.

Rose-Coconut Kheer

(Yield: 8-10 cups)

½ cup basmati

4 cups whole milk

¾ cups sugar

1 cup freshly squeezed coconut milk

2 tablespoon coconut shavings

½ teaspoon cardamom powder

2 tablespoons rose water


Basmati rice is the long-grained aromatic variety commonly used in biryanis and pulaos. Soak the basmati in water for half an hour. This will help the grain cook faster.

In a heavy-bottomed pan, add the milk. Once it is warm, add the soaked rice. On a low flame, allow the rice to cook thoroughly, stirring frequently to ensure it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. This will take approximately 45 minutes.

Now add the sugar, then allow it to cook a little more. Let the rice mixture cool slightly, then very gently hand blend it. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to cool to room temperature, then refrigerate.

When the kheer has cooled and thickened, add the coconut milk to your desired consistency. Add the shaven coconut, rose water and half the cardamom powder and stir so that the flavours are well-blended. Rose water is a signature ingredient in many of my cakes at re:store, because the scent reminds me of one of my favourite flowers. Known in South India as the paneer roja, the damask rose inspires many of my innovations in the kitchen. The Mughals brought roses to India, as seen in the Shalimar gardens. They were distilled as much for their fragrance as for their usage in culinary delights like syrups and sweetmeats.

Cover and refrigerate until serving. When you are ready to serve this dessert, you may wish to add more coconut milk. Don’t forget to sprinkle the remaining cardamom powder to decorate.

Nostalgia is what makes our food special. Each family recipe is special only to them because it is intertwined with memories. Memories and love: the two main ingredients of any recipe. Today, my best dishes are those that my mother taught me and some that I learnt from my mother-in-law. Some day I will pass these on, too – along with my own innovations. I have made several promises to visit my children when they have their own families to go cook for them. It’s funny how when I cook, my children relish the dishes and claim they are “finger-licking good”. But when our cook makes the same dishes, they are simply edible or enjoyable. So much of taste is through what is evoked emotionally. So whenever you try a new recipe in your kitchen, remember that it is going to become a mnemonic too. Fill it with love.

As I write this, the month of Ramadan is coming to a close. All over the world, sweets are an integral part of the iftar customs when the day’s fast is broken at dusk. In India, iftar meals are almost always accompanied by kheer. At sundown, after the fast-breaking prayers, people step out to enjoy the breeze and socialise, visiting sweetmeat shops to enjoy their favourite Ramadan delights. Street food also becomes very exciting at this time, and the air is thick with the smells of delicious treats and an ambience of love and celebration. I love the idea that kheer is being enjoyed all over the country today – and perhaps in your home too, wherever you are in the world. Don’t forget to drop a line if you enjoy this recipe!

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Recipe: Little Millet Rice With Green Beans Poriyal

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Having lived in Tamil Nadu my whole life, the traditional local cuisine has always been a part of me. Millets were a staple in ancient times, replaced more recently by rice and wheat. Unlike what most contemporary nutritionists believe, Macrobiotics suggests that rice, in moderation, does not have negative effects on health. Adding millets into one’s diet, as a healthy alternative or addition to rice, can boost the health quotient without compromising on taste. More importantly, millets are gluten-free, offering a great solution for those who are gluten intolerant.

Nowadays, the health-conscious hark on about quinoa, which is a great superfood –  however, it is not native to India. They tend to ignore the affordable local millets, which offer the same (if not a greater) amount of nutrition and could themselves be superfoods!

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Musings

The Salt Of The Earth – A Journey To Marakkanam

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“Do you know a cure for me?”

“Why yes,” he said, “I know a cure for everything. Salt water.”

“Salt water?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said, “in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.”

These words from Seven Gothic Tales, the first book by the Danish writer Isak Dinesen (best known for Out Of Africa), came to mind on that mirage-filled drive to Marakkanam in the South Indian summer heat. Anyone who has ever driven from the metropolitan hub of Chennai to the quaint former French colony of Pondicherry  along Tamil Nadu’s East Coast Road has noticed Marakkanam. Even if you do not know the village’s name, it’s impossible to miss the great heaped mounds of white salt glistening under the sun, lining the highway.

Salt. That condiment so precious to humankind that it has even been a form of wealth, measured at different times as either taxes or wages. The ancient Romans had a “salarium” (“sal” – “salt”), as part of a worker’s remuneration, as people were paid partly in salt. This is where the English language gets both the word “salary” and the idiom “worth his salt”. Closer to home, the monarchs of the Chola dynasty demanded a salt tax, known as “uppayam”. The historian Ramachandran Nagaswamy has spoken of epigraphic evidence showing how the same was paid from Marakkanam, making the salt industry in this village both an ancient and continuous activity. In modern Indian history, Gandhi’s salt march on March 12 1930 was a dramatic turning point in the independence struggle. In protest of the unfairly high British salt tax, he led the march from Dandi, Gujarat, to the Arabian Sea. There, he declared that a symbolic handful of sea salt would bring the end of colonial rule.

That afternoon, unlike so many journeys on that highway, I careened off the beaten path and entered the sprawling salt pans of Marakkanam to find out more….

Salt. The most quintessential of all ingredients. So quintessential that we take it for granted. So quintessential that its absence alone can strip a dish of all taste. Saltiness is one of the five basic human tastes.

I’ve said before that curiousity is the cornerstone of every interesting kitchen. But it cannot end simply with flavours and ingredients. When I trained in the culinary science of macrobiotics at the Kushi Institute, I honed this need to know and to ask questions, because every single thing you put into a dish carries its own energies and its own properties. So what does salt contain? The scientific answer is that it is a mineral which contains sodium chloride (NaCl). In Marakkanam, I searched for a deeper answer by talking to people whose livelihoods are to harvest it.

That afternoon, I was fortunate to meet P. Nallathamby, a supervisor of a 3500 acreage of salt pans staffed by 2000 workers. I caught them during their second shift of the day: they rise early and work from 6am to 9am, then return at 1pm to continue. Both women and men work the salt pans. Mr. Nallathamby has been in this line of work for 40 years, having joined his father and brother in the same at the age of 18. But things have been difficult in the salt business for around 8 years, owing to various reasons such as rising diesel prices, increased labour costs and neglect from the central government, which leases out the pans to individuals.

The harvest season runs from January to May. In January, the salt pans are like a lake owing to recent rains. It takes about a month to dry out, then the harvest begins. Every three days, the flats are scraped, as you can see in this video, and the photographs below.

The salt is collected in small mounds along the grids of the pans, then in the huge mounds that are visible from the highway. Water from the earth or sea is added to the pans as necessary, such as between April and May. The process is entirely water-dependent, but ironically, no work can take place during times of rain. The mounds of salt wait for the daily lorries that come to purchase and take them away to be traded not just in Tamil Nadu and Pondicherry but in Kerala, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka too. You may be surprised to know that a whopping 110 kilograms of salt is sold for just 130 rupees (approximately USD$2).

Mr. Nallathamby describes his 40 years in this line of work as uneventful. Even the great tsunami of 2004 did not have a negative effect on this coastal business. For six or seven months every year, the salt pans thrive. After all, come rain or shine, it’s an ingredient the world cannot do without.

In Marakkanam, it is rock salt (which is not to be powdered) that is harvested. As you may remember from this recent summer-friendly recipe, rock salt contains many nutrients and works well as a digestive.

The salt pans of Marakkanam are quite amazing to behold: a contrast between grains so small and a landscape so large.

Every year, from the first harvest of the season, a small salt Ganesha is shaped by hand. He is then allowed to dissolve back into the salt pans. While it was the wrong time of year to witness this, my visit to Marakkanam did end with a quick stop at the 1000 year old Bhoomeeshwarar temple, dating to the Chola dynasty. I had been told that the temple’s inscriptions had mention of the salt trade in this area even a millennium ago. The priest said he didn’t think there was anything of that kind there, but sometimes we don’t know what’s right under our noses. Like salt, I suppose – that ubiquitous condiment we often only think about if it’s missing.

I’m not sure if salt was mentioned on them, but what struck me about the inscriptions all over the temple’s inner compound was this: how much the wear and tear of centuries on stone had made it look as though salt was on them. In between the chiselled spaces. In the air… and everywhere.

I had wondered about salt since childhood, that staple of every meal. My mother had taught me that in the precise quantity, it cooks vegetables faster. For years, on every long weekend drive to Pondicherry, I had watched the white salt mounds pass by and wondered about them too. Now, armed with my camera and my curiousity, I had discovered more. That indispensible ingredient comes from somewhere: the labour of people like Mr. Nallathamby and his staff. From those huge mounds that can be seen on the highway to the small pinch that is baked into our daily bread, how much we take for granted.

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