Decidedly good-looking, elegant, and flamboyant, the aubergine ranks quite high in the vegetable hierarchy, not merely on account of its looks. Its association dates back to our show-and-tell years when we were taught that purple is the colour of brinjals (or aubergines if you went to ‘that kind of school’) and we made sure we used the right crayon while coloring it.
As north Indian as bharta, as Maharashtrian as bharit, as Bong as begun bhaja (which the Calcutta Club on Link Road Oshiwara makes the best of) as Dravidian as katrikai kozhambu, as European as ratatouille—the brinjal rules and blends. Mostly.
In its many avatars— the long skinny purple ones, the little round green and white ones, the massive shiny purple bharta ones, the slender leaf green, smooth-skinned ones, the short, stubby striated purple ones, or the miniature baby brinjals, one thing is certain about them—that they have personality and attitude.
And even after you destroy their looks, like in the case of bharta, they still pack a mean punch. They can be equally divine in the just-smeared-with salt-and-turmeric-and deep-fried-in-mustard-oil begun bhaja way or in a complex yet subtle blend of flavours and herbs as in a ratatouille.
The Women’s India Trust (of the famous WIT preserves and produce) has gone ahead and innovated further—their brinjal pickle has to be had to be believed. I still haven’t figured out how they make it and would welcome suggestions, if any.
Intensely loved or hated, the baingan still invokes mixed reactions. If you love it, you can’t have enough if it, and if you don’t, too bad! Here are two of my favourite recipes.
Baingan raita
This is a recipe from Lata, my cook from yore. She insists on calling it a salad though. You decide.
One large brinjal (bharta variety)
Few cloves of garlic
One medium sized onion
Chaat masala
Jeera powder
Two green chillies
¼ kg curd
Method:
Rub some oil on the brinjal and grill/roast on an open flame till tender and the skin is seen flaking evenly.
Now, peel off the skin, mash the pulp with a spatula, cool and set aside.
Chop one onion, a few cloves of garlic and two green chillies finely.
Add to the brinjal pulp, and mix well. Now add the roasted jeera powder and chat masala, and finally the dahi, and mix well. Serve with rotis or as a side dish.
Chickpea and aubergine stew
One cup chickpeas, soaked overnight
One medium sized aubergine
One large onion
4-5 cloves of garlic
Pepper powder
Three medium sized tomatoes
Salt to taste
Method:
Pressure cook the chickpeas till soft. Drain the chickpea liquid. Set aside
Chop the aubergines and tomatoes into small cubes.
In a pan, heat some oil and roast the chopped garlic in it. Add the thinly sliced onions and mix well.
Add the tomatoes, and cook well to a pulp and then add the aubergines. Cook covered for five minutes.
Now add the precooked chickpeas, blend well, adding the chickpea liquid as necessary. Cook slowly for 5-10 minutes, add crushed pepper and salt. Serve hot with rice or garlic bread.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Truth about cats and dogs.. (or men and women)
The mother in law asked, rather innocently, “So what does the cat do all day when you are away?”
I wanted to tell her, “Isn’t that the whole point of being a cat? Doing nothing?” Instead I elaborated on the detailed nothingness of being that a cat is blessed with.
Which is when it struck me how the husband, who never had a pet in his entire life took to our new feline member rather easily. He had found an ally. An ally who celebrated laziness with as much passion as he did. An ally who believed equally in the concept of non-work. Except that the husband is not as lucky as the cat—he only gets weekends off.
Would he have been as happy if we’d got a dog? I doubt. Because that would have meant walking the dog at least once (I would have volunteered the other two times), which in turn would have meant walking with the dog. Which would have meant walking. Which would have meant using up precious couch potato time burning calories he doesn’t have to burn since he is lean anyway.
A dog would also have meant giving it a bath on Sundays, which would have meant having a bath oneself (after you are so messed up, you might as well anyway). Which would have meant disturbing the body’s equilibrium by getting into work mode on off-days. Which would have been totally unnecessary as there is so much joy in doing nothing.
Which is when it also struck me that in the whole relationship dynamic thing, women are the dogs and men are the cats. We go to parlours, get our nails done, hair trimmed, floss, bathe, wear belts and bows, get shampooed, scrubbed, tweezed and epilated with shocking regularity. Not that the men care, but we think they care. May be when men turn into dogs and women into cats in relationships, there is a chemical imbalance, which seems to throw it off-gear. (Just try and imagine yourself with a man who gets a regular pedicure and you’ll know what I mean)
Women also bark (read communicate), eat everything on their plate, answer when summoned, respond to doorbells, alarms, phones and other extraneous noises, run unnecessarily, get excited over frivolities, wag when praised, fetch and preen.
Cats (read men) on the other hand do nothing. And they don’t care if you do nothing either. Yet, they end up having better feet, hands, skin, hair, whatever. Irrespective of what sex they are, cats are quick to co-opt laziness as their birthright and remind you that it’s unnatural to be any other way.
Hence the husband is in a state of bliss that we have a cat and not a dog. The cat reminds him of him.
So now when I return home from work on Sundays, instead of one person who doesn’t answer the doorbell, there are two.
I wanted to tell her, “Isn’t that the whole point of being a cat? Doing nothing?” Instead I elaborated on the detailed nothingness of being that a cat is blessed with.
Which is when it struck me how the husband, who never had a pet in his entire life took to our new feline member rather easily. He had found an ally. An ally who celebrated laziness with as much passion as he did. An ally who believed equally in the concept of non-work. Except that the husband is not as lucky as the cat—he only gets weekends off.
Would he have been as happy if we’d got a dog? I doubt. Because that would have meant walking the dog at least once (I would have volunteered the other two times), which in turn would have meant walking with the dog. Which would have meant walking. Which would have meant using up precious couch potato time burning calories he doesn’t have to burn since he is lean anyway.
A dog would also have meant giving it a bath on Sundays, which would have meant having a bath oneself (after you are so messed up, you might as well anyway). Which would have meant disturbing the body’s equilibrium by getting into work mode on off-days. Which would have been totally unnecessary as there is so much joy in doing nothing.
Which is when it also struck me that in the whole relationship dynamic thing, women are the dogs and men are the cats. We go to parlours, get our nails done, hair trimmed, floss, bathe, wear belts and bows, get shampooed, scrubbed, tweezed and epilated with shocking regularity. Not that the men care, but we think they care. May be when men turn into dogs and women into cats in relationships, there is a chemical imbalance, which seems to throw it off-gear. (Just try and imagine yourself with a man who gets a regular pedicure and you’ll know what I mean)
Women also bark (read communicate), eat everything on their plate, answer when summoned, respond to doorbells, alarms, phones and other extraneous noises, run unnecessarily, get excited over frivolities, wag when praised, fetch and preen.
Cats (read men) on the other hand do nothing. And they don’t care if you do nothing either. Yet, they end up having better feet, hands, skin, hair, whatever. Irrespective of what sex they are, cats are quick to co-opt laziness as their birthright and remind you that it’s unnatural to be any other way.
Hence the husband is in a state of bliss that we have a cat and not a dog. The cat reminds him of him.
So now when I return home from work on Sundays, instead of one person who doesn’t answer the doorbell, there are two.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Goddess of all things
Last week, the mother had a special birthday treat—brand new son-in-law (who absolutely digs her) and brand old daughter descended to wish her. Since the siblings were both away, I thought I should do the honours, so I took the day off and zoomed across to her.
Now, she is one of those people who doesn’t know her real birth date (the one on the passport is fake, she claims). So for years, she has been devouring the horoscopes of Virgo and Libra—she claims she is a mix of both, plus a dash of Cancer (that’s what her passport birthday makes her)
Technically, since she was born on Vijayadashmi (Dussehra), we end up wishing her on that day—it’s easier to remember, unlike other geriatrics in the family with not-so-significant birthdays.
For the mother, it was a dream birthday, and she was all aflutter (nothing new about that). Imagine the rebellious first-born me, not just married, but showing up dutifully with the husband (the current apple of her eye) at her door! But of course, mother being mother, made it more about us than about her. The wishes were accepted in the most coy, dismissive manner, and brushed aside to focus on other things —like how to stuff us with food, and leave us spent and somnambulistic.
So there was a four course meal— highlights including a carrot kheer in honour of brand new son-in-law, rice papads and gooseberry pickle for me, tamarind and ginger chutney for him, apart from the elaborate spread co-anchored by the father. And after all this, she also gave us a doggy bag home, apart from my Dussehra baksheesh.
The next day, she called to moan that, in her excitement, she had completely forgotten the vadaIs and appams. She also apologized for being preoccupied with her Dussehra engagements and wished she had more time to spend with us. Needless to say, we were overwhelmed.
But it wasn’t just about us. The mother would have been the same enthused, hospitable self had a neighbour come visiting, or a distant cousin, an acquaintance, and even those so-called near-and-dear ones who drop in once in a blue moon for their goody bags, but never bothered to show up at my wedding or check on her while she was in hospital. Her theory is, you have to do what comes naturally to you, and not expect anything in return.
But I am not my mother, and thank god for that. I call a spade a spade and a slime ball a slime ball. Unlike mom’s “innocent even while proven guilty” philosophy, I have a “guilty until proven innocent for now” one, and have no qualms about it.
I don’t know which one of us is happier, but my hunch is, my mother is. Like her mother was.
Now, she is one of those people who doesn’t know her real birth date (the one on the passport is fake, she claims). So for years, she has been devouring the horoscopes of Virgo and Libra—she claims she is a mix of both, plus a dash of Cancer (that’s what her passport birthday makes her)
Technically, since she was born on Vijayadashmi (Dussehra), we end up wishing her on that day—it’s easier to remember, unlike other geriatrics in the family with not-so-significant birthdays.
For the mother, it was a dream birthday, and she was all aflutter (nothing new about that). Imagine the rebellious first-born me, not just married, but showing up dutifully with the husband (the current apple of her eye) at her door! But of course, mother being mother, made it more about us than about her. The wishes were accepted in the most coy, dismissive manner, and brushed aside to focus on other things —like how to stuff us with food, and leave us spent and somnambulistic.
So there was a four course meal— highlights including a carrot kheer in honour of brand new son-in-law, rice papads and gooseberry pickle for me, tamarind and ginger chutney for him, apart from the elaborate spread co-anchored by the father. And after all this, she also gave us a doggy bag home, apart from my Dussehra baksheesh.
The next day, she called to moan that, in her excitement, she had completely forgotten the vadaIs and appams. She also apologized for being preoccupied with her Dussehra engagements and wished she had more time to spend with us. Needless to say, we were overwhelmed.
But it wasn’t just about us. The mother would have been the same enthused, hospitable self had a neighbour come visiting, or a distant cousin, an acquaintance, and even those so-called near-and-dear ones who drop in once in a blue moon for their goody bags, but never bothered to show up at my wedding or check on her while she was in hospital. Her theory is, you have to do what comes naturally to you, and not expect anything in return.
But I am not my mother, and thank god for that. I call a spade a spade and a slime ball a slime ball. Unlike mom’s “innocent even while proven guilty” philosophy, I have a “guilty until proven innocent for now” one, and have no qualms about it.
I don’t know which one of us is happier, but my hunch is, my mother is. Like her mother was.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
No room for mush
Lesser morsels
Growing up in a Tam-bram household can do strange things to you. It can, for instance, make you believe that mushrooms are not very vegetarian, or they are what a closet carnivore would eat in a vegetarian household. Little wonder then, that we never went down that road for several years.
My mother still doesn’t eat them, and my father sniffs at them like he were a puppy.
But when I had my own kitchen, I set the rules and began experimenting with produce that was hitherto not in my domain. Like mushrooms, broccoli, avocado, and other so-called exotica
The beauty of the mushroom is that it can be a follower, yet retain its individuality at the same time. So while it happily blends with bean sprouts, peppers, pakchoy and other members of the stir-fry family, it can also call the shots on its own, just with a dash of thyme (see recipe)
Café Mondegar in Colaba made the most divine garlic mushrooms at one time. These were mushrooms, dipped in a garlicky batter and then fried, almost like pakodas—they were a divine way to start a Sunday brunch with a mug of beer (those were the days when working on Sunday was against my religion)
I don’t know how sanitized the Mondy’s menu has got now, but if you are around, do ask if they still make it. Might give me an impetus to revisit and bask in nostalgia.
I do notice that most households still have mushroom reservations. May be it has to do with the fact that you are never sure you have washed all the slime and mud off. Or that they perspire a lot, and don’t take very well to heat, and hence have to be cooked real fast and on high flame. But the fact is that they actually blend with almost anything. For instance, Sardar at Kala Chowki makes a divine Mushroom masala, which might be scoffed at by purists, but is a hit nevertheless.
Of course, they look really good dressed up with arugula or grilled to perfection with Provolone cheese, like they are at Grand Hyatt’s current Mushroom Magic festival at Celini. But for most of us who don’t normally have access to Porcini, Cape, Chanterelle, Oyster, Portobello and Morel, the regular ones available at the local market will do for now.
Sautéed mushrooms with thyme
This is one of my therapy meals, with a glass of red wine when I am not about to give a damn, but still want to eat something nice, something classier then khichdi
One packet mushrooms
Dried Thyme
Butter
METHOD:
Chop mushrooms into quarters.
Melt some butter in a pan and add a teaspoon of thyme to it.
Toss the mushrooms in the butter on high flame for two minutes. Serve.
Mushroom pulao
Improvise your regular pulao by throwing in a few mushrooms, or try this recipe:
One packet of mushrooms
One medium onion
4-5 pods garlic
2 green chillies, slit vertically
Tomatoes
Basmati rice
Two or three cinnamon sticks
4-5 pepper corns
METHOD:
Fry the sliced onions in a tablespoonful of oil till golden brown. Add pepper corns, chillies, cinnamon, tomatoes and cook till the gravy comes together.
Toss the mushrooms in, and cook on high flame for two minutes. Add the chopped garlic.
Add one cup of basmati rice, previously soaked and drained into it. Toss the rice with the vegetable mix.
Add two cups water and cook well on slow flame, stirring occasionally, till all the water drains off.
Growing up in a Tam-bram household can do strange things to you. It can, for instance, make you believe that mushrooms are not very vegetarian, or they are what a closet carnivore would eat in a vegetarian household. Little wonder then, that we never went down that road for several years.
My mother still doesn’t eat them, and my father sniffs at them like he were a puppy.
But when I had my own kitchen, I set the rules and began experimenting with produce that was hitherto not in my domain. Like mushrooms, broccoli, avocado, and other so-called exotica
The beauty of the mushroom is that it can be a follower, yet retain its individuality at the same time. So while it happily blends with bean sprouts, peppers, pakchoy and other members of the stir-fry family, it can also call the shots on its own, just with a dash of thyme (see recipe)
Café Mondegar in Colaba made the most divine garlic mushrooms at one time. These were mushrooms, dipped in a garlicky batter and then fried, almost like pakodas—they were a divine way to start a Sunday brunch with a mug of beer (those were the days when working on Sunday was against my religion)
I don’t know how sanitized the Mondy’s menu has got now, but if you are around, do ask if they still make it. Might give me an impetus to revisit and bask in nostalgia.
I do notice that most households still have mushroom reservations. May be it has to do with the fact that you are never sure you have washed all the slime and mud off. Or that they perspire a lot, and don’t take very well to heat, and hence have to be cooked real fast and on high flame. But the fact is that they actually blend with almost anything. For instance, Sardar at Kala Chowki makes a divine Mushroom masala, which might be scoffed at by purists, but is a hit nevertheless.
Of course, they look really good dressed up with arugula or grilled to perfection with Provolone cheese, like they are at Grand Hyatt’s current Mushroom Magic festival at Celini. But for most of us who don’t normally have access to Porcini, Cape, Chanterelle, Oyster, Portobello and Morel, the regular ones available at the local market will do for now.
Sautéed mushrooms with thyme
This is one of my therapy meals, with a glass of red wine when I am not about to give a damn, but still want to eat something nice, something classier then khichdi
One packet mushrooms
Dried Thyme
Butter
METHOD:
Chop mushrooms into quarters.
Melt some butter in a pan and add a teaspoon of thyme to it.
Toss the mushrooms in the butter on high flame for two minutes. Serve.
Mushroom pulao
Improvise your regular pulao by throwing in a few mushrooms, or try this recipe:
One packet of mushrooms
One medium onion
4-5 pods garlic
2 green chillies, slit vertically
Tomatoes
Basmati rice
Two or three cinnamon sticks
4-5 pepper corns
METHOD:
Fry the sliced onions in a tablespoonful of oil till golden brown. Add pepper corns, chillies, cinnamon, tomatoes and cook till the gravy comes together.
Toss the mushrooms in, and cook on high flame for two minutes. Add the chopped garlic.
Add one cup of basmati rice, previously soaked and drained into it. Toss the rice with the vegetable mix.
Add two cups water and cook well on slow flame, stirring occasionally, till all the water drains off.
Game point
“Honey, I’m just stealing a car and going to a strip club. I’ll be done in twenty minutes.”
Response from the husband when I ask him when he is going in for a pre-dinner shower.
“Yes, I heard it, but I had to blow up a building, else I would have got killed..”
Response from the husband when I ask him why the ironwala was turned away, bell unanswered.
“Oh, just hang on a second baby, I am just playing darts with Jacob, else he won’t supply me the guns I need for my mission..”
Response from the husband when I ask him when he will be ready to eat dinner.
“I got attacked, so I had to get some bodyguards to save myself, so I didn’t see her leave..”
Response from the husband when I ask him why the cheque for the electric bill was not handed over to the maid as suggested this Sunday.
“In ten honey! Let me take this silly Carmen out on a date and be done with her..”
Response from the husband when I ask him if he’s ready for a game of Scrabble.
“This Kiki is being difficult. She will not give me the map unless I take her out again. But I just went out with her yesterday..”
Response from the husband when I announce I am ready to leave for the movie..
“O God! My cousin Roman wants to play pool with me. If I say no, he will stop sending me cabs when I am all drunk and have no car and can’t even steal one..”
Response from the husband when I want us to watch a new DVD together.
Okay, all ye whose eyes and ears popped out, the husband is not a terrorist, a womaniser, an alcoholic or a thief. The husband is in fact, a gamer, which makes him a master of many vices. Correction. They call it roleplay. And my marriage is doing good, and I still love him to bits.
I haven’t asked him to choose between PS3 and me -- I guess that makes me a good wife. So you see, I am balancing domesticity with Grand Theft Auto pretty good. I have even been using Play Station lingo. “If you do this, my happiness quotient will go up by 80 per cent.” Or “If you do that, you will earn 20 respect points.”
I was quick to grasp that gaming is not something that he did when he was single and had no domestic life. It is partly his life, his antidote. I read books. He kills people, hunts for maps, buys arms and blows up buildings. Telling him to stop gaming would be like telling me to stop reading. Or writing this blog.
About time I get a best significant other award from the Gamers Hall of Fame.
Response from the husband when I ask him when he is going in for a pre-dinner shower.
“Yes, I heard it, but I had to blow up a building, else I would have got killed..”
Response from the husband when I ask him why the ironwala was turned away, bell unanswered.
“Oh, just hang on a second baby, I am just playing darts with Jacob, else he won’t supply me the guns I need for my mission..”
Response from the husband when I ask him when he will be ready to eat dinner.
“I got attacked, so I had to get some bodyguards to save myself, so I didn’t see her leave..”
Response from the husband when I ask him why the cheque for the electric bill was not handed over to the maid as suggested this Sunday.
“In ten honey! Let me take this silly Carmen out on a date and be done with her..”
Response from the husband when I ask him if he’s ready for a game of Scrabble.
“This Kiki is being difficult. She will not give me the map unless I take her out again. But I just went out with her yesterday..”
Response from the husband when I announce I am ready to leave for the movie..
“O God! My cousin Roman wants to play pool with me. If I say no, he will stop sending me cabs when I am all drunk and have no car and can’t even steal one..”
Response from the husband when I want us to watch a new DVD together.
Okay, all ye whose eyes and ears popped out, the husband is not a terrorist, a womaniser, an alcoholic or a thief. The husband is in fact, a gamer, which makes him a master of many vices. Correction. They call it roleplay. And my marriage is doing good, and I still love him to bits.
I haven’t asked him to choose between PS3 and me -- I guess that makes me a good wife. So you see, I am balancing domesticity with Grand Theft Auto pretty good. I have even been using Play Station lingo. “If you do this, my happiness quotient will go up by 80 per cent.” Or “If you do that, you will earn 20 respect points.”
I was quick to grasp that gaming is not something that he did when he was single and had no domestic life. It is partly his life, his antidote. I read books. He kills people, hunts for maps, buys arms and blows up buildings. Telling him to stop gaming would be like telling me to stop reading. Or writing this blog.
About time I get a best significant other award from the Gamers Hall of Fame.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Of bimbettes and other allergies
I sometimes wonder how I get by life, considering I have a low tolerance for most things. May be I am just lucky to be surrounded by people who get me. Topping my list of unbearables are bimbettes. Now, I have done considerable research on this species and have come to realise that contrary to what I used to think, there is no correlation between bimbettehood and IQ. Quite a few of them get into ivy league schools, make policy decisions, write poetry, know gadgets, blogs, the stock market and a few things tangible. But in essence, bimbettehood is about the consistent ability to act helpless in a given situation (usually more of the same) mostly in the presence of a member of the opposite sex (who by the way have a huge tolerance bordering on awe of this species).
Here are a few classics:
“Could you text me the directions to Prithvi Theatre? I am coming from town, and don’t want to get lost..”
I feel like telling them that if they are not enterprising enough to find out where Prithvi is, may be they don’t want to go there bad enough. And in any case, you Facebooking twit, Google has maps and we are on it!
But I don’t, since bimbettes somehow stay away from me. May be they know.
They also know that the recipient of aforementioned sms, usually a non-suspecting bloke, will actually take the time to reply to such messages, after consultation with direction divas like me. He does.. and it goes on further..
“Will it be possible for you to draw a map, scan it and mail to me so I can read it on my iphone?”
I feel like telling them, how come you never have trouble finding the Charles and Keith, Aldo or Mango store to shop for your weekend outings? Or haven’t they heard of Meru cabs? But then, I never get the chance.
The sms link continues..
“Would you know of someone who is coming from town, so I can get a lift?”
Yes, honey, if I had my way, I would lift you straight off this planet, is what I would have said. But they never ask me!
The bloke tears his hair out trying to find a pickup in the meanwhile.
“Will that person also be able to drop me back?”
Ummmmmmm
“Where exactly is Juhu? Is it near Andheri?”
That pretty much does it for me, and causes me to go into a rash, but then my inner circle makes sure such specimens never appear in my radius, so I am sorted.
Before the feminists leap at me, I am pleased to report that the male version of bimbettes, the himbette, if I may, has also been discovered, and reportedly has the same malfunctions, though a tad more aggravating. If I had a chance I would transport them all to an island and abandon them, so they can keep each other busy.
But I don’t, so I guess I will have to up the ante.
Here are a few classics:
“Could you text me the directions to Prithvi Theatre? I am coming from town, and don’t want to get lost..”
I feel like telling them that if they are not enterprising enough to find out where Prithvi is, may be they don’t want to go there bad enough. And in any case, you Facebooking twit, Google has maps and we are on it!
But I don’t, since bimbettes somehow stay away from me. May be they know.
They also know that the recipient of aforementioned sms, usually a non-suspecting bloke, will actually take the time to reply to such messages, after consultation with direction divas like me. He does.. and it goes on further..
“Will it be possible for you to draw a map, scan it and mail to me so I can read it on my iphone?”
I feel like telling them, how come you never have trouble finding the Charles and Keith, Aldo or Mango store to shop for your weekend outings? Or haven’t they heard of Meru cabs? But then, I never get the chance.
The sms link continues..
“Would you know of someone who is coming from town, so I can get a lift?”
Yes, honey, if I had my way, I would lift you straight off this planet, is what I would have said. But they never ask me!
The bloke tears his hair out trying to find a pickup in the meanwhile.
“Will that person also be able to drop me back?”
Ummmmmmm
“Where exactly is Juhu? Is it near Andheri?”
That pretty much does it for me, and causes me to go into a rash, but then my inner circle makes sure such specimens never appear in my radius, so I am sorted.
Before the feminists leap at me, I am pleased to report that the male version of bimbettes, the himbette, if I may, has also been discovered, and reportedly has the same malfunctions, though a tad more aggravating. If I had a chance I would transport them all to an island and abandon them, so they can keep each other busy.
But I don’t, so I guess I will have to up the ante.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Cabbage claim
I wonder if the humble cabbage knows what people think of him. Does he, for instance know that perceivably, he leads the most humdrum existence in their minds? He is the one mostly relegated to the role of ‘roughage” when someone is having a not so easy time on the pot. Worse, he represents all things prison-like and sickly, like cabbage soup in Dickensonian novels.
The cabbage is perhaps one vegetable that sits in the vegetable tray in every refrigerator, waiting his turn to be cooked, or at least blended with other vegetables in a sabzi, dal, salad, or act as carrier for coleslaw on his lucky day.
Unlike its distant cousin, the cauliflower which has ascended into a vegetable of great merit, a modicum of glamour and individuality, the cabbage remains characterless and insipid. It has no sex appeal whatsoever, and to top it all, it is always cheap and affordable. (I am not referring to the purple and red ones here that cost an arm)
In most households, a cabbage is a binder, either thrown it in with a few other veggies like potatoes, peas, capsicum, or cauliflower when there isn’t enough volume, or added an after thought in a salad. I find it intriguing that the cabbage has very few secrets despite having so many layers.
My dad had his way of balancing the tartiness of a sambar with the genteelness of cabbage. Except that he did it differently from anyone else I know. “It should be crunchy and green, so you have to cook it just right..” he would say. He did nothing to it except a tempering of mustard and udid dal, a few green chillies, slit vertically and gently crushed.” The garnish with coconut kind of nailed it, but is entirely optional.
By sheer accident, I too found ways in which the cabbage redeemed itself.. and even if you are not an aficionado, they are worth a try
Cabbage and carrot salad
Finely chopped cabbage: one cup
Grated carrots: half cup
Juice of one lemon
Green chillies, julienned
Salt, sugar
Method:
Finely chop the cabbage (julienne looks better) and grate the carrots.
Mix well in a bowl, add salt and a few grains of sugar, squeeze the juice of one lemon and set aside.
For the tempering:
Splutter mustard seeds in a kadhai, add a pinch of hing and the slit green chillies and pour the tempering over the salad mix. Mix well. Serve chilled, after half an hour, when the juices mix well.
Cabbage tikkis
Tur dal: one cup
Chana dal: one cup
Udid dal: half cup
Half a head of a small cabbage, chopped
Green chillies
Ginger: a small piece
Onion: one medium, chopped
Curry leaves
Salt to taste
Method:
Soak the dals for a few hours and grind to a coarse paste with chillies, curry leaves, ginger, adding just enough water.
Add the chopped cabbage and onions to this dal mixture, and then add salt, mix well.
Shape into small balls and deep fry.
The cabbage is perhaps one vegetable that sits in the vegetable tray in every refrigerator, waiting his turn to be cooked, or at least blended with other vegetables in a sabzi, dal, salad, or act as carrier for coleslaw on his lucky day.
Unlike its distant cousin, the cauliflower which has ascended into a vegetable of great merit, a modicum of glamour and individuality, the cabbage remains characterless and insipid. It has no sex appeal whatsoever, and to top it all, it is always cheap and affordable. (I am not referring to the purple and red ones here that cost an arm)
In most households, a cabbage is a binder, either thrown it in with a few other veggies like potatoes, peas, capsicum, or cauliflower when there isn’t enough volume, or added an after thought in a salad. I find it intriguing that the cabbage has very few secrets despite having so many layers.
My dad had his way of balancing the tartiness of a sambar with the genteelness of cabbage. Except that he did it differently from anyone else I know. “It should be crunchy and green, so you have to cook it just right..” he would say. He did nothing to it except a tempering of mustard and udid dal, a few green chillies, slit vertically and gently crushed.” The garnish with coconut kind of nailed it, but is entirely optional.
By sheer accident, I too found ways in which the cabbage redeemed itself.. and even if you are not an aficionado, they are worth a try
Cabbage and carrot salad
Finely chopped cabbage: one cup
Grated carrots: half cup
Juice of one lemon
Green chillies, julienned
Salt, sugar
Method:
Finely chop the cabbage (julienne looks better) and grate the carrots.
Mix well in a bowl, add salt and a few grains of sugar, squeeze the juice of one lemon and set aside.
For the tempering:
Splutter mustard seeds in a kadhai, add a pinch of hing and the slit green chillies and pour the tempering over the salad mix. Mix well. Serve chilled, after half an hour, when the juices mix well.
Cabbage tikkis
Tur dal: one cup
Chana dal: one cup
Udid dal: half cup
Half a head of a small cabbage, chopped
Green chillies
Ginger: a small piece
Onion: one medium, chopped
Curry leaves
Salt to taste
Method:
Soak the dals for a few hours and grind to a coarse paste with chillies, curry leaves, ginger, adding just enough water.
Add the chopped cabbage and onions to this dal mixture, and then add salt, mix well.
Shape into small balls and deep fry.
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