When you are pregnant, you get ‘the vibe’. Suddenly, people realise that they can love you or hate you, but sadly, can’t ignore you, especially when your belly makes an entry before you do. The reactions are many. Some good, some weird, some bad:
Like triumph, from the husband, who was ecstatic to find out that his sperm was not as lazy as him.
Fear too, that the baby might oust him from his recreation zone.
Ecstasy, from the mother, who is thrilled that you have moved to stage two now, and finally she gets to do whatever she missed doing for us.
Approval, from the relatives, who might have dismissed your marriage as a fluke, but this, they think is serious business. Finally, they recall that you did grow up in their laps, even though you never had much of a rapport in your adulthood.
Lust, from single men who still have a crush on you, and are now intensified in the demonstration of their affection, as you are more woman that ever before.
Skepticism, from DINK couples who look at you in askance, thinking, “Ah, another one bites the dust. We thought she was cool, but she is probably not..”
Curiosity, from couples who have been ‘at it’ for a few years, keeping ovulation diaries, taking fertility treatments, working on their sperm motility. “How the hell did they manage?” is what they are not saying.
Relief, from women on the wrong side of 35 who are paranoid about their biological clocks ticking away, and thinking, “If she can, yes, we can.”
Indifference, from confirmed singletons who puff away and pretend they didn’t notice your bump.
Hatred, from women who have been trying hard to get there, and not succeeded, and hated you anyway.
Cynicism, from couples who are still dealing with the existentialism of marriage.
Admiration, from fellow yoga students who are curious about how you manage with the belly.
Competitiveness, from other couples who got hitched the same time as you.
Euphoria, from friends who love you anyway, single, married, pregnant, not pregnant.
Deep care and concern, from some who have been there, done that, and think it’s a great expedition and have tons of advice to give you.
Irony, from some women who have been there, done that, think it’s a big deal, but never thought you would make it.
Sympathy, from random strangers who think you might need help crossing the road or getting into an elevator when you don’t.
Fellowship, from Mommaholics Anonymous, who are happy to welcome you into their fold, and assure you not to worry too much, it will all be good.
Fear, from single men and women who don’t quite know what to do with you, now that you are off-debauchery and therefore, not much use to them.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
All’s not Greek here
There was a time when I thought my mother was into some insider trading as far as methi (fenugreek) seeds went. Whenever I called her with an ailment, she would ask me to consume methi. She later told me that universally, there were only two classic disorders of the intestine—one that couldn’t hold anything, and the other that couldn’t release anything. In both cases, methi came to the rescue.
In her books, the only difference was in the way they were consumed. For releasing powers, it's methi soaked in water and then swallowed, and for retaining powers, it was methi seeds ground, mixed in buttermilk and swallowed. I can’t remember which one was less disgusting, but it would suffice to say that I was repelled by methi for a long time. Though I never realised that it was often hidden in my curd rice tadka or the ubiquitous sambar powder or assorted powder chutneys that my mother made-and-kept, for you never know. I also saw my mother throwing in a pinch of the seeds into a dosa batter. “It makes them really soft,” she would assure, when she saw me rolling my eyes in disbelief at the nefarious ways I was being made to consume this condiment. The only thing I could bear was the aloo-methi subzi, which got made every once in a while for our tiffin lunches with chapatis.
Till I entered the magical world of theplas and khakras during my trekking phase, I never realised methi could be a object of deliberate comsumption and did have addictive powers. “Ah!” I thought. “The leaf is less notorious than the seed.” And thus methi began to occupy a happy place in my life. Another revelation was that methi could happily blend with palak and other greens in sai bhaji, which to my mind is the greatest gift of the sindhis to vegetarians.
At a recent brunch, I had this long conversation with a lactating mother, and she held forth on the powers of the methi that aid in lacatation, and try as I might, I couldn’t fathom chomping on truckloads of the stuff, even though it would make me a better food-provider for the forthcoming baby. She also gave me a recipe that I am a bit scared to try, as it involves throwing in a tempering of garlic onto a bed of fresh methi leaves, adding salt, and then eating it (yes!). I asked her if there was something missing, like sautéing perhaps, or adding lemon juice, something? She said no, this was it. Someone please validate it for me (as I will feel like a cow in more ways than one otherwise)
But the day I realised methi was cool was when I tasted this salad at a friend’s Christmas lunch. Since I was the only vegetarian (which I usually am at such dos), the salad was dedicated to me, and it had baby methi happily mingling with pomegranate and other greens in a honey-lemon dressing. I fell in love all over again.
Baby fenugreek and pomegranate salad with lettuce
One or two bunches of baby fenugreek leaves, mildly broken (keep the roots intact)
Half a head of iceberg lettuce, shredded
One cup shelled pomegranate
Juice of one lemon
One tablespoon honey
A dash of olive oil
Salt to taste
Method:
In a large bowl, mix all the above. Chill. Eat.
In her books, the only difference was in the way they were consumed. For releasing powers, it's methi soaked in water and then swallowed, and for retaining powers, it was methi seeds ground, mixed in buttermilk and swallowed. I can’t remember which one was less disgusting, but it would suffice to say that I was repelled by methi for a long time. Though I never realised that it was often hidden in my curd rice tadka or the ubiquitous sambar powder or assorted powder chutneys that my mother made-and-kept, for you never know. I also saw my mother throwing in a pinch of the seeds into a dosa batter. “It makes them really soft,” she would assure, when she saw me rolling my eyes in disbelief at the nefarious ways I was being made to consume this condiment. The only thing I could bear was the aloo-methi subzi, which got made every once in a while for our tiffin lunches with chapatis.
Till I entered the magical world of theplas and khakras during my trekking phase, I never realised methi could be a object of deliberate comsumption and did have addictive powers. “Ah!” I thought. “The leaf is less notorious than the seed.” And thus methi began to occupy a happy place in my life. Another revelation was that methi could happily blend with palak and other greens in sai bhaji, which to my mind is the greatest gift of the sindhis to vegetarians.
At a recent brunch, I had this long conversation with a lactating mother, and she held forth on the powers of the methi that aid in lacatation, and try as I might, I couldn’t fathom chomping on truckloads of the stuff, even though it would make me a better food-provider for the forthcoming baby. She also gave me a recipe that I am a bit scared to try, as it involves throwing in a tempering of garlic onto a bed of fresh methi leaves, adding salt, and then eating it (yes!). I asked her if there was something missing, like sautéing perhaps, or adding lemon juice, something? She said no, this was it. Someone please validate it for me (as I will feel like a cow in more ways than one otherwise)
But the day I realised methi was cool was when I tasted this salad at a friend’s Christmas lunch. Since I was the only vegetarian (which I usually am at such dos), the salad was dedicated to me, and it had baby methi happily mingling with pomegranate and other greens in a honey-lemon dressing. I fell in love all over again.
Baby fenugreek and pomegranate salad with lettuce
One or two bunches of baby fenugreek leaves, mildly broken (keep the roots intact)
Half a head of iceberg lettuce, shredded
One cup shelled pomegranate
Juice of one lemon
One tablespoon honey
A dash of olive oil
Salt to taste
Method:
In a large bowl, mix all the above. Chill. Eat.
To beet or not to beet
Perhaps the most distinguishing feature of the beetroot is also its downfall—its colour, which leaves a trail, and literally so. Memories of stained faces, dresses, especially when they are white, loom large and the beetroot has often been pointed out as the guilty party.
Back in my childhood, my dad usually stayed a mile away from it (the beetroot didn’t awaken the restless chef in him, nor his tastebuds), but my mother often rustled up a quick sabzi, sautéing it with onions and tempering with mustard and green chillies, and we were usually delighted to mix it with curd rice and watch it turn all pink (though today, that sight might be a tad offensive to me). She also grated some into a salad with carrots or cabbage and no one really complained.
Much has been said about the beetroot’s high glycemic index, something that most tubers are guilty of, but the beetroot takes the cake, so to speak, and even supercedes the often- guilty potato. Moreover, its iron-richness and resultant role in blood formation (the colour association is back again) has often rendered it to the status of anemia-alleviator, but that is far from what its real goodness is all about. Being rich in folic acid, fiber, manganese, potassium and phosphorus, beetroots are a healthy and a nutritious form of food, and one can also get creative with it, much against popular opinion.
Sadly, the views on the beetroot are often antipodal, the chief culprit being the fact that either it was served in too bland or regimented a format (“Eat this boiled beetroot, its good for you”) or too pickled (gross misuse of vinegar).
The most exotic it got for me was in Goa when, in this exotic French restaurant called Le Poisson Rouge in Baga. It was an Arugula Salad with parmesan served on a bed of beetroot carpaccio—thinly sliced raw beetroot with a herb vinaigrette—that too in a beetroot reduction, for those fascinated by molecular gastronomy. It was one of the best salads I have ever eaten.
In the meanwhile, these are a few of my favourite concoctions.
Beetroot soup
Ingredients:
2-3 beetroots, boiled and grated
Carrots (optional)
One large onion
2 teaspoonfuls of cornflour
Lemon juice
Black pepper
Salt to taste
Butter
Method:
1. Boil and grate the beetroots and keep them aside.
2. Dry roast the cornflour till golden brown and keep aside.
3. Sauté the chopped onions in oil till light brown.
4. To this, add water, beetroot, cornflour, and cook for 10-15 minutes.
5. Transfer this to a blender or liquidizer and churn well
6. Re-boil the mixture, turn off the gas, add lemon juice, black pepper to the soup and a dollop of yogurt or butter for added flavor.
7. Garnish with thyme or parsley
Beetroot raita
Ingredients:
2 cups beetroot, finely grated
1 cup Curds
Salt
Oil, mustard, green chillies and curry leaves for tempering
Method:
1. Heat oil in a pan, add mustard. When mustard splutters, add a green chilli, curry leaves and the grated beetroot.
2. Stir on low fire till lightly cooked.
3. Add salt, remove from fire and let it cool.
4. Beat the curds, mix with beetroot and serve.
Back in my childhood, my dad usually stayed a mile away from it (the beetroot didn’t awaken the restless chef in him, nor his tastebuds), but my mother often rustled up a quick sabzi, sautéing it with onions and tempering with mustard and green chillies, and we were usually delighted to mix it with curd rice and watch it turn all pink (though today, that sight might be a tad offensive to me). She also grated some into a salad with carrots or cabbage and no one really complained.
Much has been said about the beetroot’s high glycemic index, something that most tubers are guilty of, but the beetroot takes the cake, so to speak, and even supercedes the often- guilty potato. Moreover, its iron-richness and resultant role in blood formation (the colour association is back again) has often rendered it to the status of anemia-alleviator, but that is far from what its real goodness is all about. Being rich in folic acid, fiber, manganese, potassium and phosphorus, beetroots are a healthy and a nutritious form of food, and one can also get creative with it, much against popular opinion.
Sadly, the views on the beetroot are often antipodal, the chief culprit being the fact that either it was served in too bland or regimented a format (“Eat this boiled beetroot, its good for you”) or too pickled (gross misuse of vinegar).
The most exotic it got for me was in Goa when, in this exotic French restaurant called Le Poisson Rouge in Baga. It was an Arugula Salad with parmesan served on a bed of beetroot carpaccio—thinly sliced raw beetroot with a herb vinaigrette—that too in a beetroot reduction, for those fascinated by molecular gastronomy. It was one of the best salads I have ever eaten.
In the meanwhile, these are a few of my favourite concoctions.
Beetroot soup
Ingredients:
2-3 beetroots, boiled and grated
Carrots (optional)
One large onion
2 teaspoonfuls of cornflour
Lemon juice
Black pepper
Salt to taste
Butter
Method:
1. Boil and grate the beetroots and keep them aside.
2. Dry roast the cornflour till golden brown and keep aside.
3. Sauté the chopped onions in oil till light brown.
4. To this, add water, beetroot, cornflour, and cook for 10-15 minutes.
5. Transfer this to a blender or liquidizer and churn well
6. Re-boil the mixture, turn off the gas, add lemon juice, black pepper to the soup and a dollop of yogurt or butter for added flavor.
7. Garnish with thyme or parsley
Beetroot raita
Ingredients:
2 cups beetroot, finely grated
1 cup Curds
Salt
Oil, mustard, green chillies and curry leaves for tempering
Method:
1. Heat oil in a pan, add mustard. When mustard splutters, add a green chilli, curry leaves and the grated beetroot.
2. Stir on low fire till lightly cooked.
3. Add salt, remove from fire and let it cool.
4. Beat the curds, mix with beetroot and serve.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Arm candy politics
Considering that I am five months pregnant, and very obviously showing, the dating game should perhaps be the last thing on my mind. But since I am experiencing what one could call an exaggerated sense of awareness about the world around me, and I can never cease to be interested in the man-woman dynamic, well, I can’t help but share it.
A recent occurrence got me back to thinking why things are the way they are in the dating game and how one can turn things around. A friend of mine who recently turned consummate blogger, wrote a new post about her dating dilemmas, and how men wanted to be friends with her and not really date her. She went into much detail about the definition of dating in various cultural contexts (whether real or adopted) and what people meant when they said what they said. Needless to say, the blog got several hits and several men wanted her phone number.
But it got me wondering. Why would a sensible guy with his heart and mind (and other vital parts) in the right place not want to date an attractive, articulate, intelligent and spirited girl? Was there something I was missing here?
I found the answer at a recent party when I bumped into her accompanied by what one can only describe as a bad prop. Okay, I may be snobbish, but here is my theory: when men see you with someone they see as competition, they want you even more. When they see you with a loser, they think you are one too. Period. The same works for women.
So if you are looking to date, be seen with someone interesting. It could be your best friend, your buddy, cute office colleague (do they still make those?), random guy you met, even a girl friend or the DJ. But be sure the one you are seen with is someone at least two other women wouldn’t mind being seen with. A bad arm candy is worse than going solo, because at least when you are solo, you have the power to be whatever you want to be.
This bloke, I am sorry to say, was the epitome of average, not eligible by any measure and to top it all, he was a leech and never really left her alone, so there was no way she could have scoped the scene or eyed worthier blokes. A classic case of being at the right place with the wrong guy, I thought, and instantly wanted to add a comment to her blog after my aforementioned postmortem.
Remember cute guy who walked in with stunning arm candy and how all of us wanted to be the candy? Now imagine cute guy with insipid arm candy and how the same guy got labeled a loser? Get the picture?
Of course, if Salman Rushdie is your arm candy, there is a whole different math to that.
A recent occurrence got me back to thinking why things are the way they are in the dating game and how one can turn things around. A friend of mine who recently turned consummate blogger, wrote a new post about her dating dilemmas, and how men wanted to be friends with her and not really date her. She went into much detail about the definition of dating in various cultural contexts (whether real or adopted) and what people meant when they said what they said. Needless to say, the blog got several hits and several men wanted her phone number.
But it got me wondering. Why would a sensible guy with his heart and mind (and other vital parts) in the right place not want to date an attractive, articulate, intelligent and spirited girl? Was there something I was missing here?
I found the answer at a recent party when I bumped into her accompanied by what one can only describe as a bad prop. Okay, I may be snobbish, but here is my theory: when men see you with someone they see as competition, they want you even more. When they see you with a loser, they think you are one too. Period. The same works for women.
So if you are looking to date, be seen with someone interesting. It could be your best friend, your buddy, cute office colleague (do they still make those?), random guy you met, even a girl friend or the DJ. But be sure the one you are seen with is someone at least two other women wouldn’t mind being seen with. A bad arm candy is worse than going solo, because at least when you are solo, you have the power to be whatever you want to be.
This bloke, I am sorry to say, was the epitome of average, not eligible by any measure and to top it all, he was a leech and never really left her alone, so there was no way she could have scoped the scene or eyed worthier blokes. A classic case of being at the right place with the wrong guy, I thought, and instantly wanted to add a comment to her blog after my aforementioned postmortem.
Remember cute guy who walked in with stunning arm candy and how all of us wanted to be the candy? Now imagine cute guy with insipid arm candy and how the same guy got labeled a loser? Get the picture?
Of course, if Salman Rushdie is your arm candy, there is a whole different math to that.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Mixed doubles
“Baby, are you keeping track of our mutual funds and how they are doing? There’s this chunk of money going out from my account every month, and I have no idea what’s happening to it…”
Sigh. I don’t have the heart to tell him that he should forget about the mutual funds for at least three years, given the current situation. But I make it look good.
“Honey, what’s important is that we bought them cheap, so they can only appreciate..”
"Really, that’s great,” he says in a not-so-convinced voice.
To the husband, any money that is not spent on cold cuts, large screen TVs, gaming consoles, beers or Sunday brunches is money gone to waste. Which is why I have put him in charge of entertainment and other frills while I do the boring stuff like planning taxes, building assets, filing returns and all that jazz.
This is not how I had planned it. Ok, let me confess. I had this visual image of a life partner. Who doesn’t? Mine was lean, a vegetarian, articulate, a great cook, a good listener, someone who went running on a whim, knew money and looked a bit like Johhny Depp. Okay, I know it’s a bit much, but what’s wrong with wishful thinking?
I must say I scored on the lean, the articulate and the Johhny Depp bit (yes!)
What I didn’t bargain for is a salami chomping, exercise-hating, beer-guzzling, non-stop blabbering, OCD-ridden, nocturnal version of the same who peers into the cats’ food bowl to check if they get better meals than him (which he secretly thinks they do, I am sure) Or eyes greedily whenever I cook meat for them and not for him. I try explaining that they need it more than he does, but it doesn’t cut much ice.
At a recent lunch date, we played a little game—we asked who, amongst people we knew would we set the other up with, had we not wound up with each other. Cutely, we both picked really nice people for the part—which made me realise that we do dig each other a lot and would only wish the best for each other.
And think about it. Had I married a financial wizard (which 50% of my clan is) or a nerdy genius (which is the other 50%), which is what my Iyer genes would have eventually led me to, I would have driven him insane.
Would Ravi Subramaniam (fictitious name for significant other that I would have ended up with) propose to me post an Indigo brunch in a taxi on Marine Drive? No way. His mother would have called my mother. Or would Neha Srivastava (fictitious name for his significant other) have been able to match him step for step on the floor? No way? She would be too concerned about her eyeliner.
We agreed, what we were both looking for is someone to match our nutty side. And we more than found it with each other. So, just a month away from our first anniversary, I can proudly say, Jai Ho!
Sigh. I don’t have the heart to tell him that he should forget about the mutual funds for at least three years, given the current situation. But I make it look good.
“Honey, what’s important is that we bought them cheap, so they can only appreciate..”
"Really, that’s great,” he says in a not-so-convinced voice.
To the husband, any money that is not spent on cold cuts, large screen TVs, gaming consoles, beers or Sunday brunches is money gone to waste. Which is why I have put him in charge of entertainment and other frills while I do the boring stuff like planning taxes, building assets, filing returns and all that jazz.
This is not how I had planned it. Ok, let me confess. I had this visual image of a life partner. Who doesn’t? Mine was lean, a vegetarian, articulate, a great cook, a good listener, someone who went running on a whim, knew money and looked a bit like Johhny Depp. Okay, I know it’s a bit much, but what’s wrong with wishful thinking?
I must say I scored on the lean, the articulate and the Johhny Depp bit (yes!)
What I didn’t bargain for is a salami chomping, exercise-hating, beer-guzzling, non-stop blabbering, OCD-ridden, nocturnal version of the same who peers into the cats’ food bowl to check if they get better meals than him (which he secretly thinks they do, I am sure) Or eyes greedily whenever I cook meat for them and not for him. I try explaining that they need it more than he does, but it doesn’t cut much ice.
At a recent lunch date, we played a little game—we asked who, amongst people we knew would we set the other up with, had we not wound up with each other. Cutely, we both picked really nice people for the part—which made me realise that we do dig each other a lot and would only wish the best for each other.
And think about it. Had I married a financial wizard (which 50% of my clan is) or a nerdy genius (which is the other 50%), which is what my Iyer genes would have eventually led me to, I would have driven him insane.
Would Ravi Subramaniam (fictitious name for significant other that I would have ended up with) propose to me post an Indigo brunch in a taxi on Marine Drive? No way. His mother would have called my mother. Or would Neha Srivastava (fictitious name for his significant other) have been able to match him step for step on the floor? No way? She would be too concerned about her eyeliner.
We agreed, what we were both looking for is someone to match our nutty side. And we more than found it with each other. So, just a month away from our first anniversary, I can proudly say, Jai Ho!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Bravo!
The thing going for Bravo is not that he is a three-legged kitten who also happens to be cute. The thing going for him is that he is a three-legged kitten with an abundance of pluck and residual memory. So much so that he managed to flummox Nadia, reigning queen of the house and my first born (kitten), by attempting to strike her back with his stump when curiosity got the better of her as she was introduced to this mangy fluff-ball. She naturally was unprepared for this natural born killer (you should have seen the way he devoured his first fish—it would put any Bengali to shame) when I brought him home around 10 days ago.
Technically, Bravo came into my life when all and sundry thought I would be so gloating in my impending motherhood than I would have little to offer to the world, leave alone an animal species. But that’s exactly why I got him.
To those who asked me, “Is it okay to have cats when you are going to have a baby,?” my answer is, yes, it’s perfectly okay. I remember often being shocked by perfectly normal women who suddenly wanted to “get rid of their pets” when they knew they were going to be mothers. To me, motherhood doesn’t seem like anything new—its as though I have done it several times in the past, just that this time, the potty-training will take longer than the three-four days.
Of course there were attempts to question my feline offspring. And I am sure there will be more, but we are not about to give a damn. I was very clear that I wanted to bring my child to a world where animals are friends and not some extra terrestrial species.
Coming to the story of Bravo’s missing leg—well, his leg was ridden with maggots when Pooja, a WSD volunteer found him. He had to be amputated as the poison had spread too far; he wouldn’t have made it otherwise. The interesting thing was, Bravo yanked his dressing off on the second day, and since then, has refused to accept that the leg is in fact missing. Sometimes, when I stare at him long enough, I also catch him trying to wash his face.
Bravo had his first taste of vet-dom this Saturday when I took him for his deworming ritual, where he was greeted by four swarthy, pedigreed dogs with equally swarthy owners, barking away as Bravo stared at them bemused. He was completely unflustered, which made me happy. Sure, he was used to dogs and the inane sounds they make, as he spent a month at the WSD kennel, recuperating.
Point is, he is good looking, and he knows it. He is full of spunk and he knows it. He makes our coming home even more worthwhile and he knows it. And he has a weakness for necks, television backsides and spectacles and he knows it.
The only difference is, while his residual memory liberates him, ours tends to stifle.
Perhaps our lives would be simpler if our residual fearlessness came into the fore more often, and we led less conditioned, encumbered lives that make us say “why not?” instead of “why?”
To those who asked me, “Is it okay to have cats when you are going to have a baby,?” my answer is, yes, it’s perfectly okay. I remember often being shocked by perfectly normal women who suddenly wanted to “get rid of their pets” when they knew they were going to be mothers. To me, motherhood doesn’t seem like anything new—its as though I have done it several times in the past, just that this time, the potty-training will take longer than the three-four days.
Of course there were attempts to question my feline offspring. And I am sure there will be more, but we are not about to give a damn. I was very clear that I wanted to bring my child to a world where animals are friends and not some extra terrestrial species.
Coming to the story of Bravo’s missing leg—well, his leg was ridden with maggots when Pooja, a WSD volunteer found him. He had to be amputated as the poison had spread too far; he wouldn’t have made it otherwise. The interesting thing was, Bravo yanked his dressing off on the second day, and since then, has refused to accept that the leg is in fact missing. Sometimes, when I stare at him long enough, I also catch him trying to wash his face.
Bravo had his first taste of vet-dom this Saturday when I took him for his deworming ritual, where he was greeted by four swarthy, pedigreed dogs with equally swarthy owners, barking away as Bravo stared at them bemused. He was completely unflustered, which made me happy. Sure, he was used to dogs and the inane sounds they make, as he spent a month at the WSD kennel, recuperating.
Point is, he is good looking, and he knows it. He is full of spunk and he knows it. He makes our coming home even more worthwhile and he knows it. And he has a weakness for necks, television backsides and spectacles and he knows it.
The only difference is, while his residual memory liberates him, ours tends to stifle.
Perhaps our lives would be simpler if our residual fearlessness came into the fore more often, and we led less conditioned, encumbered lives that make us say “why not?” instead of “why?”
Message in a bottle
Till my homeopath enlightened me on the powers of doodhi (aka lauki aka bottle gourd), I was one of those people who ate it ungrudgingly whenever my mother threw it into a dal, or turned it into a halwa if she felt particularly generous. I always thought it was one of those poor, innocuous, bland vegetables one cooked when one didn’t want to get particularly creative, or had a choice, or was just looking for comfort food.
And then I met Dr Padam, my homeopath who couldn’t stop extolling the virtues of doodhi, and how it could reverse my near-anemia at that point. Today, I am hooked onto doodhi, and so are my cats (apparently it’s great for animals too) and I religiously have it at least twice a week, and the cat of course gets it in her broth everyday, along with rice, masoor dal, pieces of carrots, chicken or fish (do email me for a pet food recipe)
I am told that the doodhi (which is allegedly 96% water) is a star in the Indian Ayurvedic medical system and has tremendous healing powers. Consider its benefits (carnivores, move on): It’s cooling, and calming—makes you relax after eating. It’s an alkanine diuretic: a glass of fresh lauki juice mixed with limejuice combats the burning sensation caused by the high acidity of urine. Lauki juice is also an excellent remedy for excessive thirst caused by diarrhoea over consumption of fatty or fried foods. A glass of lauki juice with a little salt added to it prevents excessive loss of sodium, satiating thirst and keeping you refreshed in summer.
And for those size zero aspirants, here’s more news. Doodhi is almost zero on calories, so can give you that illusion of having eaten without adding up those inches. Also recommended for those suffering from digestive problems, are diabetic or convalescing.
But of course I still haven’t got to the point where I have doodhi juice first thing in the morning as my health shot. It’s just too much work, and besides, my nariyalpaniwala is highly dependable. But some of my friends have gone the morning cuppa doodhi route and continue to do so. Some have given up halfway, and resorted to adding doodhi as a filler in soups (along with tomato, carrots, beetroot, and what have you). Sounds good to me. The doodhi doesn’t seem to make much fuss about who it can get along with in the vegetable kingdom.
As for moi, I am still celebrating a yoghurt-based doodhi recipe I learnt from my friend Jennifer, the only carnivore I know who can do veggies well.
Jenny's Doodhi in yoghurt sauce
What you need:
Half a doodhi, chopped
Two tomatoes
One onion
One green chilli
Ginger garlic paste
Yoghurt 200 gm
Curry leaves
Salt to taste
Method:
Chop the doodhi into small pieces.
Heat oil in a pan and throw in some cumin seeds. When they splutter, add the green chilli and the curry leaves, fry well.
Now add the onions and sauté, adding the tomatoes and the ginger garlic paste as they turn soft.
Add water if required and cook till it all comes together.
Add the chopped doodhi, and mix well, adding salt and haldi.
Add a cup of water and pressure cook for two whistles.
When cool, beat a cup of yoghurt and add it to the doodhi gravy.
Serve with rice or rotis.
And then I met Dr Padam, my homeopath who couldn’t stop extolling the virtues of doodhi, and how it could reverse my near-anemia at that point. Today, I am hooked onto doodhi, and so are my cats (apparently it’s great for animals too) and I religiously have it at least twice a week, and the cat of course gets it in her broth everyday, along with rice, masoor dal, pieces of carrots, chicken or fish (do email me for a pet food recipe)
I am told that the doodhi (which is allegedly 96% water) is a star in the Indian Ayurvedic medical system and has tremendous healing powers. Consider its benefits (carnivores, move on): It’s cooling, and calming—makes you relax after eating. It’s an alkanine diuretic: a glass of fresh lauki juice mixed with limejuice combats the burning sensation caused by the high acidity of urine. Lauki juice is also an excellent remedy for excessive thirst caused by diarrhoea over consumption of fatty or fried foods. A glass of lauki juice with a little salt added to it prevents excessive loss of sodium, satiating thirst and keeping you refreshed in summer.
And for those size zero aspirants, here’s more news. Doodhi is almost zero on calories, so can give you that illusion of having eaten without adding up those inches. Also recommended for those suffering from digestive problems, are diabetic or convalescing.
But of course I still haven’t got to the point where I have doodhi juice first thing in the morning as my health shot. It’s just too much work, and besides, my nariyalpaniwala is highly dependable. But some of my friends have gone the morning cuppa doodhi route and continue to do so. Some have given up halfway, and resorted to adding doodhi as a filler in soups (along with tomato, carrots, beetroot, and what have you). Sounds good to me. The doodhi doesn’t seem to make much fuss about who it can get along with in the vegetable kingdom.
As for moi, I am still celebrating a yoghurt-based doodhi recipe I learnt from my friend Jennifer, the only carnivore I know who can do veggies well.
Jenny's Doodhi in yoghurt sauce
What you need:
Half a doodhi, chopped
Two tomatoes
One onion
One green chilli
Ginger garlic paste
Yoghurt 200 gm
Curry leaves
Salt to taste
Method:
Chop the doodhi into small pieces.
Heat oil in a pan and throw in some cumin seeds. When they splutter, add the green chilli and the curry leaves, fry well.
Now add the onions and sauté, adding the tomatoes and the ginger garlic paste as they turn soft.
Add water if required and cook till it all comes together.
Add the chopped doodhi, and mix well, adding salt and haldi.
Add a cup of water and pressure cook for two whistles.
When cool, beat a cup of yoghurt and add it to the doodhi gravy.
Serve with rice or rotis.
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