kitchen memories

The coolest cat

March 10, 2015 by Edlyn

“Edlu-pedlu”, she’d call out from the ginormous bench-lined front porch, in that most typical way Indians nickname their children. We were across the narrow road, in our neighbour/cousins’ house playing like there was no end. Making up new games once one ended and turning it into an endless cycle of happiness. We were unstoppable.

“Edlu-pedlu!”. Her voice signaled lunch time. If I didn’t hear her, I had two other sisters she could call out for. Our conscience would finally get the better of us and we crossed the road back into the compound that housed my great-grandfather’s house. My grandfather still lived there. A. Pacy, his unmarried sister, didn’t have any reason to leave her father’s home. That’s where she lived. That’s the same front porch bench she sat down every evening to talk and curse people that passed by, until the poder (bread man) came. Just like my memories stay tied to that place, so too did hers.

She was always a surprise to our pre-adolescent minds. If we ever did have our cousins from across the road or once-in-a-while friends come play at our grandfather’s house instead (which was rare), A Pacy knew exactly which kid she would hate for a made-up reason none of us could fathom. In the middle of our games, we would have to take hiding breaks if we knew she was coming. Not for our safety, but for the safety of our friendships. Just as deeply as she hated, she loved. She would make up cute names and say them over and over again until they became comical punchlines to invisible jokes. We laughed at “Gypsyyyy, Gypsy Girlie” and “Digli”, he names for our pet dog and cat. A lot of her love was reserved for her cats, unless they stole food or refused to sleep at her feet. Come to think of it, she was the only person I knew who treated cats and people the same way.

After my grandfather died, she became more of a person to me. She was no longer in his shadow and we finally saw a concentrated version of her. She was just as feisty and she never held back. One of my favourite stories is of her knocking a drunk man over his head with a big stick. When my mother asked her what if he died and she was sent to jail, she replied: “You would take me out (sic)” My saintly mother – who was the only person to tend to A. Pacy’s well-being – was equal parts exasperated and amused by her aunty’s antics. Mama would go to visit A Pacy after work and would come back with anecdotes like you wouldn’t believe. Despite her unsociable behavior, A. Pacy always asked and knew about everybody. She knew who was getting married, died and whose birthday was coming up. She knew ALL THE DATES (capitalisation is absolutely necessary. She was amazing!). That right there was her biggest gesture of love. I remember going to stay in Parra with my sisters for the first time after Babdi (a name my sister Jane made up for my grandpa) died. We wondered if she knew how it would be to have 3 children in her care, where we would sleep and if it would feel just as cozy. Most of all, we wondered about food. We got all our meals and granted the tea tasted a little strange but on request A Pacy made us her world-famous beef stew, which I mostly ate just for the carrots, potatoes and macaroni. We gobbled it all up like old times.

As she got older and had less control over her knees, my mother made the difficult decision to have her live in an assisted-living home. She was heartbroken. We all were. The entire foundation of that house where we spent the most blissful years of our childhood was losing its last caretaker. It’s strange to be so attached to a house and yet, it isn’t. Those walls have stories. Those walls have years and years of history built into the ground where every crack is a space that couldn’t hold some beautiful, tragic secret anymore. A. Pacy would be getting the best care, while the house would watch as its last human made her way to another. The doors would be closed and stardust would collect.

A Pacy took her last breath last week. She was 90 and a champion through it all. I gave her a needle and thread and a kiss on the cheek the last time I saw her before I flew back to the US. I finally knew how she felt. She’s back where she always wanted to be, a short walk away from her house in a place among the stars.

(My sister Jane prophetically took these photos of A Pacy not long before she died. Jane hadn’t visited aunty in a year and she wrote this before we all knew what would be. RIP, AP)

Super Sunday eggs + Resurrection rice cakes

April 7, 2013 by Edlyn

Hello another Sunday where I’m ready to pass out from eating a much too heavy breakfast in the morning, doing nothing in the afternoon, and then shamelessly passing out like I had initially planned. No wait. That’s not the shameless part. There is something worse than that. It takes me back to Goa when I lived with my parents, followed this Sunday routine except after I woke up, I expected more food.

Seriously, Indian children are so spoilt in the parents making them food department. No matter how old you get, your mother and in my case my father too, always want to feed you. So yes, blame them if you must. What horrible parents they are for wanting to feed 27-year-old children (Hi Jane. I meant you).

Gathering whatever was left of my will to survive, I climbed up the stairs from the lower part of my house and made my way into the kitchen. As soon as this happened, my mother would appear from nowhere as if she was standing behind me all along and say, “Hungry? Wait I have to make rice.” Oh okay mama, I’ll just pretend you said pulao and that my stomach is not ready to crush every ounce of my brain that’s telling me it’s stuff your face you lazy arse o’clock. The lazy arse being me, of course.

My mother, never disappointed. She’s the best rice-maker I know and to say I’ve learnt to make amazing pulao from her would be a big lie. I know nothing about the first of it and if I do, it’s purely by chance. From watching her I learnt to wash the rice (twice) thing, the one-cup-rice-two-cups-water thing, the simmer-boil-close-open-stir thing, and the drain-the-water-once-you’re-done thing. Sometimes I get all these “things” mixed up perfectly.

As for the pulao, I can make my mother proud. I don’t know how. I’ve never bothered learning about it as much as I worried about biting into a cardamom pod while eating.

The things that take you back home…

I miss your pulao, mother!

Super Sunday eggs + Resurrection rice cakes

Claire, I stole the rice cakes idea from you. That’s right. I took it. You were asleep and I said “To hell with her!” Don’t feel bad. If I can make the pain go away, I’ll say two things: I love the names “resurrection risotto cakes” and Donna Chinona. You inspire me to copy you. Feel better?

You’ll need one cup of leftover risotto or vegetable pulao, 2 eggs, 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, 1tbsp plus a little more buckwheat flour (can also substitute with all-purpose flower) and some salt and pepper to taste. For the side (if you prefer sides), you can use slices of tomato and salad greens drizzled with balsamic vinegar.

Take a cup of the pulao and mix it with an egg, buckwheat flour, Parmesan cheese and some pepper. Ideally you rice should already be salted because it’s made from leftovers but I don’t like to predict these things. If you need more salt, don’t let me stop you. You should be able to make about 3 small rice cakes or 2 big ones. The cakes should be easy to shape so if 1 tbsp buckwheat flour isn’t enough, add a teaspoon more and see if it does the trick.

The end.

Haha.

Heat olive oil in a non-stick or stick frying pan and gently add the rice cakes to it. Like a sniper. Three to four minutes later, turn them over. They should be golden brown on the cooked side and easy to turn over as well. It’s easy when the bottom is cooked. These things are connected and written into the fibre of the universe. I might sound like I’m making it all up but I’m not. Repeat this on the other side and take it off the stove and place it on a paper towel or plate. Paper towel to soak the extra oil or plate because you used olive oil and your worries should have disappeared by now.

In the same pan, crack an egg and cook until the white is set. You can cook the egg as you choose, I’m not going to be an egg Nazi.

Decorate your plate with edible plant-based nourishment (tomatoes and salad greens) and breakfast is ready.

I’m going back to bed.

(PS: I will have a mother’s special vegetable pulao recipe up on here this week. It’s only fair)

Hot cross buns with chocolate, dates and pecans + If you have no daughter.

March 27, 2013 by Edlyn

I love this time of the year. It has nothing to do with the weather but yet, it has everything to do with it. Spring time festivals all seem to come along at the exact same time. I don’t think it’s coincidental that Holi and Easter come in the same week. I know somebody planned it that way all along and then let us play with it, make our own rules and call it something marvelous, with the perfect food to accompany the event.

Except, on Holi people are too stoned to remember and everything looks like perfect food. Not speaking from experience only because drinking cannbis-laced milk things doesn’t appeal to me. I spit it out and then filmed my friends acting their lives out in slow motion. On Easter, the food isn’t traditional but on Good Friday, my family has this “thing”. It’s a fairly new thing and my favourite part of it, is that it’s completely non-traditional (at least in my mind it is).

They go to the Good Friday service: Mother, father, and my sisters and me, when I was around. The chapel is on a hill, wonderful views but in 2000 degree heat, it doesn’t really matter. There is always place to sit and simple things don’t take forever to finish. My father, driving us there and back, loves pointing out that the church they usually go to “is still doing *such and such* part of the service”, (emphasis on the “still”). We are a crafty lot that way.

Crafty as foxes, in the meadows, stalking rabbits.

Except the rabbits are masala dosas and dosas need to be eaten. I did say it was non-traditional. Yes, we eat dosas right after church, in a restaurant, on Good Friday. I would say we’re going to hell but there is no proof of that. Just like the best, we make the rules up as we go. As for the hot cross buns, those are always waiting for us at home. Full of dried fruit and a zig-zag cross. If there was a better way to wash down a dosa, I don’t want to know about it.

This is it.

This recipe does take 2 days but most of the work has everything to do with bread-like waiting. Nothing about it is intimidating and if you’re a non-professional bread maker like me, this would make for a great first experiment. This was my first and only attempt with the help of this beautiful recipe from Chocolate and Zucchini. I changed some things but the base is the same. I do encourage you to read through Clotilde’s recipe as well simply because painstakingly she made this process so much easier for me.

Ingredients

For the buns

3 cups (400 gm or 12 oz) all-purpose flour. I used Gold Medal Unbleached.
2 tsp dry yeast
3/4 cup whole milk (room temperature)
1/2 cup fresh cream
6 tbsp pecans, roughly chopped
2/3 cup (100 gm or 3 1/2 oz) Ghiradelli bittersweet chocolate chips (or any other good quality chocolate chips)
2/3 cup (100 gm or 3 1/2 oz) pitted and chopped dates
1 tbsp sweetener (agave syrup or honey or maple syrup)
1 1/2 tsp salt
Zest of 1/2 an organic lemon
1 tsp cinnamon powder

For the crosses

2 tbsp all-purpose flour
2 tbsp water

For the glaze

50 gm (1/4 cup) raw cane sugar
3 tbsp + 1 tsp water

Mix the flour and dry yeast in a large mixing bowl and then pour in the milk and fresh cream. If you have a mixer, you can use it to mix the messy mass of dough but all I have are my hands. Once incorporated, leave the dough to rest for 30 minutes.

In a separate bowl, add the pecans, chocolate chips, dates, sweetener, salt, zest and cinnamon. Stir it up well. This messy mass of goodness will go into the dough in a little bit.

Ready?

NOW. Mix the pecan-chocolate-date mass into the dough so that they’re spread out evenly. This can also be done with a stand-in mixer but like I said before, “this is a one-in-a-million hand.” Actually George said it. Love me, love my Seinfeld quips.

Fold the dough for 4 minutes. This video was in the original recipe and it shows you how it’s done (ignore the numbers and the texture of the dough in the video. Yours will look more “together”. Just take 4 minutes). At first, the dough will seem a bit tough but as you go along, it will soften up. Once this is done, place plastic wrap on the surface of the dough and cover the bowl with a plate. Your dough will then go into the fridge for 12 to 18 hours.

Day 2

Take the dough out of the fridge and let it rest for 30 minutes. It will look like it hasn’t risen at all but of course, it has. It’s just a very moderate increase in size. Lightly flour a working surface and work with the dough making equal bun-shaped pieces of it. You should have 12, according to the recipe but I had 11. They should be more of less the same shape because you want it to bake evenly. Make sure each bun has close to the same amount of the pecan/date/chocolate mix so that no unnecessary fights break out.

Line a baking tray with parchment paper and place the shaped dough an inch apart from each other. Cover it with a clean and damp towel and let it sit for 3-3 1/2 hours in a warm dark place or until they become 1/2 as big. Once the buns rise, it’s okay if they touch. You want that to happen. I personally love it when my food touches.

Next, turn your oven up to 360 degrees F (180 C). Brush the top of the bun dough with milk so they’ll brown well while they bake.

Make the mixture for the “crosses” on the hot cross buns. If you don’t have any of the piping tools to draw a cross on the buns, make one out of parchment paper. This video will show you how. Pipe the crosses on top of the buns. Place the baking tray into the oven (middle rack) and bake for 35-40 minutes or until they’re nice and brown on the outside.

I do make crappy crosses, if I say so myself.

While they bake, prepare the sugar syrup to glaze the top once the buns are out of the oven. Mix the sugar and water in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Keep stirring until the sugar dissolves and thickens into a syrup. Brush this on the buns while they are just out of the oven. It will form a nice sugary coat on the top. This step is entirely optional, especially if you’re trying to make it lighter.

Slice the buns horizontally let them cool completely. Store in an air-tight container.

“Store in an air-tight container.” Hahaha, only if you don’t eat them all at once. Did not happen.

Can’t live without paneer Thursday

March 14, 2013 by Edlyn

There were always these mini wars at home any time my father made palak paneer. No daggers were drawn and unkind words never uttered. This was a silent war. A war where you ensured you were the first person to serve yourself food so you could quietly spoon the most skewed palak paneer ratio into your plate. Nobody noticed this masti was going on until all the paneer was gone and my father decided to be vocal about it.

I think it was Gayle.

Paneer is one of the biggest reasons why I’ve become such a spinach fiend. It’s not the other way around. I just realised how true this is after I typed it. Unlike other Indian households that know the exact doodhwala (dairy, but literally translated to milkman) that makes the softest, pillow-like paneer or provides the milk that can aid you in the process, my family rarely did any of this. Paneer was a once in a while, Sunday sort of thing and that made it even more tantalising. Every time it was stir-fried or dropped in a pot of pureed spinach, Gayle was always the first in line stealing all the paneer.

She’ll say no but don’t believe her.

Which brings me to my new kitchen. There’s an “Indian store” some kilometers away that sells paneer like any good Latin-American run Indian store should. If ever I sum up the courage to walk there, I never forget the cottage cheese. I’m a good Indian girl that way.

Last week I wanted to be the best Indian alive. I wanted to make my own paneer, which if any seasoned Indian cook reads, they’re probably going to laugh in my face. I knew when I saw a bottle of milk from the local dairy, all swirling with the fattiest of fat milk I’ve seen in the West, I had to have it. HAD TO. If you’re ever thinking of attempting this recipe, buying the best milk is a good place to start. It’s so simple, and with a little patience, you can be like your friend’s mother who takes restaurant-like orders for food every morning and when you come home after FROLICKING in the 1000 degree Agra summer there’s a freakin mango milkshake and 10 course meal with paneer you press with your index finger because it’s clearly sent from heaven.

If you have no intention of attempting this recipe, that’s okay too. Just leave a comment in the end that says: “You’re the best Indian alive.” “You’re” meaning me.

I think I’ve earned it.

Ingredients

1 litre of whole aka fatty fat milk (4 cups)
1- 1 1/2 tbsp lemon juice

You will also need

Cheesecloth

Pour the milk into the pot and keep it on medium heat. You will now be waiting for it to come to a slow/gentle boil. As it sits there, keep stirring from time to time with a spoon.

Keep a watchful eye on the pot. It should take about 30 minutes to reach a gentle boil. If you’ve ever seen milk reach its boiling point, it doesn’t just do the sissy bubbling that water does. It will rise right out of the pot and on to the burners. Total anarchy will ensue. When all you were hoping for was a cup of tea, you will have a stove that doesn’t light and a whole mess to clean. If you’re going for gentle boil, you do not want this.

While the milk is going along, keep the cheesecloth ready. It should be big enough to bundle and hang. Place the cheesecloth in a strainer or colander.

As soon as you see tiny bubbles come up to the surface of the milk, add the lemon juice a little bit at a time (a teaspoon would be a good start). You’ll start to see slight curdling of the milk. While doing this, keep stirring slowly. You want the milk to separate. Once it does this, it changes colour. I want to call this change a greenish colour but you might have a different opinion. That’s the milk turning into curd and whey. I have a picture to show you what you’re looking for.

You might require more or less lemon juice than stated in the ingredients as every lemon has a different acid content.

Once it completely separates, stir for 15 seconds more and then strain the curd-whey through the cheesecloth. Rinse the curd under cold water to remove any lemon taste and also to cool it so you can squeeze out the whey before you hang the cheesecloth.

You can add some dried herbs like thyme or oregano before you tie and hang the curd if you want to flavour it. I didn’t do that this time but I will try it the next time.

Tie the cheesecloth (with the curd inside) tight with baker’s twine or some other string and let it hang out for 30 minutes. I tied it from the handle to our microwave. Weirdo. Thirty minutes later, put some weight on the cheesecloth bundle to get rid of any extra whey that’s still in the curds. You don’t want too much weight or your paneer will become too dry. Leave it under the weight for 2 hours.

Untie it and voila, guess what we’ve just created? Perfect palak paneer material, that’s what.

Apart from the spinach, of course.

Can’t live without butter, garlic, rum Thursday

March 7, 2013 by Edlyn

No, no, no. I checked with myself before I typed that title and I say I’m not going overboard. There is nothing grand about that title. I’m diving right into life with this one. It’s about time I did too. I owe it to my friend.

Rudra (whom I wrote about waaaaay back in the far reaches of last month) and I had another one of our meetings in Bangalore in 2011. A big part of me wishes it was in 2012 so I didn’t have to feel it was so long ago. I loved that trip. I was there for a concert and for the rest of the days, I planted my muddy feet at his and his friends’ flat in New-Thippasandra. As the perfect friend, he took me to all the best places to eat in Bangalore, me sitting at the back of his bike. By best, I don’t mean fancy and by that I mean the food was extra loved.

The one fancy restaurant we went to, we waited forever for our food. It was a few hours before I had to catch my plane back. To say I was cutting it close would be an understatement if you knew how far the airport was. At the restaurant, they had a basket of bread and some fancy butters on the side. One of them was the garlic butter and we both liked that the most. Me being the sometimes show off that I am told him how easy it would be to make. I had never even tried it before but he held me to it. After all the food he led me to in Bangalore, I had to.

I love the way Rudra loves Bangalore; mostly from behind the camera. He’s a quiet person..I am too. We don’t talk TALK much but when we do, I sense his joy living the city as much as his pain looking at the monstrous change it’s going through. He never brags about his work but I love every single picture he makes. He’s one of those people that will stick a camera right at you and you wouldn’t even notice he’s there. He’s at home one day, Bangladesh the next and who knows where else. My cat Bidli got to travel and give me 2 small heart attacks because of him. I still like you Rudra Rakshit Sharan.

I like you so much that I sat and wrote down a garlic butter recipe for you. And because I made you wait so long, I threw in a rum butter recipe too.

Garlic butter + Rum butter

I’ll start with the Garlic butter because it’s been 2 years and I could live without the guilt that we’re going to have another one of these chats.

Ingredients

1 head of garlic
1 stick of unsalted butter, softened (If I break it down, that makes 7 tbsp for the garlic butter and 1 tbsp for roasting the garlic)
Sea salt to taste

Heat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Cut off the top of the head of garlic. I was confused about which side was the “top” so I went with cutting the pointy side (the side opposite the “brown cap”). It was easier to cut and also easy to let the garlic “sit” in the oven without toppling over. I can’t believe I had that question in my mind to begin with. My brain sometimes…geez.

Now when you cut it, you’ll notice that not all the garlic cloves on the side will have their tops exposed. You’ll need to individually cut these off so the butter seeps through. Don’t hesitate to peel off some of the flaky skin if it obstructs the cutting process. Just make sure you don’t completely peel them so the butter doesn’t just slide off. You want the garlic to roast with the butter.

Once this is done, line a ramekin or a baking dish of your choice with foil and place the garlic head within. Take a tbsp of butter and place it on the head of the garlic. Break it up a bit so it gets to all the cloves. Cover them up with the foil and roast for 45 minutes to an hour.

The garlic should look like this.

Let it cool for a bit and then pick out the mushy garlic from its skin with a fork or fine knife. Place it in a bowl and mash it into a paste.

In another bowl, whip the butter with a spoon until it’s smooth. Add the roast garlic paste to the butter and mix well. So fragrant. Can’t handle it.

Don’t forget to add the salt for taste. Put the butter in some parchment paper, fold and store in the fridge. You can spread it on bread or even use it to roast veggies or meats as you prefer.

Rum butter

Ingredients

4 tbsp dark rum (I used Captain Morgan Spiced Rum but I wish I could’ve used Old Monk. Indians please represent.)
1 stick of softened unsalted butter
6 tbsp brown sugar (I used sugar in the raw because I wanted crunch in my butter. But if you want smoother butter, use muscovado or brown sugar)

Pour the rum into the butter and mix well.

Add the sugar to the mixture and mix it with a hand blender for about 5 minutes. It breaks down the sugar slightly and make the butter easier to spread.

Place the butter in parchment paper and refrigerate until you’re ready to party with pastry in the AM.

Or not.

I’ll go now.

Before Rudra pretends he doesn’t know me.

Red pepper and goat cheese frittata (sort of)

March 3, 2013 by Edlyn

Stick to the Sunday program, dude.

I am. I am.

I woke up in the way I want to wake up everyday: To the sun. The blinds were closed but I knew it was there. My roomie and I knew we had to put breakfast of hold. You don’t ignore the sun in these parts.

We took the dogs and our lazy selves for a long walk and then had short playtime, which was interrupted by a black cat. More than other cat colours, black cats don’t give a shit about you or your smelly puppies. Dogs of every other shade, colour or size however, make up for that deficiency. How? They chase them. If you don’t want your dog to get run over, you chase back.

It’s a slightly inconvenient but we do what we do…for love or something.

When we got home, I remembered I made crepe batter. Too much crepe batter. So much crepe batter that it was interfering with my eggs on a Sunday. Gah.

And you know what I did? I made them anyway. In 10 seconds. So I could eat crepes with my roommate, shoo away dogs, AND get the goat cheese out of its case without my life falling apart.

Typical Sunday morning.

Red pepper and goat cheese frittata

You’ll need 2 eggs, half of a half of red pepper, chopped, (I could’ve just said quarter), 2 tbsp of chopped red onion and some goat cheese to sprinkle on the top.

Set your oven to broil. In the real world, that’s 500 degrees F. Our oven doesn’t know what that means. It goes up to 450 degrees F and decides it’s not worth the trouble. My scrapyard threats have stopped working.

Break the eggs into a bowl and whip them with a dash of salt and pepper.

Cook the onions and red pepper in a frying pan with oil until the onions get soft. It should take about 2 minutes. Once this step is done, pour the eggs into the frying pan and cook them for 3 minutes, constantly stirring so they don’t set. They need to be only partially cooked.

Since I don’t own a skillet I can put in the oven, I had to transfer the eggs to a ramekin. I topped it with goat cheese and cooked it for 6 minutes in the 450 degree F oven. Your eggs will be done once they puff up slightly and turn golden on the top. Let it cook and serve with chopped chives as garnish.

Or don’t.

I’m clearly not one for rules.

Now can you guess where the oven gets it from?

Poached eggs on parmesan potato hash + A chocolate box

February 24, 2013 by Edlyn

Hi Gayle, (My youngest sister who actually knows how to cook and doesn’t pretend like me.)

I made poached eggs! Do you remember when you’d say, “Make! It’s so easy” or something like that? I don’t either but every time I make poached eggs, I think of you for some reason. It’s not the first way I choose to cook my eggs because my eyes are usually blind when I wake up. I’m not saying they’re difficult to make either BUT it involved a bit more than a simple scramble and putting effort into anything food-related makes me think of you.

L’aubergines also remind me of you.

I’m not even close to you in cooking skill level. You’re a lot more stubborn when you cook, choosing to break rules and not use measuring spoons. I can’t ever tell if that’s a good thing of a bad one but as soon as we get to taste it, all doubts are put to rest. BECAUSE IT’S FREAKIN GOOD. Duh.

You’re only 22. At that point in my life, I was working at a silly newspaper. Before that I was deciding whether I should have 1 or 2 vada pavs from the canteen. I usually went with one plain vada and one complete vada pav. At 20, you laid the foundation of your own home business, designed a logo, made chocolates and went out and learnt skills that will help you be the best at your craft. You see what I’m trying to say here?

I know you feel like nobody takes you seriously at home. It’s mostly true. It’s not your fault nobody can see beyond your unruly hair that you have combed since Roma left. It’s also not your fault you were born last and mama and D love having you around more than acceptable parental levels (haha). The part that I (and I hope everybody else) take seriously more than anything is your talent. Yes, you are lazy (sorry) but when you’re at work, you’re every thing a future chef is supposed to be. You may not be able to prove that you’re 22, when you’re forever 6 but it gets a bit easier to let go when we see your passion. We’re proud.

You need to keep doing this. There’s a reason that I see your face in ever corner bakery I walk past. You’ll be the owner and maybe you’ll let me wash the dishes and make good chai. You’ll call it “Little Chocolate Box” (OBVEEESILIOUSLY) and you’ll be the happiest when you go to bed because you’re living your dream.

I am happy for you, I really am.

Now shut up and eat these eggs. And don’t wear my clothes. I’ll check when I come home, 9 months from now.

Poached eggs on parmesan potato hash

Err..how did I make thiiiss…..Oh yes. This was enough for 2 people.

For the parmesan potato hash, I used 1 potato, grated parmesan (go nuts…or not), salt and pepper.

I grated the potatoes on a cheese grater and drained then of the starchy water with a cheesecloth. It actually quite a pretty sight. I added grated parmesan, salt and pepper to the potatoes and fried them in a lightly buttered pan. Form the potato mix into a ball and flatten it on the pan. Cook on one side till it brown like in the picture and then flip it over. Repeat the browning process and set on a plate.

I used 2 eggs and poached them one at a time. I let a pot of water come to a boil. I then added a little salt and a tablespoon of vinegar to the water. I reduced the heat so the water would be set to a simmer. I broke 1 of the eggs into a cup and gently placed it into the water. I cooked it for 4 minutes because I like my poached eggs to be a little runny as well as a little firm. If you want the egg to be more undercooked, leave it in only for two minutes. You’ll have to use your kitchen judgement to get the egg cooked the way YOU want it. Take it out of the water and place them on a paper towel to dry off. Repeat with the other egg.

Place the eggs over the potato hash. Crack a bit of pepper, add some salt, toast some bread (butter it) and eat.

Gayle, why aren’t you eating?! Oh wait, you’re not here. Whatever man. More for me.

Ramekin, son of Rumplestilskin.

February 10, 2013 by Edlyn

Like everything else in life, I don’t place too much emphasis on owning every kitchen tool that ever was. I still think back on that grinding stone in my grandfather’s house that made the best curries. Basic and beautiful, with a sound that I miss.

The kitchen is one place where I spend a lot of time trying to save the world and some dinner. I shy away from electrical appliances only because we have a mid-level manager’s office-sized kitchen and I wouldn’t know where to put them. I’m happy we have an oven (that’s sucking at life right now but at least it exists) because I try to bake everything I see these days (including my knuckles). I ignore the dishwasher. The crock pot is my soup BFF. The coffee pot keeps me sane and the toaster is overworked but oh so generous. The ice-cream maker and I have conversations about how it’s just him, Snickers and me against the world.

It really is.

I’m a lucky girl. I live with a man who came with a stocked kitchen. Fancy knives, a crock pot, baking supplies, a coffee pot and very nice tableware — it’s a little impressive. You wouldn’t think of that as a prerequisite but trust me, it is. You can tell his dinner is not a spoonful of peanut butter and he uses plates for plate purposes. The rest of the house be damned. I’m a borderline food snob. I like knowing where my food comes from. The “borderline” comes into the picture when I allow myself certain liberties of the deep-fried, french variety.

With fancy dip. Classy.

Two ramekins joined the family recently. Thank you Goodwill or I’d never pick them up without have a 10-minute debate with my inner Uncle Scrooge. I even got two for Gayle as a “be my slave” bribe. Every time I see a ramekin I think of buying them for her. She makes the best creme brulee and acts like it’s no big deal. I’m no dessert expert, but I can make some stress-free baked eggs. Yay me.

Thanks to cheap ramekins and an oven that’s currently testing my patience, awesomepantsface is one step closer to losing me to the kitchen and I am right here, singing a lullaby to a small ceramic bowl.

Eggs in a ramekin

I first put some bacon on the stove and cooked it to an almost crisp. I buttered the inside of the ramekin while it was cooking and started the layering process. I chopped a few leaves of spinach and half a tomato and put it in the ramekin. I then crumbled the bacon and put some of it on the top. I added a tablespoon of half and half (you can add cream or milk) and seasoned this with pepper. I broke two eggs on the veggies and bacon and put the remaining bacon on top. The ramekin was placed on a baking tray and baked for 20 minutes at 350 degrees F.

YUM.

The egg yolks are a bit runny so if you want the yolk to cook firmer, leave it in for 25 minutes instead. Season with pepper, salt and fresh cilantro. After this, you’re on your own because I have no recollection of what happened next.

I must’ve died.

Kitchen memories: Jane

February 3, 2013 by Edlyn

It’s sometimes difficult for me to understand my sister Jane. I purposely forgot how old she is but yes, she is the eldest of us 3. We lived together in Bombay for 3 years, just us, in a two-room flat. (That’s two rooms not two bedrooms). I would be lying if I said it was perfect. We fought a lot and I think it was mostly always my fault (Yes Pain, I’m taking the blame).

As the eldest, I think it has always been her instinct to protect us. As the middle child, it was my instinct to pretend that I didn’t know what that sound was. She cooked for me, forced me to eat, made me taste the vegetable dishes she made for salt, and kept me in line. I know I was a terrible roommate. Most days I’d work 10 or 12 hours, six days a week and when I came home, I just wanted to be asleep or a vegetable. The one day I got off work, I preferred being the same way. I thought that was my free pass to get out of doing stuff. Right now, I can’t believe I was like that.

This is not an apology. Our family has a hidden way of saying sorry and I know she knows what I know. This is about our Sundays in Bombay.

I worked on Sunday, oh yes I did. Almost every one of those Sunday mornings, I woke up to a room filled with people on every surface. They were common friends but closer to her because she was the best host. She’d wake up and the rest of them would follow like sloths after a hard night of foraging. Except foraging means drinking in this case. I like to think that her breakfasts were what they came over for. Complete with chai, toast and eggs, she fed the masses on our limited collection of melamine (and one ceramic) plates and mugs with most of their handles broken. Everything was laid over the previous day’s Hindustan Times, which was spread over the tangled bedsheets that kept everyone warm.

Jane HAD to have something to eat and tea the moment she woke up (here’s proof). So as soon as she rose, she’d put her toothbrush in her mouth and a pan on the stove. She scrambled whatever was “scamble-able” and leftover from last night’s binge-eating. Chicken manchurian from Mama Mia was her bestseller. I never tried it (I did not like Mama Mia’s Chinese food) but I was a big fan of the sorpotel and xacuti version.

I am a big fan of hers. For taking so many risks, for taking care of me and for introducing me to a world of wonderful messy eggs that fit so well in our wonderful and messy lives.

Jane-style eggs and toast

This is the easiest thing in the world to make. I just scrambled two eggs and at the very end, I added some of the guacamole I made last week, some leftover mince and rajma (red beans). Oh yes, and just a dollop of sour cream on the top for fun.

Jane the pain, this breakfast was for you.