Full of beans

full of beans =  a. (idiomatic) Energetic and enthusiastic

                        b. (idiomatic) Incorrect; uninformed; exaggerating or 

                            expressing falsehood

                                 

How we hated and feared the stern-toned, foreboding voice all mothers of our generation (and their predecessors) used to warn us girls of the disproval of our prospective “in-laws”. 

Pure conjecture this, but somehow our mothers "knew" that our future in-laws would string us up for any or all of our failures and shortcomings.

This sinister tone and proviso would creep in to the matrons’ teachings at the most unexpected times and junctures.

They would go “…and you must always string all types of beans before cutting them, open their pods to check for worms, as you would check okra … and of course, brinjals – OR your in-laws will blame me for not teaching you even this much!”

Or it would be any of the following: (pardon the literal translations)

 “…what will your in-laws say!”

 “…don’t lower my head in your husband’s home!”

“ …this will cut my nose!”

Sometimes the subject of this rhetoric would also be that nameless/faceless adversary and decrier called “people”. At such times their tone would become even more severe.

Now don’t get me wrong, we weren’t rebel kids by any standards. Only, a little reluctant and resentful that we had to learn dud domestic tricks like

• rolling mustard seeds down a large steel plate tilted by one hand while    with the other hand stopping non-round foreign materials
• sieving, winnowing and picking grain before cooking or sending it for milling
• panning sand, stones and grit from soaked rice or pulses
• setting immaculate curd with fresh milk
• kneading dough with one hand
• hand-pounding chutneys and seeds and nuts without spilling
• sorting and stringing greens and yes - the famous beans – (I’ll come back to the beans soon) 

It took us a while - and the wisdom of our growing years - to call their bluff.

Well, how could we? We were only mortal kitchenminions for these demigoddesses!

But, by then it was too late – we had learnt to do all these things.  And also learnt to “want” to speak to our girls in the same ominous tone…

I hope you haven’t missed the “want” bit…

So going back to the beans – I was most happy when I saw this bean salad on a friend’s table that didn’t need to be stringed, trimmed or chopped. So simple and quick and crunchy!

Green Bean salad

Ingredients

200 gms tender green beans, washed

8-10 cherry or grape tomatoes, washed

A handful of slivered almonds

1-2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp white or balsamic vinegar

A pinch of any herb of your choice – I used some dried rosemary

A pinch of sugar/sweetener (if required)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Method

Add the oil to a hot pan and toss the beans and chopped garlic around until lightly roasted and tender but still a little crunchy. Halfway through this, add the almonds and the whole tomatoes.

Season with vinegar, herbs, sweetener/sugar (if required) and salt and pepper to taste.

Serve warm or cold.  

Pretentious Parfait

Almond Mango Parfait

There was a time when we ate mangoes straight out of the large old zinc bathtub they had been soaking in to cool – for they came out quite warm from under the bales of rice straw of the adhi (आंब्याची अढी) where they had been gestating.

We would wait for days, taking a sneak peak at the mangoes when any adult would go in to check on them.  The wait would be quite agonising, but then we were such drama queens…

There were so many summer goodies to eat – the succulent munjals (palmyra fruit) the cooling phalsa (grewia fruit), the glossy purple jambuls (java plums) and a mélange of melons of all sizes, colours and descriptions.

Yet, the mango loomed large in our prospects. The longer it took for the mangoes to ripen, the more they would be coveted.

Like flies to wanton boys, we were drawn to the fragrance of the rice straw and the sweet, sticky distinctive smell of mangoes emanating from garden shed.  

Spot after gilded spot, we impatiently charted their seasoning.

And one day these golden gods would be declared ripe and ready.  

They would be picked gently out of their hotbeds, carefully brushed with blades of straw and plunged into the old zinc tub filled with cool water drawn from the depths of the dredged well. 

We kids would then be unceremoniously stripped of most of our clothes – our mothers knew too well how hard it was to scrub off mango stains from clothes.

Dressed in singlet and shorts – No! – baniyans and bodyfrocks- we would sit on the stone steps of the back yard with the gang of cousins. We would select a mango, hold the fruit between our pincers at the stem-scab and the sharp paisley-point, and squeeze and rotate the mango in one continuous motion till it was a soft and pliant.

The skin would often burst, sending amber juice squirting into our eyes or the fleshy stone plopping onto our clothes - mishaps that would send us into giggling fits and more mischief. If all went well, the mango was now at our disposal to be sucked-tucked into.

The juice fully relished, the skin would be peeled off and gnawed clean. Our teeth would rake the juice out of the fleshy drupe, combing patterns into the fast desiccating fibres.

This would go on, mango after mango. 

We would then surface for breath, as exhausted as the mango.

But not for long, for our eyes would rove the rows of submerged mangoes and we would reach out for yet another- with slithering hands dripping at the elbows…

In another faraway land, in another hemisphere with topsy-turvey seasons where these old favourites are banned, we bring home corpulent cultured local mangoes, but in twos and threes.

We cut two of these between the four of us, and sometimes even put away a few slices we may not be able to finish. At times we incarnate the fleshy fruit into dishes quite flashy.

There is none of the gut-busting-gorging of our bucolic frolic, only some polite polishing off…….. of an almond adulterated pretentious parfait…

Mango Almond Parfait

Ingredients

2 large ripe mangoes – skinned and chopped finely into a puree (reserve some larger chunks for garnishing)

Sugar/sweetener- as required

1 cup plain Greek yoghurt or any thick creamy yoghurt (not very sour)

½ cup almond meal

Some granola clusters, the reserve chunked mango and a handful of pomegranate arils for garnishing

Method

Adjust the sweetness of the mango puree by adding the sugar/sweetener. You may not need it at all if the mango is sweet.  Since the parfait is going to be chilled well, it might need to be a little sweeter than you would have it at room temperature.

Combine the yogurt and almond meal and whisk until fluffy and light.

In a tall glass layer the yogurt mixture and mango puree going ¾ of the way up. Cover with cling film and chill for a few hours. 

Serve garnished with chopped mango, some granola clusters and pomegranate arils.

Clive, curry and Maugham

Vegetarian Singapore Noodles

For someone who cooks so voluminously and variedly all the time, I struggled for a long time to figure out what was meant by “curry powder” or “Madras”. 

I mean, we are well acquainted with garam/sambar/rasam/goda/ chole/pav bhaji/and what not masalas.But what’s a curry powder? 

Must be garam masala of sorts… I would think.

On one of our first outings in Australia, up the beautiful Dandenong ranges, we ordered what looked like heartwarming homemade curry pasties (curry puffs) in a quaint little restaurant. 

Why are vege options almost always only "curry" or "spinach and ricotta"? 

I expected the curry puffs to have that wonderful garam masala flavour that  curry puffs from Banglore Iyengar Bakery have. 

Instead, they had a distinct taste of sambar with a hint of  - was it saunf (fennel)?

The charming lady who ran the restaurant looked at me in disbelief when asked what the seasoning was – don’t you know- it’s curry powder!

So now we know better – anything that says curry, tastes like sambar (with saunf/anise) okay, I will grudge a whiff of garam masala at times, but I am dogmatic that essentially it is a drab version of sambar powder…

Stereotyping or synecdoche, it’s true that the colonialists took away Indian spices in their myriad fragrant flavours, only to institutionalise them into one generic khaki powder.

But then, it’s quite droll and retributive for an Indian that a tin with the grim and foreboding countenance of bob-wigged Bobby Clive (Clive of India brand curry powder) actually packs a quotidian sambar powder like spice mix….

It’s this very curry powder that makes these stir fried noodles “Singapore”.

Is Somerset Maugham our antidote for Clive?

Vegetarian Singapore Noodles

Ingredients

225g egg noodles (or rice noodles - but you'll have to cook them differently)

2 tbsp light soy sauce

2 tbsp rice vinegar

2  (or more) cups sliced/julienned vegetables (cabbage, carrot, red and green peppers, snow peas, mushroom (reserve some shredded cabbage for garnishing)

2 spring onions, sliced diagonally (reserve some for garnishing)

2 tbs vegetable oil, plus extra for noodles

1 tbsp sesame oil

1 tbsp crushed garlic

1 tbsp grated ginger

2 tbs curry powder

1 tsp brown sugar

Crushed dried red chillies/ sliced red chillies - to taste

Salt and pepper to taste

Fresh coriander leaves, to garnish

Boil a large pot of water, add salt and a spoon of oil and cook noodles el dente. Drain and refresh with cold water. Keep aside.

Heat the oil in a large wok and add the sliced spring onion, garlic and ginger. Then add the other vegetables one by one according to their cooking times, keep stirring all the time. Add the soy sauce, rice vinegar, brown sugar, pepper, curry powder and continue to stir fry the vegetables for a few seconds and add the sesame oil. Add the noodles now and cook for another minute or so. Check the salt and add per taste.

Serve piping hot garnished with coriander and some of the shredded cabbage and spring onions.

Cheesy Choices

Cheese Mysore Bonda

 

Some of you may share my disdain for things like cheese dosa, paneer dosa, baby corn dosa, cheese Mysore masala dosa, cheese pav bhaji, cheese dabheli – such fusion in foods sounds a tad cheesy and almost wannbe…

Why is there a need to add cheese, baby corn and paneer to regional dishes that don’t really need this added embellishment?

Do the restaurants really adjust ingredients to justify the claims – or just chuck in a handful of Amul cheese and wilting ageing baby corn – to make it “special”?

Does this far-fetched addition of foreign stuff warrant the substantial difference in the price?

Is this a stratagem to make these traditional dishes more attractive to younger people?

Does this attempt at modernisation delude diners into thinking they are patronising a  “progressive and trendy” eatery?

Okay… granted, I am a little crabby that a most fantastic long weekend has come to an end… reckon I am restive tonight – it’s past midnight; accept I will be busy meeting a mid-week work deadline… and won’t be able to indulge in writing or cooking…

Hmmm, so cheese, paneer and baby corn in these dishes may have some merit. If nothing, only to mitigate the inordinate levels of heat introduced in restaurant foods these days…

Thinking about the dish I am describing - remembering how the flour and cheese were a perfect match - my grudging grumpiness is melting, just like the cheese in the bondas  – and diminishing just like the spongy bondas disappeared in no time…

Cheese Mysore Bonda

This is a perfect snack attack dish - a tad oily, so reserve it for a real special day when you come home hungry on a rainy Friday, after driving for an hour through treacle traffic ... like I did the other day!

Ingredients

1½ cups self-raising flour

½ cup rice flour

¾ cup sour yoghurt

1 onion, chopped

1 tbsp fresh ginger, chopped fine

2-3 green chillies, finely chopped

1 tbsp coriander leaves finely chopped

A few curry leaves, chopped fine

1 tsp cumin seeds

4-5 tbsp grated mozzarella cheese

Salt to taste

Oil to deep fry

Method

Make a thick batter of the flours, chopped onions, chopped green chillies, chopped curry leaves, chopped ginger, cumin seeds, coriander leaves and the yoghurt. Add some water to adjust the consistency to resemble that of a thick pakora batter. Make sure there are no lumps. Add the grated mozzarella cheese and then the salt accordingly. 

Heat oil in a wok and drop spoonfuls into hot oil. Fry the bondas till they are golden brown and remove them on a kitchen paper to drain excess oil.

When you fry in a large quantity of oil, the bondas come out round – but I usually use small amounts of oil, hence the flatter shape.

Serve hot with tomato sauce and mustard sauce.