Glycodin Mocha

Rain poured on my hopes of photographing the Dames Point Bridge today. The light was almost perfect with darkening clouds with spotty sunlight streaming through. I thought a wet suspension bridge lit by the evening sun with a background of dark clouds would be perfect. This time, the clouds decided to move in a little closer and rained stegosauruses and diplodocuses. If it rained enough to slow me down to 35 mph in a 65 mph zone, it must have rained a lot because I am usually the idiot driving at 65(ish!!!) mph in a 65 mph limit under torrential rain when everyone hide in the slower lanes (I call those ‘retard’ lanes).

I did manage to snag some pretty pictures on the way to the quite little coffee shop: link which was closed at 6pm on a Saturday! So, the owner decided to shut down a place (usually) meant for the younger generation who (usually) come out of their Friday induced hangover by noon (if not later) on Saturdays. 6 pm on a Saturday is like mid-morning. Next stop Starbucks, but who put the Moes next to it. I had to get a Quesadilla before quenching my Mocha-on-ice thirst. The special of the day in the mass-produced coffee shop was Raspberry Mocha frappuccino. Ordered that. $4.55. The person behind the counter handed the large cold drink that I accepted with high hopes and esteem. I pushed the dark green straw through the whipped cream and a foot of ice cubes before hitting the actual coffee. It did smell funny. The first sip confirmed my scent-based-hunch. It tasted like Glycodin and didn’t even cure my sore throat or get me high. I just ordered a relatively expensive coffee that tastes like common household cold syrup (that gets you high if an entire bottle is consumed. Mom and Dad, it is all hearsay!).

On the other hand, I was managed to occupy one of those comfy lounge seats in the coffee shop and probably even managed to look ice-cube-cool to the three Indians that walked in a few minutes later. In the next 30 minutes, I walked around in Target with a list in my hand and managed to look like a married (or maybe taken) desi man. Most married men end up with lists in their hands at the grocery store if they are not accompanied by the list-maker. The dudes walking every aisle with no list in their hand and no idea what they want are usually single (my girl-readers, here is your clue for the day).

Safely back home, the Hennessy is calling my name. The seductively tanned liquid requests to be let out so I can refresh myself on this rainy day. On the rocks or neat? Life is full of hard choices!

Dessert - Drink - Entre - Dessert - More Dessert

I have been treating myself today. It all started by finding the all evading chicken breast pieces with bone. Publix always seems to be out of the with-bone variety and the boneless variety is devoid of all taste. That’s where the joy ride started in Publix today. Already fueled by the $5 off coupon, the with-bone chicken breasts were the perfect booster rockets. I also brought some organic minced chicken (kheema) for dinner today. Those breasts were meant for cooking only after extended periods of marinating.

Over at the produce section, I picked up some peaches for the first time, maybe just to show off to myself that I can eat healthy. Then onions, baseball-big, yellow and a promise to produce enough tears to dehydrate Nicole Richie to death. Last nights promise of Mojito pulled me towards the Mint leaves. A few frozen packs of veggie, guava jelly filled puff pastry bites and Publix’s finest Pecan Pie later I was out to claim my $5.

Dinner started promptly at 7:50 pm with munching up some (most) of those guava filled puff pastries. Those are like little drops of heaven. To die for! Then came the Mojito. My bartending diploma (I have a certificate to prove it) betrayed me when Wikipedia suggested the use of Club Soda which I did not buy. Something had to compensate for it and what better than the rum that was already going into the drink! Just hold the bottle up a little longer! The kheema was simply mind blowing, almost as good as how bad the Lamb curry was. More puff pastries after dinner pretty much anchored me to the recliner. The sight of Laya running around playing with Eddie depressed me because she probably converted more fat to muscle running around the dining table four times than I'd ever do running endless miles in the gym for a week. Anyway, the pecan pie has been warmed in the microwave for thirty seconds till the insides just started to simmer and now it sits on my plate, all pretty and fragrant. The puppies are eying the pie, now only if they could fly!

Mojito

The Pot by Tool. They are singing a song that is close to my heart right now. I quit writing for a while because I was addicted to it only to replace the object of addiction by photography. Now I can not think of anything significant to write. My thinking mind is changed to an observing mind. Ideas and concepts swirl around in my head but I don’t want to write them. I want to think. The physical ‘do’, the reaction to the action of the mind is achieved through the camera.

But still I write. I actually like this week. Being all by me in the company of two wonderful doggies is very nice. The house is finally in order. The eight chair mammoth dining table finally has some usable space in it. I can finally do more in the kitchen than open the drawer to take out spoons and forks to eat ordered food. The bedroom is spick and span though Laya managed to fish out my space bag, tear it open and explore the down jacket. No, she didn’t get into the layers and I didn’t have to come home to a bedroom snowing in imitation feather.

The Cruzan pineapple flavoured rum helps. It is the perfect drink to cool me down this summer. I did get a free Muddler from the liquor store; a Mojito is on the way.

Cooking and Commitments

The well marinated and cooked pieces of rubber in my wok tell me a few things. One, cooked lamb when chewy sticks between your teeth so good that you tongue can do twisters all day at the frustrating crack in vain. Two, I have doubts on my expertise in successfully cooking meat. Three, I can’t really write with a show on Porsches playing in high definition ecstasy.

Looking back in time, I have had a fifteen day sabbatical. Not too impressive per sabbatical standards but then I am no Professor at a university. The sabbatical was aimed at self revelation and awakening from the addiction, but I am not sure if I have achieved it. As a matter of fact, I am not sure what I have achieved. I do feel in more control over myself but that is just my biased opinion, that too on myself.

Today, I feel like a twenty eight year old failed cook with lots of ambition and not much hope, a thirty five year old single daddy to Laya considering I have no night life and own a family sedan and a sixteen year old baby sitter to Eddie. And these are just my evening jobs! For the record, I am twenty four years old and am exposed to commitment and relationships and multi-tasking at a very early stage in life. The makings of the perfect husband myth! Did I mention I can cook too?

All these people in the movies complain about boys to be men running away from commitments. I have locked my hopes, dreams and travel plans in some glass jar and thrown it away already. All you people who look at my profile, gaze at my handsome face, the rock-star goatee and a sexy dog and then want a dog for themselves, the grass isn’t that green on this side. Life gets divided into four to five hour slots and they don’t always match with that evening on the beach or that rave party.

Mind Dump, 2 of Many

The pressure oozes out of the sides of the pressure cooker while the dal(lentil) inside gets to a full boil. I could smell the spices in the steam but there should be no steam, not yet and not through the sides. The rubber gasket is in mint condition but the metal joints are not proper. Klap, Klap, Klap the wooden spatula knocked on the lid trying to get that subtle shift in position that seals the condiments inside. The tiny pressure cooker locked with the elliptical-lid-opening style, not the convineant-slide-on-interlock type. A few more knocks and this time the whistle starts ozzing steam almost silently. No sound for a minute, then a sudden loud hiss. Four more to go. After five, the electric cooking range is switched off and trapped steam is allowed to finish the job. I let all the steam out, then open the lid only to see about eighty percent cooked dal. A kokam is dropped in for added flavour, some sugar and more salt to taste. The disloyal lid finds its way to the pressure cooker for the second time.

I made the most impromptu Dal last night. The planned squash preparation was sixty percent done when it dawned on me that a moist vegetable dish alone would not go with rice. So, the pressure cooker came out, little oil, some mustard seeds and jeera. I have to remember to get fennel seeds from the indian store the next time. Longitudinal slices of freshly bought green chillies add instant aroma to the kitchen air when dropped into the hot oil. Then goes the turmeric powder, more dried red chilli powder and a dash of shahi biriyani powder for that added zing. The raw dal goes in with adequate water and I make the most simple dal ever till date.

James and I are trying to work on exercises that involve weights while keeping the heart rate up. He did his research on the 300 workout. It is the work out that the crew of the movie, 300 did to prepare for the movie. We are probably 2.5 on the 300 scale but it is a start. We left the gym at 7:30 pm and I knew from yesterday's experience that today is not the day to deal with the pressure cooker again. Even my cheeks hurt! Thank you Publix for fresh sushi and thank you La Choy for lite soy sauce.

Easy Friday

The dry-fit t-shirt desperately tried to expel all the sweat as I stepped out with Eddie and Laya for their evening walk. It was work out day today and the puppies were especially eager to see me when I arrived an hour after the regular arrival time. A habit I picked up from James, I refer to all dogs as puppies affectionately. I had earlier noticed the half dozen girl’s jolly shrieks from the pool across the sand volley ball court in front of my apartment. I managed to get a closer look at the jolly-bunch as I walked out with the puppies. They were a half dozen or so 13 to 15 year olds jumping in and out of the pool.

I was not even close enough to the pool when one of the girls shouted:

Miss Brown Bikini: you have a very sexy dog!
Me: Thanks.
I keep walking, the sidewalk by the volley ball court gets me closer to the pool.
Miss Brown bikini: (now noticing little Eddie too) Hey...two dogs!
Me: I hope so (this has been my classic answer to rhetorical questions)
Miss Pink Bikini with Blue Polka Dots: What dog is he (referring to the bigger one)?
Me: She is a greyhound…
Miss Brown Bikini: did you say, a super hound? Giggles.
Miss Pink Bikini with Blue Polka Dots: giggles
Miss Light Blue Bikini: giggles
Mr. Green Board Shorts: (appearing busy on the phone wondering why all his friends are obsessing over some dogs)
it is funny when kids get obsessive over their friends
Me: A G-R-E-Y-H-O-U-N-D, the little one’s a beagle.
Miss Brown Bikini: Does the big one make babies?
Miss Pink Bikini with Blue Polka Dots: (interrupting Miss Brown Bikini) do both the dogs make babies together???
Me: No. But they’d be funny babies if it happened (A 55 lbs long legged all muscular greyhound crossed with a pot-bellied short legged floppy-eared beagle would definitely make a funny dog!)
Miss Brown Bikini: but they’d be cute babies (looking at Eddie who is wagging his tail standing at the pool gate facilitated by his extending leash)
Miss Yellow Bikini (or maybe it was Miss Light Blue Bikini): what are their names?
Me: The little one is Eddie and the bigger one is Laya.
Miss Yellow Bikini: Eddie is a cute name.
Miss Light Blue Bikini: ‘Laya’ as in Princess Leia from the star wars? Are you a fan?
Me: yes, that Leia but I am not a star wars fan.

Miss Brown Bikini pushes Miss Yellow Bikini into the pool. Miss Pink Bikini with Blue Polka Dots runs away from the approaching Miss Light Blue Bikini. Mr. Green Board Shorts is busy typing away on his cell phone. I walk away to the rest of my evening remembering all the reasons why I like Florida!

Friday was exceptionally good. Not because it was a Friday before a long weekend. Monday is chutti for being Memorial Day and Shek has no plans but eat, sleep and hopefully read some. This whole week has been a little hectic on all fronts. Hectic in a challenging positive sort of way. Work has been very challenging but I got all my data sorted out finally on Friday. I only wish I had the 3Ghz Core 2 Duo with a 2 gig ram in my work computer. A 19 inch wide screen wouldn’t be bad either. I have also been stressed out making, bridging and maintaining some personal relations. Every thing is sorted out now, so I decided to treat myself with some good chicken curry.

By 7 pm Friday, 25 May 2007 the 1.51 Lbs boneless breast pieces had been marinated for over 12 hours in rich yoghurt, crushed tomatoes, ginger-garlic paste and the finest Chicken-curry masala the Indian store had to offer. The onions were perfectly fried golden brown in the finest desi ghee available locally and the chicken curry simmered peacefully for a long time till the meat was just perfect. This served with the steaming basmati rice made my week a complete satisfaction. Yes, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, especially Shek’s!

Chicken Curry

I wait for the onions to turn brown so I can toss in the thickly marinated chicken in a rich yoghurt marinate into the wok. Some buggers are still pink, most are white or yellow steadily progressing towards the desired brown. My brother fiddles with the computer, working his way up the social cyber ladder while this post starts forming in my head.

kaabhi aalvida naa kehna is at intermission. I am tired of the glamour dresses, the expensive shots, the fancy hair dos, the light story line, pockets of heavy emotions and outsourced dialogues. Yes, I feel the dialogues are outsourced. Only a few hold some water, the rest being lighter than a goose’s feather. After a heavy dinner of chicken curry, rice and roti and a few more hours of the slow movie, I am told that this has been a path breaking film. "The lead actor and actresses have never been flawed characters before!" I say, some famous director finally decided to pick up a real script! A real script is about people and all people are flawed. While the movie ranted about a wrong marriage, actually two wrong marriages, I wondered how many people could actually identify with the script. Not the infidelity part, just the wrong marriage part. EVERYBODY! I have known a few people that are or were in a relationship with their best friends. Some flourished while others ended up with broken hearts. I, for one, sacrificed my beautiful friendship to the failure of love. Failure of Love! It is a nice phrase if you think about it. This phrase is optimistic about failure and the many love songs, poems, novels and short stories are its living testament. We write about things we do not have. That’s why we write about the rain and about God.

I am surprised at the multitude of love making scenes in hindi movies these days. Not shocked, just surprised. Being used to old fashioned clichéd love scenes; this blunt frankness is very new to me. The directors surely want to show more realistic situations but also want to show off the producer’s deep pockets. So, they end up with a chicken curry: yoghurt, masala, garlic paste, tomatoes and chicken pieces all blended into one big medley just hoping to capture your senses. Now, you have scenes of top notch bollywood actors and actresses getting intimate, sweaty bodies glistening in the fireplace heat coupled with scenes of overstated glamorous sudden dance scenes. Moreover, sixteen and seventeen year olds watch this movie and no one burns effigies of Shah Rukh and Rani on the streets. Maybe Richard Gere should have charged the Indian government to make an appearance for his Aids campaign and then charged the general public obscene ticket prices to see him give a few affectionate pecks on Shilpa Shetty’s cheeks. It worked for Shah Rukh and Karan Johar. Must work for Richard Gere! He is Hollywood after all!!!

Enough written. The chicken curry left over needs to see the refrigerator, Laya needs to take a walk and I need to get my comforter from my car. Good Night people.

Macher Jhal (Fried Tilapia in a Spicy Mustard Sauce)

After a failed attempt in cooking Macher Jhal in Florida using pure engineering instincts without parental supervision, I resorted to what we engineers consider a last resort: get a consultant. The reason of my failure is that I used the British method of cooking macher jhal, which uses english mustard to substitute for the hand-ground mustard seeds (works fantastically only in England). USA loves french style mustard sauce, so the english mustard that I bought was heavy on preservatives. I fried some fish and made the gravy using the preservative rich english mustard and possibly cooked the worst meal in my history. Living with roommates during my master's and having no money for outside food, we (my roommates and I) got pretty proficient at cooking good. We never tried macher jhal though.

My mom visited me for two months this year and she did her own little research to make mustard paste from mustard seeds. Here is how she did it and how I did it last night:

1. Buy a coffee grinder ($14 at Publix) and grind your mustard seeds to a powder.
2. Put the powder in a bowl and add water. Mix it. Strain the mustard pieces out.
3. Fry fish of choice. I used Tilapia fillets.
4. In a sauce pan, heat oil, add green chillies, add onions and fry till brown. I prefer red onions and you can use it if you wish to feel your eyes being sucked out of their sockets.
5. Add the mustard strained water to it, add turmeric powder and salt to taste.
6. Add the fish and let simmer.
   
7. Serve over steamed rice.
8. Enjoy, hopefully.
   

I am not a cook and having recipes here in my blog is certainly not a trend. All I want to do is share the americanized method of cooking Macher Jhal so my fellow Bengalis (and Bengali food lovers) can feel at home.

Garden Vegetable Soup

Mom visited me and lived in sunny Florida with me for two months. This also means that I had fantastic home cooked food for two months straight. She is back to her grind in India now and I have to feed myself. It takes a while to get back to the routine of cooking and managing groceries. I seem to have lost some motivation in cooking. Back in UFL, I would share cooking turns with three other roommates and we had hot fresh food on the table 9 PM every night. Now that I have moved to greener pastures with a job, I have to cook for myself and eat what I cooked for three days. Either that or cook every night. I chose cook a few times a week. Then eating out took over and thats all I did. Deep down in my heart though, I want to eat at home. Thats when Garden Vegetable soup comes in. Thats what I had for dinner, with a couple of pieces of Sesame Chicken that my room mate ordered.

What will motivate me is if I make a list of all that I can cook and plan my week accordingly. I get lazy when I have to come home after a hard day at work and have to think of what I have to cook. Making a list will organize my head enough to cook fresh every day.

Speaking of motivation, I am real motivated to finish off that pecan pie in my fridge. 45 secs in the microwave, and it will be delicious.

Southern Sweet Tea

Sweet tea is a very popular beverage, at least in the southern states. This is my statistically inadequate study of the sweet tea drinking community and its significance in everyday life. I hope you all liked reading about Indian Masalas...now you can wait to read about the sweet tea that Americans use to cool down their mouth, tongue, throat and stomach after a hearty meal of Indian food.

Just returned from a nice thanks giving weekend from West Palm Beach and have to many things to think about. Don't get me wrong, I am fine. Just meeting new people and driving 700 miles opened my eyes to other important matters in life. This also makes me not so interested in writing about sweet tea though I had sweet tea with almost every single meal I had in restaurants and I quite enjoyed it. For more information about sweet tea please visit "History" and "The Wikipedia definition"

Southerners swear by their sweet tea and the Yankees have no ideas about it. My good friend while driving down from Chicago found sweet tea an alien concept till he entered the borders of Kentucky.

I will just be happy with my Limbu-Pani (freshly squeezed lemonade) and if I had my way, would have it at every Mc Donalds, Moes, Sticky Fingers and Outbacks. So, you all southerners, limbu-pani is what we Indians drink.

For the record, the best limbu-pani that I have ever had was the Rs. 2.50 full glass after the Rs. 5/- "Vada Pav" from Kunj Vihar outside the Thane Railway Station. This worked out perfect as it saved me just enough bus fare to go home. A Rs. 10 well spent. I would give the world to have those days back.

How the Indian Masala is perceived in The-Land-of-Opportunities!

Cilantro (Dhania) is to Sven what Parmesan is to me. I can’t stand the taste and hate the smell. Only that I can not escape Parmesan because every American person true to his country bathes his pizza with parmesan while all Sven has to do is stay away from the Indian Restaurant. So, he hates cilantro but fears “Masala”.

Now, I don’t meant to pick on you Sven, and if you are reading this, no apologies as always. It is perceived here, in America, that Masala is a spice. It is referred to more as a proper noun than a collective noun. I tried at first, that the Chicken Handi Masala has a blend of many different spices that add more to flavour and aroma than anything else. The hotness is from something else. That scared them even more. The word “Curry” shares a similar status (not the scary part, just the collective noun part) in London’s Brick Lane but we will talk about that some other day.

Realising the popularity of the word “Masala”, I set out on a venture to the local Indian Store, the House of Spices. Indian stores and restaurants are mostly called one of three: Taste of India, India Gate, Taj India. This one is an exception to the rule, but the difference stop at that. Everything inside is the same, including the absurd prices. A packet of 12 kachoris - $2.99 (Rs. 134/-); Mothers Recipe mango pickle - $3.99(Rs. 179.55); Parampara Masala packet of Egg Curry - $3.99(Rs. 179.55) and so on. So, I look for all the items displayed and pretty much everything has Masala written on it. The khakra, frozen parathas probably send on their cryogenic journey years before they can see a tawa, the pickles, everything.

Now, if my friends happen to venture into this store, they see masala-this and masala-that, they will think all Indian food is masala. This implies that Indian food is no longer the subtle art of blending spices with carefully chopped and marinated food items coupled with a balanced diet. It is a spicy blend of Masala that will get you running for the super-bowl, if you know what I mean ;-). This is true to an extent. In the Indian restaurants, you will find food that you normally find in restaurants in India: Tikka Masalas, Biriyanis and Koftas. The food that makes Indian culture, that we grow up on, the Shukto, Aalu Bhate, Dal Tadka, aalu bhaja, Saguti Wade, pomfret fry and finish everything off with kokam kadi is not available in restaurants. Southern American cuisine, however, is available in restaurants just like they are at home. Of course, they lack the Mother’s touch, but they are at least available.

I wish the local Indian restaurant would serve shukto and saguti wade. That’s the Masala I want. That will be a good portrayal of the Indian Culture. For the time being, I settle for Cajun stuff and country fried chicken. That is a good southern American meal. Give me some pumpkin bread and butter with the country fried chicken and mashed potatoes and I will eat till my buttons pop out.

Most Indians do a mean thing when they come into this country; they think and believe that Americans have no culture. That is downright unfair. If you want to know a culture, start with the food. I believe culture influences food to a great extent and if you start with the food, not only will you have a good time, but will also find a culture that you didn’t think existed.