Traditionally untraditional - Part I

tradition

/trəˈdɪʃ(ə)n/

noun

1. the transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the fact of being passed on in this way.

2. an artistic or literary method or style established by an artist, writer, or movement, and subsequently followed by others.

It is that time of the year. The silly season. The season for giving and receiving. The season for celebration and most of the time well mannered, frivolity. It is also the only time of the year really when indulging in excesses is not only appreciated but encouraged. However, it is also that time of the year when traditions whether it be family, social, cultural, are put to the forefront, displayed and observed with vehement fervour and sometimes, with autocratic tendencies. It would seem surprising then to note that in spite of the generous and accepting demeanour of the season, there are more disagreements and arguments, fall outs amongst partners, families and in the extreme case, leading to breakups that occur during this time of the year than any other time of the year. What could be the cause that would mar such a jovial and frivolous season with one that would be reminded of heart break, sadness and indifference? I am sure there are various reasons but for the purpose of this post I shall confine it to one. The answer, tradition and in particular traditions around food. So, over the next two posts, I am going to discuss and share my views on this topic and encourage you to do the same.

Now before I go on any further, I want to make it clear that I am in no way an anarchist who is going to spend the next few paragraphs justifying why it is expected to rebel against the norm.  Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I love tradition. I love the concept, rituals and the nuances of tradition. The only difference is I do not see tradition as hierarchical and closed, moving top to bottom with no provision for adaptation and/or the new. To me tradition is not just the transmission of customs and beliefs from generation to generation but, also across and most importantly, an organic process. It is in no way a closed book reminiscent of a tomb resigned for the history books. Rather, one that is living and dynamic. Tradition is what tradition does and especially traditions around food and eating. 

Still there? Good. Let’s start. If I had to range a guess for one of the top three contenders leading to disagreements and arguments and full blown hysterics, I can safely punt the tradition of food as definitely being right up there on the top. Mid way through November as the holiday decorations start appearing on street and in shops, families all around the world end up at one point or the other asking the question. What to eat this year? Why? Why not this instead of that? But that is not what we do? Just some of the incubating questions that trigger the domino effect ending with the penultimate statement, “but that is not traditional for me/us/here”. Even if they know what they will be having that year for the holiday meal, the question is still asked nonetheless. 

What then is traditional food for the holidays and especially over Christmas? What is it that makes food such a contentious and provocative subject during the holidays? Simply answered, because it is food. It is the one thing that captures, incites and stirs emotion so strong amongst us and, a lot of our fondest memories tend to revolve or include aspects around food. Think about it. Think of some of your fondest memories and you will find that food in some form or the other was associated with it. A particular aroma, flavour or colour that instantly transports you back to that particular moment in memory. How many times has the sweet smell of cinnamon or the seductive smell of vanilla wafting through the air instantly took you back to your mother making the holiday pudding or baking cookies? A particular moment in day leading up to the big event when the family participated in a holiday ritual whether it be stirring the pudding, helping bake the Christmas cookies or just going out shopping for the holiday meal. 

As you grow up, you always revert back to those innate rituals subconsciously if not acknowledge them as being your tradition. You forget and miss a particular date leading up to Christmas for example and there is slight regret for not having done what you have always done as a kid. No wonder when it comes to the traditions around holiday food, it tends to be a contentious topic. It is because of, if not only for those nostalgic memories associated with those food traditions. Now if this was not enough, throw in contemporary and popular traditions as portrayed by media and society of the time and you have a true Roly-Poly.

What if you move away from the place your grew up or spent most of your holidays and find yourself in a new city, maybe in the same country, or in a totally different country? What does this mean when you are in a new relationship with your other half or even well into your relationship and just looking for something different than the norm during the holiday season? What if your other half is from a totally different cultural background let alone region. What do they eat for the holidays? How do they celebrate the holidays? What are some of their rituals? Will they accept my traditions? Should I adopt theirs or do they adopt mine? How does one navigate this potential minefield without having to disappoint or discount each others traditions?

In the next post I shall share a bit more about my own experiences and subsequently my take on what I feel helped me navigate through the food traditions and adaptations in a new environment. So, what worked or did not work for you? I look forward to reading your views, experiences and understandings of tradition especially around the food, rituals of the holidays.

Mise en place – the inceptions of food appreciation

Growing up in a typical Bengali household, food preparation was the domain of the women. Ma (Bengali for mum) would be the captain in the kitchen followed by the maid, whose jobs amongst other things would be assisting in the preparation and cooking of meals.  Even more so with women joining the workforce, these ladies played an indispensable role in the Bengali households and the daily management of it and more often than not became an extended part of the family.  My parents had such a lady perhaps the same age as ma at that time and we lovingly addressed her as ‘pishi’ (Bengali for paternal aunt). To this day she still runs the weekly kitchen and looks after the house and over the years become a real pishi to me. Papa, a brilliant cook in his own right, would sometimes cook as well. Sometimes the Sunday lunch and sometimes during holidays, I looked forward to when he would cook the meals as the tastes and smells were very different from the ones I was accustomed to on a daily basis.

However, I cannot say that either of them were the reasons or the cause of my obsession with food. I believe the seed of my food obsession and appreciation was sown, not by a person per se, but more so an occasion that would happen in my father’s factory twice every year that I first remember seeing as a kid not older than eight years old. I have only witnessed one of these feasts from start to finish as most of the other times, it would happen on a school day and luckily this one time, it coincided with the school holidays. Papa, another foodie that he is, and a good boss that his workers said he was, would twice a year, put on a feast for them in the factory. He would cook the meal himself in a way to show thanks and appreciation for their hard work and efforts for the company. These ‘feasts’  or ‘feasty’ as the workers would call them, were eagerly looked forward to as it gave them a time to relax, enjoy and let their hair down for a few hours and envied by the workers from the surrounding factories. Our factory was a very unusual one in regards to the design and layout of it. You would not conjure images of food when you hear an engineering factory but sometimes now I think that the person who designed it must have been a foodie as well. Where else would you find an engineering factory with a backyard with at least three varieties of mango trees, a few guava trees, endless banana plants, a ‘jamrul’ tree (wax apples) and a small pond teeming with ‘pona mach’ (fresh water fishes)? Papa also maintained a few chickens on the factory property, whose eggs the workers were allowed to eat for their meals and if enough, take some home for their families and during these feasts become an ingredient towards the dishes my father cooked.

The small pond that was in the property also contributed to the ingredients for these feasts as papa would get the workers to put down a net early in the morning to catch a few of these fishes so as to be ready by lunchtime for him to cook with them. The morning of the feast would be spent by papa in the market shopping for the remainder of the ingredients at the bazaar alongside the daily household shopping. You see, unlike the pre-packaged and fast food nation that we live in where supermarkets influence grocery shopping patterns, Bengalis, like the rest of India and the Chinese, French and Italian, shop for their ingredients for the kitchen on a daily basis every morning. If you couldn’t poke, prod, see and smell the ingredient before buying it, it wasn’t good enough. Shopping lists were not done based on what was cheap, but rather what was in season. You eat what is good, when is good and therefore cheap. Just like in real estate it’s about Location, Location, Location, to Bengalis when it comes to food, it’s about Ingredient, Ingredient, Ingredient.

Once all ingredients had been collected, he would head off to the factory to start prepping for the feast. By the time he was back, the fishes would have been pulled out from the pond by a few of the workers with nets, scaled, gutted, cleaned and cut into portions ready for papa to cook. The workers themselves knowing that it was ‘feast’ day and papa would be cooking, would often help him with the prep. Sometimes, they too contributed to the feast with vegetables or fruits that they had received from their family farms in their villages. Once in the factory, he would then go and pull out the plumpest chickens to cook with for the meal. Him and another worker would then dispatch it quickly and then go on with the process of plucking the feathers and dressing it for it to be cooked later. As a curious eight year old, I would sit next to the worker whom we addressed as ‘kaku’ (uncle) ready to ask questions racing through my head to satisfy my inquisitive mind. You couldn’t get a chicken fresher than that and more so taste the way you want to as you knew exactly what it ate, how it lived and grew up until the day it was killed to be eaten.

The ‘feast’ itself wasn’t an opulent affair in its character unlike what the name would suggest. It was simple but nonetheless delicious and more importantly, cooked home style and a feast for everyone. The meal would consist of a meat dish, a fish dish, a vegetable or lentil dish, rice and/or rotis and a simple salad of red onions, cucumbers and tomatoes served with lime and whole green chillies. Dessert would likely be ‘roshogolla’ from the sweet shop or any other sweet that was good and recommended by the shop keeper that day. Onion, garlic and ginger peeled and sliced ready to be ground on the ‘sheel-bata’ (mortar and pestle) to make their respective pastes to make the gravy bases. Black peppercorns, dried chillies, cinnamon sticks, cardamoms and other dried spices depending on how papa wanted his curries to be, being roasted in the ‘korai’ (wok) to be ground up later to make the ‘garam masala’. Tomatoes and coriander leaves being chopped, potatoes being peeled and cut into portions, vegetables being prepped, the fish steaks being marinated in turmeric and salt, the factory floor was a hive of activity all in preparation of the feast. Instead of hot iron, machine oil, and other industrial smells, you were cajoled with smells of cinnamon and cardamom being gently sautéed in mustard oil with other fragrant spices. 

As the dishes started being cooked, their own delicious aromas wafted through the air tantalising the senses and increasing appetites. The smell of garlic and ginger being sautéed in mustard oil in one ‘korai’ while the other one had sliced red onions being gently fried till they are golden and caramelised awaiting their next stage in the preparation. Yet more than the preparation itself, what I remember is the convivial atmosphere within the factory at that time. The absence of any power distance hierarchies established from their daily jobs. Instead the presence of a communal environment where everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time, laughing, joking and just enjoying each other’s company all while cooking a meal is what I remember the most. Papa having no problems in taking orders from the gatekeeper on how long to toast the spices to make sure the spices would be still be fragrant but not bitter, the foreman being told by the peon on the correct ratio of turmeric to salt to apply on the fish steaks to make sure that it is not overtly salty and dry out the fish while gently flavouring the fish.  Food acting as the equaliser between employer and employee, boss and worker is what impressed with me the most. The notion that irrespective of your status, beliefs and predispositions, over food, you were all but the same – people, hungry no doubt, but just people.

As the afternoon turned into evening and the dishes all cooked one by one, the anticipation and excitement of digging in to the meal at the end reached its crescendo and yet the constant still was the whole nature of interaction between everyone. I do not recall much of how the meal tasted, but have no doubt it must have been mouthwateringly delicious  as there were no leftovers in spite of the workers speculating  that there would be enough for lunch next day. I remember sitting next to a ‘kaku’, enjoying the meal after witnessing the theatrical and vibrant production of it, blissfully unaware that what I just experienced would eventually define and build my beliefs towards food and its impact on people and society in general. I can’t remember much after the meal only to wake up the next day in my bed excited to recount the entire story to ma on how the day went and how it was a huge success. Papa later said I had dosed off while they all did the dishes and missed out dessert which they had later. I didn’t feel that bad on missing out on dessert which is unusual given my sweet tooth, because I was still excited about the lead up to the whole meal.

Later on growing up, I would spend a lot more days in the factory over weekends and holidays, but that particular day in the factory and being able to share it with the kaku’s and papa and whoever else was there and being a part of that meal from start to finish left a long lasting impression. It was an early lesson on the humbleness and modesties of life and a very powerful lesson on the impact of food on people and its effect on relationships, whether it be, creating, maintaining or destroying it in some cases. 

Coming up...

In no particular order

• Bengali
• Italian
• Japanese
• Mexican
• Chinese
• Spanish
• French
• English

4 seasons in a day....so you say? Part I

A whole corn on the cob, carefully undressed from its lime green robe, one robe at time to reveal the glistening yellow kernels like little sapphires, gently grilled on a charcoal fire till it pops and then rubbed with lime juice and biit noon, served to you instantly to be consumed right there and then; that was all I could think of as I walked past the sweet corn station in the supermarket. The sight of the corn on the cob instantly brought back hauntingly delicious memories of gastronomic delights of years past. That familiar but distant smell of corn being grilled and then to hear it pop, and instantly infused with the charcoal smell filled my head and it was enough for me to reactively grab a few into my trolley. 

The eager anticipation of the change of seasons, for example, from summer to autumn. Waiting to sample your first bhutta (sweet corn) when you went out with your parents on a Sunday evening to Victoria Memorial and after you had a turn on riding the colts for a few rounds on the vast expanse of the gardens,  a treat of sorts. Growing up, the transition to autumn was signalled by the sudden influx of numerous road side vendors all vying for the same custom with a product they all thought was singularly theirs. More tangibly, it was when coming back from school in the late evening after extra academic credit classes, you would see a few corn cobs in the kitchen pantry that papa would have got from the markets on his way back from work. You knew, you just knew, all you wanted then was a grilled corn on the cob. 

The change of seasons while traditionally marked with changes in weather and customs, to me, surprisingly enough - not, was all about what I was going to eat then. Some how without realising it, you knew the seasons had transitioned by what papa bought from the markets at that time. You were eating lichees, the obiquitous tormuj, jamun, peyaras, kathals, taal (the young palm fruit) in plenty and then all of sudden their quantities in the daily shopping bag reduced drastically (thanks to golden prices) and replaced by the early oranges, apples, plums and pears. While initially, it was disheartening as it meant, it was a whole year until they re-appeared, but it was tinged with a slight sense of anticipation with what the new season brought in tow.


So, fast forward to the present with the perennial availability of fruits, veggies, meat, fish etc, you no wonder tend to muddle everything up into one. With no clear distinction in availability or seasonality, you tend to forget the tastes and smells that you would have normally associated when you were a kid. Not surprising is it then that most adults when asked what they miss the most, tend to recollect food related moments from the years past as being the most distinct or impressed memories from the yesteryears and the ones they would recreate most. Is, dare I say, convenience to blame or is it just a general apathy that has taken over us when it comes to matters related to food. I do not intend to focus this post towards the currently hip, and misunderstood, seasonal bashing, but it is about trying to make sense as to when, even I, a person who for the first 18 years was tuned to the seasonal fluctuations of food as if it was not just second nature but, just what you did, to someone who gets irritated, first when in the middle of winters why there aren't any tomatoes available and then secondly, complain why they taste like cardboard. not to mention, the ensuing complaints of the increasing prices of food. 


Have we become so bereft of being patient to drive us to a point where it always has to be a case of sunshine and lilies and everything silly? Has it always got to be a land of milk and honey? I wonder...

Belly-Belly Happy

Belly-good: Why India loves it paunch. That, was the name of a recent article published on CNNGo who were trying to get a grip on India's relationship with midriff rotundity. Albeit it was done through pictures and, it actually focussed on the human paunch, it did give me an idea for my current post. Everybody loves a good belly. People worship gods with bellies eg. Buddha, Ganesha and, a well endowed belly is meant to signal prosperity and wealth. Heck, they all like my pot belly too, so that must be something. I like bellies too but, not the six pack kind, no way. 


It is no secret my love for anything porky or pork related. Even more so, a celestial reaffirmation when you realise that my Chinese Zodiac sign is the Pig. It's almost as if it was just meant to be. A love-affair so strong and deep that even the zodiacs aligned to confirm it. 

To me, the perfect cut of the pork resides within the belly. Pure happiness. The origin of bacon, crackling, numerous braised pork dishes, rolls, did I mention bacon and for these financially conscious times, real good value for money. If there is any cut of meat that is always stacked in my freezer, its the humble belly. Nothing says comfort food to me, or at least one of them at least, like a nice roasted pork belly. The soft almost melting meat with its heavenly taste that seems like bacon on steroids, but more so, the crisp crackled skin. Mmmmm, the crunch and crackle when you first bite into a piece of crackling is music to any pork aficionado's ears. Sweeter than any Bach or Mozart composition and definitely tastier that any sheet music. 


So, on a balmy autumn Friday, I said to myself, Rohit, time to rekindle your romance with the belly - pork belly. To me, a perfectly roasted belly of pork has to be moist to the point, the meat flakes off without any effort while the skin on top is at its crackalicious best. Two different textures and sensations within the same cut of meat? Impossible you'd think. In fact, the curse of many a cook is trying to find the perfect harmony where both are achieved without any compromises. But, with a few simple steps, pork belly or more importantly, crackling nirvana can be achieved. 


Firstly, the belly itself. For heavens sake, if you are worried about calories and fat and all the gibberish, then I suggest you cook something else. There is nothing called a lean pig. that is a crime against nature. Its akin to creating a midget giraffe because you couldn't bear to have it so tall. Pigs are meant to be fat and that is it. The end! But back to the belly, the belly has to be have a nice layer of fat. If you want the first secret of a moist belly of pork, this is it. The thickness of the layer of fat in between the skin and meat is the difference between getting a dry or moist roast. You need a good layer of fat.   Next, your meat has to be room temperature. If it's been in the fridge make sure you take it out well in advance to bring it back up to temperature, oh and the skin needs to be dry. Wet skin and you aint gonna have crackling. Wiped it dry? good, now sprinkle a bit salt and pepper and that's your crackling ready to crackle in the oven. Some say you need a bit of oil to rub on to the skin, but I say if you have a good enough cut of meat, you don't need any. 


Oh, while you're doing all that, make sure you have switched your oven on and cranked it up to 200C, gas mark 4. You need the high temperature for the first half hour sizzle. Back to the belleh. Anything from now is optional and totally personal, but this is when I usually cut up a few red onions in half and halve and entire bulb of garlic, halved fennel, bay leaf and add it to the roasting dish with the belly. You can put pretty much any seasoning you fancy. Like Rick Stein said, "a recipe should be like a tune to which you can sing". There is no right way or wrong way, just your way and different other ways. So don't get stressed and follow everything to the T.  


Well anyway, by now the oven should be primed and ready for action. Put your belly in and the last trick, put a bit of water into the tray. How much? Enough so it doesn't dry out, but, not much so everything is submerged. The idea is the water in the tray will create steam and not only stop the belly from burning, but keep the meat moist. That my dears, is the secret to perfect moist meat. Plus, when you are done, you have instant gravy/jus/sauce, whatever you call it, with all the porky infusions. So leave it for half and hour and then turn the temperature down to 150C and cook it for 15min for every 500gms.  Just make sure the water never dries out and for the last 15min cycle, turn the temperature up to 180C so the skin crackles up. If at the end of the cooking time, its not fully crackled, just crank the oven a bit more and leave it in there keeping a constant check to make sure you don't burn it. All up my belly took 1.5hours and it came out all cracklingy and moist. 

Take it out and leave the meat to rest for a good 10-15 mins. DO NOT attempt to cut the meat straight away or else you are nothing but a fool. The meat needs to rest, so that all the juices go back in to meat and its relaxed. So take it out, leave it on the bench and forget about it. Perfect time, to make the glaze for the pork. See, easy way to keep you busy and distracted from hacking into that piece of deliciousness. Take a small pot/pan whatever, put in some coriander seeds, star anise and some fennel seeds. Dry roast them for a bit and then just bash them up gently to release the flavours. Then add some honey into the dry spice mix and let it infuse on a low heat for 5-7mins. Take it off the heat and you are ready for the final step.

Take the meat out of the tray and put it on a serving dish. Take the aromatic glaze and brush it all over the crackling. Arrange the roasted veggies that were on the side of the roast as they would have caramelised to perfection. Drain the gravy from the tray to a bowl/gravy boat. If you have any of the glaze left over, add a teaspoon of it and check for seasoning. If it needs a bit of salt, add a bit of salt, a bit of pepper, put some in, your choice. Taste it as you go. Then slice the belly into chunky portion, no wafer thin slices please. You should have got on with the program by now?! Put it on the table, unleash your hungry diners and then just listen to the pin drop silence in the room only to be interspersed with the harmony of crackling. 


Belly-Belly Happy.

Natale Italiano - the start to a wonderful tradition

The 2011 Christmas menu. This year's theme: Italian - ish. Took me two months to plan and source the ingredients, but it is finally done and finalised. 18 more days till the big day, but we all know, the feasting has already begun. 

Kina-nice

My love affair with this echinoderm (that is the proper taxonomic name) started way back in 2004 when I tasted it for the first time.  I had known of the sea urchin or kina as the local Māori call it here in New Zealand, for a while, but I never had the pleasure of trying one. In fact, back then, I did not even know that these things were edible! Oh how naive and ignorant I was. More so to think that I was missing out on what I now consider as one of the tastiest naturally occurring foods out there.

The initial looks of this echinoderm does not do it proper justice when you think of the heavenly delight that it holds within itself. It is brown, spiny and in no way looks appetising in any sense. Yet once you crack into it, those fat glistening orange roes that stare out at you, bring an appreciative tear to all connoisseurs of this heavenly roe and leave their mouths watering eager to savour the roe in all its delicious glory. Yes, I do say connoisseurs as the taste of this roe is definitely something that is acquired and is not everyone’s cup of tea. I have seen people that swear by it and the first thing they devour if presented on a seafood platter or just amongst other shell fish.  While there are those that stay as far as possible from it and would rather starve than eat this roe if it was the last thing available to eat. Such is the relationship between the kina and its purveyors that it can either leave you addicted in its delicious embrace or repel in its hideous appearance.

I would rather not bore you with the taxonomy, physiology or the anatomy of the kina and would suggest you Google it instead and read it in your own leisure. I however, will visually delight you about the delicious qualities and nature of the kina. Well, at least in the context of my trip to Santiago, Chile. Prior to coming to Santiago, I had in my mind to try out the erizo after reading about it and especially to find out if there were any major differences in taste between its sisters.  The Chilean sea urchin, erizo in Spanish is a sister of the New Zealand kina.  While they are not the same, they are of the same family and are equally delicious in nature.

So 48 hours after I landed in Santiago and after satisfying all other social commitments i.e. the wedding, I was free to go forth and indulge in some serious two fisted gorging. Given that Chile is renowned for its seafood; there was only one way I was going to get myself a proper sample – the fish market. First on my list – erizo and where better to sample one than the Mercado Central; Santiago’s very own seafood market. The signs couldn’t have been more ominous. Walking into the market, and at the first seafood vendor I see, these little beauties lay arranged on the counter in a way that could only be described as flirting visually, enticing you to come and try it and remain mesmerised in the thought that you had just consumed seafood mana. 

My mind at this point was on the verge of serious overload anticipating the kina and behaviour that could only be likened to an addict waiting to get another hit. What happens next is exactly what happened to me in that market. I let my senses take over rather than the brain and let it guide me through the experience.

A picture speaks a thousand words the saying goes and I finally found this to be true to the last letter. See, Enjoy, Revel. I know I did and I can confirm, the love affair still continues…