Nostalgia and Food for thought

Today is one of those days: there's a promise of Rain outside the window. The Wind blows and seems to be in a hurry to blot out the persistent Sun that streaks through the gathering clouds, shining on laundry I have bravely left out to dry. I fix one beady eye at the Heavens, and am ready to dash out and rescue the linens when the deluge beigns in it's slow, sneaky pitter-patter. For now, Moaning Myrtle moans and wails through the windows.

I like.

I love.

Rain and me go together.

Guess it comes from years and years in Lonavla where it  poured incessantly from June to Spetember. The rains were not a fine drizzle, more of a roar, really. We just learned to live with the wet: wet clothes, rubber chappals, wet dogs, coals fires, no electricity, mist, cold and waterfalls. We would walk in the rain, sloshing through puddles, cycling through ponds, marvelling at the green carpets and pretty wildflowers that would spring up and dot the countryside.

We would venture into Monsoon Lake to fish, or spend hours playing indoor Table Tennis at the Fariyas Hotel or the old Vrindavan clubhouse. Or we would play videogames. Before PSP and XBox, we had Atari. We would get finger cramps from playing the brilliant Maze Craze. And there was always Badminton at the Railway Institute.

Monsoon Lake was a reservoir of the Tata Electric Co. It would be so depleted and dry in May that there would be melas and cricket matches on the dry lake bed. Come the Rain, and it would steadily fill up and even overflow occasionally.
Every day we would walk to the Lake. In later years, this became the local Promenade. But mostly, we were alone. We would picnic everyday or just walk the Dam in the mist. I would often stand on the broad wall, peering down into the murky depths of the lake, and romanticize about  Johanna Lindsey heroines.  I would instantly be there, standing on the edge of an imagined Scottish loch, the wind whipping my tresses and howling in my ears as I serched the depths for my future: so green and lush was my little world. 
We would avoid the Bushir Dam area on weekends when we locals went into lockdown. Every Friday-Saturday-Sunday, Lonavla and Khandala would be invaded by thousands of crazy Bombayites and other tourists in their ganjis and chaddis. They would sit with their bottles of booze or hot bhuttas on the steps of the overflowing dam. Eve teasers were regularly beaten up, cops crawled the area, people slid down rocky waterfalls. We would stock up with bread and eggs and milk and not venture out till Monday. Almost all the time, we had to endure weekend visitors, the farthest of acquaintances, the most distant, vague connections. People would drop in to say hello. Hello? We didn't even know many of them!

As I grew up, the Rains were not so much about trudging to the Convent school through puddles, in our raincoats, but about holidays. When we shifted school to DC in Khandala, the rains would disrupt life  badly. School was perched on the edge of the ghat, by the highway. Massive traffic jams that stretched for miles due to some mishap on the ghats would leave us stranded on the very edge. No vehicles could get through. We usually walked the 5km home to Lonavla. Those were fun mornings. If the local bus that ferried most of the teachers from Lonavla was stuck in  a jam, we had the mornings off!

The Rains aren't so romantic anymore. Now it's about floods in Bombay and the Expressway has meant that a whole generation of DC School kids wont have absent teachers on a rainy day.

Here's a recipe for Mummy's Southern Fried Chicken, the very same that saw us through many wet picnics by the Lake and drives up to Ambavane ( now more fashionably known as Aamby Valley) Best had with lashings of ketchup and pau smothered in butter. Best accompanied by garam coffee or chilled ThumsUp. Bhutta to accompany, freshly roasted in the rai. Beer always works with this one!

Mom's Southern Fried Chicken

Wash big pieces of chicken well, pat absolutely dry. Make sure you buy the most tender, soft chicken you can.

Make big incisions with a knife and rub salt into the meat. Poach in boiling water until nearly done. Do not over boil or it will become rubbery! When fully cooled, apply ginger-garlic paste, pepper and some salt, all over the meat. Marinate thus for several hours. 

In a deep kadhai, heat the oil.

Gently beat an egg with 1 tbsp water. Roll chicken pieces in it, shake off excess. Roll in breadcrumbs till well-coated.

Deep fry in really hot oil, one big piece at a time. Test doneness with  a fork ( juices should run clear).

Sunday Lunch

Day 7, AC: Today I cooked.

First, I gave Ale Kitchen Duty for Breakfast. She fed the men omlettes.

Actually, I have to cook.... Sunday lunch, plus chef cousin's birthday chez nous. Now this cousin, he's a real, live Chef, from a real famous culinary school. Yep, the CIA no less. So I just HAVE to roll up my sleeves and cook for the man who maks some of the best meals I have ever eaten (at his restaurant in Goa, Sublime).

I decide to follow Blogspotter Genesia Alves' (Love in the kitchen,laughter at the table)recipe for 'Scarborough Chicken'. It seems so simple and so summery!


Will it impress Chris?

I take a deep breath and get to work.

GENESIA'S SCARBOROUGH CHICKEN

First I wash 4 chicken breasts. I have left them whole with the bone and the skin.

Then I use my lovely stone mortar and pestle, a gift from Super Goddess Lola Khambatta, to crush some cloves of garlic, and sprigs of good organic Green Tokri flat leaf parsley, some thyme, rosemary, sage, oregano. I bruise them gently and inhale their fresh scent. I lovingly add salt and the juice of 3 limboos, borrowed from Shabari, the Lovely Neighbour. I leave them to marinade in the fridge for over an hour, while I make the Potato Salad ( summer means heaps of Kartoffel Salad, recipe below).

Here Chris points out that the chicken breasts are rather plump. They will never cook in a frying pan.He explains how I could otherwise butterfly them so they pan fry faster. He comes to show me how to debone them, but spying my impressive griddle pan, he expertly suggests that I use it with some remaining bacon fat to just sear the breasts, 2 at a time, and seal the juices in. I should then pop them all into a hot oven for 30 minutes. Sounds easy!

I do just that, even remembering to deglaze the pan and thereby basting the chicken in all the herby bits, the bacon fat and chicken juices. It smells divine and 30 minutes in the oven later, voila!

The chicken is tender, juicy and moist. It's flavour is delicate and is well paired with the Potato Salad and another of lettuce with tomato and avocado. I sip a large glass of ice with water, squirted lime and mint leaves. Aaaah!

Bet you Carmeline can't beat this!

RECIPE FOR MY POTATO SALAD:

Boil baby potatoes ( well scrubbed with their skins on) till tender but not over cooked.
Finely chop an onion, some parsley, celery.
DIce one cripst Granny Smith Apple.
Whip the mayonnaise ( I confess I havent mastered making mayo yet, so I used Karen's Mayonnaise) and add some salt and pepper. Add a good dollop of Dijon mustard to taste, beating them well together.
Fry some bacon crisp and cut into bits with kitchen scissors.

Assemble the potatoes, apple, onion, greens and season. Squirt some freshly squeezed lime. Toss well. Pour the mayo over and let it coat the salad lightly. Dont drown the salad in the mayo. Top with the bacon bits.
Enjoy!

I've discovered one thing: it's not Hestia I need to become, but Nigella. THE Domestic Goddess. The one and only Domestic Goddess who has career, husband, family and fame all in the palm of her hand ( the other has a whisk or a spatula or a knife...)