The Meal of a Lifetime

This post is in honor of my cousin, Pramodan Marathe who was born the same year as me and has the same smiling eyes as his father, my uncle Padmakar.

Brothers & Cousins

L to R, back row: Sudhakar (my father) with my brother, Sameer; Shrikant with Mukund; Padmakar with Sudarshan

Middle row: Pramodan

L to R, front row: Ashwini, me, Madhuri, Niranjan

I cooked the most meaningful meal of my career as a chef on November 21, 2013. Sometimes it takes time and distance to have a realization of this magnitude, to look back on an event and swallow and digest its significance. But this time, there was instant gratification. Since 2007 I have cooked for clients who are mostly people like me, foodies who want to explore interesting and delicious food. My catering business has led to all kinds of adventures. 

I’ve cooked in kitchens that have been featured in architectural magazines and I’ve cooked under unusual or tough circumstances, even building an impromptu kitchen where none existed. Living in Los Angeles, I’ve cooked for my fair share of celebrities too: Tim Olyphant, Judge Alex Kuzinski, Martha de Laurentiis. This spring, even Steven Page, lead singer of The Bare Naked Ladies came to dinner at my house, documenting an Un-Curry pop up for his new show, The Illegal Eater. 

Toni moved me like no other has. 

The Saturday before the job, I had received email from a man asking about Un-Curry’s catering services. Gary wrote that his girlfriend, Toni was turning 61 on Wednesday and had requested Indian food for a small dinner party. Toni has ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis) or what is known in the USA as Lou Gehrig’s Disease after the legendary baseball player who suffered from it. In the rest of the world the disorder is known as MND (Motor Neuron Disorder). 

Toni had just had surgery to put in a feeding tube and she would not be able to eat solid food for much longer. Gary wanted to make her birthday dinner a meal she would always remember. I responded right away, saying I would love to cook for her. I was moved by the request and it hit closer to home than I would have liked. “Let’s talk tomorrow,” I suggested to Gary. 

Sure enough he called on Sunday and had the speaker on so Toni could hear me. I heard her trying to call out hello. “Hi Toni,” I replied, “I’m happy to meet you.” Gary gave me a list of dishes she wanted at her birthday dinner. He also asked if I could come in a little early that day and teach him how to cook some of them so he could make them again on his own. “I looked up several Indian caterers but I liked your story best,” he said. “I didn’t even bother calling anyone else after that. Just you.”

Gary and Toni’s menu was full of Indian restaurant favorites, read North Indian dishes like tandoori chicken and paneer (farmers’ cheese); saag paneer (braised, spiced spinach with farmer’s cheese), choley (stewed chickpeas), naan (tandoor-baked bread), pulao (spiced rice), sautéed potatoes, dal (spiced lentils) and cucumber raita, the very dishes I don’t usually cook because Indian restaurants make them well enough and because my goal at Un-Curry is to introduce Southern Californians to the regional richness that is India: food from places that are usually not represented in Indian restaurants anywhere. 

In initial conversations with prospective clients, I usually suggest some of my specialties. They are likely not to have heard about them before: tomato-coconut soup; carrot slaw with mustard seed and curry leaves; pomegranate lamb; coconut-jaggery custard, but my clients have never been disappointed. I also create menus tailored to their tastes and the occasion. If they are of Indian extraction or traveling to India, I offer menu suggestions based on their region of origin or travel destination. This time, however, I was silent, simply noting down what Gary requested. “Sure, I can make everything you want,” I said. This was not a time for debate, this was not a party to be fretted over by client and caterer. I just needed to make what Toni was familiar with and what she was craving. “I want to give you a meal you will enjoy and remember,” I told Gary. “And may I bake Toni a cake?” 

We emailed back and forth a few times over the next two days to discuss time, locations, address, etc. We agreed that I should prepare most of the food at my kitchen and bring the ingredients for potatoes, pulao and raita to Gary and Toni’s home for a brief lesson. In one email, I wrote that I was honored to cook for Toni and that the job was particularly poignant because I was grappling with the latest news I had received about one of my cousins. Pramodan is just a few months older than me and was diagnosed with MND exactly one year ago. In the space of 12 months he has lost all mobility in his arms and legs and he can no longer speak. No one seems to know how long he will live like this. All that I know for sure is that there is no cure for this disease. My parents visited Pramodan recently and though his physical state was extremely painful for them to witness, they were staggered by his cheerful outlook on life and the constant and loving care his uncomplaining wife gave him. 

As I cooked all day Wednesday making sure the food was not too highly spiced, that all the ingredients would be as easy to chew, swallow, and digest as I could make them, and that there was flavor and love in every mouthful, I kept Toni and Pramodan in my heart. Palak paneer, check, choley, check. As I cooked, I wondered if my cousin’s father, my uncle Padmakar had also had undiagnosed ALS/MND and what prior knowledge of this could have done to help him and later, his son. Taking the soft, light, vanilla cake out of the oven, whipping fresh cream with rose essence for the frosting, I despaired over a disease that left your brain healthy while stopping your muscles from moving, trapping you in your own body. 

ALS patients go from being able to walk and run to having no movement whatsoever. There comes a time they cannot lift their arms or legs, scratch an itch, pick up a pen and write, feed themselves, touch their toes or touch a loved one. Finally they cannot swallow or breathe or have a heartbeat. ALS allows them to be spectators as it slowly destroys them. 

Cooking Toni’s birthday dinner moved me because it reinforced many notions I have held for a long time: that life is short and precious, that every moment is meant to be lived to its fullest. Toni taught me that you could do everything right, as she did, eat vegetarian and healthy; be fit, run marathons, even work as a personal trainer at a gym, and still end up with a debilitating disease which imprisoned an active mind, generous heart, and loving spirit inside a body that refused to do its brain’s bidding. 

It was an honor to meet her and see her enjoy my food. When we were leaving, I told her how much it had meant to me to cook for her. “I’m going to give you a kiss now,” I said, bending down to her cheek. She had tears in her eyes.

The day after the dinner party, Gary wrote: 

“Kaumudi,

First Toni was happy last night and happy again tonight tasting the wonderful flavors of the food you prepared. My fav and a great addition to our diet is your Raita…so good. Please reinforce to me that recipe. Our neighbors Marlene and Dr. Bruce were also delighted from what I could tell... Your food and discourse on regional Indian cooking was fascinating.”

Even more wonderful was a note that came from Toni the next day. She typed it on her Tobi:

“Thank you so much again. Gary echoed all thoughts and words i could say. Eating food is getting harder so eating delicious food keeps me motivated to keep eating. Please let your cousin know to reach out to me. Not many people can relate to what we go through having ALS. I want to help any way i can. 

With love and gratitude, toni” 

Two weeks later, Keya’s class started a unit on genetics in science class. Keya came home excited about her next assigned project. “We have to make a medical brochure about a genetic disease. ALS was not on the list the teacher handed out but I asked her if I could choose it because of Toni and your cousin and Stephan (her math tutor who is only 25), and she said yes. Could you please tell Toni about me so I can interview her?”

I connected her with Toni and although they have not yet had a chance to meet, she emailed her the questions she wanted to ask. “Keya, this will be a project for Toni,” I told her, “ a lot of hard work.” And indeed, Toni spent a day using her Tobi computer to write Keya an email about how she had been diagnosed with ALS and how it had made her feel. She sent my daughter a long email typed using her eyes to click on letters and words on her computer screen. It was a labor of love. 

Here is an excerpt from her letter as she wrote it (I have not changed capitalization or punctuation):

Keya

In looking back before my actual diagnosis, i had symptoms that i didn't realize were symptoms. It is said by experts that the disease begins before there are symptoms.

Yes the disease affects me mentaly and psychologicaly. I am often in dispair and feel numb. I am very sad that i have this disease. 

With this disease you need to prepare for the future because as you go through the stages you can do less for your self. 

I would also add to keep busy. I worked for 2 years after my diagnosis. Support groups work for some people but i did not do that. Read up on the latest research and try to get in to a clinical trial. Try to fundraise for the ALS support association's. They have fundraising walks. 

When Keya wrote to thank her, Toni replied: 

Hi keya, it was my pleasure. I am so happy that you chose me and ALS as your Assignment. Many people don't know about the disease so  any way we can raise awareness is wonderful! 

Have a wonderful holiday and i look forward to seeing you :-) love toni 

Last night, Keya finished her assignment. As she was putting it together, we talked about how the disease in its advanced stages affects the lungs and heart. “I hope that does not happen to Toni,” Keya said. “Or Stephan. Or your cousin.”

This morning as I drove Keya to school, my brother called to tell me that Pramodan has been admitted to the hospital. His lungs have collapsed and he has chest pain. Luckily his mother and brothers are with him, as are his wonderful and loving wife and son. 

Things always happen for a reason. 

Although I don’t know if we will meet again on this earth, Pampu, I am glad that we reconnected this month and that I have a better understanding of what you are going through, 10,000 miles away. I am in awe of your strength and courage and I see your dancing eyes and smiling face as they were the last time we met over a decade ago. 

I hope sharing yours and Toni’s story here brings more people an understanding of your fight and your victory over an incomprehensible and powerful foe.

Resources

ALS Association: www.alsa.org

Augie’s Quest:   http://augiesquest.org 

Tobi Computer Information: http://www.tobi-project.org

A GIFT FOR MOTHER'S DAY

As Mother's Day loomed, I pondered what to give my mother, Meera who is 10, 000 miles away and has just sold her 3-bedroom apartment to downsize and move with my father to his hometown of Poona, after 40-odd years of traveling the world.

For the foreseeable future, my parents will now be living in a one bedroom apartment which is too tiny to hold their possessions. They certainly don't need more books, furniture, computers, cameras, and the like. I am too far away to whisk her off to brunch, take her to the spa as my daughter took me today, or pick her a bouquet of wildflowers. So what could I give Mom that I had not already given her? 

And then suddenly last night, it struck me. I wondered why it had not occurred to me before. What should a writer give her mother? I have written about my friends, my grandparents, my daughter, my work, my food. But never have I sat down to write about the woman who gave me life, who has sustained me ever since, and at whose shared table I learned to love and cook and grow and give. Why? 

Being a mother myself now, I understand that it is because she is so embedded in my soul, my every pore, that she is inextricable from my self. I would have to dig out bits of me to write about her. And yet it seems like the worst negligence that, while I have dedicated a book to her, I have never really sat down and delved into my relationship with her at any length on paper. "OK," I thought. "I will write a blog post about her and post it on Mother's Day." 

A day later, I admitted this was easier said than done. Mom has always been my biggest admirer, my most ardent fan, my most vociferous supporter. In her eyes, Bunny can do no wrong. Do you know how empowering such love is? The more I live, the more deeply I understand the preciousness of her gift of unconditional love and the strength it has given me to glide through life's turbulent waters. The more I see broken or twisted relationships, the more I am filled with gratitude that she always treated me like a rational creature, worthy of respect and gave me the freedom to be independent, simultaneously shielding me gently from life's sorrows and harshnesses. Her cocoon gave me the time and space I needed to gain the maturity, courage and self-confidence required to handle the pressures of adult life. 

I don't believe in writer's block. But stalled I certainly was. For, the more I wracked my brain to recollect my first memories of my mother, the more distant and entangled they became. How could I write about her until I had done what I love to do as a journalist, get to the root of my subject?

The mother is the first remembrance any child must have, a sense of warmth in the womb, the sweetness of nursing at her breast, the sound of her voice cooing. I have to look at a photo like this one to "remember" all that.

Kaumudi with Meera, Poona, 1969

Perhaps this is because I am older and there are many years separating me from those memories now. Or is it because there are so many warm memories, they bounce around my head, saying, "Me, me, me first!"? Like the memory of Mom and a five year old me walking down to the end of Prabhat Road toward the bakery where she bought bread in those days. She would buy me my favorite treat, a cream horn, that I nibbled delicately all the way home. And, at a time and place where there was a limited selection of children's books in book shops, she still managed to bring home a new Enid Blyton story for me every so often, a special delight for  me.

Then there's the memory of her giving me some breast milk as she nursed my baby brother. I was jealous he was getting the good stuff so I got a squirt too. The thin, comforting sweetness stayed on my tongue till the moment I first nursed my daughter 30 years later.

Is it the sound of her saying my name, Bunny, a certain way that is my first consciousness of her? Is it the generosity with which she fed me, the patience with which she answered my questions? Or the way she wriggled and giggled when the toddler me slowly ran my fingers down her forearm in a rhythmic gesture that soothed me but tickled and tormented her.

My parents were only 23 when they had me. There were no parenting websites, no "What to Expect When You're Expecting" to guide them on their path. And yet they clearly had a vision of what they wanted to achieve as parents and how they wanted to do it. They must have made mistakes but we never knew about them. To us they were, and still remain, the most enlightened, broad minded, pro-active parents we have ever come across. They took the time to explain things to my brother and me, did the hard work of engaging us with conversations and books and soccer balls and funny songs and poems instead of plunking us down in front of TV sets or leaving us in the hands of ayahs.

We rode bicycles together to Gibbons Park, we swam at the University pool, we enjoyed Saturday Night at the Movies as a family, we baked apple pies, and we played Scrabble and Canasta in the living room, decades before the idea of Family Game Night gained popularity. 

Childhood is so fleeting, my mother believed in making it as delightful and memorable for us as she could. She played with us, laughed with us, entertained us. "Don't be in a hurry to grow up," she would say. "Enjoy being a child, you'll be grown up soon enough." If I craved sabudanyachi khichadi for breakfast, I only had to breathe the words and it appeared on the table, as if by magic. If I had a nightmare, I knew I could run from my room and leap into my parents' bed to be cuddled into comfortable slumber. And while Dad may not have been physically demonstrative, thanks to that Brahmanical upbringing, Mom was the most huggable mother. Her lap was always available for sitting on. I still sit on it when we are together, and she laughs indulgently and cuddles me. 

She sang us to sleep every night, everything from Trini Lopez' Lemon Tree and Bobby Darrin's Multiplication to Guru Dutt's Jaane Who Kaise, a song I now often find myself singing to Keya. 

Mom & Keya make cupcakes, Glendale, 2012

After the muddle of warm first memories, there are years and years  more of clear, wonderful ones. Our mother-daughter nights out in London, window shopping on a Thursday night, ending with hot chocolate and crisp chocolate wafers at the Woolworth's counter. Lying in bed, wriggling with laughter and excitement as Mom told us stories of her own precocious childhood. We stored up history and family lore through her, legends of cousins and second cousins and odd uncles and crazy aunts, for whom she came up with funny nicknames by which they are known to this day. We were rolling stones but she helped us grow roots that we learned to put down as and where needed. And we knew that wherever my brother, Sameer sailed, and whatever part of the world I lived in, we could, contrary to the old adage, always go home. 

Hard as it may be to believe, there was never a cross word, not once a sour look, no exclamation of exhaustion or impatience or condescension from Mom. Even if she disciplined us, it was always calmly. And if we had had a disagreement and I refused to back down or apologize, my mother would come forward and do so, showing me the meaning of generosity and forgiveness. She was always smiling. And she let us be children,  secure in our world, carefree, ignorant of the work and the pain and the stresses of an adulthood to come.

There is no card, no gift, not even this love letter, which can begin to thank Mom for everything she has given Sameer, Aditya and me. There can only be an acknowledgement of the riches we have received and a promise to be there for her when it is her turn to need us. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom, and thank you, thank you, thank you. 

I will always be here when you need me.

BEST FOOD MOMENTS OF 2011

2011 is a year I would rather not think about very much, if not actually forget. I don’t feel that way very often but I did last year. And yet there was a lot of wonderfulness about the year too: celebrating a decade of my daughter’s life; getting to Paris for the first time; being nominated for a cookbook award; making two trips to India in the space of six months, one of which was to research a piece for Saveur magazine! So, despite all the deaths and mishaps, I feel fortunate for all that I have and I also feel increasingly the need to make the most of every moment, every opportunity.

This is the time of year when writers begin to document the best of everything - movies, books, restaurants, sports. Food is, for me, inevitably connected to memory. I still remember with delight eating cream and sugar sandwiches at my grandfather’s home in Dehu Road. I was only four or five then but it was a happy time of innocence and love, and it always smells like sweet, fresh cream lifted off newly boiled milk.

So if I must stroll down the memory lane of my year, the most satisfying way to do it would be by recalling my favorite food, and therefore happy, moments. Now that I think about it, I can only even think of two, no wait three, oh, four, horrible food moments in my entire life. Let’s not go there, shall we?

I

For a New Year’s Day anniversary party, I cooked a kosher dinner for 40 people. My student JS is Jewish and had asked if I would cater her 25th anniversary party on January 1, 2011. Since she keeps a kosher kitchen where pans used for meat and dairy cannot be mixed, it was an exciting challenge, first to create an Indian menu that honored her religion and dietary rules, then to do some of the final cooking at her home, setting out the food in specially designated bowls and platters.

I enjoyed figuring out what Indian dishes I could make to suit her requirements and was even able to give her some Indian Jewish dishes, like Bene Israeli fish cutlets.

II

I had started my Indian pop up restaurant, The Un-Curry Table, the previous autumn and we decided to host a Marathi Wedding Feast on January 30. After having served Indian food plated Western style for months, I was itching to cook something traditional. I wanted to cook Marathi food just the way it should be made and serve it to Angelenos who had never eaten it before.

We served 70 diners a multi-course dinner on banana leaves, bringing food table-side the way it is at weddings in Maharashtra, with servers offering more rice, varan, squash-cashew sauce, potato bhaji, kheer, puris, loncha and koshimbir to a crowd that was amazed as much by the manner of service as by the food we served.

One guest could not stop talking about my tomato-onion raita. As simple as the dish is, she said she had never eaten any raita so good. That made my day. And the secret? Using milk instead of water to thin out the yogurt, blending it really smooth before adding in the vegetables, and balancing its tartness with a pinch of sugar.

Keya helped serve puris and made sure everyone got their fair share. A certain well known actor used to come to the pop ups and he was there that night. He asked her for another puri while she was still serving the first ones to other guests. Celebrity meant nothing to Keya. She honestly told him that she would come back to him when everyone else had gotten a puri too. When she did, he high-fived her for her fairness!

It was a huge treat for me to cook my favorite food for people in Los Angeles and the biggest thrill came when the LA Weekly published a story about the dinner that week. For a change, Indian food was not being equated with chicken tikka masala. The word Marathi popped out of the piece everywhere and that made me proud, not out of regionalistic zeal but because I was finally doing what I had long wanted to, sharing the beauty of my native cuisine with people outside Maharashtra.

III

On Valentine’s Day I had been asked to guest chef at Royal/T, a very cool and funky cafe-art space in Culver City. Inspired by the restaurant’s name, I designed a menu of Royal Indian recipes, helped greatly by Shalini Devi Holkar’s fabulous cookbook, The Cooking of the Maharajas. The four course menu included an appetizer plate for lovers to share and main courses like fried quail with shirin pulao, and succulent pomegranate lamb.

But the most memorable part of the night for me was working alongside trained staff, three line cooks and the head chef of Royal/T. Used to following a chef’s lead and skilled at their work, they worked with me all day and over the three hours of dinner service, as a well oiled machine, cranking out meat, fish, poultry, vegetarian dishes, and desserts, in perfect sync.

The kitchen may have been hot, the work tiring, the pace unrelenting but we did not feel it. We enjoyed ourselves, working together calmly, not a short tempered or impatient word spoken. Dishes were beautifully plated after I had shown my staff just once what I wanted. Having before worked only with friends or friendly, keen-to-learn acquaintances at my pop ups, working with a professional staff was a revelation. At the end of the 12 hour day and a week of planning and prep, I was exhilarated as I drove home. Cooking in a restaurant was FUN!

IV & V & VI & VII

Three food moments of the year in Paris and one at Versailles. Vive la France! I am not even going to include our decadent chocolate feast at Angelina on the Rue de Rivoli in this list because it demands an essay of its own!

In late February, Keya and I flew to France to attend the Gourmand Cookbook Awards (my book was nominated in the regional cookbooks category) at the Cookbook Fair in Paris. We stayed with our friends Sarah Bentley and Alan Kahan at their home a few blocks south of the Eiffel Tower. Alan had always told us that one of the reasons they had bought that particular apartment was that it was within walking distance of not one, but five boulangeries. If one bakery was closed, they had options! After a strenuous trip by Metro (NO escalators!) from the airport to their home, Keya and I looked at each other and breathed a sigh. Finally we were here.

As we were taking off our coats - it was cold in Paris in late February -- I told Alan that I had promised myself that when I got to Paris, the first thing I would do is eat a pain au chocolat. “Get your coats back on,” he replied, “Let’s go get one before the boulangerie nearby closes.” I had not believed that bread or pastry in France was very much different from what we get in California, where we are very spoiled with excellent food.

With the first bite of that little pain au chocolat, Keya and I turned to each other with looks that said, “Oh my God, this is divine!” We inhaled those pastries in under 30 seconds and proceeded to eat one or two a day for the rest of our week long stay! So what makes them different? They are airy, light, only slightly sweet with bitter chocolate inside and they do not leave you feeling stuffed. It’s the flour, the water, the quality of the chocolate, and frankly, the size. Smaller is better in this case. And there is that je ne sais quoi that I don’t really want to “sais”. Some mysteries are delicious left alone.

Every evening Sarah or Alan cooked a different French meal for us and every one of them was delicious, but for me, the stand out was fondue night. I have had many fondues, many good fondues. What Sarah made that night, stirring a fabulous French wine into Gruyere and garlic and serving it with chunks of fresh baguette was superbly satisfying. There is nothing like a good Gruyere, it may just be one of my favorite cheeses. I also fell in love with that floral wine that we also drank at table. I liked it so much that when I accidentally knocked my glass over and broke it (I was not tipsy, it was a small table!), I first apologized for my clumsiness and then kept apologizing. Sarah reassured me that it was all right and I said, “No, it’s not! I lost the last of my wine when the glass fell!”

That Sunday, our friends accompanied us to Versailles. When we got off the train with other tourists, the horde headed straight toward the chateau but Sarah and Alan steered us to the right. A short walk away was the weekly Versailles market and it was just what I needed to see and experience. If there was ever a heaven for the gourmand, this was it. The lines wrapped around the cheese stalls, everyone using the wait time to decide which of the hundreds of cheeses to buy this week. There was a spice stall where I bought herb and spice blends for pastas and ratatouille, and Keya chose a blend of Himalayan salt, pink peppercorns and rosebuds. There were butchers and green grocers, stalls selling dried fruit and nuts, olives, biscuits and breads, charcuterie.

We bought baguettes and three cheeses, hard cider and non alcoholic, fresh raspberries, cookies from Bretagne, saucissons sec and pate. We lugged our treasure to the smaller of the two chateaux and ate on the steps overlooking the water, in the sun and out of the wind. The day was brilliant, the food simple and satisfying, the company uncomplicated. It was the best kind of picnic.

VIII & IX

Since we were in Europe, we decided to hop across the channel and visit our friends, Jack, Alicia and Madeleine in Bristol. They had recently moved there from Los Angeles and we missed them terribly. Keya and Madsy were in preschool together and had been friends ever since. Even better, thanks to the girls, we had become family friends and I was really looking forward to seeing Alicia and catching up with her after a five month gap.

The other exciting aspect to this trip was the possibility of a visit to Bath, which is only a half hour’s drive from Bristol. As the daughter of English teachers, I had grown up with the literature. Everyone from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer (not quite literature, but in my mind, almost there) has used Bath as a backdrop for their novels and I had seen its streets and baths and vistas in my mind’s eye. Yet, despite having traveled a good bit in the UK, I had never visited the city before. Sanjiv, my architect husband, said it was the city he liked the most in England and I was as keen to see the architecture as to drink the waters and perhaps set foot where Annis Wychwood and her ilk walked three centuries ago.

I was touched by the first meal we ate at Alicia’s. She had Jamie Oliver’s new cookbook, Meals in Minutes and cooked dinner out of it for us. It is always a treat for me when someone else cooks for me. From shopping for ingredients at Sainsbury’s to watching Alicia cut and chop in her new pink kitchen (!) as we caught each other up on our lives, I enjoyed every moment.

That Sunday the rain let up and we drove through winding lanes and bright green meadows under sparkling skies to Bath. The newly redesigned and configured museum over the Roman baths is a treat. My treat of the day was having afternoon tea afterward at the Pump Room where so many of Heyer’s characters had sat and watched the ton, wondered about their futures or been swept off their feet by dashing Regency bucks.

Walking the streets of Bath felt oddly familiar. And we were given a show of the range of English weather, from brilliant sunshine, sudden rain, and cold gusts of wind that had us shivering despite our winter wear. Some of the most photographed street scenes in the world are here and I have seen those pictures many times. I did not feel like I was walking through a photograph, more like taking a walk through history with some of my greatest heroes. I could see Jane Austen walking up to the lending library or might pass her strolling with a friend on Gay Street.

Sitting in the Pump Room was slightly different. History was still living here, life kept on going. The past was less artifact than coexistence, something I was familiar with from India where the ancient past coexists, somewhat grumpily, with the 21st century. And there was the food. Eating tea sandwiches and sipping English (read Indian) tea was not novel but I relished the scones because we do not get good scones in North America, and you must travel to England for clotted cream. Alicia said Somerset is known for its dairy products, and rightly so. I was satiated at the end of the meal, not least because of the company it was taken in.

X

Ten is tough. I realize I could keep on sharing food moments until the list puts you into a food-incuded slumber. Coffee and a delicious egg and pesto pastry at Trails Cafe after a hike up to Griffith Observatory, a nostalgic cup of coffee with thick, Dutch milk at Schipol in Amsterdam, exquisite beef cheek ravioli at Trattoria Locanda in November, my favorite dessert, Sacripantina eaten with an old friend at Stella’s in North Beach, huitlacoche tacos at Cacao Mexicatessan, my mother’s soft, tenderly sweet puran polis, made especially for me to bring home to Keya or the sabudanyachi khichadi she had waiting for me when I arrived home for a brief visit.

If I have to choose, I would say my most special moment was with the woman who, apart from my mother, has been my greatest culinary influence. I was lucky to see my maternal grandmother in August, a few weeks before she died. She was in hospice, shrunken to about half her height, weighing less than my 10 year old does now. I remember her as a giant, tall, proud, strong and capable. It was not easy to see her, toothless, sunken cheeked, looking the way her mother looked when she was very old in the early 70s.

Because she was deaf, conversation was not very easy. What reassured me that the essence of my grandmother was still present, was her eyes. They gleamed and she spoke to me with them. She was so starved for entertainment that she was eager to read what was on my T-shirt. “Amsterdam,” I said loudly, “Where life gets lived." She nodded. "I went there for my 40th birthday.”

I gave her the box of dark chocolates I had brought her. Chocolate was about all she could eat and enjoy these days. I approved of the fact that she still was able to eat what she liked. She took the box and ever-polite, said, “Thank you.” To my delight, she began eagerly to read the back of the box, the nutrition facts and calorie counts. A 92 year old woman on the verge of death and she had enough interest in life to want to read, to know more.

When she was done, my cousin Reena asked if she wanted to eat a piece and fed it to her. I was still too shaken by the moment of this meeting to do anything more than watch and weep. As Aji slowly ate that thin slab of goodness, relishing every mouthful, I drank her in. Life is meant to be lived to the fullest and enjoyed to the very end. That is what I took away from that moment and into the new year.

I wish you all a deliciously happy 2012, a year filled with memorable food moments with the people you love.

Smooth Sailing through Stormy Skies

This evening, Sameera and I drove out to Khar -Santa Cruz (a Bombay suburb) so I could talk with her friend, Beena for my article. It was a rainy monsoon day here, the first since I got here on Monday so I quite welcomed it. It took 45 minutes or so to drive a few miles so we made the most of our time to catch up, as her driver Suresh adeptly dealt with crazy traffic, pelting rain and the strange and convoluted directions to where we had to go. I could not make head or tail out of them but apparently Sameera and Suresh could because we ultimately arrived.

Storm clouds gather over north Bombay, seen from my hotel room

It struck me that it was already almost dark. After all, it was only about 6 pm. But here in India, so close to the equator, sunrises and sunsets happen around pretty much the same time, 365 days of the year. I am used to long days of sunshine during California summers and to a slowly rising and setting sun. In India, it is dark, then dawn, followed by brilliant sunshine. Or there's hot afternoon, a quick sunset and dusk, culminating in instant night. No lingering glow of sunset pinks, except if you are standing by the ocean.

I had spent the morning in the hotel, working on interviews, making more phone calls for upcoming appointments and getting a good run at the health club. My butler, Poonam (she is actually one of two assigned to me) brought me breakfast -- tea, fruit -- dragon fruit, papaya, kiwi, watermelon, all beautifully cut and served -- and muesli. She insisted on pouring my tea, adding milk to my muesli, and hovering over me as I ate. I felt rather as my daughter might feel at breakfast time!

So I sent her off, telling her I had to get ready to leave and would get bites of food between getting my things together. "I will wait for you downstairs, Ma'am," she said. "If you must," I sighed to myself. And indeed she was there to escort me to the car!

At Sameera's we sat down right away to a special Parsee lunch she had ordered from a Zoroastrian caterer friend for the festival of Pateti. Something you should know about Sameera, apart from the fact that she has been one of my closest friends for more than half our lives, is that she knows everyone, stay friends with everyone she knows (yes, even before Facebook made it easy), has her finger on the pulse of whatever they do, and is never surprised by whom you might know.

I told her once about speaking with the son of a well-known Hindi short story writer, an O. Henry of India. The son is a publisher working with my father on a book, and he was interested in knowing more about my writing. I was thrilled to be speaking to a man whose father I greatly admired and, talking to Sameera the very next day, I said excitedly, "Guess whom I just spoke with?" and told her. "Oh yes," she replied calmly, "My aunt was married to him long back," and proceeded to tell me the story of their life.

So I am not surprised she has a friend who caters traditional food for Parsee festivals. In fact, I was delighted she had invited me to share the feast of mutton cutlets, apricot chicken, fish in a creamy sauce, mutton pulao and dhansak (lentils cooked with a traditional Parsee spice blend) with her and her two daughters, aged 8 and 4.

Sameera & Atiya check out a gift I brought from Keya

The Parsees are said to have come to India from Persia long ago, no one quite knows when. They settled in Gujarat, India's western most coastal state which must have been easy to reach by sea from Iran even back then. The food certainly bears signs of its Persian provenance but it was also influenced by its adopted home and by the British colonials who ruled it. Parsee food is a blend of sweet, savory, meat-rich dishes cooked with fruits like dried apricots and a plethora of Indian spices and some oddly English-sounding dishes like saas macchi (sauced fish) and lagan nu custard (wedding custard). It was warm, comforting and just what I needed!

After my interview with Beena, Sameera and I drove to a nearby shop we were told might have some products I should look at for my story. As I nearly always find here, the shopkeeper was helpful when I told him I was writing about his community's cuisine and introduced me to another vendor who would be able to help me source some interesting ingredients. By this time the rain was really coming down and we had to rush to our dinner at Sonal's.

Sonal, Sameera, Jerry (the fourth in our group this evening) and I have known each since 1990 when we all worked at the Free Press Journal. Sameera and I were working our first jobs, fresh out of journalism school, Sonal of the beautiful lush, long black hair and evocative eyes joined the FPJ soon after at the copy desk.

Jerry was a brash, brilliant young free-lance writer who would arrive like a tornado in the newsroom, plonk himself down at a computer to file a story, fill the room with his energy and loud voice and flabbergast the rather conservative staff with his ribald stories and on-the-money but uncensored commentary about people (present or absent) and events. He set the place humming and we fell into deep affection with him instantaneously.

That time, 20 years ago, reporting news stories was a part of our lives peppered by hard work, much laughter over endless cups of chai at the sports desk, numerous flirtations and misunderstandings, and the passionate angst and intensity that only 20 somethings can have. We have all stayed in touch ever since.

KM, JP, SK

JP, Sonal, SK sip some local wine as we catch up!

This evening Sonal was cooking for us and we thought it would be Gujarati vegetarian food since she is from Gujarat. Sameera and I were contemplating a comparison with the afternoon's Parsee, meaty meal! But Sonal had other ideas.

Having lived for many years in Singapore, she is fond of east Asian flavors and cooked up some fabulous vegetarian Laksa (soupy noodles with coconut milk, lemon grass and chili paste) and a wonderful salad of beans, sprouted mung, finely sliced red cabbage, pomegranate and chopped apple with a sweet-soya dressing. It satisfied on every level -- textures, earthiness, flavor, meatiness, and color. A rare and delicious treat. There were also some snow peas and mushrooms tossed in sesame seed and, for dessert, pears poached in ginger, accompanied by some fresh fig and honey ice cream.

Dinner and reminiscences, surrounded by some really striking art and furniture

at Sonal's home

But what was most satisfying to enjoy was the comfort between friends who have known each other as long as we have. For conversations to bounce from Bergman to ribaldry to Free Press memories to Zoroastrianism with the utmost ease and with unconscious inclusion speaks to a deep and real understanding coupled with the realization now that we need to take what we can get while we can get it. No regrets, no what ifs, just making the most of what is offered. Time to digest later.....

Back in Bombay Again... with a twist

Welcome Elephant in my Hotel Room

For the first time ever, I am in my old city, Bombay/Mumbai, and not in my college dorm, not in the working women's digs I lived in two decades ago, not in a home my husband and I shared, and not at my in-laws where I have stayed on every vacation since moving to the USA in 1996.

Everything is changing. I am in a hotel that did not even exist when I called Bombay home from 1989-1995 and wrote with 20-something passion about architecture, housing and urban development issues for one of the city's oldest broadsheets.

I am on the 28th storey of a hotel built on land in a neighborhood that was once chock full of bustling cloth mills and that would not, by law, have been allowed to be built back then! The mills stopped humming during labor protests in the 1980s and never re-opened.

By the early years of this century, loose ends from pending lawsuits between mill owners and labor unions were being tied up and land was freed from zoning restrictions. Owners are now selling these very profitable properties to developers who build towering high rises to support a rapidly growing island city. Land is at a premium and the unofficial population is a staggering 19 million. That is the history lesson!

Bombay's skyline looking south and east toward the docks

What boggles my mind right now, apart from the daily changing skyline that I no longer recognize, is the fact that I am here on my very ownsome, a state I have not achieved in this town before.

What is hard to grasp and accept is the quiet that only an air-conditioned room with the double paned windows and heavy drapes of a fancy hotel can create. I don't hear the sound of the koyal up here, singing me awake in the morning, or the flute wallah walking down the lane, playing one of the reed flutes he has made himself.

It is a strange sense of displacement in a place suspended out of reality. I am not accustomed to this detachment from a constantly humming and humid metropolis. Is this kind of escape how the privileged are able to keep clear of the problems and challenges that 95% of the people in my country face?

I am certainly not blase about the many people who hover about me at every turn in this fortress of luxury, 'butling' and cleaning, smiling and scraping, kowtowing and doing their lovely best to make me and every other guest here happy.

Service in India is a centuries old tradition. But it is not one I have ever been comfortable with, or reveled in. I'd rather get my own tea, thank you. Because, you see, I can't shake off the fact that my young woman "butler" has to make her unsafe way home on a bus or on foot at 2 am -- where does she live? -- after she has finished waiting on me.

Or that after driving me from the airport to the hotel in chilled comfort, my chauffeur has to catch a muggy commuter train at midnight, sleep for a few hours and hop back on the next train for a 2 hour journey to start another work day.

And that shared table... though I am here to write about food and I am eating it this first day, I don't seem to take it in. There were six of us at dinner tonight -- my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, her husband and their two sons.

But after a day of talking about food and cooking, I found myself unable to eat much. Perhaps it's just jetlag, perhaps it is me preparing mentally for some serious eating over the next few weeks.

Whatever the cause, tonight's meal was more about communing with family about dear and departed ones and then, strangely, saying goodbye myself and going somewhere I have never called home.

And yet it is apropos. After all I am here to write about a community of Indians who, for a time, had nowhere in this nation to call home!

Getting ready to write the blog again!