5 a day in Brobdingnag

Something terrible has befallen me. 

More terrible than the ketchup packet finishing before the McDonald’s burger does, or a plate of ordered fish and chips coming to me with the pitiful eye in place. Yes, even more terrible than this. Why, I am being held captive on a private ‘island’ called Brobdingnag!

Of course that is a real place, stop doubting me. Ask Swift. Or better still, turn the pages in ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ beyond Lillliput and see this map. Here, the natives are giants and I don’t just say that because of how I stand, vertically. When I first came to after my kidnapping, I thought my eyes were playing games with me. Too much eye-strain on FB and taking its frustration out by shooting down characters living inside my PS2 must have done it. However, this was not about retina, iris, cornea or lenses failing me. 

This was real.

They were larger than church steeples and with voices like speaking-trumpets. I was sorry for calling my Mrs. Chadha-of-the-sarchy-comments a barbarian. At best, now, she seemed like an over-fed bird who spat the extra bird-seeds when she spoke. Nothing else, God bless her but I digress. These here were real barbarians of gargantuan proportions and I had no choice but to look at my humble bust-line and sigh – Alas! Raw mangoes have turned mosquito bites, over night! 

Size mattered here, and a humble melancholy tone I used at all times. No matter that all I wanted to do was laugh at the magnifying glass effect of the life around me right now. What is fair and white at a distance is moon’s surface at close quarters, thus spake Marlowe the Moon Man from Noddy? It is true, but greater details of humans up close thus would mean losing an appetite that was storming inside my stomach.

I was asked 5 foods which I wanted to eat for the day. No more, and could be less. But less is something no Punjabi blood can accept, of anything. I screamed five, five I will have most certainly, and secretly wondered if I could throw in a freebie .5. But I needed time to think. So one of them picked me up in his handkerchief and left me at the beach. Alone.

Here I am now.

And this is tough. From the most exotic to the most mundane are vying for place in the alimentary canal in my brain. Names of restaurants which served homely food and masalas which made home food like restaurants fly around. As do fat versus skimmed, organic versus inorganic chemistry and non-vegetarian versus whatever. I wriggle my toes in the sand to stimulate my memory and that is it! 

5 gorgeous dishes with pictographic details come to mind. And true to my ‘assi tussi kissi shissy’ bloodline, I want to mix up cuisines much like tamator sauce in Ming dynasty soup is by us, or butter-tey-scotch ice cream melting on a G-jam. I want my table in Brobdingnag, like any Punjabi table in fine dining, to look like a mini globe standing for equality, liberty, fraternity, conti and Punjaby.

In the order of the courses, I have picked 5 dishes. Now remember, these will be served to me in plates the size of a 12-seater dining table. So they had to be the best of the best, and those which I could never have enough of. 

Dish 1 – Maggi 

And did I hear a yay? I don’t know how long I have been in Borbdingnag, but the urge to eat what forms daily my Masterchef dish in The Deylee is so strong. No other dish can bring out the culinary creativity lodged deep deep too deep down inside of me like this one does. So first, I wanted a plate of plain and simple Maggi. Humble beginnings lead to stardom, they say.  

Dish 2 – Pizza

Isn’t this a sight to look at? Extremely delicious to taste too. Imagine getting a Super Super Large size of this to eat, for free. Why, I would roll like a drunk Goddess topping the toppings. Eat every single buckwheat base crumb and each piece of the pan-grilled vegetables. My food celebrity Sangeeta created the recipe and my taste buds went on an over-drive. So this has to be one of my five.

Dish 3 – Jackfruit Pulao

Imagine a hill of this in front of you, for in Brobdingnag that’s how it’s served. The rice the colour of noon, the coriander smelling fresh and the juicy pieces of jackfruit giving character to it all and binding the ingredients of this unique dish together. Jackfruit is manna for those rare vegetarian Punjabis who don’t eat meat, but consume this with relish, often remarking – ‘This tastes like mutton!’ for they all tasted blood once. The day my friend Rachna showed this to me I have wanted to eat it. Little did I know then that I would be having a mound of it soon, and that too ready-made! How about that freebie .5 in the form of pickle to go with it?

But wait? Three salty dishes and none sweet? The sight of the saline sea is affecting my sweet tooth enamel. Dear me! Dear me! 

Dish 4 – P-Nut Bar

I will lie down on this first, for who wouldn’t want to on a bed of chocolate? And then I would eat what a fun friend Sid made for me just before I was made captive. Oh, I could make a little house out of this, with doors and windows and call it my permanent abode. The plate outside will say 'Yum Residence'!

How full I will be after consuming all this! Satiated, and for all you know the size of one of these giants around me? Chhaijee, my grandmother’s cousin sister who was very close to my grandfather’s children told our family how jaggery digests like nothing else. So …  

Dish 5 – Gur Parantha

The finale for the day will be this, a dish made by Hrishikesh ‘the chocolate boy’. This is a guy who lives to eat and he has to has to know how to digest all that food too. Has to! In the  hot and melted jaggery that will ooze from a sofa-sized half I will swim all day ...

Of freedom from captivity, I will think another day. 

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was - 5 a Day - You’ve being exiled to a private island, and your captors will only supply you with five foods. What do you pick?]

When Men Cook

Rekha Nair Dhyani is not a fellow-blogger. Before anything, she is my friend who writes, and writes without any contradiction between her within and without. Her posts connect with me, as do the thoughts she carries inside. Dew Drops has seen her cry for her Lil Love, pull her hair handling her tantrums, shed tears remembering her grandmother and stand tall fasting for her husband. This, interspersed with philosophical posts and travelogues. Her blog appeals to the woman in me – all roles - mother, wife and daughter, combined.  When ‘North met South’ a very loving person, rooted in tradition yet steadfast in her beliefs about her self, was born. Also was born a writer who speaks to your heart, because that is where her thoughts emerge from.

No wonder then, that her request to me for being a ‘Guest’ on her blog, that too for my 100th post, made me jump so high with joy that I write this here even as I am sitting on the ceiling fan. Thank you, Rekha, for considering me up there, and putting me even higher than I probably deserve. Now, I am hoping nobody will switch the fan on.

When Men Cook

She told me write about anything under the Sun. So, I wrote about men in the kitchen. Only, and only because it rhymes. And yes, I am trying very hard to be funny in the post. Do spare a few giggles, and more importantly, a few nods of agreement. My man may rest displeased, but I will certainly soar and sit up on the fan again! And truth be told, the view from up here is unmatchable and something I want to get used to. 

Without further ado, here is the link to the post:

http://rekhadhyani.wordpress.com/2013/11/11/when-men-cook/

Of Sambhar and Simplicity

Very recently, I went on a salivation trip. It was 7:30 am and I was reading my morning newspaper when suddenly my nose lead me to this piece of steamy-spicy news from a few pages on. Chennai’s traditional breakfast – idli, sambhar and filter coffee – was the most nutritious breakfast any Indian metro could produce. The survey had studied those hogging, skipping and skimping breakfasts, and the winner was clearly the white powder-puff delights. (No, I was not disappointed. I personally know that Punjab’s Delhi’s breakfast it could never have been. The butter on the parantha would only have made the trophy slip from it's hands). As I devoured the pictures, I marked the coming Saturday as one reserved for execution of the gastronomic temptation that had just made my beaten coffee instantly look dead-beat, and how.  

Now, mine is a family that loves to watch the family-income-called-peanuts get baked in patisserie ovens or tossed in stir fry vegetables, lay peppered with cheese or boil in the soup cauldron – all of that in kitchens other than mine. The end of every month sees us doing two important things: One, woefully go 'Sigh!' looking at the puny amount of savings left after our monthly consumption of it (literally); and two, burp with shameless satiety and start looking forward to another month of trying new eateries around. Since burps speak louder than sighs, we always ignore the latter and welcome the peanuts home to be consumed, in their entirety.     

Mine is also a family that likes to watch its weight, well, most of the times anyway! Mister cycles 25 kms every morning and Missus runs around a toddler 24*7 sans any house help. Hence, what comes dipped in hot chocolate sauce out of the ovens is never eaten with a pinch of guilt, for we are burning it. Today, after learning that Chennai breakfast is the lightest on our coronary arteries, our faith in one of our favourite South Indian restaurants has been reinstated even more. Just drive those 9 kms to a certain roof, under which such healthy aromas and tastes flow freely. Shamelessly, I use the term ‘South Indian’ in that typical semi-literate way in which most of us from the northern side of the country do – that is, very broadly and carrying within its banana leaf folds cuisines from Andhra, Karnataka and Kerala too. 

And I want to talk about one word that comes to mind when I think South Indian Restaurants, and that being Simplicity. 

Banish thoughts of pretentious 5-star hotels, where dear idli recognises not itself, or the masala of dosa rests uncomfortably on Italian crockery. I talk of those eateries where dinner for two still costs within 500 bucks - generous limitless servings of sambhar, papad and chutney included. The décor is plain, usually with a hint of green but nothing fancy. The table tops are sun-mica sheets and the chairs make no attempt to look antique. Of course there’s air-conditioning, but the walls are mercifully clean of bloated food pictures, or abstract looking art. The menu card does not resemble your medical bill, and the heart beats remain calm. The food is served in classic steel crockery and with matching cutlery and glasses. The tissue papers are pink or yellow and more often than not fail to do their job. The bathrooms will offer you the facility you need, without ivory lining the floors or buttons you know not the use of. The servers make no attempt to sound like they are on a cross-country linguistic run. The cashier, usually a serious looking moustachioed fellow, sits guarding not just the registers but also the marigold-laden incense-smelling deities, who, as if intentionally made so, are always the ones to steal the show with their finery.

Notice also how, soon as one steps over the ‘Welcome’ mat and into such abodes of Gods and godly foods, all ideas of ‘status’ and ‘class’ are left outside, as one and all sit comfortably on those simple chairs and tables to dig the complex South Indian dishes served so humbly (McDonald's is another such leveller, but a near-fancy one). What pizzas could not manage, uttapam does, as use of forks and knives are put to the winds and hands realize how the word ‘handy’ was born. The carefree environment promotes talking as much as you desire and as loudly as you please. The servers are always smiling, respectful, ready to refill, to clear, to bring in more, to recommend the sweet and finally get the saunf and mishri in a tiny steel petri-dish. And no, not any strata of Delhi minds standing outside on the road of their favourite South Indian Restaurant and waiting out their 45 minutes to grab a table for 5, reservations or no reservations. Now, isn't that healthy thinking and healthy living?

If only health actually translated into wealth in the coffers! Sigh! But then, what of that. My peanuts have arrived into my account. And chances are this month will see us dipping them in sambhar more often than before, and it's going to be finger-licking good.

Burp! Oops, excuse me, please!