Thalipeeth is very popular snack all over Maharashtra . It is a multi-grain, multi-legume pancake made from a special flour called 'thalipeeth bhajani'. Most Maharashtrian households will have bhajani in their pantries at all times and with good reason - thalipeeth is very easy to make once you have the bhajani and it is one of the most nutritious things you can dish out in a hurry.







The bhajani recipe varies from family to family. The following recipe is just a guideline - feel free to vary the grains/legumes (and the quantities) as per availability.


Thalipeeth Bhajani

Ingredients:

Bajra/pearl millet – 1 cup
Jowar/ Sorghum – 1 cup
Rice – ¾ cup
Wheat - ½ cup
Chana dal/Bengal gram – ½ cup
Urad dal/ Black gram – ½ cup
Moong dal/ Green bean – ½ cup
Coriander seeds – ¼ cup
Cumin seeds – 1/8 cup
Dry red chillies – ¼ cup, or to taste


Dry roast all the ingredients separately. Allow to cool. Grind them all together to a fine flour.




(normally, the grain – pulses mixture is ground in a flour mill. However, my friend grinds them at home in a spice grinder. It is a time consuming process and if you choose to do the same, do sieve the bhajani a couple of times and grind the gritty pieces again).


If roasting -grinding is too cumbersome, you could also buy the flours separately (in the same ratio as that of the grains), lightly roast them and mix them together to make a hassle-free bhajani.


The bhajani can last for months; if the weather in your part of the world tends to be hot and humid, pack it in small quantities in re-sealable bags/air tight containers and store in the fridge.


Once you have the bhajani, you can whip up thalipeeth in a jiffy!

Thalipeeth

Ingredients:

Bhajani – 1 cup
Onion – 1 small, very finely minced
Coriander leaved – ¼ cup, finely chopped
Chillies – 4, chopped
Jaggery – 1.5 tsps, grated
Salt
Water for kneading the dough
Oil


Method:


Mix together the onions, coriander leaves, chillies, jiggery and salt till the onions start to release some water. Set aside for 5 minutes and mix again. This helps all the ingredients to release their flavours.


Then add the bhajani to the above mixture and mix it in, you should get a mixture that resembles wet sand.


Keep adding water to it till you get a soft ball of dough.





Oil and heat a frying pan – it should be hot enough so that when you sprinkle a few drops of water on it, they should sizzle.


Take a small ball of dough, roughly the size of a golf ball, and flatten it to get a circle about 5” in diameter (I normally do this on a parchment paper, my mom does it straight on the pan) and place it on the pan.




Make a small circle in the centre with the back of a spoon. Drizzle some oil around the edges and in the centre, cover with the lid and let it cook for about 2-3 mins or until the underside is brown.






Flip it over and cook till small, brown spots appear.



Thalipeeth has to be served hot off the pan - a cold thalipeeth is an absolute no-no - preferably with a blob of butter melting over it. I serve it with some spiced yogurt and a salad on the side for a light and healthy lunch/dinner.




I am hosting MLLA - 36 this month and the multi-grain, multi-legume thalipeeth is my entry to the event.

To tell you the truth, I have never received as many e-mails from my blog readers for my recipes as I have for our food fiction event Of Chalks and Chopsticks. I was surprised and delighted to know that even non - bloggers enjoyed reading all the food fiction that we had been churning.


Then a few days ago, there was a mail from Sra proposing that we revive the event. With a few inputs coming in from Desi Soccer Mom and Bong Mom, Of Chalks and Chopsticks is now back, with a bit of a twist.


Hop over to Sra's blog to find out more and then start spinning your yarns!

(I have disabled the comments on this post, please post all comments and queries on Sra's blog)

Sukanya sighed and looked at her watch for the umpteenth time, as if looking at the watch innumerable times would make the train miraculously roll into the platform.


Her day had begun badly enough; it seemed it would end no better.


She had been chasing time all day today - she had woken up late in the morning and was therefore late getting in to work. Consequently, she had had to leave later than she usually did. Now with the trains running late, there was no way she would get home before 8.30 tonight.


She had been feeling unusually exhausted all day making her wonder she had caught some bug. All she wanted to do was just curl up and sleep, but knew that was not to be. She was all too aware of the dinner that had to be made and some other sundry chores that had to be attended to at home.


She looked at her watch once again and sighed deeply as she looked at the swelling crowd on the platform; with every second more and more people seemed to be waiting on the platform. She sighed once again, mentally resigning herself to standing for a better part of her 75 minute journey back home.


A few more minutes of waiting and finally the train rolled in. As expected, she could not find a seat but managed to find a toehold beside the train doors. It was certainly a little unsafe but at least she would get some cool breeze on her face and some fresh air to breathe in – that was immeasurably better than being crushed between sweaty bodies or having someone’s smelly armpit shoved in her face!


Normally, she would chit-chat with her friends - she had made friends with several women who travelled on the same train as her every evening. However, today she simply rested her head on the door and closed her eyes reflecting, with a little despondency, on the rut her life seemed to be stuck in.


She was roused out of her thoughts by someone’s cheerful ‘hi Sukanya’. Opening her eyes, she saw a face that looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t quite recollect the young girl’s name or where she had met her.


“Remember me? Naina….we met at the Diwali party a few months ago….”


Of course, now she remembered. Naina was married to someone….now what was his name……who worked in the same company as her husband. She now remembered being introduced to her.


She smiled, “You looked so different in all the finery that I couldn’t place you at all. How are you and your husband….umm…Sameer?”


“Can’t blame you….I’ve changed my hairstyle soon after. But I think we’ll meet often now that we’ve moved somewhere very close to your building. Do you always take the 6.13?”


“Yes,” said Sukanya, smiling at Naina’s exuberance. “So where do you….,” she wanted to ask her where she worked but was interrupted by the ringing of Naina’s cell phone.


‘Think another 50 minutes.’
‘Hmmm….’
‘Baingan bharta? Ok. But don’t roast the baingan on the gas, the whole house will get smoky. Use the oven. And listen…..’


“Shit....the network’s gone!” she said suddenly with a mild note of irritation as she tried to call back.


Sukanya hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but Naina was talking loudly enough for everyone in the compartment to listen. Probably giving instructions to her cook, she thought to herself. High time I employed one too. At 45, age is starting to creep up on me - I do tire easily these days. Maybe I should ask Naina for the number of her cook, no matter the resistance from the husband.


“Your cook?” she asked Naina who had given up dialing the number but was turning the phone this way and that over everybody’s heads in the cramped compartment in an attempt to get the signal back.


“Cook!” she exclaimed incredulously. “I don’t employ one – well I used to but that was over 4 years ago. Actually that was Sameer asking me what to prepare for dinner tonight.”


“Sameer cooks? That is great. Lucky you.”


“Well, he can’t really cook….neither can I, but we manage. And no, he is the one who is lucky. After all, I work too and I also have to travel to work every single day, unlike people like Sameer and your husband whose office is so close to their homes. They are the lucky ones, I say!”


Sukanya merely smiled but she couldn’t help but feel a just a teeny bit jealous of Naina. Mine can’t even make tea…..he wouldn’t even if he could, she thought a little bitterly. He was one of those who believed that cooking and other housework were solely a woman’s responsibility. If only he were a little sensitive to her travails. Like today for example. It was so easy for him to ask me to make methi bhaat at dinner. “It’s been so long since you last made it. You know how much I like it,” he had complained.


They all loved methi bhaat, but separating the leaves from their stalks was a lot of work and she would have much preferred to do it over the weekend while watching T.V. However, her protestations about how tiresome and time consuming it was to separate the leaves from the stalks was greeted with some whining of how he never demanded anything elaborate from her at dinner. “And I don’t understand why can’t you do that in the train on your way back?”


She glanced at the bundles of methi leaves in the bag that she had been unable to sort standing in the crowded train. She would have to do it all at home, she looked at her watch and estimated she would be home in another 20 minutes.


When she reached home, her husband was sprawled on the sofa watching cricket on the T.V., his feet on the coffee table. “You are late today….trains, huh? Just make the dinner quickly, I am really very hungry,” he said through a mouthful of chivda.


She shook her head in resignation and put the methi bundles in the kitchen. She was very quick in the kitchen and reckoned she would have the dinner ready in under an hour but she needed to take a shower before she began cooking.


She passed her son’s room on the way to her own. She peeped in; her son was glued to the computer playing some game. “Oh mom, you spoiled my game,” he said. Just at that instant, she heard her husband exult ‘great shot.’

Something in her snapped at that moment. Like father, like son, she thought. No one was bothered to even offer her a cup of tea or ask her how her day was.


“Aniket, I am going to take a shower. In the meantime, go to the kitchen and cook some rice and boil some potatoes too,” she said, much to her son’s horror.
“Mom, not me, I don’t even know how to…”
“You are 17 and old enough to learn. I’ll tell you what to do.”
“Mom….,” he stopped mid-sentence, realizing she would not accept any argument.


There was nothing she could do to change her husband’s attitude – it was too late for that, but it was high time she influenced the way her son turned out, she thought as she headed into the shower.

The suburban train network in Mumbai is its lifeline and is the quickest way to get from one end of the city to the other. There are some people who travel for as little as 15 minutes and there are others who travel almost 2 hours one way to get to their place of work. In the evenings, they are back in the train for the same length of time.

The trains are also very crowded; at peak hours, it is not unusual to find people hanging out of its doors, sometimes, you even find some perched on the roof of the compartments. In many ways, the suburban train travel in Mumbai is a great leveller - no matter what your occupation, no matter the money you earn, at the end of the day, you are

People have found many ways to keep themselves occupied - other than chatting and reading and sleeping, there are groups who sing bhajans or play cards to while away the time.

But it is in the ladies' compartments that you really get to witness glimpses of people's lives, their joys and their struggles. The chatter is endless; most of the times, there is laughter and occasionally, fierce arguments too. But beneath all the chatter is the anxiety and eagerness to get home as soon as possible to attend to the children and other chores. The women do much more than just chat or play cards or sing bhajans - they use their time in the train far more productively - it is not unusual to see women knitting, their needles going clicketty clack, or even cleaning some vegetables in preparation for dinner.

The story of just another day in Sukanya's life which is my (again very late) entry to Of Chalks and Chopsticks that PJ is hosting is based on the small nuggets of conversations gleaned from my train travels many moons ago.

Methi Bhaat/ Rice with Fenugreek leaves

Ingredients:

Onion: 1 large, finely chopped
Tomato: 2, chopped
Garlic: 7-8 cloves, choppped
Boiled potatoes/sweet potatoes: 1/2 cup
Methi/Fenugreek leaves: 2.5 cups, washed and chopped
Dry spices: Turmeric, red chilli powder, garam masala
Jaggery: 1 tbsp
Salt
Oil

Rice: 1.5 cups, cooked and cooled completely



Method:


Cut the boiled sweet potato into cubes. Grease a frying pan with some cooking spray and lightly fry the cubes till brown. Set aside.


Heat oil in a wok and add in the chopped garlic. Saute till the garlic turns brown.


Then toss in the onions and fry till they turn pink. Next, add in the tomatoes and cook till the tomatoes become soft and mushy. Add in the dry spices, the jaggery and the salt.

Add in the methi leaves and turn up the heat. Stir constantly till the leaves are cooked, about 4- 5 minutes. Then add the fried potatoes and mix well.

Add in the cold rice into the vegetable mixture and gently stir till all the grains are evenly coated with the vegetable mixture. Cover and steam on a very low heat, stirring occasionally till the rice is heated through.

Serve with some yogurt and papad.

She was setting foot in this city after a decade. The city that held some of her best memories and all of her worst ones as well. The city where she had met the love of her life and then lost him. The city she had sworn she would never return to.


And yet, here she was. The lure of meeting her classmates had made her come back. After all, she had spent 2 amazing and fun-filled years with them studying for her MBA. True, she had not been in touch with any of them in the intervening years, but when she read about the upcoming reunion in the papers, she couldn’t resist coming over.


Did she imagine it or was there really that small moment when everyone stopped doing what they were doing as she entered the party hall? “Oh my God! Look who’s here?” shrieked Seema as she welcomed her with a tight hug. Soon, there were more hugs and hi –fives, some smiles and some tears too.


Of course, there were questions. Where was she all these years and what had she been doing? And there were the recriminations. Why had she left without even saying goodbye? Why hadn’t she kept in touch with anyone of them – not even her closest friends?


She had known that there would be questions and recriminations, she had known that she would have some explaining to do – especially to those few friends she had been close to but she hadn’t realized how overwhelmingly difficult it was to talk about herself and the emotional upheaval she had been through. Moreover, it was never going to be easy telling her friends that she had spent a better part of the last 10 years in psychiatric care. So she just hemmed and hawed about working in the family business before steering the conversation back to her friends and their lives.


That wasn’t easy either. For while everyone would animatedly discuss their spouses and children with each other, conversations would come to an awkward end the moment she was in the group. And moreover, the big questions that she was sure were on everyone’s mind – whether she was married or whether there was anyone in her life – were never voiced. They stayed suspended in the pity-filled glances that were occasionally cast her way.


Wanting to get away from it all, she found herself a quiet corner at the bar and sipped on a Margarita.


“Hey Ankita…..mind if I join you? asked Akash. One of Raj’s closest friends. The one who always used to hover around Raj and herself. Kebab mein haddi, she used to call him. It infuriated her then, now the memory merely brought a smile to her lips.


“You didn’t keep in touch with me either”, he chided. “And I thought I was your friend too. But you cut me off from your life, just as you did your other friends. I looked for you….but even your parents were tight-lipped. Look Anks…..”


“Don’t you dare call me that”, she said angrily.


“Okay, okay just cool it. But this I will say - you’ve got to get over him. Move on, for your own sake”.


“Stop sermonizing Akash. Just let’s have our drink peacefully”.


“Ankita, look I don’t know how to say this but can you make me a part of your life? You don’t know this but I ….umm….have always loved you”.


That was the last straw – Akash in love with her?! She hadn’t come here for this!


“Akash, just leave me alone. Just get out of here before I scream and embarrass both you and me”, she said tersely.


She was now starting to feel suffocated and decided that she had to get away. When everyone started dancing to music from the 80s, she slipped away, once again without saying goodbye to anyone.


The night was cool and a light breeze had picked up. The traffic had died down and the streets were starting to get quieter. She started walking, aimlessly at first but soon found her feet leading her to the University chowk, that place where Raj and she had spent many of their evenings together. That place where Raj had left her that balmy May night.


She almost didn’t recognize the place. Where was the several metres high fountain? Where was the University circle? And where were the hawkers selling food? She stared at the place in absolute disbelief. Cities transform with time but here one of the iconic places had been razed to the ground!


She squeezed her eyes shut picturing the place as it used to be, as it was that night. The fountain and the milky white water that was spouting from it, the cacophony of horns around the roundabout and the many vehicles and two wheelers parked on either side of the road. People of all shapes and sizes and ages in groups or alone wondering what to eat – dosas, egg bhurji, vada pavs, chaat or Chinese food – they were spoilt for choice. The hissing of the stoves and clanging of spoons on the huge woks. The air redolent with the smell of food and more food.


At the far end and outside a slightly quieter Chinese food stall, Raj was waiting for her. With him, as always, was Akash. That day, something inside her had snapped and she grew extremely irritated at Akash's presence. She liked spending time alone with Raj but Akash never seemed to care about that. Almost involuntarily, she gave him one nasty look which made him scamper away without even touching the spring rolls he had ordered or taking that cola bottle he always seemed to have with him.


“Anks, he is my friend….can’t you be a little accommodating?” Raj said with a bit of edge in his voice.


“But he is always hovering around us. I hardly get any time alone with you”, she complained.


And they had gotten into a tiff arguing about every little thing till Raj finally burst out saying, “Just don’t talk to me”.


“You either”, she said.


Soon, the hawker came with their order of two hakka noodles and as was often the case, he too put the extra –spicy one in front of Raj while she was served the mild one. Why did people always assume that being a woman, she would be the one eating the mildly spiced noodles, she wondered. In fact, it was Raj who could not take chillies at all.


“Raj…”, she began wanting to swap the plates with him.


“I told you, DON’T TALK TO ME”.


Very well, she thought to herself. One bite and you will be yelping and I will watch the fun!


“What the hell….why didn’t you tell me”, he growled after the first mouthful as he reached for the cola bottle Akash had left behind. She started giggling at his discomfort from eating the spicy noodles and it infuriated him further. “Even this cola is tasting weird”, he remarked as he finished the entire 750ml. He then picked up his bike keys and started to leave. A small fight had taken an ugly turn.



She tried to stop him but he didn’t want any of it. Well, she wasn’t going to grovel either. She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders and started twirling the greasy and spicy noodles around the plastic fork.


She hadn’t even finished swallowing her first mouthful when there was a loud screech of brakes…funny how sometimes you knew certain things without being told. She just knew that it was Raj who was lying beneath the wheel of the bus.


Even after 10 years, she was unable to erase that picture from her mind. She sank to her feet and wept….she had never, in her wildest imagination, thought that a few extra chillies in a plate of noodles could change her life forever. Everyone kept telling her not to blame herself, but she had never stopped feeling responsible for Raj’s death.


Somewhere else in the city, Akash was sitting on a lonely bench calling out Ankita’s name. How he wished he could take her pain away! In his hand was a bottle of cola that he kept taking huge swigs from. It was spiked with a generous amount of rum.


Just as it was that night 10 years ago.


His plan was to get teetotaler Raj completely drunk and watch him make a fool of himself in front of Ankita. But seeing her displeasure at his presence, he had rushed off, forgetting to take that cola bottle with him..…….



This is my entry to Of Chalks and Chopsticks that Jaya is hosting this month. Very graciously, she has allowed this very late entry. Thanks!


However, I do not have a recipe this time. Well no, I do have the recipe but don't have a photo to go along. So I will post it some other time, but in the meantime, you can hop on over to Soma's fabulous blog from where I made the Hakka Noodles that I wanted to post alongwith this story.

The following is my entry to our food fiction event Of Chalks and Chopsticks that Sra is hosting this month.



No one – not our parents, not our closest friends, not even ourselves – could have predicted this. After all, we had always been a ‘solid’ couple. And yet here we were, separating after 8 years of marriage, sorting through our things and deciding who would keep what.


Part of me didn’t want this to happen, but somewhere, I realised that Yash was right – there was no point in living together under the same roof as strangers.


Strangers? Yash and I? Even the mere suggestion seemed ridiculous! We weren’t ‘strangers’ to each other even when we met for the first time in catering college. Though it wasn’t ‘love at first sight’ kind of a thing, we had hit it off very well and so, it was only a matter of time before we became a couple.


I glanced at him as he sorted through our huge CD collection. “Tell you what, you keep all of them. I am just taking a few. In any case I have a huge collection of songs on my I-pod,” he smiles. I nodded and walked away, trying not to step on all the stuff scattered all over the floor – stuff that held our memories – memories of better times. We were so happy together, I remembered. What went wrong? Just when did we become ‘strangers’, I wondered.


Yash kept coming and asking what to do with some of the stuff, but mostly, I left him alone. I was not too interested in what he took and what he left. After all, I was hardly home and when I was, I was mostly sleeping. My job as a chef at a world renowned restaurant took up most of my time and all of my energy.


I’d had to work very hard to get to where I was. It is ironical that though women are the ones who cook at home all over the world, in restaurants, it is a completely different story. Most top chefs are men and it is quite difficult for a woman to break through the glass ceiling. I was very proud of what I had achieved; in fact I was very proud of what Yash had achieved as well – his food based travel program was immensely popular.


Success hadn’t come very easily for us and the early days had been excruciating but on hindsight, we survived them because we had each other. Whenever Yash would be back from his travels, I’d have some fancy ‘welcome back’ cake baked for him. And ever so often, he’d whisk me off for a short vacation when he was travelling. Every free minute and we'd be on the phone or on the chat with each other. Somewhere along the way though, cakes, spontaneous getaways and chats gave way small matter-of fact post-its – “there’s some soup in the fridge for you” or “will be back on the 18th and going away the next day.” Strangers? Worse, it seemed! Most days, we hardly had anything to say to each other.


My thoughts were interrupted when my eyes fell on Yash who was leafing through a book. The book. The one in which we had written about our dream of starting a restaurant. The book had everything – the concept of our restaurant : a meeting place for writers and artists, the look: wooden floors and cozy sofas that people could sink into with bookcases and paintings across the walls, the menu: complete with the recipes we had experimented on.


A dream that seemed destined to be confined to the pages of the book. Forever.


Chancing upon the book after ages seemed to break the silence between us and we smiled at each other as we started talking about the time that was. And soon, we were talking about everything under the sun. Ourselves, work, politics. We stopped talking only when we realised that the afternoon had turned to dusk.


“Let me make us some tea,” he said. “Is there anything to eat?” So while he made tea, I pulled out some cookies and buttered a couple of slices of bread.


He handed me my mug and as I bit into the bread that I had dipped into my tea, I said “No one can make bread the way you used to make it.”

“What do you mean ‘used to make’? No one can make bread the way I do. Period.”

“Don’t flatter yourself! It’s been ages since you made bread.”

“Making bread is like riding a cycle. You never forget it,” he proclaimed. “Wanna see? I will bake you a bread you’ll remember,” he continued.


And so, I mixed the yeast and the sugar in some warm water, I measured out the flour and Yash started kneading the dough. Suddenly, it felt like the old times when we used to cook together.


“There is not too much space on the counter to knead the dough,” he says. “Let’s quickly vacuum the floor. Then I can knead it on the floor.”

“Whaaaaaat? And make laadi pav in the true sense of the word?” I was horrified by his suggestion.

“Oh stop behaving like a posh chef at home,” he teased with a smile that went straight to my heart. I was almost tempted to tell him not to go, when his cell phone rang. He had dough sticking to his fingers and so I held the phone against his ears, almost unable to bear the closeness.

“Yes, yes. 11 is fine.” “No, no, there isn’t too much to move. Yes, a small tempo should be ok,” he spoke into the phone.


When the call was over, we looked at each other silently for a moment and then I slipped out of the kitchen. He continued to knead; occasionally, I could hear a thud as he dropped the dough on the platform. Job done, he joined me in the balcony.


“Care for some wine?” he asked, finally breaking the awkward silence between us. In the time it took for the dough to rise, we’d polished off one bottle. While he shaped the buns, I opened another; by the time he put them in the oven, we had drained the second one too.


I wondered if it was the wine or the music or whatever else. I didn’t even remember who made the first move, but suddenly, we were in each other’s arms, kissing.


The ‘ting’ of the oven brought us back to reality. I went and checked the bread. It had this lovely brown crust and it was so soft and spongy that when I pressed it between my fingers, it sprung right back. I brought it to my nose and inhaled; the aroma filled me up.

“Perfect. I will always remember this bread,” I said as I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.


When I woke up, it was almost 10 in the morning. The movers would be coming soon, I thought. There was no sign of Yash; when I went to the kitchen to make coffee, I saw the post-it on on the fridge: Off to finish a project I should have taken up years ago. Will arrange to move everything once I am done.

I had fallen in love with Yash all over again and I missed him terribly but work kept me from brooding too much. Then one day, to my shock, I found him waiting for me at home when I returned at night. Laid out on the table were some legal looking papers – our divorce papers, I thought with a pang.

He started talking the moment he saw me, “I got stuck at the name. Other than that, in the last 3 months, I’ve done all the work on our restaurant.”

Our restaurant? What was he saying? I looked at the ‘legal looking’ papers – they were about a restaurant – our restaurant!

“So choose a name….I thought of Canvas, Chalks and Chopsticks. The other one is Plumes, Palettes and Plates….which one do you like?

“Plumes, Palettes and Plates,” I said as I moved into his arms. He continued to fill me in with the details, but all I could hear was the beating of his heart.

So just what is 'laadi pav'? Pav is a marathi word, taken from the Portuguese word pao which simply means bread. It is called 'laadi pav' more because of the way it looks. When baked with all the buns stuck together, it ressembles slabs of the floor and hence the name.

This is one very easy bread to make, I've taken the recipe from Vaishali's blog and except for a few.....ummm.....cosmetic changes, I have followed her recipe to the tee.

Ingredients:

Bread flour: 3 cups
Salt: 1 tsp
Baking soda: 1/2 tsp
Sugar: 1+ 2tsps
Yeast: 1.5 tsps
Warm water: 1 - 1.5 cups
Butter/oil: 3 tbsps

for brushing the top of the buns:

warm milk: 2 tbsps
melted butter: 1 tbsp

Method:

Stir the yeast and the sugar in 1/4 cup of warm water and let it sit for about 15-20 mins or till it expands and froths

Sift the flour and baking soda together and transfer it to a large mixing bowl.

Make a well in the centre and pour in the yeast mixture and mix it into the flour. Pour the water in thin trickle and begin kneading the dough.

When it clumps together, turn it onto the kitchen counter and knead for a further 10 - 12 mins, till you get a smooth and pliable ball of dough.


Then, sprinkle the salt over the dough and add the butter, a tbsp at a time and knead till all the butter has been absorbed by the dough.


Leave the dough for rising in a well oiled bowl; it takes me about 3 hours for the dough to double.

Then, punch it down and divide it into eight pieces. Shape them into rectangular buns and lay them close to each other on a jam roll pan. Let them rise for another 30 minutes, once this rising time has elapsed, you will see that the gap between the buns has closed out, making the buns stick to each other.


Brush the milk on the top of the buns and bake in a pre-heated oven at 180 deg C for about 20 mins. Turn off the oven, leave the door slightly ajar and let the buns rest for a further 5 mins.


Take them off and brush the melted butter immediately on top of the buns; doing this ensures that crust remains soft and the buns get a lovely shine.

She looked around her and realised that there was no way out, that she would have to eat it, the plateful of kairi chi dal that they had been served. She stole a furtive glance to her left and saw Aamir shovelling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, muttering ‘delicious’ and ‘yum’ ever so often. A quick glance to her right and other members of their entourage were doing the same.


Yes, she would have to eat it, else the tabloid journalist accompanying them would have a field day declaring how the heroine of the movie acted snooty and refused to touch a morsel. And moreover, she would hurt the feelings of the lady who had made it if she didn't eat.


Yet, she couldn’t get herself to eat even a single spoonful – she dreaded the torrent of emotions it would unleash - and so she toyed with her food, absently pushing it this way and that on her plate, as she took in her surroundings. It was a simple house that had homeliness written on every wall.


There was a time when she had known a house like this intimately, she thought.


Coming here to this house hadn’t quite been part of the plan, but then her co-star Aamir could be extremely eccentric sometimes.


They had been touring the country as part of publicity for their soon to be released movie; the promotional blitzkrieg had taken them to theatres and multiplexes, malls and restaurants in an attempt to connect with the audiences. But barging in unannounced into somebody’s house? That was something that happened on the spur of the moment.


They were waiting at a traffic light when Aamir saw this chawl at the corner of the street. “Let’s go visit some house in that chawl,” he said. “It would fit in wonderfully with the theme of the movie.”


The sycophants accompanying them had lauded the idea and that is how she found herself in this house; the paint peeling off its walls, a noisy fan spinning furiously, its attempt at offering some respite from the relentless summer heat almost futile.


There was a time when she had lived in a house just like this one, she recalled.


Their visit had created quite a stir, people from the neighbouring houses were thronging to see them and the ladies of the house had bent over backwards bringing out tea, coffee and snacks for them.


Her publicist gave her a subtle nudge. “You’ve not touched your plate and everyone is watching.”


Reluctantly, she ate a spoonful. It had the perfect balance of spicy, sour and sweet, with just the right crunch. A burst of freshness from the cilantro and grated coconut. Exactly the way she liked kairi chi dal.



Exactly the way her aayi used to make it, she remembered. Exactly the way it tasted the last time she had eaten it.



She could barely swallow that small spoonful. The lump in her throat made swallowing difficult.


“Did you like it? I helped my mother make it,” said a voice. Looking up, she saw a young girl, her long hair neatly braided into 2 pleats. She was apparently shy for she was clinging to her mother’s sari, her face virtually covered by the pallu.



She used to be like that little girl, shy and reticent and extremely attached to her mother. Her mother was the centre of her universe and vice versa, till that fateful day 6 years ago when her actions and decisions had changed it all:


“Aayi, there is something I need to talk to you about,” she began, tentatively.

“What is it Gauri? And grate the kairi quickly. If you want to take the kairi chi dal in your lunch box, you’d better work those hands,” her mother admonished, as she added the coarsely ground chana dal to the hot oil.



“Aayi, I don’t know how to tell you this, but some days back I had sent my pictures for the Miss India contest,” she said, “I got a letter today confirming my selection in the final 24 contestants. I have to go to Mumbai next week,” she concluded.


She knew her mother would be upset at this revelation and prepared herself for an angry outburst. But her mother turned up the flame of the gas and proceeded to vigorously stir the dal. When she finally reduced the flame and covered the vessel with a tight fitting lid, she turned to her and said, “ Turn off the gas after 5 minutes and stir in the grated raw mango. Top it off with the coriander and grated coconut. I am getting late for work, pack your own lunch box today.”


“But aayi, what about…”


Her mother had silenced her mid sentence. “There will be no further discussion on that matter. I want you to finish your medical studies. Two years and you will be a doctor! And,” she continued, “Should you pursue this stupid beauty pageant thing, I will cut all ties with you,” she said as she picked up her handbag and left for work.


Tears streaming down her eyes, Gauri packed her lunch box and gathered her books. She was torn between her dream and her mother’s ambition. She glanced at the watch. Her friend would come to pick her up in 10 minutes; the bus to Mumbai left in 25 minutes. She took a deep breath and made her decision. She threw in some clothes into a suitcase, wrote a brief note to her mother, used her lunchbox as a paper weight and walked out of her home.


She didn’t make it beyond the first round of the pageant but managed to catch the attention of a film producer. The rest, as they say, was history. Instead of Dr. Gauri, she had become megastar Gauri.





Another voice jolted her back to the present. “Yes, she is my little helper in the house,” laughed the girl’s mother. “She loves your movies and can mimic all your dance moves!" The mother’s eyes lit up with pride as she spoke about her daughter.


Seeing her, Gauri felt a pang. Yes, she had always missed her mother all these years, but today, her pain at being estranged from her mother was suddenly overwhelming her.


Would her mother be proud of her achievement, the heights she had reached, she wondered. What would she say to her when they met? And most importantly, how was her mother?


She could not bear it any longer, this separation from her mother. She just had to meet her mother and reconcile with her. Yes, she would go right away to her home, to her mother. She calculated the distance to her home town; from here, it would take her around 6 hours to reach by road. This meant that by the time she reached, it would be very late in the night.


But then, it was never too late to go back home, was it?




Sandeepa is hosting the 2nd edition of our food fiction event, 'Of Chalks and Chopsticks' and this is my entry for the event.



Have you sent in your entries to Sandeepa yet?

Kairi chi dal is a very popular evening snack in Maharashtra in the summer months and is something I absolutely love.


The final taste of this dal depends a lot on individual taste buds. I load mine with a lot of raw mango - I love mine tangy, my husband, on the other hand doesn't like it so sour.


You are looking for a balance between sweet, sour and spicy that tickles your taste buds, so use the quantities, especially of the raw mango, given here more as a guideline.


Once you've found the right balance of the three tastes, believe me, you are going to go into absolute raptures of delight.

Ingredients:


Chana dal: 1/4 cup, soaked overnight
Raw mango, grated: 1 (use lime juice as a substitute if you can't find raw mangoes)
Ginger: 1" piece
Green chillies: 3-4

Oil: 2 tbsps
Mustard seeds: 1 tsp
Asafoetida: 1/4 tsp
Turmeric powder: 1/4 tsp

Salt, to taste
Sugar: 1 1/2 tsp


for garnishing (essential):


Chopped coriander leaves: 3 tsps
Grated cocout: 2 tbsps


Method:


Soak the chana dal for at least 5 hours, preferably overight.


Drain the water and let the dal 'drip dry' for about 30 mins.


Grind alongwith the green chillies and ginger to a coarse powder.


Heat oil in a wok and pop in the mustard seeds. When they start to crackle, add in the asafoetida and the turmeric powder followed by the coarsely ground dal. Sprinkle the salt. Stir briskly for 2-3 minutes, then reduce the flame to the lowest possible - and cook covered for a further 2 minutes. When you uncover the lid, steam should rise up from the dal. Stir once more and turn off the gas.


Stir in the sugar and the grated raw mango - don't add in all the mango in one go - taste as you add some in - stop adding the raw mango once you reach your desired level of sweet, spicy and sour.


Garnish with grated coconut and chopped coriander leaves.





This is also my entry to MLLA - 23 that Susan herself is hosting this month.

Yakhni Fish Pulao @
Spice and Curry

"She saw the packet of bread again and suddenly remembered that her hen had laid one egg in the morning that she had collected and kept in her refrigerator. She has a pet hen which is now her only supply of eggs. She rushed to her fridge and took out the egg. Then she took the bread packet and made herself busy in the kitchen."

Bread Pudding @
Kathopokathon

"Given her years only a visit to the doctor, or to a family marriage, was proper. So who would go to the mutton wallah? How could she get the mutton? A flight of stairs stood angrily between her and the road to the market. A distance which counted for nought in square feet. And yet tormented her. The demons of fear were fierce. The consequences of a fall scary. The fractures her childhood friends had succumbed to shook her.

Then she thought of the little girl. The way her face would lit up as she bit into the kebabs lost in potatoes."

Crispy Potatoes @
Finely Chopped





"She wanted to talk to someone-mom,a friend-someone who would make her near to her hometown.Tears welled in her eyes and slowly rolled down her cheeks.She did not want to wallow in self pity so she made her way into the kitchen."

Oriental Curd Rice @
Seduce Your Tastebuds






"Finding the dark corner she was looking for ,on the other side of the huge tank in the courtyard, she ate the fish , hurriedly but with relish , watchful eyes darting here and there . It tasted like manna , it was exciting , it was glorious . She closed her eyes as she licked her fingers and ran her tongue around her teeth and it was then that the fear overtook her and the sheer magnitude of her act overtook her ."

Rui Maachher Kalia @
Eve's Lungs

"The little girl tip-toed closer to the cake, brushing against the white voile curtains that billowed softly with the afternoon breeze. She straightened her red cotton dress and leaned closer, inhaling the heavenly scent of the chocolate and vanilla that wafted from the warm cake. The smell was intoxicating, and some of the little white flakes that dusted the cake stirred and whirled around, dancing to the wind."

Chocolate Cake @
Split Pear-sonality - A Cooking Journey....

"The next morning I knew what it was.I was surprised and happy.I never realized that I had actually started liking the person so much.And French toast.It somehow reminded me of our classes and of him.I said a silent prayer."

Crispy French Toast @
Wit, Wok and Wisdom

"So it became a ritual. Inspite of C always hesitating a little before taking a glass, summer became synonymous to glassfuls of watermelon juice that both girls had many an afternoon all through their junior college days, sometimes when cramming for exams or when just yapping away about nothing. :-)"

Watermelon Juice @
Kichu Khon






"Mala Maasi's mother-in-law didn't live with her, she mostly stayed with her older son, but when she was due to visit, Maasi would hide all traces of the onions she normally cooked with, as her mother-in-law was old fashioned, and would not eat in her house if she knew that 'taamsik' food was being cooked there. Her grandsons would wait for the old lady to leave so that they could have raw onions in the salad and gravies redolent with onions and ginger."

Peanut Brittle @
Of This and That




"She shivered again, and wrapped her beige coat tightly around her. The air was heavy and stale. The chill cut through her, even her tough exterior could not provide her respite from the bitter cold.
She was tired. She had been up for days. Wondering. Waiting. When?"

Shakshouka @
Split Pear-sonality - A Cooking journey

“It has to go on the blog this time at any cost!” She thought. She had made them a lot of times before this, but somehow never went around to publish it on her blog. The excuse being the classic one – lack of good photographs. But today she was going to make sure she had snaps, in fact she was going a step further & taking step by step pictures. These were always a hit on the blog. "

Peanut Butter Cookies @
Taste Buds

"By then, mom brought us the Gulab Jamuns. I was worried that mom would have heard what Sonu said. So, I decided to change the topic. On looking at the jamuns I said "Wow! Amma, no one can make Jamuns like you. They look so perfect and yummy. Please tell me how to make this"

Gulab Jamun @
Nithu's Kitchen

"She added the eggs into the boiling jhol and checked if the potatoes were almost done. She was browsing through the cookbook that Kumar had got her from his tutor’s income at the book fair 8 years back."

Dimer Jhol @
Experiments of a Cooking Enthusiast

"She opened the gift with all enthusiasm but only found a cute barbie doll. She started crying and told A that she really expected her to bring marie delight which is her favorite."

Marie Delight @
Kitchen Samraj

Aloo Bhujia @
Cuisine Virtuelle

"I did not hear my new husband return. It was only when I felt my hands pressed against the warmth of a corn on the cob that I smelt his signature cologne mixed with the earthy smell of bhutta. Heaven."

Corn on the Cob @
PreeOccupied

"She looks up, and smiles. Her sparkling eyes catch him looking at her, with hope and affection. She nods, 'Yes'. He smiles. She puts the note in the empty drawer. She knows what she is going to bake for their first date :)"

Starry Chocolate Brownies @
The Variable - Crazy Over Desserts

"Meanwhile, Renuka was sipping her coffee, and nibbling on the most delicious biscuits that she had ever eaten. The chef informed her that they were Galettes au beurre Normand, sucre, a speciality of the region, that also came in a savoury version. Renuka told the chef that as a keen cook, she would be researching a recipe for the scrumptious biscuits so that she would be able to make them herself."

Galettes Au Beurre Normand, Sucre @
Aunty Sharm's

"Aaaalu roll!!!!" Tutltul made a face and exclaimed. "I think the heat's got to you. These guys make the best mutton rolls. Shiraz and Nizam standards. Why alu roll? You are the one who keeps complaining about the roti, dahi, daal and subzi dinners at your P G every night. Why don't you eat some real food tonight?".

Sabina smiled indulgently and said, "I'll have an alu roll".

Alu Rolls @
Finely Chopped