Dear Readers,
You've all met Julie on 'J' day. But, if you missed out, you can meet her today : Julie
We go back to October 2018 for today's post, back to Julie and Guruji's house in Maunda, the last village of Uttarakhand.
The night was cold. The sky was an ocean of stars twinkling in inky waters. Our group of seven was sitting around an electric heater in Guruji's sitting room on thin carpets layered with thick, warm woollen rugs, cocooned in our thermals and down jackets.
Whenever anyone entered or left the room (mostly to bring tea or water) he/she was told to shut the door securely.
Julie came in holding a steel thali and a katori (plate and bowl).
"Eat this. You'll love it. Eat with the chutney--majja aayega." crisp like the cold October night, Julie issued her instructions, handed the thali and katori to Rajat and left the room.
Roughly chopped wedges of apple, some big, some small, crowded the thali.
"These are from our baag (orchard)." Guruji announced proudly.
I'd spotted one or two pink and white blossoms on the apple trees circling their house when we had arrived. Late bloomers. We were told the apple harvest had suffered because of unseasonal rains that year. The apples, although delicious, had become marked and were therefore not good enough to be sold in the mandi (market).
"Take the chutney." reminded Pradhanji, who was also sitting with us.
I took a slice of apple, dipped it in the bowl, picked a tiny blob of coarse green chutney and took my first bite.
A crescendo of lip-smacking, ooing, aahing and omging and wondering what could've made this chutney so damn tasty rose around the heater.
Then Julie came back with more apple slices and chutney.
"You liked it." she announced her question with the surety of someone who knows how good their wares are.
"What was in it?" Rajat, the hotelier, asked.
"Salt and chillies."
"Must be Himalayan salt, pink salt?" offered Siddharth, another trekker who owns a successful restaurant.
"Na..na...arre, it's that packet one from the shop." Julie dismissed his suggestion with a smile.
"Must be the sillbatta (pestle and mortar) then. This taste--has to come from hand grinding chillies." Vani added.
"Arre, na...na...I can't handle sillbatta. I'm too old. I made it in the mixie (mixer-grinder)." Julie thwarted every suggestion skilfully.
"Are you sure there's nothing other than salt and chillies in the chutney?" Rajat tried again.
"Of course not! Just those chillies growing outside and saada namak (simple salt)." Julie's eyes were shining with tears of mirth at our expense while we sat around the heater, enamoured by her everyday, ordinary chutney.
It had to be the chillies. It had to be the good, nutritious soil of Julie's garden. It had to be her love. It had to be the fact that she grows them herself. We sat there that night listing all the ingredients Julie took for granted and therefore forgot to mention to us when we asked her for her chutney recipe.
The next morning, we left for the trek. We met her on the way. She was walking back home after collecting fresh grass for Lali, her cow.
"As long as I can walk, I'll feed her fresh grass." Julie had told us once.
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