T is for Toast, Tavaa Toast #atozchallenge

Yes, the title of today's post is inspired by Bond, James Bond. If he's a man's man, then tavaa toast is a toast's toast, at least according to my taste buds.

Now that I've impressed you with all the tiresome Ts I've managed to thrust in the sentence above, let's move on.

To find out about tavaa toast, you'll have to travel back in time with me to the mid-1970s (when I was between 3 and 10) to Beji's (my grandmother) kitchen in Dehradun.

Double roti is how I was first introduced to sliced white bread that came wrapped in a clear plastic bag of shame.

Shame?

Bread?

Why?

Beji was the queen of her kitchen and my grandfather's heart. Her words were law and no one questioned her rules. She was petite and soft and never raised her voice, ever. I don't recall a single harsh word uttered by her. Yes, yes, I loved her, so I must be biased. But she ruled without force. Her way in the kitchen was the only way. No one complained. She was an amazing cook who was completely dedicated to feeding her family.

The firangi (foreign) double roti aka sliced, white bread had no place in her Punjabi kitchen.

"Shame on you for buying bread from a shop. Shame on you for buying any food that comes wrapped up in a plastic bag. How difficult is it to knead some flour, roll out a roti and raise it into a hot balloon on the tavaa? Huh? Why did God give us hands? " No, she never uttered those words. She just relayed the sentiments to us by her actions.

"Aye koi khaand dee cheez hai? Mareezan di roti?" (She had proclaimed sliced, white bread to be fit for consumption only by the sick or if your family had abandoned you and you were left without a kitchen--how else could one justify a food so lacking in taste and nutrients?)

Double Roti was contraband.

Time changed all that. Beji became older and weaker. Her son's wives gained more and more access to her  kitchen. Modern life with its modern rhythm introduced faster flavours and easier to prepare meals into our lives.

Then one day, my mother served us toast for breakfast, instead of paraanthas.

We didn't have a toaster then.

This is where the tavaa (flat pan on which we make rotis/chappatis) comes in.

Put the tavaa on a medium flame. Let it get hot enough for the thin slab of butter you're about to tip into it to melt. Then place your slice of bread on it. Scrape a few thickish shavings off the block of (Amul or home-made white) butter and spread them evenly on the side of  bread facing you. Make sure the edges get enough, too. When the air around you starts to fill up with buttery toast aroma, turn the side. If, like me, you like the edges kararaa (brown and well done) then wait a bit. You can always add a bit more butter by sliding it through the edges while the white slice is browning into a toast. Now slide the James Bond of all toasts onto your plate and enjoy. But,before you do, make sure that the bread is cooked.

Because, all through my childhood I was told that the white slices of bread that were sold at the bakers were kachaa (raw/uncooked/in need of proper cooking--Indian style).

"Aye haye kachee bread khaa littee...aye le...ajwaain khaa...sabar nahin bilkul ve ajkal de bachayaan noo."

If you were spotted eating white bread straight from the packet, chances are your mum or granny would take you to the doctors for you had just consumed raw, uncooked bread.

Don't ask me! I was a kid back then. How was I to know that the baker had baked the bread before wrapping it in a plastic bag? Baking wasn't done in my Beji's kitchen.  The oven, I knew and loved, was outside, in the veranda. It was called tandoor. 

I digress. Sorry.

My mouth is watering just typing the way my mom used to make tava toast for us. She would use ghee or Amul butter or home-made white butter, depending upon what was available or what one felt like having that day.

They are all superb. Yummy. And they all taste different. The ghee ones are kurkure (crumbly like pastry), the Amul ones are salty and the ones made with white butter are soft in the middle. You can crush some black pepper on top, or chilly flakes if you like, and Bob's your uncle.

When toasters came into our lives, we started toasting our kachaa slices of bread---white in the 90s, followed by brown and multi grain and then the gluten free kind.

Our trusted Tefal toaster sits like a king on our kitchen counter top. His courtiers stand in attention right next to him--bottled up and straight--honey, marmite, peanut butter and marmalade.

I use my toaster to toast pitta, naan, bread and bagels. And they all come wrapped up in plastic bags. Beji must be tut-tutting from somewhere up there in ether.

*****
How do you like your toast? Do tell:)

I have to thank Barbara whose post about skillets drew my attention to the tavaa on my hob.

I feel I need to add a picture of the other 'T' I was toying with before I read Barbara's post. 

It's tota -- parrot in Hindi.(the t is soft--falls between t and th)

Tota (this sounds like it reads) is also a modern Punjabi slang for hot stuff--

of the female kind, not bread.

Ahmedabadi Tota:)

 U and I will meet again:)

L is for Laundry #atozchallenge

When a newly qualified doctor of Indian origin claimed, "I don't mind washing clothes, it's the ironing that I can't stand." to try to fit in with his white British colleagues in 1974 at his surgery in North London, he failed miserably.

"Odd " was an adjective he acquired that first day at work and it stuck with him for  a very long time.

What his colleagues (who hadn't grown up in the India of the 60s and the 70s) didn't realise was that washing machines were not of a mechanical persuasion back home. They came in human forms: kaam wali bai (house maid) or dhobi (washer-man) or mother or wife or father or brother or your own self. It all depended on the matrix of your family.

Clothes were soaked in Nirma washing powder for a couple of hours, then scrubbed and even beaten with a wooden spatula/bat called dummadi. Then the onerous task of wringing the clothes heavy with water followed. Not a problem if it's a cotton shirt but try wringing water from a thick cotton bed sheet. No one needed a gym those days and everyone was always fit. Last but not least, the clothes were hung to dry outdoors, mostly in partial shade to prevent bleaching of coloured clothes and yellowing of white ones.

Compare the above to choosing a setting on a machine, dropping some detergent and a bit of conditioner in the slots and pushing the button to 'wash' your clothes.

Odd indeed. What you don't know, you don't know.

My mother often told us how lucky we were when we were of 'wash-your-own-clothes' age because Nirma and Surf had surfaced by then. In her time, (sounded as Victorian to me as our time sounds to our children) they used to wash clothes with this bar of soap that removed dirt off clothes and skin off palms without discrimination.

One of my favourite laundry memory (yes, I'm a bit odd like that) is when Mummy used reetha (soap nuts) to wash her expensive cardigans at home. The sudsy seeds of this nut are such fun to play with.

But my most favourite laundry memory is about my Grandmother's dupattas. We called her Beji and I didn't know then but she definitely had OCD. Her pure white chiffon dupattas were always white and bright and immaculate. She wore the ones with lace around the edges.

But before I dive into this and one other memory, let me tell why I picked laundry for L. As some of you know, I was in Croatia when the A to Z Challenge started. Lo and behold--L was hanging right there in front of me--and such pretty pictures it made too:)

Sundays were laundry days when I was growing up. On Sundays, Darji (our Sikh neighbour) would sit in his veranda with his kesh (hair) all afloat in the air, looking more like Santa Claus than Darji to me. His turbans hung around him; the cloth open and spread out at different angles on various charpoys in the veranda or flying like flags from the banni (railings) The soft cotton fabric would slowly harden in the sun as the starch put on it would start to dry. I used to watch Neena didi (his daughter) gather the turban cloth (now stiff like poppadoms) and  make them into turban meringues --ready to be sent to the press-walla (the ironing guy).

Beji (my grandmother) washed her dupattas herself. She would squeeze out the soapy water ever so softly, her wrinkle ridden hands kneading the watery chiffon so carefully that the two gold bangles on her right wrist wouldn't even clink! Then came my favourite part--mixing 'neel' (a blue dye ). I think it's an indigo extract, but I'm not sure. Just a few drops would plop out of the squeezy sheeshee (bottle) and dive into the shallow bucket, half-filled with water. And like ink, neel would swirl and twirl and make hypnotic patterns. My job was to make sure it mixed well with the water, so that when Beji plunged her white dupattas in, the blue would give them the whiter than white glow and not blue splodges!

Six or seven of her bathed in blue (neel mein nahaye) dupattas would sit piled up on top of each other in baguette like forms waiting to be hand dried. Yes, you got that right. They weren't going to be hung like ordinary laundry on wires of steel and ropes of nylon. No, sir. They were Beji's pride and joy. 

Dupatta drying is a two women's job. You need a partner to do this properly.

This was my MOST favourite part of Sundays. My sister or mother or Beji or aunt (whoever was available to partner up) would hold two corners of the wet dupatta. I'd hold the other two (imagine spreading a picnic blanket with another pair of hands). Then both of us (holding to the corners and standing opposite each other at either end of the dupatta) would raise our arms and the dupatta would plump up like a parachute, followed by lowering the arms (still holding the dupatta). Imagine sending-smoke-signal-kinda-arm movements.

Every time the dupatta would come down, it would sprinkle us both with tiny drops of water. I loved that. A tiny patch of dry in the shape of a map would start appearing in the middle after a few ups and downs. Then the dry patch would spread and spread till almost all of the dupatta was dry, except the lace trimmed edges. The corners in our hands would be slightly damp when the adult partner would take over-- swiftly aligning the two edges together to fold Beji's dupatta and deposit it on the pile of other dried rectangles of white as snow chiffon, their lacy rims hanging over the edges.

What was your last laundry like?

Any mishaps you'd like to share?

Leaving you with a picture of a lighthouse...as long it's L, it'll do.

These pictures were taken in Split and Dubrovnik in the first week of April, 2017

Make hay when the sun shines or enjoy a Martini if it doesn't.

Meet you here tomorrow:)