S is for Salt and Chillies #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fourth week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti.

"A good mood, helped along by pleasant company, 

is an essential ingredient for enjoying our food."

Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie       

*****

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.

The one thing I was looking forward to the most (second only to a shower) when we reached Maunda after our arduous trek was apple wedged dipped in Julie's home made chutney.

Do you have a simple 2/3 ingredient recipe that you'd like to share?

Is there a spice, condiment, chutney you cannot do without?

You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.

I wrote about serendipity in 2017. I didn't know about the concept of Ichigo Ichie then, but this post is a perfect fit : Silver Serendipity

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

X is for Xavier's College Canteen in Kolkata #AtoZChallenge

'Your one month's tuition fee is more than what my father paid for my entire education.' my husband often points this fact out to our son who's studying for his grade 12 exams at the moment.

Our son, like our daughter who's now at university so out of her father's earshot, hears this every now and then, especially when the topic of university fees comes up.

My husband likes to point out to them that he was awarded a scholarship in high school which not only covered his tuition fee, he even had a bit left over which became his pocket money. Yes, he's not winning the most popular Dad award any time soon. He's an Indian father whose two primary concerns at this point in time are:

1) his son should work hard to get the grades he needs to go to the university of his choice.
2) his son should know that money doesn't grow on trees.

June, 2016. My husband's alma mater informed him that if he didn't collect his degree (which had been awarded to him 25 years ago but he had failed to collect it as he was not living in the country anymore) it would be sent back to the University. And anyone who knows anything about offices in universities of India will tell you that it's easier to find a needle in a haystack than a piece of document you've worked hard for.

So one hot and humid June afternoon in 2016, we found ourselves immersed in his recollections of his dear St. Xavier's. One of his college friends joined him and the two of them dipped in and out of anecdotes from their days, teachers they loved and the ones they loathed, stories of wearing two or three underpants on days of caning etc.etc.

'What's your favourite memory?' I asked

'The only really clear memory I have is the 8 o'clock break. Bhookh zor se lagee hotee thee --we would be starving so we'd run down the narrow staircase to head to the canteen to be first in line for luchee aaloo and samosas.' 

College started at 6.00 am for them! 

Despite the heat, we relished luchee aloo (fried bread and potato curry) and samosas with tea that day. There's something special about sharing someone's food memories with them. It's a slice of their childhood you can taste. I think our children saw the boy their Dad once was and forgave him for his 'scholarship' toots (at least for the time being).

Jhaal Muri : jhaal means hot and muri means puffed rice.

It's a popular street snack in Kolkata.

No day in Kolkata is complete without a helping of this delicious, mouth watering, crunchy, tangy delight.

I used to stop by at a jhaal muri stall almost every evening after work.

 St. Xavier's College has its own jhaal muri waala. I was impressed.

My husband's friend made sure we were properly impressed so he gave the guy instructions on making a dish he makes for a living!

Yes, as Indians, we do love to give advice: lots of it and it's all for free:)

In case your taste buds are tingling like mine are right now, check out this recipe video:

It's Friday today. The husband is at home and he does make a mean jhaal muri. 

I reckon we'll have a snacky lunch today:)

*****

Do you have any food memories from you school days you'd like to share?

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:)

Summer woes get a green fix -- in Cyprus and in Doha

Photo coutesy: Archana Bahukhandi

Blades of grass
tickled my naked feet
this morning.

The expanse of green
at the local park
was too luscious to resist.
I yanked my shoes off without untying the laces.
Socks followed shoes
as I stepped on the grass
and let the swords of green
succumb
to the grey weight of my dark thoughts.

Yes, summer in Doha
gets to me.
I feel trapped
in the oppressive heat of forty seven degrees.

Soaring mercury
imprisons
humans in air-conditioned cages of homes and offices.
Cold and lonely
feels summer.

I rise before the sun
to go out,
to breath,
to walk,
to think
and to feel alive again,
despite the seventy percent humidity.

The green rapiers
rip through the web of negativity I've entangled myself in.
A smile escapes.

"Thank you, dear grass."
I say.
"I trample and yet you give.
You are awesome!"

"Spare a thought for the dew drop."
grass replies.
"She touched you too, you know.
I'm here, but she's no more.
Did you feel her cool embrace?"

************

There are people around us who are like those drops of dew-- people who do their 'jobs' without ever being noticed or appreciated. 

Today. I want to thank all the people who tend to the public parks and gardens in Doha-- all those hard working souls who work, despite the heat, so that people like me can enjoy a morning stroll. Thank you tree-pruners, water sprinkler-operators, grass-shearers, rubbish-pickers, park keepers--thank you all for making the summer bearable.

If this scorcher of a poem has made you hot and bothered...let me cool you down with some green pictures from Cyprus.

Natural shade makes all the difference.
Car park: Omodos

Destination: Lefkara

Road-side refreshments. 
No vendors -- a sign, a tin can and bags of oranges from nearby orchards...

We brought a few back home with us--the juiciest, sweetest oranges I've eaten in a long time.

Nature's bounty is common to spot;
 driving down a highway or meandering through a village.

Blooming Rosemary

The sun beats down on green doors

 Bougainvillea strikes a pose 

Lefkara is famous for its lace and silver, but it was this quaint backyard garden at the back of the shop that pulled me in. 

I wasn't planning to buy any more lace, but the lady who owns the business was so kind and her love for her garden brought out the sucker in me. (it's not that tricky, let me tell you:)

While the husband paid and waited, I explored this little gem.

A note for all those who garden in hot and arid places: 
Most of the plants in this little garden are drought resistant. I love the way they've been grouped together for impact.
The terracotta pots are sublime. More about Cypriot pottery in my next post. 

"It's not the best time to visit, you know. It's so hot." said another smiling lacer, sitting under the shade of a fig tree, on the street outside her house.

She wanted us to come in but I had just bought lace and I know me -- I cannot resist handmade gorgeousness.

So, I declined politely and nodded.

"You should visit in spring. It's beautiful."

Perspective, I thought.

The 47 degrees we had left behind was hot. 30 degrees in Lefkara was balmy.

But, not a soul (except us) was out at mid-day.

Except the Bougainvillea, of course.

Crunchy and tangy Greek salad and scrumptious doner kabaabs were relished under the shade here, before we bid Lefkara adieu.

I have to thank my friend Monica, a Cypriot whose grandfather comes from Lefkara, for her priceless travel tips. We managed to explore so many aspects of Cyprus in just four days --thanks to her.

I know I will be heading back someday, hopefully in spring.

It's a beautiful country.

Till we meet again:)

Leaving you with a beautiful prayer by Rupert M. Loydell

Prayer

Teach me the value

of what I own,

of what I eat,

of this earth

and of its people.

Help me to remember

whose world it is

why you created it

and why you created 

me.

Rupert M. Loydell

*******

Roopkund -- of moss, meadows and motherhood

Wash your hands!
Have you washed your hands?
Did you wash your hands?
I hope your hands are clean.
When was the last time you washed your hands?

Summer 2016 started a day before my son's school term ended. He and I flew to Delhi to start our first ever mother-son trek along with my usual group of 'adult' friends in the Himalayas. We were Roopkund bound and I was in my element -- my nagging element.

Nagging my sixteen year old son to maintain hand hygiene became my prime occupation as soon as we set foot inside the night bus which would take us to Haldwani. I had visions of Delhi belly forcing us to abandon our trek and head home. I HAD to pester. I'm sure mothers of teenage sons understand.

'Give him space. Let him be.' was the advice I didn't want to hear, but I got it all the same, from a fellow trekker who was new to the group. Her words stopped me in my tracks. I had never seen myself as a 'helicopter' parent. Secretly, I pride myself as the kind of mother who doesn't hover over her children, one who gives them space, one who has a life of her own; i.e. a cool mum. Obviously, I'm not. If a stranger can offer this advice after two days of trekking with us, then I must be a version of Debra Barone (Ray's mom from Everybody loves Raymond) without realizing it.

It was a wake up call and time for me to introspect.

Himalayas helped.

I wish I had carried my copy of Parent's Tao Te Ching with me. I hadn't. The beautiful and breathtaking (literally- as there were times on this tricky trek that I thought I may be taking my last breath-- more of that in another post) beauty of the Himalayas calmed me down. The mountains have this magical power to bring out the best in me. It's only when I get back down to reality that regular reminders penned down by wise men like William Martin are needed. He says:

"You cannot force your will

upon other human beings.

You can not hurry children

along the road to maturity.

And the only step necessary

on their long journey of life,

is the next small one. "

Don't get me wrong; I loved his company and so did the others in the group.

"We must make it mandatory to have one sixteen year old on all of our future treks!" declared a dear friend one evening by the campfire, where we were drying our sodden boots like cobs of corn--turning them every once in a while to ensure they were dry enough for the next day.

A few tips for those of you who are planning to go trekking with your brood in the future:

1. If your offspring doesn't fill your water bottle, or run to fetch sun cream when you ask him, but does all these jobs willingly, quickly and with a smile for all the other adults in the group, pat your back and say to yourself:
'Well done! You raised a helpful kid."
They will take you for granted; even in the Himalayas.

2. Be prepared to be made fun of; of your technically challenged brain and your TV serial choices in front of strangers for this is how teenagers bond with other adults. Just pray that there are a few others like you in the group who will come to your rescue as some of my friends did for me.

3. If you are sharing your tent with your teenager-- BE WARNED-- it will turn into a bomb site every time  they need to change, even if it's just the wet socks. Trust me!

4. Any safety advice should come from the guides or other adults. They listen, period.

5. Enjoy the times when they bring you a hot cup of tea without being asked or insist on carrying your bag at the end of the trek when you know they are as shattered as you are. They will soon become adults and go on treks of their own. Time we have with our children is finite.

6. Relish the pride you see in their eyes when you get rid of spiders or mosquitoes that have entered the tent.

and

7. Carry a pack of cards.

Before I get all emotional about how great trekking the Himalayas was with him, let me dig the photos out and take you to my home state in India, Uttrakhand--all the way to the lap of Trishul massif-- to the glacial lake called Roopkund with me. Are you ready?

An almost ten hours' ride from Kathgodam (last train station and close to Haldwani) led us to our first camping site: Lohajung.

One of the first things we spotted when we started our trek the next morning were these locals sorting 'moss'. They were sifting through the moss that grows on oak trees in the area, separating twigs and other dried wood. Apparently, this stuff sells for a decent amount of money. I had no idea.

Lush bamboo and gurgling brooks kept us company.

Stunning creature, don't you think?

 And this my dear readers is monkey corn. Only monkeys eat the kernels that grow around the black stalk. We spotted many more as we climbed higher.

The first day's trek was a stroll in the park compared to what was in store for us later!

We reached Didna village, stopped for chai and carried on to the spot our guide had picked for us to camp for the night. 

It was a little piece of heaven. 

Birdsong chirruped all around us.

 The next day took our breath away- literally!

The climb was intense, but the promise of walking through India's most beautiful meadow (bugyal)kept me going and of course, the suggestion made by Chauhan, our guide, that there would be a chai stall in that meadow made it easier to cope. 

 The moss collectors:

'My photo?' he looked surprised, but struck this beautiful grin for me anyway.

He also told me about the many uses of this moss. It's used to prepare medicines, shampoo and even paint!

 'What will you do for the rest of the day?' I asked her.

'I'm getting old now, so by the time I reach back home, it will be late afternoon. I'll eat and rest.'

'May I take a photo?' I asked. 'I may never come back here.'

'Of course, you will!' She declared.

'This is the land of the Goddess, you will be back.'

I like her confidence.

 The moss eventually destroys the oak.

I guess, this is how nature balances it all out.

Aaah...! Ali Bugyal

'My photos have gone to Germany.' came the happy reply when I asked for his permission to click.

 Water is always on the boil in this pateela. He then uses boiling water to make chai on the gas stove. We devoured egg bhurji with chai at his stall.

He operates this stall for 3 months -- for the trekkers! So glad he does.

We were cold.

The wind was harsh-- bitterly cold and strong-- pushing us back. The climb after this lunch break wasn't too pleasant.

 But, just look at the view ...

Bedni Bugyal: our camp ground for day 3.

 I was too restless to sit when we reached. The sky was blue. My camera and I decided to explore...

Just a short walk from the camp and the temples above was this temple-- encircled by a stone wall. Legend has it that this lake (which fills up with rain water and is now marked by the stone wall) was carved out by the local goddess.

Here's a more detailed explanation:

"Bedni too comes packaged with a legend as informed by our guides. ‘Bed’ (pronounced baid) is a unit of hand measure/hand span. The reigning goddess is said to have carved out the lake using her hand span (‘bed’) after doing a parikrama  (inspection) of the area and choosing the spot for the water body. Hence the name ‘Bedni’ (carved by the hand of a goddess)."

source: https://vanibpahwa.wordpress.com/category/trekking/

Insomnia becomes my companion when I'm trekking. Lucky for me, most sunrises happen early in the morning too:)

And how can one sleep when this is what you see when you peek out of your tent?

That night in Bedni, sounds of bells kept waking me up. I wasn't sure why the donkeys (who I had seen with bells) were so active at night.

It was this pack of Bhutia dogs, not the donkeys.

These three came up to the top of the hill and petted each other for a good thirty minutes, stretched...yes, downward dog, no less...and climbed down the hill to start their sheepdog duties for the day.

 We started our day. 

 Himalayan Iris

 and stunning views.

 Look! A dolphin!

 The point where it got tough...

 really tough...

We are headed to Bagwabasa: den (waas) of tigers (bagh).

It's the last campsite. 

We will be starting our trek to Roopkund at half past two in the morning the following day!

Yes. In the dark-

with torches lit!

Listening to our guide, more than seeing him--

after getting our oxygen levels checked for fitness the previous night.

We will thank our stars that we started the trek in total darkness when the sun will shine the next morning at 5,029 metres OR 16,499 ft!

Because, we (most of us, at least) know in our hearts that had we seen what we had to climb to reach Roopkund, we would've chickened out.

Hope to see you soon with the last leg of this trek and a few shots of the beautiful Roopkund.

It's been a busy summer and blogging has suffered.

Meanwhile, here's an account of the trek by Vani, a fellow trekker who became a friend:)

She tells the stories and retells some of the legends here:

Roopkund