june 9th.

some culinary notes and quotations

1. from an art book on sujata bajaj

is there something secretly written inside each of us?
or is each of us a tiny fragment of the vast script which tells the story of the world?

2. breakfast:

poha. poha is a sort of pounded rice. i think it’s been processed in some way because it requires virtually no cooking, and thus is perfect for breakfast when people are heading to the fields at 6 in the morning and need something they can snack on at 9. all you have to do is (go to the indian store and) soak it in water for a few minutes, drain it, and have it next to your wok/frypan. to make it spicy (as all breakfast here is, apparently) you do a typically “vagar” (spices-in-hot-oil): heating oil in a pan (we get local peanut oil here) and popping mustard seeds and curry leaves and (i would use) green chiles. when they pop you can add vegetables (potatoes you’ve steamed and cut in small pieces work well) but here there’s nothing else to it — the spices, oil, and the poha. a little turmeric paints the whole dish an attractive yellow and if there’s coriander leaf in the kitchen garden you can run and get some to put on top with the juice of a fresh (green, still immature, but still sour) lemon.

but today meghali served me the poha covered and i do mean covered with thin filets of sweet orange mango, layered so thickly and everywhere that i could only get hints of the sunny poha below. i am learning there is no indian food — sweet or savory — that does not go well with mango.

3. lunch:

meghali interrupts my writing to hand me b owl of small green oblong cucumber-type creatures and a knife, then runs back to her crying six-month-young baby in the kitchen, closing the screen door bewtween us against the constant threat of kittens and puppies. a moment later, above the baby’s cries, i hear

“samsara, ankurji. samsara.”

samsara being the notion that all this world is an endless circle of petty happiness and misery, and as along as we’re involved and attached to it, we continue to earn our place. forever. it’s often used “popularly” to refer to the demands of the material world, and particular, it seems, the life of a “householder” or parent.

“samsara, ankurji. samsara.”

i begin cutting and eventually cut enough of the gourd-let in the wrong direction that it’s only appropriate for me to take over the operation, cutting potatoes (too big pieces) and onions and running out in the heat with a wet shirt wrapped like a shield around me to get lemon basil, ajwain (an oregano relative), and mint from the herb plot a full 350 meters (who plans this?) away.

so i make lunch, a provencal interpreation of whatever vegetable i have been honored to receive, without the garlic, of course, because ai (mom) is not fond of it, and without the tomato, of course, because it’s not in season. which is to say, there’s nothing really provencal about it except my memories of tartes bruno and i would make eight years ago, but i did successfully

a) invent a low heat setting for the (biogas) stove so i could lightly sautee instead of Fry the onions
b) refuse to overcook the vegetables
c) input some ground black mustard seeds (though ubiquitious on the supercontinent, it seems they are always fried or used in halves (for pickle) and seldom ground).

All of which drum the dish out of the standard indian cuisine category.

Which is to say, there’s a low chance people will like it, but I’m pretty much over being attached to my actions, at least in that respect, these days, when the watchword is gratitude and nothing on this farm escapes tasting divine.

4. from pema chodron, a gentle buddhist teacher

renunciation is the realization that nostalgia for samsara is bullshit.

- ankurbhai