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Saturday, 15 July 2017

A Visit to Vancouver and a Recipe for Naan

Capilano suspension bridge
We were in Vancouver a few weeks ago. I can confirm that Canadians truly are as nice as they are made out to be. Even the immigration officers are nice, and that's really saying something.

The first thing we did after getting out of the Vancouver airport was to submit ourselves to the city's underground metro system. We spent a few minutes on the platform, cluelessly looking this way and that, trying to figure out if we were waiting for a train headed in the right direction. It is a ritual that I find myself repeating every time I am in a new country (and sometimes even in the city I call home).

Before long, we had a friendly gentleman by our side, explaining all the quirks of the transit system, and a couple of nifty tips on how to get the most out of a transit pass. After a couple of stops, we got off the train, waving goodbye to our new friend. Then we realized that because of a travel disruption, the bus we were waiting for would arrive at a different stop. We found help quickly. A remarkably cheery college student (he was headed to an exam, which he seemed to be almost looking forward to) was headed in the same direction. He allowed us bedraggled strangers to tag along.

University of British Columbia
Stereotypes are often of the nasty variety. They are best avoided. I was happy that a nice one about nice Canadians rang true during our time in their country.

It wasn't just the people who were nice. The food was nice too. We spent our first afternoon ambling around Granville Market, which is chock full of food stores. I'd booked us on an early morning flight that left San Francisco at an inhumane hour, feeling very pleased with myself for having snagged a good deal.

It was a terrible idea.

We were far too tired to take in the sights and sounds of Granville Market. Here are some pictures that I managed to click despite my sleep deprived, foggy state.

Granville Market
We happened to be visiting at a historic moment in the the life of the country. Canada was celebrating its 150th birthday. There was a quiet air of celebration, but no chest thumping displays of nationalism. I wish the rest of the world would learn a couple of things from Canada. Not only a lesson in niceness, but also one on How to Elect a Sane President.

Maple everywhere
The food was memorable. Nothing exotic, but it was consistently tasty. I wanted to try traditional Canadian food. Our college student friend informed us that there really is no such thing. The disappointment on my face was probably obvious. He thought a little, scratched his head, and finally said, "Try Poutine".

And that's exactly what we did. In fact, it was the first thing we ate once we got into the city. A Quebecois dish from Francophone Canada, poutine is a carb fiesta. Essentially, it is a bed of french fries topped with cheese curds, gravy and (sometimes) meat.

Poutine
Although the food was good, the wait times at some restaurants were excruciating. I meant to eat at a much feted restaurant, Medina. We made it to their front door 3 times over a 5 day visit. Each time, the wait for a table for two was an hour or longer. We left Vancouver without having eaten a meal at Medina.

On Canada Day, we spent some time in Stanley Park, one of Vancouver's most popular attractions. There were scores of Punjabi families milling around, setting up foldable chairs and laying down blankets by the waterfront for a view of Canada Day fireworks. There were grandmothers in salwar kameezes, men in pugris, and conversations in Punjabi. It felt like I was back in Delhi. For me, it was a small reflection of Canada's openness to the rest of the world.

We didn't visit Vancouver's Punjabi Market, but when I returned home, I did make butter chicken and naan using a very reliable recipe that I found on Epicurious.com. It's foolproof. Do try!


Naan and butter chicken

Naan (adapted with minor tweaks from this recipe)

INGREDIENTS

3/4 cup whole milk (I used 2%)
1 1/4-ounces envelope active dry yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour plus more for surface and hands
1 teaspoon kosher salt plus more
1 small onion, finely chopped (I left this out)
1 cup whole-milk yogurt (not Greek)
2 tablespoons melted ghee (clarified butter)
1-2 tbsp of kalonji or nigella seeds (optional)

PREPARATION

Heat milk in a small saucepan over medium-low heat until warm. I didn't use a thermometer as suggested by the original recipe. Instead, I simply dipped a finger into the bowl. Initially, it was uncomfortably hot. I waited for it to become tolerably warm. I figured that if it is good enough for me, it must be good enough for yeast.

Transfer milk to a small bowl and whisk in yeast and sugar. Let stand until foamy, about 10 minutes.

Whisk 3 1/2 cups flour and 1 teaspoon salt in a large bowl to blend. Add yeast mixture, onion (if using), yogurt, and 2 tablespoons ghee. Mix dough until blended but still shaggy. Note: I think it would be easier to mix all the wet ingredients first so that they are uniformly incorporated and then add to the flour.

Transfer dough to a lightly floured work surface. Knead until a smooth dough forms, adding flour as needed (dough will be sticky), about 5 minutes. Lightly grease another large bowl with ghee, place dough in bowl, and turn to coat. Cover with plastic wrap. Let rise in a warm, draft-free area until doubled in size, about 1 hour.

Punch down dough and divide into pieces. The original recipe says 10 equal pieces. I simply broke off pieces that I thought were large enough, and rolled them out as I went along. You could easily get ore than 10 pieces if you prefer to make smaller naans.

Using floured hands, roll each piece into a ball on a lightly floured surface. Cover with plastic wrap; let rest 10 minutes.

Heat a large cast-iron or other heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly coat with ghee. Working with 1 piece at a time, stretch dough with your hands or roll out with a rolling pin to 1/8" thickness. Sprinkle with salt per the original recipe. I skipped this step as I didn't want oversalted naans.

Cook until lightly blistered, puffed, and cooked through, about 2 minutes per side. Wrap in foil to keep warm until ready to serve. These are best served hot off the pan. They become a little chewy if left out for too long. I found that the naans that were cooked right away tasted best. I refrigerated some excess dough for a few days for another meal. The naans turned out fine, but there was a slight yeasty taste to the finished product, which wasn't unpleasant, but not ideal either.

Finally, here's a dose of encouragement - I don't have any rolling pin skills, and the naan still turned out fine.

Sunday, 9 April 2017

A Hawaiian Holiday/Pineapple and Caramel Cake


Writing about a vacation is a little bit like doing it all over again. Now seems like a good time to write about our recent vacation on Big Island, Hawaii. It's been a few weeks since we returned, I am fully steeped in the drudgery of daily life, and Hawaii feels very, very far away.

An attempt to capture lava flow on film
This was our first visit to Big Island, and our second to Hawaii. Like last time, we were impressed by the variety of sights that Hawaii has to offer. On our first day on the island, we saw a sight we'd never seen before - lava spewing out of an active volcano. Hard, black lava rock was everywhere, as far into the distance as we could see - it was what I'd imagine landing on a new planet to be like.

A number of enterprising locals had set up shop right at the entrance to the viewing point, offering bikes for rent, each outfitted with a flashlight, in anticipation of the darkness that would soon descend on us. We joined the stream of bikers, wordlessly biking in single file, together on an adventure in the dark.

Like every extraordinary natural sight, the lava flow was hard to capture on film. Of course, that didn't stop us from trying but there were certainly far more spirited photographers around us, including one who'd managed to carry her tripod all the way.

Hawaii Volcanoes National Park - if you look closely, you can see smoke rising from the caldera
Poke bowl at Hilo farmers' market
Our Airbnb hosts were a couple who had lived on Big Island for decades, and knew all the best local spots. When I asked about the local language, I was told that it's pidgin English. Mike offered an example. "Hanabata days", he said, is the local term for "childhood days". "Hana" is the Japanese word for nose, and "bata" is a bastardized version of butter, making "hanabata" a rather poetic way to refer to snot.

We made sure to visit the Hilo farmers' market, which was high on my list of priorities. Exotic fruits are one of my many weaknesses. The frontyard of my grandparents' home in Kerala housed a cocoa tree. I have fond memories of sucking on the cocoa fruit's sweet and sour pulp on idle afternoons, atop a makeshift swing that my grandfather had set up under the cocoa tree. I don't think I've come across cocoa fruit since those hanabata days. For old times' sake, I bought one from the farmers' market. I also bought a large bag of berries that reminded me of jamuns from Delhi summers, as well as a couple of newly discovered star apples, which reminded me of the flavor and texture of tender coconut.
Star apple



A boxful of cocoa fruits
Even though we had the better part of a week to spend on Big Island, I don't think we were able to do it justice. Big Island truly lives up to its name. It is vast. Getting from one part of the island to another can take hours. We spent more time in the car than we would have liked, but it was all worth it. Our longest car ride on the trip was to Mauna Kea, which is considered the highest island mountain in the world. On clear nights, I am told that being on top of Mauna Kea is like being among the stars. Unfortunately, we ended up at Mauna Kea on a rainy evening. The road to the summit was closed, and the visibility was so poor that there wouldn't have been much point in getting there in any case. So we spent some time at the visitors' center, which is a fair distance away from the summit, watched a short film on the sacred site that is Mauna Kea, and then headed right back, thankful for the jackets, scarves and gloves that we we'd brought along, because it gets chilly that close to the stars. On our way to the visitors' center, our car skidded for a scary moment - it was cold enough for rainwater that had collected on the road to turn into ice. Our visit to Mauna Kea may not have been a success in the traditional sense, but for me it summed up the character of Big Island - vast, unpredictable, and rugged. You have to meet Big Island on its terms.

I skipped the touristy stores on Big Island, and we returned home without souvenirs because none of the tacky knickknacks we came across captured Hawaii's aloha spirit. The other day, I combined a few recipes to bake this Pineapple Caramel Cake, topped with sliced almonds for some crunch. Biting into the bits of pineapple in the cake, I remembered the heady scent of tropical fruits in Hilo's farmers' market and relived our memorable vacation on Big Island for a few moments.

Pineapple and Caramel Cake

Pineapple and Salted Caramel Cake (serves 6-8 comfortably)

To prepare the pineapple, I cut pineapple into small chunks (approx. 1/4-1/2 inch in size), tossed them with some brown sugar and then baked them in a single layer in a preheated oven (on the broil setting, at 500 degree F) for 10-12 minutes until golden brown around the edges. Watch them carefully so they don't burn. The first time I tried this recipe, I used fresh pineapple, which was pretty sweet, allowing me to leave out the sugar. The second time, I used canned pineapple, which needed some sugar to cut down on the tartness. Cooking the pineapple chunks in the oven concentrates the flavor, and caramelizes them, making for a tastier addition to the cake than raw pineapple.

For the caramel sauce, I used this recipe, making only a couple of changes. I added 1/2 tsp vanilla extract and left the butter out. I used light brown sugar, and cooked the mixture for around 10 mins on low-medium heat. The sauce is addictive, with a distinct salty note. If you want to minimize that salty note, you might want to reduce the salt to 1/2 tsp instead of the recommended 3/4 tsp. I found that I didn't need all the caramel sauce for this recipe - leftover sauce can be stored in an airtight container in the fridge.

For the cake, I used this foolproof recipe, substituting the almond flour for the same amount of all-purpose flour. I also omitted the lemon zest (using a couple of teaspoons of vanilla extract instead), and the marmalade glaze. Just before pouring the cake batter into the cake tin, I folded in the caramelized pineapple chunks. You may swirl the desired quantity of caramel sauce into the cake batter before baking. Alternatively, pour it over the cake after it is done, and has been taken out of its tin, and upturned on a flat tray. Both versions work well. I had plenty of leftover sauce.

PS: I realize this is a lazy way to write a recipe, but it is a sunny day in San Francisco, and I really should head out.

Saturday, 25 February 2017

Smoky Eggplant Dip



A long time ago, I watched a wonderful Naseeruddin Shah-Shabana Azmi movie, Sparsh. I don't remember all the intricacies of the plot, but what I do vividly recall is a scene in which a group of blind schoolboys, presented with aloo-baingan for their meal, chant in a frustrated chorus, "Hai re kaisi uljhan, phir se aloo baingan!" Loosely, that translates to, "Oh no, what a bore, potato-eggplant curry again!"

The reason this little scene stuck in my head is because I felt the boys' pain. As a child, I too, have had my share of struggles with eggplant. Baingan bharta, which was part of my mother's regular dinner rotation, was not a favorite. It was much too chunky for my liking, and I didn't care for the smoky flavor or the bleak, grey color of the finished product. I didn't enjoy eggplants reduced to mush in sambar, and aloo baingan was out of the question. Frankly, I couldn't have said it better than the boys in Sparsh.

There were some exceptions. One of my mother's eggplant dishes that I actually enjoyed was eggplant fry. She'd marinate eggplant slices in a mixture of salt, red chili powder and turmeric, and then squeeze out every bit of excess moisture from each slice, before shallow frying them to a deep dark-brown shade. Of course, this dish's USP wasn't the eggplant, but the spicy marinade and the frying, which can take practically anything from so-so to crave-worthy.

And I remember vividly the day I fell in love with eggplant theeyal - a Malayali classic - at a family friend's home.  The distinctive elements of a theeyal are roasted grated coconut and tamarind juice. You could make theeyal with all sorts of vegetables - bitter gourd, okra, even just plain old onions. But this eggplant version was truly a notch above the rest.

Over time, eggplant has transformed into one of the vegetables that I really enjoy. These days, I find it hard to resist shiny eggplants at my neighborhood supermaket.

To my knowledge, in no cuisine is eggplant more prominent than in Middle-Eastern cuisine. I recently tried a recipe for a smoky eggplant dip from British chef, Yotam Ottolenghi's book, Plenty. It's delicious with toasted pita, and I am sure, will be an equally good accompaniment for other types of bread. Here's the recipe, with some tweaks. Enjoy!

Smoky Eggplant Dip (adapted from this link)

1 large eggplant

1/4 cup organic tahini paste (the original recipe calls for 1/3 cup, but I cut it down to make this a lighter dip)

1 tbsp pomegranate molasses (in a pinch, you might be able to substitute with a mixture of brown sugar and vinegar/lemon juice, but I haven't tried)

1 tbsp olive oil

1-2 tbsp lemon juice, depending on how tangy you'd like your dip

3 roasted garlic cloves (I used 3 cloves from a head of roasted garlic that I had leftover from a previous experiment, but you could just saute the cloves in some olive oil. I find crushed raw garlic too strong for this dish)

a handful of chopped parsley leaves

sea salt, to taste

To finish

olive oil, sesame seeds and paprika/red chili powder

Preheat the oven to 500 F (on the broil setting). Next, pierce the skin of the eggplant all over using a fork, place on an oiled, foil lined tray, and char all over under the broiler. This took me longer than I thought, around 40-50 mins in all. Once the eggplant was charred on one side, I turned it to char the other side, until I had a fully charred eggplant. The eggplant is done when it is completely deflated and the skin is broken and burnt.

Next, place the eggplant in a bowl, and allow to cool. A lot of liquid will collect in the bowl, which should be drained off. Chop roughly.

In a food processor or blender, add the chopped eggplant and the rest of the ingredients other than those listed under "to finish". You could leave out the parsley for garnish at the end, or add it at this stage as I did, in which case your dip will be a shade of green, rather than grey/brown. Blend away till you get a mixture that has the consistency of your liking. I like this dip nice and creamy. Taste. You may need to adjust the lemon juice, molasses or salt.

Transfer to a serving bowl. Finish with olive oil, sesame seeds and red chili powder.

Wednesday, 1 February 2017

Chocolate Glazed Chocolate Tart


Not too long ago, we acquired a new family member. No, no - not in the way you're thinking. She is called Siri. You know Siri, Apple's voice recognition tool. In the morning, when my husband wakes up, he turns to his phone, and, in a gentle tone reserved only for Siri, asks:

"Hey Siri, what time is it?"

"The time is 7:30 am", says Siri in her flat toned, American accent. 

Sometimes, when he's misplaced his phone, he asks, 

"Hey Siri, where are you?", as you might ask a loved one.

"Right here",  she says, without missing a beat. 

Siri and I have never really gotten along. I think her early rejection of my Indian accent is at least partly to blame. 

"Sorry, I didn't catch that", she'd say, no matter what the query.

Apparently, even Siri needs practice to become perfect. The more you talk to her, the better she's going to understand your accent, says my husband. How I wish I had the patience to try and become friends with unflappable Siri.

Siri's rejection of my Indian accent is the least of our problems, of course. These times we live in - they are difficult times. Cooking, I think, helps. And I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Here's what Sam Sifton said in today's edition of The New York Times:

"It’s important, what you make to eat. “Sometimes it is the only worthwhile product you can salvage from a day,” John Irving wrote. It’s not like writing, where you can labor for hours and end up with nothing. It’s not like love. Maybe not like politics, either. “Cooking,” Mr. Irving wrote, “can keep a person who tries hard sane.”

I couldn't agree more. So, in an effort to stay sane, I'm going to continue testing new tricks in the kitchen, and continue writing about them here.

Here's an attempt that worked fabulously. It's a recipe for a chocolate tart with a chocolate glaze. It's really rich, so be stingy, and serve thin slices. Even though I like chocolate, I found that some sort of complement - whipped cream or berries - is necessary to cut through the richness of the chocolate. I would have liked to use raspberries for their visual appeal, but the local supermarket was out of raspberries, so I used blackberries instead. And pistachios, which were sitting around in the kitchen cupboard, waiting to be used. It worked. Here's the recipe. 





Chocolate Glazed Chocolate Tart (adapted from here)
Serves 10-12 

For crust:
13.5 (5- by 2 1/4-inch) chocolate graham crackers (not chocolate-covered), finely ground (I used Nabisco brand)
8-10 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted (as needed)
1/4 cup sugar, finely ground alongwith the crackers

For filling:
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
9 ounces semisweet chocolate chips (approx. 1.5 cups)
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt

For glaze: (I doubled the original recipe to make for a thicker glaze based on reviews)
4 tablespoon heavy cream
approx 1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips, finely chopped
2 teaspoon blue agave syrup
2 tablespoon warm water
Blackberries (cut in halfway, lengthwise) and chopped pistachios, for garnish (optional)

Equipment:
a 9-inch round fluted tart pan (1 inch deep) (I used a regular cake pan)

PREPARATION
Make crust:
Preheat oven to 225°F with rack in middle.
Stir together all ingredients and press evenly onto bottom and 1 inch up side of pan. I found that more butter than called for the recipe was needed to work with the mixture and have it all come together. Bake until firm, about 15 minutes. Cool on a rack 15 to 20 minutes.
Make filling:
Bring cream to a boil, then pour over chocolate in a bowl and let stand 5 minutes. Gently stir until smooth. Whisk together eggs, vanilla, and salt in another bowl, then stir into melted chocolate.
Pour filling into cooled crust. Bake until filling is set about 3 inches from edge but center is still wobbly, 20 to 25 minutes. It took me around 20. (Center will continue to set as tart cools.) The original recipe requires that the tart be cooled completely in pan on rack, about 1 hour. I just poured the glaze on top, without waiting the hour out. 

Make glaze:
Bring cream to a boil and remove from heat. Stir in chocolate until smooth. Stir in agave syrup, then warm water. 

Pour glaze onto tart, then tilt and rotate tart so glaze coats top evenly. Let stand until glaze is set, about 1 hour. Refrigerate for 1-2 hours, and serve, cut into wedges. 

Saturday, 9 July 2016

French Yoghurt Cake



Many years ago, on a rare trip abroad, my parents procured a juicer. It was a hulk of a machine, consigned to the dusty higher shelves of our kitchen, but in the summer, it frequently graced our kitchen countertop. It had lots of parts, making it a nuisance to clean and store away. Burdened with more pressing concerns, including breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a family of four, my mother simply didn't have the time to indulge in leisurely juice making. And so it was my father who became the juicer-operator in the family. He was careful to associate himself with only a select few kitchen activities. The making of a delicious mutton curry, rich with caramelized onions, for lazy Sunday lunches, was one. The operation of our imported juicer was another. Carrot juice was one of his specialties. Tomato juice, sweetened with sugar, was my favorite.  

As kids, my brother and I were regularly deposited at the neighboring National Stadium for tennis lessons. My "lessons" didn't amount to much. Mostly, I was asked to dribble the tennis ball on the court using my racquet. Maybe the coaches, sensing a complete lack of talent or athleticism, decided to focus their energies on other, more promising kids. Here's what the internet says of the dribbling routine, "Some players will find this drill drop dead simple, especially those who have developed great hand eye coordination through other sports. However, seeing how your student performs at this drill will help you identify their basic level of skill." 

Suffice it to say that I spent a couple of years dribbling tennis balls at the National Stadium courts. On the weekends, my father being a tennis lover, would gather us for a game. My brother, always the more dramatic sibling, would let out loud guttural "arrghs" like Sampras, Agassi and other tennis greats, as he slammed ball after ball onto the other side of the court. I suspect he got as much, if not more pleasure, from the license to scream as he did from slamming tennis balls on court. In all of this, I was the sidekick, palpably disinterested in the whole affair. For me, the best part of the game was the end, which was celebrated with fresh, frothy juice straight from our juicer. 

Eventually, the carrots burnt a hole in the juicer's filter, leaving us with unpleasant chunks of carrot in our glasses. This was the tragic beginning of the end for my father's juicing activities.  

****
For several weeks now, I've been meaning to post a recipe for French Yoghurt cake that I chanced upon here. Having once tried this recipe with resounding success, I proceeded to make it again, and again, and again. The first time, I brushed an orange marmalade glaze on top, as recommended in the original recipe. The next couple of times, I omitted the lemon zest, increased the vanilla extract to a teaspoon, and threw in a generous portion of fresh blueberries, which collapse into a pleasant jammy consistency in the batter upon baking. 

You could say that this recipe has nothing to do with tomato juice. Or you could say that it has everything to do with tomato juice. If I had to come up with my own version of "My Favorite Things", neither crisp apple strudel nor schnitzel with noodles, which feature prominently in Julie Andrews' original, would make the cut. Instead, the memories of a younger version of my father churning out tomato juice for us kids, sweaty in our tennis whites, and the simplicity of this homemade loaf would both be worthy competitors. 



Sunday, 5 June 2016

Lemon-Almond Butter Cake



Finally, it feels like we live in sunny California. Until now, it felt has been foggy, windy, chilly, even rainy (although the state has just entered its fifth year of drought), but not sunny. We live in a somewhat unfortunate part of the Bay Area, where a blanket of fog descends on us every evening. When I walk back home from work, invariably, I am propelled forward by an unwelcome gust, that sends my hair flying into my eyes. 

Over the last few weeks though, it has begun to feel like summer is finally here. The sun is out, and everyone is beginning to dispense with their obligatory San Francisco outerwear. The evening fog remains, but there's plenty of sunshine in the daytime hours to make up for it. 

One of the nice things about summertime in the Bay Area is the sight of lemon trees, heavy with fruit, on front lawns. We don't have the luxury of a front lawn. In fact, it is a luxury I have never had. Growing up in the concrete jungle that is Delhi, the only space available for gardening was our balcony. My mother tried coaxing a few different plant species to grace our living space. Now the thing about my mother is, she is a pragmatic woman. Not for her, roses or dahlias or geraniums. Her gardening efforts were directed mostly at curry leaf plants. Together with grated coconut and mustard seeds, curry leaves are indispensable in Kerala cooking. If it doesn't have curry leaves in it, it is probably not Malayali. 

But curry leaves can be somewhat difficult to procure in Delhi, where coriander leaves are the garnish of choice. Rarely do neighborhood markets or stores stock curry leaves. You need to visit a "Kerala store" to get your curry leaf fix. Getting hold of a small handful of curry leaves is not only cumbersome, but also expensive. And so it was that a series of fledgling curry leaf plants were, one after another, invited into our balcony, and fed with egg shell pieces and other types of homemade manure. My mother waited patiently for these plants to flourish. Short of talking to them in honeyed tones, she did everything else, watering them daily, and excitedly examining the few, miniature leaves that did sprout. Sadly, one by one, each of the ungrateful plants spurned her advances, and surrendered their lives in an orchestrated suicide mission, to the profit of the local Kerala store owner. Eventually, my mother abandoned her curry leaf cultivation dreams. 

My only personal experience with gardening has been confined to a pot of succulents that I thought might look quite nice in our living room, adding a little bit of refreshing green. It was sourced from a thrift store on one of our weekend getaways last summer. I chose a succulent because they are known to be relatively low maintenance. I was asked to water them no more than once a week. If there is anything I am good at, it is following instructions. I watered the succulents religiously on a weekly basis. Still, I've managed to kill every single wretched succulent in that pot (in what I suspect was a case of death by drowning) but one, which continues to survive against all odds. 

Although the evidence unequivocally suggests that a green thumb is not one of the things I have inherited from my mother, I dream of some day owning a backyard, lush with fruit trees. Lemon trees, beautiful with their sunny yellow fruit, will, I hope, be one of the inhabitants of this backyard. And should I be faced with a bounty of lemons, one of the recipes I might turn to is this recipe for a lemon-almond butter cake from The New York Times. It has a tangy, mouth puckering ring to it, because of all the lemon juice that goes into the lemon curd. I made some modifications to the original recipe, using a different recipe for the lemon curd that is generously spooned all over the almond based cake batter before the whole thing is despatched to the oven. This recipe can take a while to put together thanks to the multiple components. I wouldn't call this a special occasion dessert, but perhaps it can be elevated to that level with the use of sweetened whipped cream and fresh or sauced berries, as suggested by some reviewers. The lemon curd is delicious and I could have eaten it by itself, but for the exercise of considerable self-restraint. I was disappointed that its smooth, velvety texture was lost when baked atop the cake batter.  

I used mass produced, non-organic lemons in a bag from the supermarket next door for this recipe. The cake turned out fine, which is reassuring. Just in case the lemon tree of my dreams goes the way of my mother's curry leaf plant. 


Lemon-Almond Butter Cake (loosely adapted from this recipe)

FOR THE CAKE:
9 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 cup plus 1 tablespoon flour
1 cup plus 1 to 2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon kosher salt
2 extra-large eggs
½ cup ground toasted almonds
2 tablespoons toasted sliced almonds

FOR THE LEMON CURD (based on this recipe)
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice (I used just under 1/2 cup, say around 3/4ths of that measure, to limit the tanginess)
2 teaspoons finely grated fresh lemon zest
1/2 cup sugar
3 large eggs
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into bits
1 extra egg yolk (optional)

To make the lemon curd: 
Whisk together juice, zest, sugar, and eggs in a saucepan. The use of the extra egg yolk was recommended by some reviewers to ensure a thick lemon curd, but is not required in the original recipe. I used a heavy stainless steel saucepan. I combined the mixture well using a hand held mixer, and only then put it on the stove. Stir in butter, bit by bit, and cook over moderately low heat, whisking frequently, until curd is thick enough to hold marks of whisk and first bubble appears on surface. The recipe says this should take around 6 minutes, but it took me closer to 12 minutes, perhaps because I stirred the mixture on low heat to avoid curdling and lumps. 

Strain the mixture to ensure it is as smooth as possible. Finally, transfer lemon curd to a bowl and chill, its surface covered with plastic wrap, to prevent a skin from forming, until cold, at least 1 hour. 

To make the cake: 
Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 9-inch spring-form pan with 1 tablespoon butter, and dust with 1 tablespoon flour, shaking out excess.
With an electric mixer, cream the remaining butter and 1 cup sugar together until light and fluffy. Sift together the remaining flour, baking powder and salt, and stir in. In a separate bowl, whisk eggs until they start to foam. Do not overbeat or the cake will be tough. Add eggs and ground almonds to batter, and mix well.
Scrape batter into the prepared pan. Drop tablespoons of lemon curd around perimeter of batter, leaving a 1-inch border, and taking care to space drops evenly. Drop 3 to 4 tablespoons curd into center of batter. Sprinkle cake with toasted almonds and 1 to 2 tablespoons sugar, depending on taste.
Bake until cake is toasty brown on top and a toothpick inserted into cake (not curd) comes out clean, about 40 minutes. Let cool on rack 10 minutes, then remove sides of pan, and cool completely.

Sunday, 15 May 2016

Birthday Cake and A Driving Test


For my brother, clearing the driving test as soon as he turned 18 was a critical rite of passage to adulthood. For me, not so much.

The roads of Delhi - where I grew up - were maddening. Regulation signs were taken as gentle suggestions, and flouted routinely - by pedestrians trying to squeeze through rush hour traffic, by drivers jumping red lights with abandon, and by scooterists and cyclists weaving through traffic, lanes be damned. At all times, there was a steady cacophony of unnecessary honks.  

It didn't help that I had no interest in cars. As my brother practiced for real life driving with video games, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration that he reserved for nothing else, I busied myself with pursuits that had nothing to do with brake, clutch or accelerator.

My tort and criminal law classes, where I learnt about the hazards of being less than your best self behind the wheel in some detail, only cemented my aversion. I decided that I was better off in the passenger seat.

For a long time, this strategy worked very well. It worked in Bangalore, where cars were a rarity among us cash strapped students. It worked even better in London, where a tube stop was always only a short walk away. And it worked pretty well during my student days in Boston - so many problem sets were stacked up in front of me at any given time that I didn't have very many places to go other than the classroom.

And then, I moved to California. Even though we are in the Bay Area, which has a somewhat functional public transport system, it became obvious to me that my long running strategy of staying put in the passenger seat was beginning to fail. It fell to my husband to chauffeur me around - it was a role that he played with considerable grace, but I knew that it was time to change things around.


Before long, I was taking driving lessons with an affable Filipino driving instructor, Roberto. Many Saturday and Sunday afternoons were spent driving the roads of Daly City, with Roberto in the passenger seat speaking of his love for Indian food, especially fish tikka masala, and his Indian friend, Satinder.

Working with an expert helped. Still, it took six lessons before I felt ready for a behind-the-wheel test. Test day was nerve racking, to say the least. There were some smiley faced examiners milling around, but as luck would have it, I was assigned to a bubble-gum chewing, stony faced, no-nonsense type, who looked like she got up on the wrong side of the bed. As I clutched the steering wheel with sweaty palms and navigated the test route, I saw her take notes on my marksheet from the corner of my eye. Before I knew it, we were done. Her first words were, "You need a lot of practice", and it took a few anxious moments before she said the magic words. I'd passed!

Now, with my newfound confidence, and freshly minted driver's license, I take every chance I can get to slide into the driver's seat. I didn't think I would say this, but it feels good.

In other news, I baked a birthday cake with lots of colorful sprinkles for a little girl I know. I relied on my trusty recipe for chocolate cake, but I looked far and wide before settling on this recipe for the icing. It is a fiddly recipe to work with, but the results do not disappoint. It is important to sift the flour and salt before adding them to the milk, to avoid lumps. The first time round, I added the flour and salt mix to hot milk, only to be rewarded with a lumpy mess. I also found it a little difficult to pipe the icing - it is softer that I would have liked. But the lightness and overall flavor makes up for all of that.

Ermine Icing (adapted from a recipe available at this link)
INGREDIENTS

5 tablespoons/40 grams flour
1 cup/235 milliliters whole milk
1 teaspoon/5 milliliters vanilla extract
 Pinch of salt
1 cup/ 230 grams unsalted butter, softened
1 cup/200 grams granulated sugar

PREPARATION
Sift flour and salt. Add to milk and stir until the mixture is smooth. Strain if needed. Over medium heat, whisk the mixture in a small saucepan and heat to a simmer, stirring frequently until it becomes very thick and almost puddinglike.
Remove from heat, whisk in vanilla. Pour into a bowl to allow it to cool completely. Put plastic wrap on the surface to keep a skin from forming.
Use a mixer to cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy, scraping the sides of the bowl occasionally, about 5 minutes. With the mixer on medium, add the cooled flour mixture a little bit at a time. Continue to beat until the mixture becomes light and fluffy and resembles whipped cream.