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.