Reasons to Visit India.

Everyone, including me has had reservations about India. It’s large. Daunting and Deep. It’s one of those places that intrepid travelers go. Those of us that are strong, curious, and unaffected by the extreme.

We have heard stories from our friends, and friends friends, about coming home with their lives forever changed. Perhaps they have even had a taste of enlightenment from studying with a guru or yoga master. Lost weight. Become vegetarian. Started wearing patchouli. I have nothing against patchouli. I like the smell and used it as a teenager, emulating those my sister’s age, who had made the great trek in the late 60’s and early 70’s.

When I think back to the that time, it was revolutionary. Our minds did change. We got a glimpse of how the other side approached life, what they ate, how they behaved and related to each other in a completely different culture from our own. Yet, it seemed further than far… east. A place if you went, you would not come back the same.

In 2004, I had the great pleasure of visiting India for the first time. I did not go as a back-packer. I did not go to study with a spiritual master. I went at the invitation of a friend of a friend, who wanted to set me straight about India.

Mohan, I later realized, is a man of power. A young, vivacious entrepreneur, with insight and finesse in the travel business. From the start, I realized that I was not only in good hands, but I was going to see a different India than I had heard of from my friends.

As a constant traveler, I am used to roughing it. I have grown accustomed to changes, transitions and the unpredictable. What was not used to, is the level of attention that I got from Mohan and his staff. No one likes to end up in a foreign country, jet lagged, in a time zone eight hours different than your own, not speaking the language or knowing where to go. I was met at the gate, taken to the baggage counter, then consequently taken to be dropped off with a private driver who took me to my hotel, where I was greeted by the manager. No matter who you are, tell me, is there anyone who wouldn't appreciate this?

A smartly dressed door man greeted me with a salute. His plume fluffed in the air. From then on, everything in India seemed to glide as if skiing down a perfectly long and gentle slope in the afternoon sunlight. The first stop: The Imperial Hotel, a lovely place to lay one’s head after a revitalizing ayurvedic treatment from the spa. It sniffs of the old Raj, but in modern days boasts a time gone by, still available in present time. This was only the beginning.

When I mention India, most people express reservations like, “I’m afraid of the poverty.” Or the other extreme, “I don’t want to stay in a hotel that might cut me off from reality.” My answer to these questions are quite elaborate. From my experience, I can tell you, that neither is a reason not to visit India.

Poverty is a big subject. It exists in the world in a grave way, and more than likely right in our backyards. There are people that live with very little, people that live in horrid conditions, and people that are compromised. It is our right to know how our fellow humans are living. In a country of 1.2 billion people in the 7th largest country in the world at 1, 269,000 square miles, there is more than a fine number of people that also live well. Their simple or sophisticated lives no different that what you see in our own country.

India has a climate variation from the Himalayas, almost to the equator. It is a country of contrasts and extremes. It is also elegant, regal, inspirational and mystical. The country is also having a heyday in technology. The cities are large and filled with an educated and sophisticated lot.

As I look forward to my next trip, I feel goose bumps. There is a way of life, not unlike Europe, that centers around a rhythm of the day. Family is golden and meals are the glue. I can smell the spices tempering in oil, see a lovely table set with various bowls of goodness and look forward to getting my hands washed, ready to gather rice with dahl, mixing in a tasty vegetable with a touch of mango pickle and popping it into my mouth. Noticing the intimate contact of finger to mouth. There is a softness and gentleness to the people in general, and a sense of humor that keeps you on your toes. As a nation, 75% of Indian people believe in karma, the law of cause and effect. This keeps them mindful of their actions. A greeting is a warm "Namaste" (I see the God within you) with folded hands in prayer position, in the marketplace and on the street. Not just after a yoga class.

India has something special. A religious melting pot that shows us that people can live together with diversity. A Muslim, Hindu and Christian can work in small quarters because at heart, they are Indian. Their sense of hospitality is legendary. “We treat our guests like a God.” There does seem to be something over and above the general “in service to.” There is not too much in the way when making contact. Not based on ceremony, their presence is open and intelligent. They are curious and kind.

Above all, the aesthetic of the old palaces reek of another époque. We are escorted everywhere with the utmost respect. We rub shoulders with royalty and find them quite approachable and no different that ourselves. We are bathed in a sea of colorful sari’s from the street sweeper to the sweet seller. Every woman carries herself with dignity. The children’s eyes are flashes of light. We absorb buckets of love from walking around such a place and give back by receiving and bearing witness.

This trip is an opportunity not only to see the Taj Mahal, painted elephants, lake palaces and lotuses floating in a pond. It’s an opportunity to see through our concepts and feel the depth of your heart in a way that only India can open.

Where do you find Ordinary Magic?

The Chhatra Sagar luxury tent village, India: Tasting Royal Rajasthan

"Another incredible place! They took Ann Coffaro and I on a guided bird walk. I saw one hundred and twenty new birds in India. My favorite was the Bee-eater. Talk about birding in style! A porter to carry the scope and refreshing drinks on a tray at the end of the trail." 

~ Tara O'Leary, India 2012.

Each time I visit India, I find myself slipping between the veils of past and present, of luxury and the ordinary. I am reminded how thin the line is between the extraordinary and the everyday.  Devi Garh is my favorite hotel of the program, an 18th century palace fort that royally commands the valley and looks out over the Aravalli hills. Bo-chic in style, its modern interiors are minimalist, austere five-star elegance, a bit "Indian Zen."

The surrounding natural landscape offers solace. The colorful village below, with intermittent baby blue houses, offers charm. I learned the motive for this brilliant color is two-fold: the paint keeps insects away and also praises lord Krishna. On my first visit to this divine place, I left the fairy tale world of the palace hotel, the bathtubs filled with rose petals and airy verandas, and went for a walk in the village down the hill.  Barefoot shop owners sat before scales on old wooden counters or on the floor. Some were turbaned, some not. We nodded hello to each other as I passed. Women carried food or water jugs on their heads, gliding gracefully in their saris, as vibrantly colored as the fruits and vegetables spread out on blankets and carts. The village astrologer sat on the corner, dressed in red next to a sky-blue wall, waiting for a consultation. Carts of vegetables displayed local varieties with names like "Lady Fingers" and "Gentleman's Thumbs." I followed some of the women through a doorway and found an old man making the terra cotta pots used to store cool water. With white hair and beard, he stooped and twirled his wheel with a stick. Once it got going to the speed he was happy with, he threw some clay in the middle and started molding. Three small pots were produced within minutes:

Devi Ghar Village Potter

These are the moments I cherish. Easing into the pace of local life and discovering the artfulness of a simple, age-old skill. Watching an old man's hands shape clay into pots, or the hands of the women easing the pots onto their heads, calling their little ones to follow down the road. So often travel to a faraway spot reminds us to appreciate the magic of everyday life. The finer elements of this particular program always bring me back to the simple pleasures that lend soulfulness. 

We invite you to join us, in Rajasthan this February. 

With love, 

Peggy

Undoing it in Kerala, India. Eco on the beach.

Marari Beach: CGH Earth Experience        

      There is a cow grazing outside of my door with a calf on her teet. The cows have been grazing all day with a slight tinkle to their bells, giving that bucolic sound so sweet for a nap. 

The fan spins and blows the air in my room, and I can still hear the crickets outside. It reminds me of my childhood summer holidays on the south coast of Alabama, where the day began and ended with telling stories. In between, we caught crabs for making gumbo and enjoyed long stretches of white sand beaches. We loved the heaviness of the humid air. It helped us to relax and made cutting into a watermelon that much more inviting.

Here in south India of all places, I have found a slice of the good life, like something from my childhood. A place that gives me simplicity, authenticity, good food, and the solitude I need without being totally alone. I wanted to write, commit to a meditation practice, and be near the water. And so I fell into the arms of a CGH Earth Experience, not knowing what I would find.

I found, first of all, a warm greeting and a detailed description of what I would find and what I wouldn’t. The things I would not find were a relief. CGH Earth is not your average resort hotel. Just ask the guests, of which 80 percent of them return every year.

I was taken to my thatch-roofed bungalow, complete with an open-air, yet private, shower and toilet. There are many ways to be one with nature here—it's at your fingertips at all times. 

At least where I come from in the United States, the idea of green architecture, operating with sustainability in mind—recycling, organics, and so forth—was a concept developed only 30 years ago. Here, it has naturally been a way of life. Taking those ideas into a resort setting—bringing consciousness to water consumption and the unnecessary washing of sheets and towels, creating shopping bags out of recycled newspaper—fits hand in hand with the local profile of keeping Mararikalum (Malayalam for “Marari Beach”) unspoiled. Here, you will find no beach umbrellas, just a fishing boat or two, and the occasional fisherman eyeing a catch with his finely tuned intuition and skill of how to read the water.

What goes on behind the scenes is even more impressive. The entire property is sustainable. From bio-gas produced from kitchen leftovers, to recycled waste water, these practices put back what nature has given us and continues to cycle. Nothing gained (wasted) and nothing lost (re-used).

Here, signs quietly speak to me wherever I go. When I'm in the bathroom a sign might say, “If you need more amenities, tell us and we will bring them straightaway. We are trying to avoid plastic. “ Or, “we don’t spray for bugs or mosquitoes, but we do bring around ‘church smoke’, which smells quite good (frankincense). We prefer not to use chemicals.” The more exotic trees are named in English and Latin.

Only the most valiant eco-warriors in America are able to preach and practice these methods, and most people think they are extreme. To find this in a business setting is encouraging. The need to pay attention to this way of life is imperative, especially in the public sector. Our oceans are suffering immensely due to unhealthy trawling practices that wreck our reefs to the point of no return and the amount of garbage that makes it’s way to the sea is making a cesspool in the pacific. “The nature of our future depends on the future of our nature.“ This is the first sign that greets you as you walk to your bungalow. It made me stop and think, a heightened sense of awareness and appreciation arose knowing that these practices are in place.

CGH Earth holds hands with the local culture and integrates it well. Most of the staff originate from no further than 50 miles away. They call on the locals for guides and transportation and sightseeing, even though they could offer it themselves.

Sanity breathes in and out on the property. Nothing is static. A smile and a greeting by name is on every meeting. “We treat our guests like a god.” It was not necessary to tell me, as I felt it was also natural. I’m convinced the Malayali are like that: soft, gentile and sweet as jaggery. Even the breeze is gentle and the sea, warm. All was elementally ambient. 

I took a cooking class in the organic outdoor kitchen garden. Young Chef Rinto took me through the garden. He was playful and delighted in quizzing me on things that he thought that I wouldn’t know, even though I surprised him with a few. I found his questions engaging. As the night noises grew louder and darkness fell, someone came around with the ‘church smoke’ and set us up for the evening. It works, I tell you and I was grateful.  It was wonderful to get my hands on the food, as well as eat a splendid meal. 

Menu:

Raw papaya and basil soup

(We picked the papaya and the basil.)

Plantain curry in a yogurt sauce

(Plantains were growing also.)

Whitefish with a ginger, green chili, coconut paste cooked on a banana leaf

(Just caught fish from the morning, green chili, coconut.)

Red spinach and cabbage thenga with grated coconut

(We picked the red spinach and cabbage, and grated the coconut. We did not however, climb the coconut tree to get the leaves.)

A steamed rice flour dumpling with jaggery and grated coconut inside, called Kozhukatta was for dessert.

It was simply delicious and not even hours old. This meal is indicative of how specialized a stay in Marari Beach can be and a good way to start my self-imposed Ayurvedic diet.

For the next five days, I surrendered to Ayurveda. There is a time and place for everything and the moment for me was now. With a traditional Ayurvedic center located just two steps from my bungalow, I raised the white flag. After eating my way through North India with a group of ten, and half of the South by myself, my body was telling me to take it easy. Here at Marari, I could unplug.

For a change, I could focus on my own mind and body. I set up a meditation alter and made a commitment to get up and practice everyday before dawn. I would do yoga, write, take walks on the beach and take a series of Ayurvedic massage treatments, and go to bed early.

What a relief. Even with a restricted diet, no meat or alcohol, coffee or black tea, I welcomed the change. I could have green tea, local Kerala rice, and a piece of steamed fish in the evenings as well as several vegetarian curries. I even forfeited the fish. A glass of freshly pressed pineapple juice came with every meal for digestion. I could eat three tablespoons of something and feel full. It was if my digestion was on holiday too. I seriously had no appetite at all, so I asked for smaller portions. When they brought me my meal they would laugh and say, “Here is your pussycat meal,” with big pearly smiles. A sense of humor goes a long way. After five days, my dosha (body type and tendencies) felt more balanced and restored. So did my appetite.

From swimming every day, walking, eating well and getting amazing ayurvedic spa treatments, my body-mind started to shift. My mind loosened up and I began losing weight naturally. It was a pleasure to meet the girls in the center everyday. Their warm smiles and hands were alchemical, and melted away hidden blues I wasn’t even aware that I had.

Before each full body treatment came a sitting-up head massage with their special oils, which I found to be as valuable as the main treatment. The head is the gatekeeper of stress and first this commander must be disarmed. In a treatment room that opened directly onto the garden, I was cared for like a baby.

The treatments are designed to bring relief to joints, nourish the skin, and eliminate toxins and stress. Their massage strokes worked up and down the body, increasing circulation to bring new blood flow to regenerate the cells. A few of the treatments included the “steam box,” which was my personal favorite. My body drank the moisture and the oils. My skin never had it so good. And then I was washed with a special plant scrub, my hair shampooed and then patted dry in a fluffy towel. The girls' bright smiles lovingly sent me on my way, and as an adult, I have never felt so young and rejuvenated. I felt radiant.

It will be hard to have other Ayurvedic treatments in other places, now that I know “the real deal.” I have already decided to come back. A lover of natural and alternative medicines to begin with, the value of this gentle way to rebalance, blows away all western reasoning that we should be filling ourselves with senseless synthetic medicines and mood stabilizers. Not only does Marari Beach grow their own food, they grow their own medicinal plants. Growing, brewing, and using the plant infused oils from the premises increases the energetic benefit. 

Most age-old systems will tell you that sickness comes from being out of balance. Treating a symptom does not get to the root. Therefore, popping pills and not changing one’s diet or lifestyle drives the problem deeper. Our organism wants to be healthy, but it needs our help.

What a good idea it would be to bring my daughter here with my two grandchildren, I thought to myself. They would have a wonderful time. I could be with them while my daughter took treatments. The staff seemed to love children, making them feel at home and giving them the ultimate positive cultural exchange. I want to bring other friends too. My sisters would benefit from this special touch. The affection and warmth of the Malayali people is healing in itself.

To have a center of this quality along with the other amenities makes me feel like I can have my cake and eat it too. Freedom to wander, spend time with others, and, most of all, not feel like a patient. I am a person choosing to have a purposeful vacation of tuning in, instead of just sitting with a relaxing drink in my hand. I can take the time to take care of myself in a different way, a way that will have lasting results.

I wanted to do everything listed on the activity list: take a country boat ride down the lagoons, getting a good look at local life. A sunset cruise would have been stunning. Never in my life have I seen sunsets like I have here over the Arabian Sea. A bike ride would have been terrific. But I couldn’t make it out of the hammock. What I want to say, is that I didn’t want to leave the property. There was enough to do here for me. I thoroughly dropped in to myself.

As a cook, what I look for is to find a balance of what is “not too much, not too little.” CGH Earth Marari Beach has offered just the right amount of something and nothing. It is a sanctuary, not only for birds and other creatures—but for all of us. We are safe here. The feeling is, we are more than welcomed and we belong in balance with nature. There is a resonance when nature recognizes itself. When there is no fear, there is nothing to be afraid of. 
 

At one point, I wanted to make a daily flower offering to my altar, but I was shy to take a flower off the tree, so I didn’t. But when I left the room for breakfast and came back, there was a new flower in my bowl. The girl looking after my room understood right away that she could also refresh the altar. This sensitivity and attention to detail is unique. 

Sunset on the beach is a party for sand crabs and spindly-legged sand pipers. There is life, movement and rhythm as the waves roll gently up on the beach.

The sun sinks behind the horizon leaving me with a rare sense of equanimity. Peace is more precious than pearls and the moment is to be savored. 

http://www.cghearth.com/marari-beach

Ode to Okra

Candlelight graces a table on our houseboat in Kerala. Tears well and fall down my cheeks at the taste of okra. The cook comes in, "Ma'am are you alright ? Was the food too spicy for you?" I smile and nod subtly sideways, the Indian way that says, no, yes, maybe.

"Her father died two years ago," my friend tells him. The cook's bright smile closes as he says, “I'm sorry.” He didn't question why tears should be falling from something that happened a long time ago. In India, crying is normal.

Meanwhile, I sat there feeling the tears roll down my face fresh as rain, moisture on dry thirsty skin. I was not at the table in my mind, but found myself clear as the early morning in a memory of being in the family garden with my father.

Peppers were all hot and ready for pickling, the tomatoes were heavy on the vine, pole beans were falling from the trellis and the okra was sticking straight up, tips to the sky.

I remember okra growing in my grandfather’s garden in the deep-southern terracotta colored dirt of Clay county, Alabama. That orange earth, particularly infused with minerals, never lacked for nutrients. Neither did we. The taste of corn, black-eyed peas and, of course, okra gave a a lasting flavor in the mouth of something you wanted more of. Long stems grew tall with subtle yellow flowers in springtime, before warm, sensual summer nights encouraged the nub of okra to swell almost overnight.

As my grandfather hoed around the plants one morning, he heard a squeak. He had come upon a bed of baby rabbits. He brought them to me with the eyes of surprise. I fed them a baby bottle. They didn’t make it. 

Picking okra is prickly business. A chance to wear papa’s worn-out long sleeved, red flannel shirts. I liked to wear his striped overalls as well, the older the better to play farmer. My sisters and I played in the old smoke house, hoed in the garden, drew water from the well and amused ourselves playing hide and seek in the corn patch.

Cutting okra was slimy. Putting it in a paper bag with cornmeal and shaking it was the way to take care of that. Dropping it in hot corn oil and watching it turn golden, is a visual memory that sticks, a fried delight that can’t be beat. With a rain of salt it gives a crunch of southern satisfaction.

Fried okra is a staple in the south with black-eyed peas and cornbread.  Not everyone’s friend, okra becomes triple unxious, seedy and slithery not unlike cooked snake, but less chewy, when boiled. I have eaten snake before, rattlesnake, that had been caught and killed in the hills of Tennessee and skinned for it's skin. I tried it. I can assure you it tastes like chicken, not boiled okra. I'm not saying that okra tastes anything like snake, just that if you wanted to make an obsequious Halloween dish, blindfolded, boiled okra would do it.

Those times are gone along with grandfather and my father. In the familiar heat of Kerala, on a houseboat, I had a conversation with childhood and a loving memory through the association of a vegetable. Visions come not only with psychedelics, but taste memory in bright living color.

India: Shahpura Bagh, Part One.

High over the mustard field tiny warblers jump from plant to plant. It early morning, but not for the jackals and peahens. A warm breakfast of freshly made yogurt from the dairy and poha, a puffed rice colored with turmeric and flavored with a masala blend of spices, mustard seeds, and red capsicum graces the clean white porcelain plate with color and appetizing aroma.

A barefoot priest in a dhoti, jacket and rather elaborate turban comes through the gate on his bike. He brings a piece of incense with him, lights it and says prayers at the doorway and leaves.

Poised for action, a hand holds rose pedals ready to drop on arriving guests. 

We make ourselves at home. 

A sunset drink at the family Fort gives the impression of a time gone by. Villagers come out to greet the great grandson of the Maharaja of Sharpura. Especially the old gatekeeper.

 He was a boy when the old palace was full of life. Now he is a grandfather himself.

 Daikon radish stick straight up. A garden harvest stuck on this villager's head to free her hands for proper sari etiquette.

 Young boys are the same all over the world. Who will they grow up to be? The youngest brother. A banker?

Coy and demure, her eyes, her posture, says it all.

A view not unlike the Serengeti, was a favorite hunting ground for tigers. They were plentiful then.
A noble daughter who shot her one and only tiger when she was a teen, who's  in her 70's now said, "It was a different time, a different story. Now they are outnumbered. " Not proud as the day it happened, her father beaming.

The rooms of the palace still hold mystery and charm. This was the bathing room.

 A balcony of repose.

The gatekeeper served us wine and we drank to the whispers coming from the tower walls.

India: A Simple Recipe for Tomato Chutney

Tomato Chutney

1 cup fresh tomato
1t garlic (peeled and chopped)
3 sprigs of fresh mint
1 red chili, chopped
1 green chili, chopped
a pinch of sugar
salt to season

Mix all ingredients in a food processor, or pound together in a mortar and pestle.
Add salt to taste.

India: Ayesha Manzil's Malabar Coast Cooking.

Ayesha Manzil, an old Heritage mansion, sits on a hill with a close view of the warm Arabian sea. 

It was built by an Englishmen, who was one of the first to set up the East India Trading Office, trading spices from the port of Tellicherry. Pepper, the main sought-after commodity was grown nearby,

as well as cinnamon bark and cardamom. These spices along with coffee were stored in the old Portuguese fort until they were ready to be shipped. In those days, the Malabar coast was the epicenter of the spice route, and no other community makes better use of those spices that the Mopillah, the Muslims of North Kerala. 

C. P. Moosa's grandfather took the house over in the 1800s—Moosa has lived there his entire life and, at 60, it seems nothing has changed. Not the furniture, the fans, nor his way of welcoming guests. He pioneered the "home stay" here in India 17 years ago, now especially popular in the south. "There were no good places to stop and eat between Mysore and Cochin," he says, "so I offered my home."

As a hotelier, Moosa knew the business of taking care of people and what needed to be done. His wife Faiza, an accomplished cook with passion, also liked the idea of offering cooking classes to weary travelers as a window into the local culture. Together they make fine hosts. Their staff is comprised of a handful of local men who do everything from set the table, do the books, the laundry, and serve tea. 

An old white Ambassador was waiting for me at the train station, along with Alan, my escort from the house (Alan Mendoza's forefathers arrived from Portugal 500 years ago he was proud to tell me, and he still considers himself a certified Portuguese with papers). When we arrived at Ayesha Manzil, Mr. Moosa, barefoot and curious, was there to greet me.

"Hello Peggy. I am Moosa. Come." He motioned Alan to take my things up the stairs. "Get freshened up. You'll have dinner, then a good rest, and we'll be off to the market by 8 am."

There's nothing that thrills me more about the hospitality business, rather than chatting with a totally relaxed aristocrat in a lungi [Urdu for "loincloth" or "skirt"]. It makes for a most interesting stay, with me ready to throw off my shoes and street clothes and adorn the same. Lungi's are the native dress for men, and they all wear them, at least at some point in the day. There are simple ones of checks and patterns, or white with a gold trim for more formal. The sari is traditional for women, with the same informal and formal description. Off white with a gold trim, is the signature look for Kerala. It's dignified and pure. In the slow south Indian culture and climate, this sort of dress makes total sense, and if the food wasn't so good, it would be the first reason to be reborn there. 

Mr. Moosa.

Rosewood beds, teak dressers, wooden floors, all in the neighborhood of 100 to 150 years old. My room was proportionately spacious on the second floor. A big box with a high ceiling, a long desk, and two twin four poster beds with antique mosquito netting that fit over the top and corners and hung down below the mattress edge. Diffused light came from the north facing window  in a Dubbusey-like moment, soft on the eyes, falling on the chaise lounge where I loved to lie in a daydream. I could have danced with arms outstretched on the old floor and perhaps no one would have heard me below. Their were no paintings or pictures on the wall. Just practical pieces of furniture and space. I never wanted to leave the room. They had to call me for breakfast...and dinner once, as well. 

But leave I did to get into the kitchen with Faiza. Her long Colonial kitchen was simple, but ample with two burners on a narrow stainless steel bench. She gives cooking classes every day and this was Sunday. It should have been a day of rest. She worked with me anyway, knowing that she would have the afternoon to herself. We made tamarind prawns and tamarind eggplant, both with the same base, and the most delicious okra thiyyal.  "When you cook with Faiza, your fingers do the motions, you put this and that, but really, you talk about life!" says Moosa.  

Indian cooking is not difficult, if you have the ingredients. And like anywhere, it always tastes better where it grows. Getting my hands on the tamarind was a new experience. Soaking it from it's dry form, it's necessary to squeeze the pulp twice to get the most out of it. It's sourness is most pleasant and a necessary flavor in south Indian cooking. I never would have thought to add it to either shrimp or eggplant. But it worked. 

Indian recipes are almost always overwhelming with the number of ingredients. Yet, they are quite happy together and even with the complex flavor, you would never know there are so many. 

CHEMMEEN VARATTIYATHU

Tamarind Prawns

1 1/2 cup of prawns (as fresh as you can find and cleaned)

2 small red onions, chopped into small cubes

1 small tomato

6-10 fresh curry leaves

2 green chilies, sliced

2 cloves of garlic, chopped

1/2 in piece of fresh ginger, chopped fine

1 1/2 T chili powder (this is where the rubber meets the road)

2 t turmeric powder

2 t coriander powder

a small ball of tamarind (the size of a lime)

1/2 cup of coconut oil

1/2 t mustard seeds

1/2 r fenugreek

salt to taste ( at least 1/2 t)

Clean and wash the prawns. Add 1/4 t termeric, 1/4 t chili powder and a few pinches of salt to the prawns. Make a paste and marinate for 10 minutes. 

Heat a Kadai. (Indian wok). Pour 1/4 cup of the oil and bring to a medium heat. Fry the prawns until they start to brown, then set aside. 

Heat a sauce pan, pouring in the remaining oil. When the oil is hot, add the mustard seeds until they pop. Then add the fenugreek. When it crackles, add the

chopped onions, green chilies, ginger, garlic, curry leaves and sliced tomato until soft. Add the remaining chili powder and turmeric and stir for a few seconds.

Pour in tamarind water, a pinch more salt and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the prawns and a pinch more salt. Simmer on a slow fire until the sauce thickens. 

Remove from the fire and let sit. 

* substitute chunks of eggplant that have been fried separately. Use all ingredients (except fenugreek) and follow the same method. 

Dinner for one on a terrace overlooking the dark Arabian sea, the moon is a quarter with a planet above. Auspicious I think. This is a communist state and the moon star and sickle is a statue on the beach. I am the only guest, doted on by a staff of three. Six dishes were put front of me. An appetizer of sardine with a spicy paste grilled on a banana leaf, along with the main meal of aubergine in tamarind, rice with fruits (raisins, grapes and slivered almonds), fried, spiced, okra-flavored yogurt, prawn curry cornmeal stuffing with mussels. 

I ate with my hands. I know how to do that now. (The staff was smiling and cheering me on.) Salma Husein taught me in my first days in Delhi, but like anything it takes practice. 

I used to think the most common denominator in the world was fire. Now I think it's eating with one's hands. Everyone does it. High society, kings, fishermen. All castes. Once you get the hang of it, it's like...okay...why wouldn't you want to? It taste so good and feels good too. There is a way and it makes eating with a knife and fork obsolete. I'm even convinced that it's relaxing and therefore aids digestion. But then again, it depends on what you are eating. Indian food lends itself to the pinching of really tender meat pieces in a gravy, as well as mixing everything with all of your fingers very carefully, then popping it into your mouth. It's quite an achievement, and comes easy after you stop thinking about it. Totally natural.

"What is this?" said the cook. (A spoon.) "God gave you hands!" Here, you start off feeding babies with your hands. I think now that it is a good trick. There is something transmitted to the child from the mother about the taste and love of food.

Why was I so enthralled with this meal? It was not so different than the other lessons I've had. I was attentively savoring and celebrating the flavors of this marvelous cuisine. What could have made this so good?? Then I had a shaktiput experience...I had cooked it myself! Yes. at the loving hands of Faiza Moosa. The first meal I had cooked in over a month. Whether true or not. I did notice something.

The pineapple trifle with ginger tea went down rather well afterwards and so did the moon. 

The Fish Market of Tellicherry.

I have visited fish markets all over the world, in many different cultures, and love the vibrancy, the smell of salt and sea, the earnest looks of fishermen presenting their hard work for chefs and villagers each day. But for some reason, this fish market in Tellicherry, India made me sad.

I'm starting to look at fishing as something that will disappear, a way of life that is actually dying off. What will scores of fishing villages do? I am not opposed to fishing obviously—I am a cook and I love all fresh foods. But my knowledge of what's happening to the oceans is starting to make these sort of markets hard to swallow.

Having a soft spot also shows the terrible beauty of a freshly caught fish draping off the side of the counter with still brilliant eyes. A fresh death.

Fish have been a necessary protein for the people of Kerala. Their state is long and coastal. We can still watch the fishermen in their ancient boats with their nets that hug the coast. There is history here, of traders being blown off course from the monsoon winds, who ended up finding some of our most valued spice treasures.

Where will the modern world take them?

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Take a peak at some photos from Tellicherry's vegetable market on the PMCA facebook page. 

Culinary India: A Cooking Lesson with Salma Husain

Today I had a cooking class with Salma Husain, a Persian scholar, noted food historian, and the author of The Emperor's Table, The Art of Mughal Cuisine. 

In Salma's home outside of Delhi, I watched as she and her cook of 28 years showed me how to temper spices in oil, make poori, chapati, and roti, potato curry, chicken torma and pea and corn pulao. A full menu!

                                    

In between dishes, as the aromas filled the room, Salma stood by the stove and told colorful stories and antidotes about the ingredients and the history of each dish. As she pinched spices with her fingers, she said, 'There's a wonderful story about a cook I once knew in the south of India. She came into the kitchen and saw a spoon next to the spices. She said, What is this?! God has given hands to you! Use them!"

A few notes and lessons from Alma, that I jotted down in her kitchen. I'm sure that when I turn back to these pages of my journal in months to come, a fragrant smell of cardomom and fresh ginger will waft out of the pages. 

Cardamon powder gives a touch of the exotic. Green is for seasoning, black for tempering.

Different lentils are tempered with different spices. 

Red lentils: cumin and onion

Yellow lentils: garlic and red chili

Whole mung: ginger slices, onion, and broken whole chili

Mung lentil: clove

Fish and vegetables are mostly cooked in mustard oil.

Onion paste: Fry onions until brown and crispy. Blend.

Garlic and ginger pastes are just that; garlic blended whole and ginger blended whole.

"Food is never served on the table without being tasted. It can always be repaired."

"Food without history is nothing."