Becoming Mothers

"Well here's to you.. Mrs. Robin..son. Jesus love you more than you will know.. "

Where does the instinct to mother come from? A mother robin builds a fine nest in a bird feeder, quite smartly with windows on three sides and a safe opening. She will sit there most of the time waiting for her little blue eggs to hatch, unless she needs to fly away to feed herself occasionally or perhaps sip water from the stream. I'm curious about natural inclination.

As I watch my 6 year old granddaughter grow, I am struck by her female core of emotion. When her 4 year old younger brother is sad or crying, she sings sweet songs to him. She has just enough of a melancholic strain that she seems genuinely feels the suffering of the world.

Just the other day her mother and father both had the flu. I told her we needed to make them some chicken soup. She ran and got her apron. Makena is not a big eater and certainly not adventurous, but she is curious and likes to do things. I was surprised that she took to chopping vegetables with a cumbersome knife so quickly and willingly. I showed her how to hold the knife steadily, how to bend her non chopping hand a certain way to keep her fingertips back and hold her vegetable firm, so it wouldn't slip around when she was chopping. She first started with a small knife, which made sense, but was not really getting the job done. So, we graduated to a larger more serious one that at least sliced. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one of you don't know what you are doing. She impressed me with her attention and skill. I was not overprotective and enjoyed watching her. She chopped and talked as if she had done it all her sweet life.

As she chopped she said, "Grandma,  I like to focus when I'm making medicine. "

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.

Where The Wild Wind Sings

Leaving the long stretch of Sidi Kaouki’s endless camel colored coast, is always poignant. It’s a refuge. Unplugged. A village with a few stone houses and a camel or two. A few cheeky donkeys bray, and oblivious chickens squawk and peck. You can sit for breakfast outside on the patio and watch a few herds of goats pass by the open doorway with their 8 year old herder. A few minutes later, a lone Berber woman, covered head-to-toe in mismatched patterns, strolls by with her cow. The wind can be fierce. It can be gentle. You can spend the day feeling it pick up and die down. It mimics one’s slowed-down breath. More subtle feelings have space to arise, so often buried under the harrang of too much thinking. The eyes see things that never registered before. This place has always been like this. It eases the mind.

Time to go. The “blue and white ”Essouira taxi burns up the straight three hour trek back to Marrakech. It passes the one and only indigenous argan forest. It’s spiky branches so free form, abstract and full of tiny yellow nuts, so loved by nibbly goats that they levitate themselves right up onto the highest branches. This stretch of road always reminds me of the first time I came to Morocco with two close friends. We arrived late at night. It was 2 am when we left Marrakech, after a midnight supper of chicken tagine and hearty bread. 

We headed off into the night with a toothless driver in an old beat up blue and white taxi on what seemed like an endless stretch of road. My friends fell asleep and I was left with my own white thoughts about ‘what happens if’. Meanwhile, the stars were immense, shining down with little moonlight on shadows and silhouettes of distant palms, robed figures walking in the dark, vast flat plains with faint light coming from an occasional low earthen dwelling. We passed strips of town, long and narrow buildings with arches; a loggia of mystery.

There was a man rolling a barrel down the road at 3:30 am. We mistakingly hit a dog. At least the driver stopped. The dog was stunned, but not dead. My friends lay dreaming asleep, while I sat dreaming awake. Where am I? I was cold. I couldn’t get the driver to roll up his window, or it was broken. Something in me felt slightly unravelled. Fear of the unknown has that quality.

By the time we reached Essaouira, the town was in a deep sleep. Yet, the nightwatchman from our hotel was there with his cart. We piled our luggage on, said goodbye to our driver, who smiled a toothless grin and we walked through the empty ‘place’, down dusty alleyways with the occasional dead fish, breathing in that familiar, wet, salty sea air. It’s now 4:30 am. The call to prayer comes over the loudspeaker in a loud and crackly “Allah o Akbar!” Glory be to God! I felt the same, happy to have arrived at this far away door.

Inside, all was orderly, white, calm, silent and peaceful. A chest of blue and white dishes greeted us. Roses, red and plentiful, were on all the tables. Our room, open, with a loft, beckoned us. I chose the small, cozy loft. My friends were chatty, and more than likely ready for tea. I, on the other hand was a corpse.

“Welcome to Morocco”, said the doorman. I fell quickly into bed to the sound of birdsong, sweet and melodic. At least birdsong is a universal language, I thought. The breaking light of day did not dissuade me from a potent sleep.

My first adventure to Essaouira was a memorable one. Not without love, discovery, magic,
a falling through the veil to another way of seeing the world. Leaving there was never easy.
Leaving the edge of something potent, a bit wild and untended takes discipline.

Once I saw the lines of separation~ between me, the tree and the earth~dissolve. It was a moment I will never forget. I was not on mind altering substances. It's just that my heart
had cracked open and like a thousand pedaled lotus, it bloomed and I could feel the various chambers that hold shadow, exposed. I was in a taxi going down a country road. I looked to my right and the tree ,the earth and the sky was lit up in outlines of color. It lasted a split second. Mother Africa winked at me.

Then there was the return of all returns that I will never forget. I was headed back to Marrakech yet once again in a blue and white taxi. It was September 11th, 2001. I pass the familiar landscapes, the argan forest, I see a small boy on his donkey high on the horizon. It's hot and there are people walking around in wool from head to toe. The windows are down and the wind is blowing my hair into my face, but I don't care. I'm steeped in this culture, infused like orange blossoms in water. I've hit the resonant note in myself that is  not alone, but in tune with everything. I am the air. The boy riding his donkey. A woman sitting in a taxi.

The cell phone rings. "Allo"? says the driver. He is animated and attentive as he listens, he shouts a bit, then hangs up the phone upset and says," Madame! Madame! Catastrophe in America! Catastrophe in America! Mafia! Mafia!"

Part one.
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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.