From lipsticks to ladles- Payal Puri's fascinating culinary
journeyFrom lipsticks to ladles-Payal Puri's fascinating culinary
journey.When I ran into my least favourite aunt at a family lunch recently,
she looked at my slimmer-than-shelast-saw-me form and said, 'I suppose
you're eating what you cook'. You see, I don't cook (or,
didn't). Never had. I didn't ever get around to learning, mostly
lived with parents or - thankfully - had a cook, and when I married a couple
of years ago, much after the conventional marriageable age, I was an urban
independent gogetter who could get everywhere except the kitchen, of course.
Fortunately, living in Gurgaon, where apartments and cooks exist in a
mutually satisfactory state of capitalism, cooking continued to be strictly
optional. Food, on the other hand, has never been. I live for it. I have
always loved to go out, eat in, order takeaway, try new restaurants, watch
cookery shows, and generally make mealtimes the highlight of my day, despite
the fact that all I could satisfactorily do in my own kitchen, till recently,
was make a cup of tea and Maggi. Since my husband's cooking skills have
matched mine to the dot, we sheepishly agreed to treat the kitchen as
"the room that houses the microwave" and left it to its own
devices. Till the day I got into an intense food debate with a friend on the
difference between pie and tart crusts, as though civilisation's future
depended on it, and decided to google the question - thereby landing on Deb
Perelman's blog, Smitten Kitchen. I didn't know it then, but this
was the woman who was going to teach me to cook. The blog, written out of
Perelman's tiny New York kitchen (that is even smaller than my own),
attracts a few million readers a year. It also makes a mockery of
anyone's claims that they don't have the time, equipment or
ingredients to cook: Deb's specific grouse when she first started
cooking was that chefs often worked with unpronounceable ingredients,
unreplicable techniques and unaffordable tools, so she set about creating
recipes that need none of these. It doesn't hurt that her writing is a
joy - witty, self-deprecating conversational - and before long I found myself
going to her blog every day, while a cheeky voice at the back of my head
reminded me that I was now a food-blog stalker who could possibly burn water!
But it wasn't till a recipe for apple cake popped up on one of my
surfing sessions that the same little voice took a new track,
'You've got a kilo of apples sitting in the fridge. Why can't
you make that? What's she got that you haven't?' Apart from
the obvious fact from eight million readers, I couldn't come up with a
convincing answer. It helped that I was home alone at the time, with no
incredulous husband to dissuade me, and had nothing planned for the rest of
the afternoon. I looked at the apples. I looked back at the recipe. I checked
the ingredient list and found that barring baking powder, I had everything I
needed at hand - and with a grocery store in my apar tment block, the missing
ingredient could be on my counter in minutes. I gave the urge a few minutes
to pass. It didn't.AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER
And it began - a year and a half ago, my borderline insane love
affair with cooking. I made the apple cake and understood two incredible
things that afternoon: the first, that apples improve with baking, and second
that Since my husband's cooking skills matched mine to the dot, we
sheepishly agreed to treat the kitchen as "the room that houses the
microwave" oNE fine DAY... 'You've got a kilo of apples in the
fridge. Why can't you make that apple cake?' I made the apple cake
and understood two incredible things that afternoon. The first, that apples
improve with baking, and second that I could - given the right recipe, an
idiot-proof technique, and enough time - cook! Photographs (top):
shutterstock/indiapicture I could - given the right recipe, an idiot-proof
technique, and enough time - cook! Those who know me best know I have an
obsessive streak. By the time my apple cake had been dusted with powdered
sugar, and warmed and eaten with vanilla icecream on the side, later that
night, I was already plotting my next move: a lemon yogurt cake that had
received rave reviews on the site. We ate a lot of cake last summer.
It's no coincidence that I've been on a diet for the last three
months: the lemon cake (delicious!) was followed by a strawberry summer cake,
a red wine velvet cake and banana bread. I started to skip the clothes stores
at the mall and instead dashed into food stores, arriving home - with an
excitement formerly reserved for shoes - with loaf pans and bundt pans and
springform tins and muffin pans. I bought parchment paper and oven gloves; a
zester and a hand blender. I made sure we were never out of allpurpose flour
and cake flour, as though emergency baking could be called for in the dead of
night.
OF SCONES AND BEYOND
And it got crazier. The husband, reading a PG Wodehouse late one
Friday night, read out a passage that paid homage t o high tea and mentioned
how much he loved scones. I beamed at him as you do at a favourite student. I
love scones too, I told him. I should make some. ' Maybe not', he
laughed. 'Surely that's best left to professionals,' he said.
I gave him a look that could melt glaciers - though he, by now immersed in
his book once more, missed it entirely. I then picked up my iPad, fired up
Smitten Kitchen, and did a search for scones, fully intending to buy the
ingredients the next morning. And discovered I already had what the recipe
called for in my kitchen. 'But it 's past midnight,' my
rational mind tried to point out. 'What does that have to do with
anything,' my hurt ego threw back. 'Is cooking at midnight
illegal?' My first-ever scones came out of the oven at 2am and the
husband - looking at once hunted and reluctantly impressed - warily picked up
one, slathered it with butter and blueberry jam, and took a bite. The hunted
look faded. The impressed look stayed. 'My God, these are really
good,' he gasped. 'It's no big deal,' I shrugged, as
though I had spent the last 30-something years cooking up midnight feasts.
Suddenly, I couldn't understand why I hadn't. I was blindsided by
the realisation that I loved it. Sure, I had no imagination with recipes, and
worried maniacally if I failed to follow an instruction precisely, but I
simply couldn't get enough. And then one evening the husband mildly
pointed out that while life was wonderful with dessert, a main course or two
might not go amiss if I had, in fact, decided to cook. He had a point, I
reluctantly admitted to myself. If I were capable of this, what else might be
possible?
I trusted no one but Perelman, though; I still wasn't sure I
could cook, I was merely convinced she could! And that was when fate
intervened for the second time - my mother sent across a stack of books that
I hadn't brought over when I married and among them was a cookbook I had
received as a gift a few years ago but never opened. It was an
unassuminglooking book. But it was Indian cooking, and my hero Perelman
didn't do any of that, so I sat down with a cup of tea and Hajra
Mohammed's Recipes of Life, For Life and decided to read. An hour later
I had the same eureka moment I'd had when Deb's apple cake had
called out to me - this was homestyle cooking by a matriarch who knew
everything there was to know on the subject. I could tell the food would be
superb, if only one followed her instructions - I've found that while
the knack for cooking had been absent my whole life, my ability to tell a
good recipe from average was well-honed. So I flipped through the slim volume
looking for something that I felt like cooking. I found it right away: Mutton
Biryani made the Cutchi Memon way. Not quite the ideal dish for the novice
cook, but by now Hajra herself couldn't have stopped me. It took me five
delightful hours. If she suggested slow-sauteing the onions for 30 minutes, I
did it for 40. I was going to be the over-achiever of biryanis. I was making
up for my lack of experience with an excess of enthusiasm - and I was
rewarded as only first-timers can be. I chopped and sauteed and slow-cooked.
I slit chillies and infused milk with saffron. I watched over the cooker like
a hawk. I finished the biryani on dum as she suggested, following her
instructions to the letter. When I finally opened the pan, I was assailed by
possibly the most incredible scent I have ever smelt to this day: the scent
of something delicious that had been cooked by me. RECIPE FOR SUCCESS From
there to now - it's been a journey I wouldn't trade for any other.
I've had disasters in the kitchen and learned to laugh over them rather
than collapse in tears - though that has happened too. In the past year,
I've made more scones and more cake but also dosa and pasta and
sandwiches. I've made pizza dough from scratch and homemade tomato
sauce. I've made a forgettable cauliflower soup and an unforgettable
French onion one. I've roasted vegetables, fried fish and burnt chicken.
In the last month alone, I've made white batter bread ( disaster), beer
batter fish and onion rings ( yummy), peanut butter cookies ( delicious),
homemade granola bars (superb), and more 1am biryani (though not as good as
my first attempt, I admit). Each attempt produces not just food but
incredible memories: two days ago, Rajat (my husband) and I spent three hours
in the kitchen, he frantically using a "chip-cutter" to chop
"fries" out of root vegetables while I tossed them with oil and
herbs and flung them in to bake. We ate them hot out of the oven, giggling
like teenagers as we plotted a baked-fries business - then moaned and groaned
that night as too many potatoes took their toll on the digestion. Just today,
I've hunted down a cast-iron skillet so I can make my next food
obsession, fritattas: I'm tracking the courier package with the
determination of a stalker. I have enough recipes bookmarked to not need a
new one for the rest of my life. After years of trawling the aisles of fancy
food stores, my first question now on spotting something I like is 'can
I make that?' The answer, I'm astounded to find, is often
'yes'.
My Top RecipesThis cherished delicacy might not be every amatuer
cooks cup of tea but it's worth when your appetite is big and you?fre
patient enough to spend the day in your kitchen . lovingly tending to the
mutton. Ingredients: 1 kilo mutton shoulder, cut into pieces; 1.2-3.4 cup
cooking oil; 5 cloves, 5 cardamoms, 4 one-inch pieces of cinnamon stick; 3
large onions finely chopped or minced; 1 cup chopped dhania (coriander
leaves); 1.2 cup chopped pudina (mint leaves); 2tbsp ginger paste; 2tbsp
garlic paste; 3tsp red chilli powder; 1.2 tsp turmeric powder; salt to taste;
4 large potatoes, washed and cut into half; 11.2 cups yogurt; 6 slit green
chillies Method: Heat oil in a cooker on medium heat and add the cloves,
cardamom and cinnamon. When they stop spluttering (after a minute or so), add
the onions. Cook on lowmedium heat slowly till the onions turn golden brown.
When the onions are caramelised, add the coriander and mint leaves and slow
cook them again for five minutes, stirring frequently. Add the ginger and
garlic paste and salt to taste, and saute them, sprinkling a little water if
needed. Add the turmeric and red chilli powder and cook another five minutes
before adding the washed mutton pieces into the cooker. Dry cook the mutton
for 10 minutes till all the pieces are wellcoated with the masala. Add
1.4-1.2 cup water (more will be released in the cooking process) and pressure
cook for 10 minutes after it reaches gas, open the cooker when the steam has
released and add the potatoes. Pressure cook for another 5 minutes after
reaching full steam, then turn off and let the steam release. Open the
pressure cooker, light the gas again, and add the yogurt. Cook till the oil
separates and the water evaporates, leaving thick gravy behind. Drop in the
slit green chillies and fold into the mutton. Then turn off the gas and let
rest awhile. This tastes fantastic with flaky paranthas or over rice. Note:
This recipe also works with chicken, cooking times adjusted. It's also
not too spicy so don't worry about the generous amount of chillies;
these are tempered by the yogurt and coriander gravy.Crackers are hard to
hate. They are perfect finger foods for parties or as snacks for bored
evenings and taste delightful with a curd dip or spicy salsa. Ingredients:
13.4 cups maida; 1tbsp chopped rosemary plus extra for sprinkling; 1tsp
baking powder; 3.4 tsp salt; 1.2 cup water; 1.3 cup olive oil plus more for
brushing; sea salt Method: Preheat oven to 200oC with a heavy baking sheet on
the middle rack (you want to get the baking sheet very hot so the base of the
cracker comes out crisp). Mix flour, chopped rosemary, baking powder and salt
in a bowl. Make a well in the centre, add water and oil and bring together
with a wooden spoon, then knead dough for a couple of minutes. Divide into
three equal pieces, cover two with a damp tea towel, and work with the third.
Cut a rectangle of parchment paper roughly the size of your baking sheet and
roll out one piece of dough in a rustic rectangle shape as thin as you can.
Lightly brush the top with olive oil, sprinkle a few flakes of sea salt and
additional rosemary and press lightly so they embed into the dough. I use a
pizza cutter at this stage to cut into ?gcrackers?h . these could be long and
thin like breadsticks, or squares, or any shape you like. Move parchment with
rolled out dough to the preheated baking sheet and bake for 8 to 9 minutes
until brown at the edges; while they?fre baking, roll out the next on a new
parchment sheet. Transfer to an airtight jar when cool. Note: You can also
sprinkle thyme, dill or cracked pepper before baking.Make your own health
bars as opposed to buying them off the store. Crumble them over a bowl of
yoghurt or have them with your morning cereal. They also double up as a
health snack . so versatile! Ingredients: 1 2 .3 cups quick rolled oats; 1.2
cup sugar; 1.3 cup oat flour (or 1.3 cup oats, processed till finely ground
in a food processor); 1.2 tsp salt; 1.4 tsp cinnamon powder; 2-3 cups dried
fruit, nuts and seeds of your choice; 1tsp vanilla extract; 6tbsp melted
butter; 1.4 cup; 2tbsp honey; 1tbsp water Method: Preheat oven to 180oC. Line
a medium rectangle cake pan with parchment paper or foil, then grease it with
cooking spray or butter, coating any un-lined bits of the pan as well. Mix
all the dry ingredients (nuts, dry fruit, seeds, salt, sugar, oats, oat flour
and cinnamon) in one bowl. In another, whisk together the wet ingredients
(both quantities of honey, vanilla, melted butter and water). Add the wet
ingredients into the dry ones and toss with a wooden spoon till the mixture
is evenly crumbly. Spread mixture into the prepared pan and press down hard
to make it stick together (a good trick is to cut a rectangle of cling film
and cover the pan and then press with something heavy). Remove the cling film
and bake the bars for 30-40 minutes until the edges and tops are a little
brown. They?fll still feel soft but will become firm once cooled. Pull out
and allow to cool in the pan or remove using the parchment and cool on a
cooling rack. When cool, cut with a serrated knife. If bars seem crumbly,
chill the pan in the fridge for 30 minutes, then cut. Since they can get
soggy in humid conditions, store in an air-tight jar in the fridge.
Reproduced From Good Housekeeping. 2014. LMIL. All rights
reserved.
Payal Puri
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