Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts

Tuesday, 19 February 2008

Markets

The word market brings back some of my sweetest childhood memories. My dad was (and still is) the grocery shopper and sometimes he would insists that I tag along. I must admit that I didn't enjoy the trips to Coimbatore markets much. How can I, when I have been to much better markets in Madurai with my grandmother. We always looked forward for the trips to Madurai during our school holidays. If one were to put all my paternal cousins in a room, we could easily make 2 cricket teams including substitutes and umpires and still would have few left for audience. My grandmother took us all (well most of us younger ones, the older ones had far more important things to do) with her to the markets. I simply loved it. She would get us steamed or grilled corn on the cob and lots of raw mango seasoned with chilli powder and salt. My granny had a unique bargaining style, which always swinged her way. She could have taught Hillary a helpful trick or two, if she were alive now. And of course she knew all the vendors by name and found time for family/market gossip with them. I think my love for markets started there.

Then there were the trips to maternal grandmother's village. A small tiny village that wouldn't show up on any map, however much one zooms in. In contrast, I was the oldest grandchild to my maternal grandmother and enjoyed a special privilege (still do) in the family. There were no markets in the village, so the fruits and vegetables came from the fields, milk from the herd, the chicken from the pen and mutton only on very special occasions (like when the son-in-laws came for a visit). Back then there was a concept called santhai (sort of farmer's market), where one came to buy and sell their produce. It was generally held in the nearest town. The connection to the town was by a bus which made 3 trips daily. My granny took us to the town in the morning on the day of the santhai, the long narrow road winding its way through many more tiny villages. The bus was filled with people who somehow were related to one other and would in turn fill the bus with baskets and fellow passengers with happenings in their village.
The mornings were spent in the markets and my granny would treat us to lunch in one of the eateries and then there would be a movie in the afternoon. After which we went back home in the evening bus. What I loved about the trips were the santhai and seerani (a sweet that is very special to the town, I have never seen it anywhere else). The smell of the market and noise with all that battering was such a glorious experience. As a child I would stare wide eyed at the wares on display and enjoy the snacks that my granny brought me. She would meet a whole load of her relatives and friends (she was a teacher and it seemed to me that she knew everyone). One of those relative-meeting gave me a fascinating insight to my grandmother's life, the one I didn't know about. She is one of those million unsung feminist in the world, without whom the things we take for granted (like education for girls) wouldn't have happened. She was a truly remarkable person and I attribute my fiery feminism to her influence.
Last week my mother described about this new supermarket near our home in Madurai during our weekly telephonic conversations. My heart skipped a beat when she explained about the rows of vegetables and fruits and the cool air conditioned room they were stacked in. Wal mart I hear is steering to swipe the small markets off in the premise of 'more choice for customers'.
Luckily there are 4 farmer's markets around the area I live. I cannot visit the Solihull market as it is on a Friday. But the others which are on Saturdays, I make a point to visit with the troops on toe. Below is a picture of some produce from the Kings Norton Farmer's market.

No more corn on cob for the kiddes, it is hot dogs now. But at least I know the sausages are devoid of the dreaded 'Es' and the bread is whole meal, organic. Another picture of Moseley Farmer's market where one can buy Ostrich burgers.
I somehow think shopping in the farmer's markets would cultivate a sense of respect for the food we eat in the children and hopefully they will follow the tradition as adults.
I had a write up of markets lying in the Draft for quite some time. When Gay of Scientist in the Kitchen announced the 'To market, to market' event, the post has been dusted and is now ready to enter the event. I am looking forward for the round up and reading about markets all around the world.

Tuesday, 29 January 2008

Not again

Oh Dear God, its started again. I mean the moral policing business in Chennai. What is happening to my dear state in recent years? First there was a huge uproar for a sensible talk from a pretty actress and then there was this new dress code for college students and now Shriya’s dress. A dress of all things on Earth!

I grew up in a Coimbatore and went to one of those super Godly catholic schools run by strict nuns. The uniform I wore was a white shirt and half skirt. I had worn that for 12 years and no one even winked. The same school has a salwar kameez as uniform now. All the government/municipal schools which had half saris as uniform have changed to Salwar kameez. Are we retreating into some kind of old Victorian world and the current 50 somethings are steering us towards that era? I really don’t get it. I am of the opinion that ancient Tamilians (those who wrote all the sangam poems) were very liberal when it came to clothes. In one of the old Puranannuru poems, there is a sentence describing the clothes the leading lady wears. It describes that the material the lady wore was so fine that one could see through her dress. Can’t imagine what the Moral Police would do if someone was to write a similar poem, let alone wear such a dress.

Is this Talibanization of TamilNadu? And oh, as if there is not enough on the platter, Tamilans can no longer celebrate New Year in April, instead it will be in January. Is there any sense amidst this madness or is it madness to search for sense?

Tuesday, 15 January 2008

Pongalo Pongal

Wish you all a happy Pongal and Sankranti. As I am writing this, news has come out that the Supreme Court has lifted the ban on Jallikattu (Phew that was close). I shudder to think how folks from my native town would have reacted if the ban had stayed. Jallikattu reminds me of the rare occasions we celebrated Pongal at my maternal grandmother’s village. The village falls on the wrong side of Vaigai river and cannot benefit from the river water. As is the case with most Indian villages, the harvest mainly depends on the mercy of the monsoons. And we all know how our dear old monsoons behave.

The village folks rarely celebrated Pongal as there was little to harvest and very little to celebrate about. When the monsoons are well behaved, the harvest is bountiful and Pongal is celebrated with such gusto that, town folks like me wonder why our parents left the village. The huts and houses are white washed, the cows decorated with colourful dots on their body and vibrant colours painted on their horns - the atmosphere is electric. There is something in the air which brings joy by merely inhaling it. I am missing all that this very moment and to a certain extent depressed (too harsh a word, I know) that my children cannot experience it.

I do try hard to bring in the spirit at home. Although my younger troops don’t agree with the Naragasuran version of the Deepavali story (they go with the ‘Rama coming from forest’ version), bringing in the Deepavali spirit is much easier. Help comes in the form of schools discussing the ‘Hindu’ festival. When it comes to Pongal it is hard, but I keep trying. It doesn’t hurt to taste some yummy Pongal and other delicacies in the process. Pongalo Pongal !!!!!!!

Wednesday, 17 October 2007

Chicken Tikka Masala and perfection

Just when one thought that one had enough dose of CTM, no not from the Baltis, rather from the plethora of food programs, there comes along a program from BBC (little surprise there) in its ‘quest’ to find the ‘perfect’ CTM, whatever that means.

The perfectionist in this case is the famous Heston Blumenthal of ‘The Fat Duck’. He travels to Delhi (where else) in search for the perfect Chicken Tikka Masala. Until this point the program followed the time and tested track. And then it went a step further in search of perfection. No the tandoori oven in the car park dug by the chef didn’t shock me. All the lab tests conducted to verify if yogurt really made a difference to the marinade didn’t do the trick. The double marinade and the technique didn’t move me. The way the sauce or rather what went inside got me jumping mad on the sofa – A regular tomato sauce with the usual onion, ginger, garlic and tomato paste (cooked in a pressure cooker and reduced) was underway when suddenly the chef tossed in some cashew butter that is ground cashew nut paste for you and me. The crown of the whole episode was when a can of coconut milk went in. Everything that happened after that including the butter did not matter much. And this ladies and gentleman is the perfect Chicken Tikka masala.

Friday, 21 September 2007

Random Musings

When struck in a railway station waiting for a delayed train I chanced upon an article in ‘Independent’ which actually praised Blair’s educational policies. Blind me, I couldn’t believe it. The thought of dismissing it as a weird dream would have succeeded had the station speakers not reminded me of the signaling problems in Woking. The only predictable part of my lifestyle for the last 3 years had been to wait endless hours in train stations. It would be unfair to credit Virgin Trains and Richard Branson or the railway schedules. It is just me. I have this remarkable ability to get myself stuck in airports, railway stations and motorways. No I don’t drive, but hey when I am on a car, then a traffic jam is inevitable. After watching all the episodes of ‘Heroes’ aired on BBC I am almost convinced about my special ability to slow trains, cars and planes. Going back to the article in question again, it was a surprise to me that anyone wrote anything in praise of Blair. Probably it is true as it talks about 'real achievement' .

Before I could recover from the shock, there was another article in ‘The Times’ applauding Mrs Blair. Again surprisingly, the article had positive things to say about Cherie Booth’s people skills. No kidding. To top it all up with an icing, Gordon is labeled as the new Thatcher. I dread to think what might be coming next. Silly me, it is elections of course. Hmm should I be voting Labour? But where are the other parties, were they called Conservatives?