Viki  Barcel Sofia!

No reservations required, just show up. That's the tantalising slogan of www.freesofiatour.con (+359 886 993 977) Twice a day, at 11 am and at 6 pm you just present yourself outside the Palace of Justice  for the 'free English language sightseeing walking tour of Bulgaria's capital!' And believe me you are in for a real treat - a two hour educating, entertaining introduction to the Bulgarian capital and its history with visits to the best monuments, churches, institutions, parks and what have you. And not a penny charged! It's up to you to make some contribution to the non-profit organisation or, just say thanks and walk off. The tour guides are youngsters, mostly postgraduate students, some working and studying at the same time.  The guides volunteer for two reasons- their love for their city and to improve their English and of course, the best commendation they want is for you to tell the world about Sofia and about the organisation.

By the time the hotel check in is over, it's too late for the 11 am appointment. It has to be the 6pm one though the greying skies leave one a little shaky, what if it pours. On the way it does shower compelling one to buy an umbrella, exorbitant cost for a cheap little Chinese made affair but well, beggars can't be choosers. On the way one is quite sceptical, scepticism by now must be ingrained in the Indian DNA- free tour hah! In this weather - no way! Would freesofiatour's claim of ' tours run all year long despite the weather' be really true? The shower peters to a barely there drizzle as one approaches the Palace of Justice. Yes there seem to be some people, 6-7 or so, standing and poring over some papers. Soon more join in. A chirpy voice says, are you here for the tour? That was Viki- 'just call me Viki' - our tour guide, a dimpled beauty with sparkling eyes with her long wavy hair tied up in a loose bun and holding a placard bearing the name of the organisation. A 20-year old studying law at the Sofia University, she is clearly a people's person instantly putting every one at ease. The papers is for all to put their names, nationality etc. Viki clearly has a mean bone of humour what with her witty comments(quite acerbic at times) and subtle one-liners. Viki loves travelling, she wants to travel the world and she loves meeting people from all over the world but she can't think of living anywhere but Sofia, her words not mine!

The tour group is a motley one- from three continents including Asia. There's a European family, the mother not at home with English and the young university going son patiently translating every sentence for her. There are three formally dressed guys, obvious that they are in the city for business and finding time to check out Sofia. There are two Israeli gentlemen, also on business, and hurrmph one of them seems to know more about India that I do!

The two-hour walking tour is well planned and covers most of what should be seen beginning with the coat of arms of Sofia. The city is one place where a church (Sveta Nedelya Church), a synagogue (Sofia Synagogue)  and a mosque (Banya Bashi Mosque) all co-exist beautifully at arm's length from each other. Of course Viki makes sure that we get 'that point'. Each structure is a well maintained legacy. There are churches, mosques, synagogues, ancient ruins (Serdika), cathedrals, mineral water springs - somewhere underground and piped up, several pipes indeed  where many of the locals seem to crowd with huge bottles and jars - former royal palace now an ethnographic museum, city garden, art galleries, ruins, National Palace of Culture, Sofia University, parliament and more. All with Viki's running commentary that while information laden was also laced with sardonic wit.

City Garden, Sofia

Sveta Nedelya (Orthodox) Church

Banya Bashi Mosque

Suddenly a statue on a tall column arrests everyone's attention. Who is she and what is it all about? The golden lady with outstretched arms, dressed in all black, flowing robes et al with a golden crown stands atop a 16-metre column bang in the middle of a busy crossroad. The statue is said to be 8-metre tall. In her right hand she holds a (black) wreath and on her left arm rests a (black) owl. The statue made its appearance in 2001 replacing guess what! The statue of old Vladimir Ilyich Lenin! Bulgaria was a communist nation for a long time, but I suppose the times are changing, or rather have changed. So old comrade Lenin was made to do the vanishing act and Saint Sofia, the city's patron now presides over a busy thoroughfare. Is it a coincidence that she faces the Batemberg Square where the presidency and the government houses are located? Not many Bulgarians seem to be happy with the local sculptor George Chapkanov's creation, certainly not Viki. What she had to say about the statue is best left unsaid! But I do agree that was something pagan-like about the statue, something dark and very unattractive and I am being polite as compared to Viki!

St Sofia, patron saint of Sofia

      

8-metre tall St Sofia atop a 16-metre column in the heart of the city

The next day,thankfully sunny and bright I take the tube to Serdika Metro station and retrace some of the walk,  spending more time at places I loved. There was one particular place I had to go to and one particular test to carry out. The evening before, the two guards, in uniforms reminiscent of an imperial past, stood impassive and ramrod stiff at the entrance of the National Palace, no matter how many tourist thronged around or clicked photographs. If one went very close and peered into their face, eye-to-eye would they blink? That was the intention, unfortunately at the last minute I chickened out. I did go pretty close but all I could do was give a lame smile and timidly turn around and walk away to take photographs from a safe distance.

The two guards at National Palace

 

The other place that fascinated me and needed a second inspection, a much thorough one was the Church of St Petka of the Saddlers, built in the 15th century during the Ottoman rule. An ancient somewhat seemingly tiny structure close to the Serdika Metro station, with the  backdrop (at a higher level) of The Central Department Store (TZUM) and the Sheraton Hotel, it stood out despite its small size, a remnant from the past coexisting peacefully with giant modern buildings. The church is partially underground and the entry is a small narrow lane at the right side of the church (left as you face it).  The apparent main entrance, a huge iron door, past ten steps and a somewhat big threshold is shut; a metal chain stretches from one side of the steps to the other, indicating no going up from there. The entry fee of 2 Lev leads one to the door of the church and a glass enclosed shrine appears on the left. Several slim yellow candles flicker within.   The myth is that the great Bulgarian revolutionary and national hero, Vasil Levski is said to be buried here (he was hanged by the Ottoman rulers) and a bronze plaque on a wall commemorates that. But as they say a myth is a myth and there is said to be no authentic proof of the fact. As to why the church is named St Petka of the Saddlers is an interesting tale - it was dedicated to martyr Petka Ikoniyska, an 11th century Bulgarian saint and was built with donation from the region's master saddlers.  Also why the church is half buried into the earth is because apparently during the Ottoman rule, building of churches was allowed only if the height did not exceed that of a soldier on a horseback! Trust the Bulgarians to find a way around that and dig deeper into the ground. And oh! if you can pronounce it, the church is also known as the church of St  Petka Samardzhiyska (Bulgarian for leather craftsmen). Inside it's carries a strong whiff of the past literally. It has a semi circle apse, a domed ceiling and vestiges of stunning frescoes on the walls. It leaves one wondering why they have not been restored. It evokes a feeling of both sadness and happiness. The Church is now a cultural monument and what is most touching is that it is functioning and regular services are held here.

Church of St Petka of the Saddlers

 

Inside the Church of St Petka of the Saddlers

One of life's great delight is to sit in a park on a bright day and watch the world pass by. There seem to be all kind of people; almost all the benches are occupied. There are pigeons all over and a little girl makes it appear that happiness is all about chasing the pigeons till they take flight. Her dad watches her with an indulgent smile. There's a lady smiling at me from the next bench, I smile back. She approaches, quite hesitatingly. Am I from India?  I nod and a big grin splits her face, while a hand extends towards me. She is Triana Sharma, a Bulgarian married to an Indian or rather was married as sadly he died around seven years ago. Her husband was from Uttar Pradesh and was teaching English language at Sofia University,  where they met, fell in love and married. Unfortunately Triana is not in a  happy state now, a school teacher she has been laid off. She has a son (14) , a tall strappy lad, painfully shy and reticent. When he was small, his dad would talk to him only in Hindi, but now the child remembers no Hindi. Triana can just about say Namaste, thoda thoda, khubsoorat, dhanyabad and the likes. Her grandmother is accompanying the mother-son duo to the park. I never visited India, we always planned to but it never happened and now it's too late, she sighs. Maybe one day my son will, she says wistfully. I hope and pray he does. As evening creeps in, I have to leave. Namaste, says Triana and we both reach out for a hug. It feels good. 

Happiness is chasing pigeons!

Triana Sharma

Triana Sharma (hidden behind) her son and grandma

 

 

Trout off!

They say one is either pregnant or not - precise and no haziness. I wish I could say the same when it comes to trout. I like it, I do not. Or do I?  It’s always been a see-saw relationship with trout. Something fishy about it! The family and friends always seem to be relishing it. I mean it is tasty, if cooked well, but is it something to die for? Well………….

It has I think to do more with the kinds of fish one likes – the Ilish (Hilsa), the chital (clown knife fish), koi (carp but not the brightly coloured ones), pabda (pabo catfish?), bekti (Barramundi), the white pomfret; in fact the list is endless. I also have no hesitation in saying that I am crazy about imported salmon and though I valiantly try to cook Indian salmon, it is no match. It is like having vodka with freshly squeezed orange juice and vodka with the tetra pack substitute, Hic!

Could it be because the trout and I have a history? It was the Banjara Camp in Sangla Valley (Himachal Pradesh) so, so many years ago that the fish got the better of me.  The camp, I guess by now all know, has Swiss cottage tents with attached baths and the works and is a little paradise on earth. So there we were knee deep in the gushing Baspa river next to the camp, armed with   fishing rods with colourful baits and above all, armed with utter confidence. Okay I admit a somewhat supercilious mien too, after all wasn’t I a true Hilly-Billy, pahadi by blood and birth and hadn’t I fished in less friendly waters.   And when my line went taut I was bursting with pride. Well pride does go before a fall and after a hectic struggle – the trout had the last laugh. It managed to flee leaving me a laughing stock.  I was determined to have nothing with the damned trout ever.   But as they say never say never, sigh! Especially when getting packages of trout from Manali is a regular affair.

And for all those who think snagging trout involves fancy fishing gear, think again. Of course, one learnt this in an unusual manner. This was at Raju’s Cottage, at Goshiani, next to the Tirthan River, (Himachal Pradesh again) that haven of warmth, comfort and natural beauty.  (Village and PO Gushaini, Via Banjar, Kullu-175123, Himachal Pradesh . Phone: +91-9459833124. Email: goshaini@yahoo.com. Website:http:/tirthanvalley.blogspot.in/) This was many moons ago too, much before the delightful double storied Himachali wooden cottage was covered by creepers (as it now). After overnight stays at state tourism bungalow at Chindi, the Banjara Camp at Shoja, we drove through the Jalori Pass and on to the cottage run by Raju Bharti and his wife Lata. We preferred to opt for sitting in the trolley over the river, pulled by Raju’s guys instead of driving further up, crossing the small wooden bridge and walking through the orchard to the cottage.  

 

An old picture of Raju Bharti's Cottages

 

This is how you access Raju's Cottage!

  

There were other guests too and someone decided to go fish for trout that was part of the lunch menu. I kept a safe distance, though to be honest I would have laughed the loudest if yet another trout gave the heave-ho and scooted off. Nothing happened; no one came anywhere near to even baiting one. Just when the fun was wearing off, one of Raju’s guys who had been keeping an eye on the antics, waded into the gushing river armed with a wooden bat like implement (the ones you see wielded by dhobis and people washing clothes in hill streams), peered into the river, gave two hard thwacks, put his hands into the water, came up with two fat trout and walked into the kitchen without even looking back. Lata made trout curry Indian style, not too spicy, not too oily just perfect, simple and just divine. The Johnson’s Café at Manali (run by Piya Johnson) is another place where you can varieties of trout dishes, from fried trout with roasted almond sauce to baked ones with different sauces to what-have-you, every bit delicious.

But somewhere in me, I still can’t get myself to buy trout or even bother to find out interesting recipes. Let’s agree that it is a little bland fish and it’s the sauce and the accompaniments that make it appetising. A somewhat stretched theory I propound whenever there is any trout talk is that since it was the Europeans who introduced the fish to the Himalayan waters, apparently around the 1860s first in Jammu & Kashmir and later in Himachal Pradesh, we tend to treat trout as a delicacy because of the herd mentality, if the colonial rulers took pains to introduce in Indian waters, there must be something good. Sure, remember yoga had to be imported into the country for us to take to it in a big way.  If that sounds churlish so be it, Amen!

I could easily turn a vegetarian but for the fish and oh the pork too! Fish is something I can eat anytime, anywhere. There was this eatery in Burano, a fishing village off Venice.  We went there because naturally one had to see a fishing village. Village? I guess there are fishing villages and there is Burano.

Burano village!

 

Fishing for compliments!

 

And so to sea......

 

We had lunch at one of those sunny cafes with seating outside where you can turn a happy lotus eater and watch the world bypass. It goes without saying that since were in a fishing village the main  course had to be fish.It was nothing extraordinary, nothing to rave about or compliment the chef, bit on the bland side but whether it was the ambiance, the company or whatever, we devoured all but the head. The waiter of course thought it was a testament to the delicacy quotient of the dish,  more so when we Indians had eaten every bit, that he insisted we record it for posterity, of course with him as the star. We did.    

 

Just head, not tails

 

Back on the trout trail, during the trout season, thick fat ones, frozen and packed find their way to our kitchen, thanks to generous friends in Manali. So once again I found myself staring at trout that I didn’t know how to convert into tasty items. 

 

Triple trout

 When in doubt what does one do? I chose to play it ultra simple.  Just marinated the fish with generous dollop of lemon juice, a bit of lemon zest, some salt and layered the insides with thin lemon circles. It was sauce making time – after foraging around in the kitchen cabinets I decided that it had to be simple too so it was orange juice (Ceres – I like the natural tartness it has), a bit of diced capers, one fresh red chili, de-seeded and diced minutely, freshly ground pepper and a bit of  brown sugar. Dunked the whole thing in a saucepan, put it on high flame and stirred around till it reduced to half and slid in a bit of butter. It was time to tackle the fish -heat up the grill pan, put in a few drops of olive oil, wiped with a kitchen towel ,put in some butter, let it melt and lined the fish in the pan, sizzling all the way.   After 5/6 minutes on each side, the fish came out somewhat charred and crispy on the outside. To go with the fish was a salad of rocket, baby spinach (all homegrown on the terrace ahem!), iceberg lettuce, orange segments, pips removed and each segment cut into two. The dressing was olive oil, lemon juice, a bit of sugar, a bit of salt, pepper and a dash of red chili powder whipped up properly.  The other salad  was boiled potatoes cut into cubes mixed with very finely minced onion and generously dressed with hung curd whipped with mustard powder, salt, pepper and lemon juice.

So how was the trout, I think the sauce worked fine!!

Homegrown rocket and spinach!

 

Side by side - terrace grown rocket and spinach

 

All time favourite- potatoes!

Friendship, Fish and a Birthday

 

Some years ago on Independence Day, which was a Friday, a childhood friend and I decided to drive down to Jharipani, between Dehra Dun and Mussoorie to celebrate the occasion (Yeah believe that!) and the weekend before returning, to home, hearth and work, on a Sunday night.We had been planning to do that for a long time but somehow it never materialised. That year at the last minute everything fell into place but because it was too late to get the train tickets, we opted for the drive. We started out early morning and about half an hour into the trip, the skies opened up but thankfully the heavy rain petered out soon. We should have been all excited and chirpy right? Very wrong! Everyone and I mean everyone, in fact the whole world and his wife and family and the extended family seem to be having the same brilliant idea that we did- to get out of Delhi and for some strange reason everyone seemed to be heading for Mussoroie. It was like being in an endless convoy, some vehicles with music blaring and assorted body parts hanging out of the car windows. If that wasn't enough, at some point we were all asked to leave the highway and driver into inner lanes and by lanes of Uttar Pradesh as some accident had occurred and the highway was off limits to all for a particular stretch. It was like being forced into a nightmare of mazes - mostly kutcha muggy water logged roads.  We groaned, moaned, cursed, prayed desperately but nothing helped. Moving ahead meant literally crawling inch by inch and stalling for hours in the jam. Naturally there was no question of going back either, we couldn't even if we wanted to. At one particular point - an elevated  narrow road with dusty sides tapering down to a miserable muddy stream, we watched helplessly as one Smart Alec decided - it was indeed an open jeep crammed with bulky guys sporting moustaches of every kind- that it was not his lot to follow the snail line and dramatically swung his vehicle, intending we surmised, to drive on the slope. Maybe it would have worked if he had driven gently and cautiously. But nah! He did it furiously and with full force and in a scene straight out of a third rate movie, the jeep slopped straight into the muddy stream.There was lot of cursing, foul words flying and rage inspired impotent kicks showered on the poor jeep. The vehicle was finally manoeuvred out of the quagmire like stream and there was this incredible sight of muddied bulky guys pushing up the jeep, huffing and puffing and profusely cursing. Clearly they felt that there had been not enough action around so next came the ludicrous scene where after finally managing to push the jeep right up to the edge of the narrow road, they had to stay put as they - using all their combined strength to ensure that the jeep didn't slide back - because with the other vehicles bumper to bumper without even a millimetre of space to space, there was no way they could have pushed their vehicle back into the snail line. Of course one member of the mustachioed team went around yelling, shouting and trying somehow to manipulate a way to get the jeep  back into the queue. Nada, nothing happened. As other times we might have laughed and even applauded the revenge by the jeep, but drained, exhausted and frustrated we watched like Zombies till we managed to crawl our way further and the tragic-comic scene was left behind.

The only thing that kept us going was the assuring knowledge and feeling that we were on way to meet another childhood friend and that we would get there come what may. All along I remembered a poster I had eons ago in my room, a rather cheap shiny one, of a long narrow tree lined road that meandered into the fading horizon, ending at the gate of a hazy wooden cottage. The slogan below in bold letters said - The road to a friend's house is never long. It certainly wasn't and isn't.

From then to now, we (the childhood friends) have evolved a better way to meet. Once a year out we have a night out. No not the regular kinds, there's no dressing up, no hitting the pubs or doing such things. We get together at one single friend's home and live it up, we barely sleep the night. We all met at school, a strict convent in one of the hill stations, we grew up together, we formed a gang of our own, we virtually lived in each others' pockets and home. We moved on to higher studies, careers, some to marriage and kids. We have seen each other grow up from gawky kids to what we are today(ahem!)  We have always been there for each other or so we would like to believe, maybe not physically , in good times and bad times, especially bad times. There is so much of catching up to do; sip our favourite poisons, we eat, we binge and we talk, talk and talk and talk more. We just let go. We call it our Independence Day (and night) There is no fixed day or date. After juggling work, home and all the myriad responsibilities we  feel that we can reward ourselves by being together for that one day and night, by being just us. It is a day and night we look forward to eagerly and it keeps us going till the next one. It's not easy  managing being together when you don't live in the same city, it means some of us have to take extra day off from home and work and fly in and out but they do it. We do it. Not all manage to make it every year and for those who don't, it means  continuous phone calls and feeling miserable for not being part of it. It's our annual fix, our emotional sustenance. We have known each other forever and there are no pretences; there we are just we are - scars, warts (and I hope it's OK to say farts!)

The menu at such gatherings is always a big jumble - some dishes are made to accommodate something is dying to eat but hasn't been to for whatever reasons, some dishes are made because nobody can make it the way that particular friend does, some because one friend has just learnt to make it and naturally we have to have a taste of it. Some dishes are ordered and some are potluck.  But somehow Thai red chicken curry and momos seem to be perennial. This time round the gathering was all the more eventful because it included a birthday celebration. So there we were the five of us this time, hooting and yipping it up. The cake was a simple home baked chocolate  cake, the tastiest one because the chief ingredient was love.

Happy Birthday!

The best and a lovely surprise was the baked Basa fish. Personally I am not much of an advocate of Basa especially texture. Let's say I was not an advocate because this time I just loved it and had the
most. What my friend had done was to marinate the fish fillets with lemon juice, mined garlic , ginger and some green chillies and seasoning, threw some diced coriander leaves and baked it for about 40minutes, the 20 minutes at 250C for the remaining at about 175-180C. Not a drop of oil. Straight out of the oven, a further squeezing of lemon juice and it was finger licking delicious. Did l like the Basa, which I earlier avoided, because of the occasion or did I carry a jaundiced attitude to it? Why not try it out at home? I did, but with a few tweaking and it was equally tasty. I accept that it was not the Basa but me. Girl friends do that to you - they make you realise that you might have been stupid, silly and biased about some things. They do it with love and laughter.

Here's the Basa experiment:

Basa fillet, 1 kg
Garlic cloves,(large) 4
Kaffir leaves, 6-7, minced
Red pepper (long ones)2, de-seeded and diced  
Green chili, 1 (optional)
Lemon juice, 4 tbsp 
Lemon zest, 1 tsp
Thai soya sauce, 3 tbsp
Sweet soya sauce, 1&1/2 tbsp
Salt, to taste (remember the soya sauce has salt content too)
Basil leaves, a few

Method:

Cut each fillet into 2/3/4 pieces, depending on the size you prefer.
Rub the pieces gently with the lemon juice and keep aside for some time.
Pound the garlic cloves, Kaffir leaves, red pepper, green chili (optional) and salt, preferably in a mortar and pestle. If you don't have one, place the ingredients to be pounded on a wooden chopping  board, wrap your rolling pin with soft muslin cloth or polythene and smash and pound gently till you have a  decent paste.
Mix in the lemon zest, Thai soya sauce, the sweet soya sauce and marinate the fish pieces.
Heat the oven to 250 degree C.
Place the marinated pieces in a baking dish, roughly tear and scatter the basil leaves over. Bake for about 35-40 minutes. After 15 minutes or so lower the temperature to 180 degree C.
Serve hot.

Basa fillet pieces with lemon juice

The pounded ingredients without the sauces

This is how it comes out!

With fish, potatoes might not sound like an appetising accompaniment but I added a potato dish just because I felt like and it actually turned out well. I parboiled some medium sized potatoes (little bigger than the marble like potatoes available in the markets), half smashed them skin and all, and put them in a baking tray. In a bowl I put together salt, a dash of brown sugar, a teaspoon heap of freshly ground dry roasted cumin seeds, a pinch of red chili powder, pepper, a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar, stirred them and poured over the parboiled potatoes. After coating the potatoes well, in  went
the tray into the oven at 180degree C for about 30 minutes or so. The Basa fish, the roasted potatoes, a green salad with lots of rocket, shredded iceberg lettuce and handful of cherry tomatoes with a tangy dressing and brown bread made a satisfying meal.

Hearty potatoes

And oh! don't forget the glass of wine.

 

Sweet Surrender

 

Despite the probability of being labelled a food philistine, when it comes to desserts  I have no hesitation in saying its the simple caramel custard for me all the way. That aroma and taste of burnt sugar, the delicacy of the custard; there is something humble, homely and wholesomeness about it.  Eggs, milk/cream, sugar and some natural flavour- that's all it takes and yet the result is yummy all the way. It could be because like bread and butter pudding, caramel custard is something generally rooted to childhood. In the hills ice cream (at least then) was rare, mostly home made and what was available in the markets was usually coloured ice on sticks which one snuck behind the parent's back!

Apart from the jalebis from Delhi Mistan ( by the time you carted it home and it became cold, what one had was basically deep fried flour batter crusted with sugar - its another story of course that we all thought it was the best jalebi in the world!) and some hard sandesh, there were not much options in the market either. And when it came to pastries - be it those from R B Store or Eee Cee, the less said the better. Yes, of course  then we thought they were awesome treats - age, time, exposure surely changes one's taste whatever the early conditioning. Thus, inevitably, the sweet course at every dinner invitation would swing between bread and butter pudding and caramel custard.

Caramel custard is a sweet baggage  I am sure I would like to lug around forever. With some slight deviations! Like addition of coconut milk and jaggery (gurh).  While channel hopping the other day I caught the fag end of a cookery programme on TV which left me salivating over the jaggery-coconut milk custard. Naturally one turned to god google for assistance and it turned out to be a Sri Lankan delicacy that put together jaggery-water, coconut milk, cream, pinch of mace, nutmeg and eggs (whole, jot just the yolks). I tweaked the combination a tad - left out the cream, the nutmeg and instead added a pinch of crushed allspice. The jaggery of course was everybody's all time favourite one - nolen gurh (date jaggery). As winter is fading away- sob- the nolen gur too will disappear till the next winter. So nolen gurh it had to be.

 

Putting it together is simple - I stirred in a small cup of nolen gurh into warm water (a little more than lukewarm but not boiling hot) and what resulted was a beautiful burnt amber liquid. Leave it to come to room temperature. Meanwhile warm the oven at 160degree C

 

Nolen gurh liquid

 

Next, add in 200 ml of coconut milk. Just cut open a tetra pack one and mix with the jaggery liquid. Preserve a little of the jaggery liquid to ladle over the custard later. What results in a caramel-ly looking mixture.

Jaggery-coconut milk mixture

 The little flecks/specks floating around are crushed bits of mace and allspice. I left out the cream - after all there is such a thing called guilty conscience too! The next step was equally easy - breaking four eggs into a glass bowl, lightly stirring it (lightly means lightly please and no vigorous stirring either) and gently stirring into the jaggery-coconut milk mix. Pour the mix into ramekin bowls, small glass bowls or old fashioned muffin bowls like I did. Place them in a baking tray that can hold water. 

                                                                   

Ready to go into the oven

   

                                                                           

 Pout hot water into the tray, making sure that it comes up halfway and doesn't spill over while steaming. (If in the course of steaming , you fill that the water is drying up, slightly open the oven door and top up the water). It takes about 25- 35 minutes or so. Let it cool a little in the oven, take it out, dribble the preserved jaggery water and chill in the freeze. The taste of jaggery, the hint of coconut, the peek-a-boo spice flavours all come together in a divine union. 

                                                                         

 

    

The Hot Factor

How hot can you take it? Hello otherwise thinkers, exit here please! We are talking the chili quotient. There are several of us for whom a meal is not complete without that dash of chili factor - green chili as they are, pickles, chutneys and much more.What happens if you been accustomed to spicing up every meal with the chili element and the other one runs (rather sweats, palpitates)away from the innocuous looking item. Culinary disaster till you manage to work out a compromise. Like the times the other one is away and the exhaust fans in the kitchen have to work overtime to drive off the pungent aroma that makes everyone sneeze, wheeze, cough - but with a smile, drooling saliva glands and a big sense of expectation. 

The arguments- for and against- fly back and forth. How can you not like chili, it perks up every meal. No, it kills every other taste, flavour. It goes on and on.... Love or dislike for chili is also something that children in all probability inherit from the parents. Fortunately, in our household the scale tilts towards my side, yahoo! In fact there is an almost sacrosanct ritual in our kitchen, when he is travelling, the first thing that is cooked is chili hot egg curry. It is  by now a comfort food  and an assurance too, both to myself and the chilies!  Then there was that time in Lankawi. We walked into a restaurant, the chef turned out to be a Sri Lankan of Tamil origin. He was more than happy to work out  a menu of our favourites. How spicy and chili hot did we like it, he asked. Very much, the two of us chirped back delightfully. Somewhere in translation, we failed to tell the chef that the chili quotient had to be minimal. It wasn't, we gorged, someone literally wept tears of indignation, gulping chilled waters by the gallons and in between trying to tame his tear glands that seemed to have run amok, blasting us.We of course loved it - the food, not the blasting.

However, when it comes to chili, I have learnt to tread cautiously. That's a Bhutanese lesson well learnt. After a few years in my career, I was given a Bhutan assignment. Checking into the hotel at Thimphu, I asked for a Bhutanese meal, particularly the chili-cheese dish, Ema Datshi. Are you sure you want to have it, its very chili hot they told me. Bah! I went, you don't know what you are saying, I am a chili freak, make it as hot you can and bring it on. They brought, I nearly went through the roof. Looking back I suspect, someone had a wicked sense of humour or simply  doubled the amount of chili by mistake (Sure!).  For the remaining couple of days, I stuck to the safe, simple and bland path.

But of course you can't detox from chili.  Especially not when a drop of bhut jolokia (Naga Raja Mirch) infused oil on your plate can send you into paroxysms of unadulterated happiness. Just a drop enhances the flavour like nothing else especially of some dishes like chili chicken, noodles, fried rice, momos and I plead guilty of occasionally perking up or as some say besmirching risotto too. Someone once had the table in splits when she related her Tabasco  sauce story - every time she travels abroad, particularly to Europe on work, she carries her own bottle (Tabasco, not the spirit)  And so there she was at a very fashionable sit down dinner with very fashionable people with the chef personally interacting with the guests, when she opened her bag and fished out her favourite bottle. The chef nearly died, the guests were not amused and she was labelled as one from the third world country who had yet to develop finer taste.

   

The oil of all oils!

When it comes to chili, I am not too fond of the dried variety, especially the powdered red chili. My favourite chili story however relates to it. You get off the train early in the morning at Beawar (Rajasthan), then drive all the way to Dungarpur only to be told that social activist Aruna Roy is in another distant village at a Jan Sabha. So you go there - teeth not even brushed, forget a cup of tea. All you have the whole day is a chapati-bhujia roll. Then the drive back to Aruna's small house at Dungarpur. It was quite late at night and everyone was hungry. Except that there were too many people around and the rice and dal cooking on wood fire was clearly not sufficient.  

  

The bubbling dal

When will dinner be ready?

The way out was simple - add more water to the dal.  Then a  small steel bowl was filled more than half way with fiery red chili powder, mixed with water, salt and dunked into the dal.  The meal was just a small share of rice and fiery, watery dal but so delicious.

When the punch of chili is combined with the sweet of sugar, it is a lip smacking beauty of a chili jam. I am not a jam fan, but chili jam is something right up my alley. It is simple to make- assembling a few ingredients and stirring over the gas stove for sometime

Jam-ming it up!

The one I made had 400 g of cherry tomatoes ( I opted for cherry tomatoes and didn't bother to blend it in the mixer and hence the seeds, it added crunch).

For 400g of cherry tomatoes I put in four red peppers, one red bell pepper, one small cup of castor sugar and 3/4 cup of brown sugar. Also required a small cup of red wine  vinegar. I mixed both red wine and apple cider vinegar 

Whirr the chopped peppers ( without de-seeding them, unless of course you not too much a chili fan), a few cloves of garlic and half an inch of ginger. 

If using large tomatoes,cover them with boiling water in a separate bowl and cover. Then remove the skin and coarsely blend. 

Put a thick bottomed pan/saucepan on high heat, put in the blended peppers, sugar and cook on high heat, stirring all the while. Once the sugar dissolves, add the tomatoes. Keep stirring until well blended. Then add a small cup of red wine vinegar ( can mix it with apple cider vinegar) and keep stirring until the mixture begings to clump together and acquires a glaze.  Cool and bottle.

 

A few drops of lemon juice can be added while cooking and also powdered allspice (for the quantity mentioned here, one is potent enough).  

The chili jam can go with anything - on bread, as sandwich paste, baked/steamed fish, with ham and just about anything. It's that finger licking.

What little bit is  left!