Susan Volland

For the Love of ….Rutabagas



Happy New Year! I am determined to write again in 2010. And to kick off my foray into the already over-saturated world personal and culinary essays online, I have selected to write about… Rutabagas.



It is too easy to forget about this homely, yellow and purple root. And yet, when the right menu presents itself and I cook up a batch, I find myself swooning over every nutty bite. (Silently, of course. No one in their right mind would publicly swoon over a mouthful of rutabaga.) My inspiration to spread the gospel of the rutabaga began when I recently made a puree of locally grown rutabagas to serve with a rich, slow-braised beef brisket. The meat was good. The rutabagas were spectacular!



(This is the first bit of writing I have done on the sofa since we acquired our new kitten, Mundorf. He desperately wants to be a part of the story. He is purring and balancing himself on my shoulders, bashing against my face and biting at the hinges of my glasses. He’s adorable…for now. But I digress.)



Regardless of how we feel about the root itself, I think everyone can agree that rutabaga is a silly word. It’s a Bugs Bunny/Daffy Duck kind of word that people tend to think of more as a joke than an actual vegetable. That was certainly the case for me when I was growing up. I can safely say that no rutabaga ever even made it past the threshold of our family kitchen. Canned spinach? Yes! Frozen Lima Beans? Definitely! Rutabagas? Never. But that might be because, even today, Dad doesn’t much care for root vegetables. Threaten him with a beet and his spine actually shivers. He’d rather go hungry than eat mashed potatoes. He says he had too many, too early. Perhaps it is my lack of traumatic childhood rutabaga memories that allows me to pontificate over the glories of the rutabaga as an adult?



I met my first rutabaga in London, masquerading as something called “Swede.” I was 18, broke, miserable and had agreed to work in a dark, smoky pub, pulling pints for alcoholic pensioners in exchange for a room with a very kind family. Part of my responsibility as barkeep was to help cook dinner while the pub was closed for afternoon break. That first evening, I was put in charge of mashing, stirring and seasoning a pot of bubbling, golden orange puree. It was love at first nutty, buttery, earthy taste. My job at the pub lasted less than 36 hours. My love of mashed “swede” endures.



(Intermission- the cat, not getting enough attention, has progressed from cute to utterly destructive. Everything must be attacked and destroyed. The window blinds are a particular cause for concern. He must be dealt with.)



“Swede” in England is short for Swedish Turnip. How a simple, one syllable term in “the mother tongue” became “Rutabaga” in America baffled me, so I had to look it up. Turns out, our modern day rutabaga was originally discovered growing wild in the forests of Sweden. There, it was called the “Rotabagge” or “root ram”. Aha!! It was cultivated in Northern Europe around 1700. In Ireland it is often just referred to as a turnip. To the Scots, it is a “neep” as in ‘buttered neeps” a classic side dish of buttered turnips or parsnips alongside a nice joint of roast meat. These were the turnips the Scots originally carved as Halloween Jack O Lanterns. In Denmark and Germany, the term for rutabaga starts to sound more like kohlrabi, which is definitely NOT on my list of favorite veggies, so we will completely disregard them!



The rutabaga is a cross between a white turnip and the cabbage. It is botanically a brassica, like broccoli and cauliflower, so you can eat plenty of them in the name of preventing cancer, if that’s what floats your boat. The greens are also edible and I would love to try them. In my mind, they have a richer, buttery flavor. But I have never seen anything on the market tables labeled “rutabaga greens” and wonder if they are often just piled high and called generic turnip greens. (I must find a source! I will try to get Jeff to grow some next year. However, I know that rutabagas are a big favorite of bugs around here, and it may be a challenge to get any on the table.) I remember that rutabagas can also be called “golden turnips or yellow turnips” but when I discovered a basket of smooth skinned and lovely, like-named roots at the Ballard Farmer’s market the other day, I was shunned by the seller and informed that if I wanted coarse, knobby rutabagas, to go to a different stall. Yet another instance of a shopper’s quandary. Should I have stuck by my guns and bought the golden turnips from the misinformed seller and confirmed my own suspicions? Or am I glad that I turned her prissy roots down and stocked up on the ugly but utterly delicious dish I ultimately enjoyed. Hmmm.



The rutabaga became a staple in colder climes like Russia, Scandinavia, the UK, Canada and the US Midwest. It is filling, stores well and provides a source for desperately needed vitamin C and minerals for the dark days of winter. What I want to know now is why rutabagas aren’t seen more in Northern Chinese dishes, much like cabbage, carrots and turnips? I need to look in to that. It sounds delicious- fried up Szechwan style, with red chilies and peanuts! Mongolian lamb and rutabaga! Mmmm. Those ideas will be tested before the winter is through!



I’m going to guess that it is just this practicality and usefulness that has kept the golden root out of the limelight. Rutabagas are not sexy. Nutritionally, they are just fine. They have fiber, a good amount of vitamin C, some B6 and are plentiful in minerals like thiamin and calcium. But a rutabaga isn’t something you would toss in your bike bag for a quick power snack. They don’t have an impressive glycemic index, nor do they fit neatly into the South Beach Diet Plan. It’s a rustic, old-fashioned vegetable that is best served in a rustic, old-fashioned way. They take long, slow cooking. In my imagination, they should be served with a hand carved wooden spoon, near a crackling fire with perhaps some lute music playing in the background.



The rutabaga, (much like myself), does not always play well with others. It is too often relegated to a “filler” position in stews and pasties. I, along with much of the general population, find it slightly offensive when used in this manner. I don’t want to chomp into a savory cottage pie or beef stew and find my mouth startled by a tidbit of skunky, sweet rutabaga. It tastes somehow off, like finding a Brussels Sprout in your Caesar salad. They make good soup. They are good roasted. They are a compliment to braised and stewed meats, but must be a highlight, not a base note. Best of all, they are served alone, mashed with butter, salt and pepper and a perhaps a splash of cream.



(Urk. The cat is back. He now wants my hands Off the keyboard on On him. I will power up the baseboard heater below the windowsill. That should tranquilize him for a while.)



As I mentioned earlier, the rutabaga and most root vegetables were not a mainstay of my childhood diet. So imagine my surprise when I first experienced the produce section of a supermarket in Grand Fork, North Dakota. Rutabagas the size of soccer balls was sold heavily waxed, in huge wooden bins. At my local Thriftway, they reside in a small silvery bowl tucked in amongst the “boutique” items like fresh horseradish root, red endive and live watercress.



I tried something new with my last batch of “swede” and I cooked the rutabaga chunks in the pressure cooker. Rutabaga doesn’t cook as quickly as most potatoes. I tend to be impatient and will sometimes undercook the pieces, resulting in a slightly stringy, albeit still flavorful mash. No such worries this time! In just minutes, the pressure-cooked rutabagas were velvety smooth, easy to mash and quick to dry. And of course there is the added bonus of retention of vitamins and minerals and improved carbon footprint, but I’ll save that for another time.



(The cat is not going for my nap ruse. He has chosen instead to lie on my keyboard, delete much of my writing and do a bit of typing of his own. Thank God for Cntl Z!!! Forgive my indulgence of tracking his every move. He is a new kitty after all!)



So, I have promised myself to be more disciplined in the act of writing but less dogmatic about the topics and craft. In other words, I have given myself permission to write grammatically incorrect, whimsical nothings about rutabagas in the hopes that it will eventually inspire more creative and potentially marketable work. It is the act of writing and creative thinking that I need to nurture. And as a reward for those of you willing to plow your way through it… here is a recipe.



Mashed Swede



This was my introduction to the rutabaga, and still my favorite preparation. The puree tastes much more complicated than it is – as if enhanced with and extra step of browned butter or pureed caramelized onions. A splash of cream is all that is needed here, and milk will do in a pinch. If you have a pressure cooker, use it here.



3 lbs rutabagas

2-3 tablespoons butter

2-3 tablespoons cream or half and half

Plenty of salt and black pepper.



Peel and dice the rutabagas. Place in plenty of cold, lightly salted water. Cover and bring up to the boil. Reduce the heat to medium and simmer for 30-45 minutes, until the pieces are fork tender. Drain well, mash or rice the rutabaga and return to the pan. Cook the puree over medium/low heat stirring often for 10 minutes, or until the puree has steamed away the residual water. Add butter, cream and salt and pepper. Stir to blend and serve hot.

For the love of Tofu

 

I used to think tofu was inedible, slippery, tasteless chunks of solidified goo. I would actually slurp my miso soup in a sideways sort of way in order to leave the tiny cubes untouched in the bottom of my bowl. Today, I can’t seem to get enough of the stuff.  What changed?

 

Two things. First, I am now able to source freshly made local tofu. It is sold in blocks, not submerged in tubs of suspect liquid. It is often still warm. It has a lovely texture, like young cheese, and a fresh clean flavor. In other words, fresh tofu has everything that the tofu of my youth lacked.

 

Second- I discovered Chinese Ma Bo Tofu  and  Korean Soon du bu. In these traditional, spicy dishes, the tofu is not sneaked in as a filler or protein substitute. And they are also not dishes designed to delicately nourish the serene palates of meditating, vegetarian monks.  They are neither subtle nor wimpy. They explode with flavor while still managing to bring a sense of comfort to the eater.

 

Ma Bo or Mapo Tofu  is said to translate into “pock marked” bean curd because the woman who created it for her husband’s restaurant had some complexion difficulties. To make it, a small amount of ground pork is fried crisp with garlic and ginger and then transformed into fiery sauce with Szechuan bean paste. Big chunks of soft tofu are simmered in the sauce – with a hint of mouth numbing Szechuan peppercorns, a few drops of sesame oil and a sprinkle of fresh sliced scallions.

 

This is not a difficult dish to find, but few restaurants make it really well. It is too bland and the tofu is of a poor quality. Luckily, it is easy to make at home. And while it isn’t the best,  I am not opposed to using the House Brand Extra Hot Ma Bo Tofu instant sauce found in Asian supermarkets, or the Hot Bean Sauce from Lee Kum Kee. Ma Bo tofu makes a wonderful quick dinner with rice and some quick fried cabbage or greens. Yum!

 

My newest tofu passion is Soon du bu. My friend Gwen turned me on to this bubbling cauldron of tofu in an explosive red chili broth. It can be accented with seafood, meat, eggs or vegetables, but it is the tofu that really matters. Oh, yum!! It’s spicy – super spicy, but with a rich complexity that is rarely painful. It warms the soul from deep inside rather than flaming up the senses.

 

On a recent visit to the H Mart in Federal Way, (where they make a decent soon du bu in the restaurant) I picked up a packet of instant tofu broth seasoning mix. Building a bowl of hot tofu soup in this way as easy as making instant ramen noodles and just as much fun to customize.  The finished soup is thin and not nearly as complex and intriguing as a bowl made from scratch – but on a cold day it is as comforting and nourishing as the best chicken noodle soup.  And that is high praise.

 

 

Blogging for real

This blogging project of mine was established to be an electronic postcard, of sorts. It worked wonderfully for my great adventure in India, but it is time for an evolution. It is time for me to put the blog to work. Inspired by my friends and colleagues, Cynthia Nims and Kathy Casey, I will try to update my blog more regularly and focus more specifically on food and cooking.

Of course, my life is not nearly as structured as theirs, so this will be a much breezier site. I will ponder on the foods I have recently experimented with or craved. I will recount what works and what does not. And I will focus on the realities of cooking in my home kitchen, with the hopes that other people will find some kind of inspiration.

Today, I am once again threatening to  give up food altogether and live on an exclusive diet of brown rice and steamed vegetables. I spent the extended holiday weekend in Lake Tahoe with friends and family. I had intended to ski a bit, do some snowshoeing and walking. Instead, I ate and ate and ate and then went gambling.The weather demanded more indoor activities, so my beloved friends stuffed us silly with rich pastas, decadent breakfasts, constant snacks, grilled meats, fresh baked cookies and then more of it all. 

I am used to being the cook. I am used to keeping active in the kitchen and then listening to my guests moan and then sink into a food coma. As the recipient of such dastardly treatment, I may have to rethink my boundaries. No means no! And I guess that goes for forcefeeding of extra helpings too.

Helsinki 101

Hello from Helsinki!!

I suppose the first item on the agenda is the fact that we arrived - with absolutely no delay or problems. Dad did get stopped at all metal detectors and inspected closely for weaponry in his metal knee, but other than that, no problems!

As for my overall impression of Helsinki, I think "Comfortable" has to be the most descriptive word. It feels just so oddly familiar. Yes, it is cold, cold, cold.  Right around 20 degrees. But very refreshing and invigorating. Especially when you are properly attired. There is a lot of fur in town, but rather than seeming pretentious or unethical, it simply seems very practical. The women are very chic! And things are very expensive, but we need nothing, so it doesn't really matter. Perhaps the biggest inconvenience of all is that the computer keyboard is set up all funny and I keep hitting the ÄÖ and Å keys.

It is marvelously fun to listen to Dad drop all sorts of Finnish words into his conversations. Last night he overheard our bartender whisper to her coworker- "He understands more than he says he does." And he has been stopped mutliple times on the street and asked for directions.

Jeff announced just a few minutes ago that Helsinki may now be his all time favorite European city. Quite a proclomation! He admits that he has been won over by the sheer number of high end audio stores sprinkled all over the city. Combine that with good bread and beer with a little pickled herring and a lot of spicy ethnic joints now and then and he is very happy. English has not been a problem at all. Everyone speaks very good English.

What about the food? It is hard to say. We have started each day with a magnificent breakfast "bread table" at the hotel. We fill up on assorted fresh rye breads, meats and cheeses, the most marvelous smoked mackerel. Then move on to a table of assorted yogurt and cereals with a giant bowl of lingonberries. Then we move to the hot stuff with scrambled eggs, tiny weiners or bratwurst, lean unsmoked bacon, eggs and traditional warm and comforting rye tartlettes filled with rice. If that isn't enough, we can have an assortment of ginger cookies with our coffee, or toast and marvelous preserves. All with coffee or black currant tea. So, needless to say, we get stuffed by 8 am. A cinnamon pastry around two, a couple of beers in the afternoon with some crackers and cheese and dinner just seems excessive.

The market is just a few blocks away, so we have picked up some snacks - Dad loves the lingonberry pastries. Jeff and I have discovered the most amazing donut/weiner snacks (thin frankfurters and sweet mustard wrapped in a dough and deep fried). Today at the market I bought a bagfull of tiny fried fish. They were dipped in a bit of salty cornmeal and then fried crisp. They were cold and really a perfect snack for beer. I could totally see eating a bag at the movies! 

Our only actual restaurant meal has been last night, were we went to a traditional neighborhood place that was recommended to us. Dad had a plateful of small pan fried Baltic herring, I had boiled reindeer with mashed potatoes, and Jeff had lamb stew. It was very home cooked, rather bland, but still a nice night. It has been just so nice to walk along the water, all bundled up and really experience Finland in the winter.

We are headed to St. Petersburg tomorrow!

Kitos to you all!

Susan

Art and Ice

Art and Ice

India was a marvelous adventure last March. But in the hills of Kerala, while I lay prostrate under the ceiling fan, draped in wet towels trying to cool my feverish system down to double digits, I swore that my next trip would be in higher latitudes. Who knew I was so clairvoyant while delirious? My next big trip is to Helsinki and St. Petersburg in January for a cultural immersion of Art and Ice.

I will be traveling with both my husband and my father. My Father lived in Finland as a young man so I have always had romantic images of him, all bundled up and tromping through Lapland in the snow. Many of his reminisces involve the cold weather, which is why we have chosen to go in mid-winter. And a lot of his memories are food based – or rather, bakery based, which is part of the draw for me. Being of Norwegian descent, my husband is magnetically drawn to both the cold and baked goods!

I will be relying on Dad as a tour guide throughout Helsinki. I have also established a “must taste” list. First and foremost is the Finnish sour rye bread. Dad has always pined for the rye breads he grew a taste for back in the day. There are countless variations, but specifically I would like to taste the dense, chewy and naturally sour ruisleipa rounds as well as the dry, flat, ring shaped loaves that were traditionally stored on hanging poles. While I am not an expert baker, I am intrigued at the technique I have read about using a sourdough starter of crumbled bread and water that is left to brew. This is then mixed into the new dough and I am sure it adds a special flavor and texture. As with all breads, you really need to taste a loaf in its native environment before you can presume to duplicate it at home. I will be sure and devour slabs of buttered rye bread and perhaps some locally made cheeses all over the city to get an authentic sampling. Alas, it is my duty. 

The Finns hold the world record in per capita coffee consumption. As a Seattleite, I can’t imagine I will find that too much of a cultural hurdle. These tiny cups of mighty Joe are often served with cardamom rolls called pulla and an assortment of simple cookies. Being a tourist limits my chances to experience an authentic home prepared coffee table, but I’m hoping to make time every day to enjoy this Finnish variation on afternoon tea.

Traveling in January will certainly limit my choices when it comes to fresh, local ingredients. That is a shame, because according to my web searches there are some really interesting things going on in the Helsinki food scene. I will not be able to try the varieties of fresh mushrooms and berries. I’ve longed to taste silakka the fresh Baltic herring my father swoons over each time he recalls it. Ice may make it unattainable. I will have to manage instead with steaming bowls of salmon soup and platters of mixed, smoked game meats. Two ingredients I have read about and can’t quite get my head around are edible tar – used to add an earthy sweetness to some desserts, and spruce syrup. Hopefully I will find a specialty foods store or find samples at the market and do some experimenting on my own at home. 

From Helsinki, we take the train east to St. Petersburg to reach the ultimate destination of our journey, the Hermitage Museum. While in Russia, food will be taking a back seat to art. And for me, that is quite a declaration! Much of the impetus behind this trip is that my father and I have both vowed to someday visit the Hermitage. Who cares if it is dark and freezing outside when you are safe inside a grand palace with some of the finest paintings in the world? I have been devouring a wonderful book on the subject called Land of the Firebird: The Beauty of Old Russia by Suzanne Massie. I highly recommend it.

I expect to have aching feet and cultural vertigo every evening, so I don’t have high expectations when it comes to dining out. Luckily, it’s the common, everyday foods we all like the best. Surely we will be satisfied with the pancakes, dumplings and soups served in small cafes. And the occasional taste of vodka and local beer. I am practicing my Cyrillic in the hopes I will recognize the characters for such Russian classics as Stroganoff, Shashlink and Chicken Kiev.

Do you have suggestions or tips for our trip? Let me know!!

 

Until then,

Susan V

Home Safe

I made it home quickly and safely. My beloved husband is already tired of my constant kisses and pats. My sweet dog is thrilled to have me back but her loyalties seem to be mixed. Seattle is sunny, clear and busting with Spring flowers. It's as if the city is trying to convince me to stay home forever more. 

My friends and family ask, "so what tell us what happened that you didn't want to publish on the blog! Surely, there must have been some stories and sights you left out?" Of course, space and public interest demand a certain bit of editing, but I have to say that the trip was amazing from start to finish. Returning to Delhi gave me a better perception of how much I had adapted from when I first arrived vs. when I had travelled for a month. I was much less agog and more comfortable with the traffic, the touts and the wandering livestock. One other traveller I met from Portland expressed it best. "The Indian tourists' dilemma ... Is this the cow to photograph?" India offers so many tiny moments that you want to capture and remember. There are stories passing you while you are just sitting in the train station or taking a break for a Coke.   

The highlights? Just being there and taking this trip I have always dreamed of. Being able to meet and share family recipes and local foods with women whose wisdom I will always treasure- Ushi's warm heart and iron strength in Delhi, Bavna Singh's elegant hospitality in Jodhpur, LeeLu Roy's smile and easy laugh in Kochi,  Rajashi's knowledge and insight of tradition, and Bandana Gupta's natural skills and friendship in Kolkata. It is not just their recipes I will keep forever.

The downside? I was strangely unaffected by the poverty. I found the varied lifestyles fascinating. I was ready for it and was rarely moved - unlike many of the travelers I met. I'm not sure if that is good or bad. Perhaps the biggest shock to me was the pollution. I am unaccustomed to seeing bathroom activities performed in such public places. I've always been offput by senseless littering and spitting.  But the most disturbing sight for me was a huge tanker truck openly unloading a stream of thick, black sludge right into a tributary of the lush, green backwaters of Kerala. This was done not secretly in the dead of night, but openly and unapologetically - with a chemical plant in the horizon. The air is dreadful. Not just from the vehicles and factories oozing smoky black exhaust, but from the many, many small fires. I saw people gathering firewood in the heart of downtown Delhi. My first breath of Indian air was full of smoke. On every street the random trash is neatly swept into piles of refuse - it is grazed on by wandering cows, goats, stray dogs and the clever crows. The combustables are then burned and whatever is left, mostly plastic, blows into fields and trees.

And the worst part about the pollution in India? Statistically it is not India, but the USA that contributes more carbon annually to the atmosphere. Our pollution, our poverty, our squalor is quite simply better camoflauged.   

So there you have it! My travelblog is now complete - but it has been fun, so I may start another thread of recipes, food stories and of course, future trips!

Last glorious days

My trip to India will be over tomorrow - but oh,  what a trip it has been!

Yesterday in the very early morning, before I left   Darjeeling,  the clouds  lifted and I was finally able to  glimpse the majesty of the snow capped HImalayas.   They were breathtaking  -  There is no good way to capture  something  like that on film,  so this was an experience  I will savor alone.    

The journey down the mountain was even prettier than on the way up,  with almost endless  forests and tea  gardens. I arrrived  safely in Delhi at  my home away from home, the Master Guest  House, and then left early  this  morning on the long journey to Agra  to see the Taj Mahal. I  had  very low expectations- I  knew it would  be crowded, the air quality was  dreadful and I tend to find  postcard destinations somewhat  disappointing.  But, I was  blown  away. The Taj was stunning.  And  nothing compares to really feeling that sun-warmed marble  beneath your bare feet and rubbing the  elaborate  carvings with your fingertips. The crowds don't  matter  -  it's the  Taj  Mahal! 

Tomorrow  is my last day. I will  do some  last minute sightseeing and  take some more  pictures of  Delhi, since I was a bit overwhelmed when I first  got here. Then,  I will try to defy the laws of  physics and zipper up my bags.

I have  had a marvelous time and will do a round up and  reflection when I  return, but I must say that my trip was much  easier and much less shocking than I had anticipated.  I know I travelled in a comfortable cocoon made of dollars, but to do the journey on a tighter budget or pretend that I  couldn't  afford the luxuries I took advantage  of, would have seemed miserly and almost  insulting.   

I now appreciate my comfortable American lifestyle even more. I cherish even the concept of the ice cube! I also see how little it actually takes to live, even thrive. India is not the desperate  place it once was. It is not closer to  heaven.  It not a techno-superpower eager to overthrow America. Just like at home , it is an amazingly complicated place full of real people and families.  And I am so very glad I was able to visit.

Thanks again for all of your emails and  words of support!  See you back  home!

Susan.

A Mountain of Tea

I have wanted to visit the "hill stations" and tea gardens of India for a very long time. I can't remember which book it was, but some piece of Indian fiction must have put a picture in my mind of a peaceful, cool and idyllic place. It is busier and bigger than I had expected. But I am loving it! Count a visit to Darjeeling as another item on my life list I am lucky enough to check off. It is just amazing to be here.

It's a little hard to get your bearings since the city and region is so steep and the roads wind and turn and access is through alleys and stairways. It is virtually impossible to photograph. There must be some special lens needed capture the depth and angles. I hired a cab who took me 40 minutes down the most amazing, rugged and winding road to a tea garden and factory where he talked a worker into giving me a private tour. There were no green tea leaves being processed, they wouldn't be ready for two more days, but he walked me through all the rooms and in very rough English, tried to explain the steps involved. There was top quality tea being dried and I can't tell you how much I wish I could add scratch and sniff to this blog. It was like perfume. The building itself was fabulous. Entirely wood, with tin floors and coal burners. And I was the only tourist in sight.

I then went to the Tibetan Refugee Training Center and the Women's weaving guild and did my part to support the local economy. I'm going to have to hire one of these Sherpas to haul all of my shopping home! I have been a little excessive lately! (And don't count on anything because most of it is mine, mine, mine!)

I have no need for any food other than the marvelous momo's. They are basically just chewy boiled dumplings filled with vegetables or meat and served with spicy chilie sauce. A plate of 8 costs about .40. Finish that up with a cup of good tea and life is good!

A sip of Darjeeling

Okay, Calcutta is pretty much nuts. It is in many ways the what I think a lot of people imagine all of India to be - unbelievably crowded with people, shops, animals, shocking poverty and the most amazing driving and traffic I hope to ever see.  Add to that the fact that March and April are the hottest and most humid months of the year, and I can safely say that my two days in Calcutta were mostly spent just managing to get from one place to another. This is a city it would take a lifetime to explore.  Some regions are endless winding streets and honking cars and then other regions are huge parks and glorious architecture.  The metro system is easy and efficient. And there were many people always eager to help if I looked lost. Which I was most of the time.

It was good to get back into the kitchen. The highlight of my visit was the two classes on Bengali cooking from two different women. I learned that most Bengali food is served in the home- and there are few restaurants serving authentic preparations. Again, the cuisine and techniques are very different from the other regions I have visited. The ingredients are very familiar in my repertoire- lots of mustard seeds, cilantro, green chilies and fish. But the tastes and assembly are different. Also, Bengali food is served in courses unlike most of India.  Chutney is a course on its own, served after the main entree to aid in digestion. I learned two new mango chutneys - one with green mangoes and Benagli five spice called Panch Pharon, and the other with chopped tomato and a sweet reduced mango juice that is then cubed and cooked with the spices and sugar. Yum! The fish is also something I will duplicate at home - one version was steamed with lots of mustard seeds and another was quickly fried brown and then draped in a fresh coriander sauce. I also had a type of gourd cooked in a sauce of ground poppy seeds  and curried banana fritters stuffed with raisins and Indian cheese. Yum again!

I left my final cooking class and jumped on the night train to way up North in the state of West Bengal. Then I took a winding, rugged, three hour taxi up the mountains, past fields and fields of tea shrubs into the city of Darjeeling.  I feel like my IQ has doubled with the cool, fresh air and mountain breeze.

Darjeeling is a delight. I have only been here a few hours and have barely seen any of it, but the city has a wonderful feel. At the center of town there are no cars or motorcycles allowed. I hired my own private Sherpa to carry my suitcase up to the guest house where I have a nearly unobstructed view of the mountains. The city is literally clinging to the steep mountain side. When the cloud cover breaks there are spectacular views of the valleys and crags below and the mountains surrounding.  I did a little wandering and shared a pot of tea with a gentleman from Holland who I met on the train and shared a taxi into town with. The tea was just as they claim - the champagne of teas.

My plans are simple for the next few days. I will wander a bit waiting for glimpses of the Himalayas surrounding me. I will sit and sip tea. And I will take some time to quietly ponder that wonder and diversity that is India.

Guilty Pleasures

I spent Easter Sunday in Calcutta... AT THE MALL!

I didn't need to search out green space, since I am staying at the lovely Tollygunge Club Golf Resort. I didn't feel like I wanted to take in anything of cultural or artistic importance. So, I hopped in a cab and went to the shopping mall - and I had a marvelous time!

I have been very interested in buying some Indian clothes while I am visiting, but I've been having some bad luck with clothes at the street markets - low quality comes with the low prices - and I am a difficult fit with my big American shoulders. And besides that, the mall is just as much of a cultural phenomenan in India as it is in America, right?  So, I shopped till I dropped! I didn't really buy much, but I tried a lot of things on and felt a lot like a 14 year old with Mom's credit card. The food court was a trip! I planned on taking in a Bollywood film while I was there too, but there were no musicals playing and I wasn't up for sitting through an action film without English.

Today I will see some of Calcutta's more historic sights and then go to my Bengali Cooking class. So far the food has been good, but I have not yet found anything particularly unique about it- most menu offerings have been in the style of Punjab or South Indian.  Tonight I will learn more.