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Poultry, Meat and Seafood
We learn through our children. A friend said it recently. I hadn't heard that phrase in years, but I knew I had heard it somewhere. It took some time and reaching way back in my book of memories, and it came to me. It was something my mother said too. I've never really thought about it until now. And perhaps it is true in many ways.
Rice gets a bad rap. But, it has become a guilty pleasure. In the endless quest to cut down on carbs, rice has been seriously sidelined. It's no secret that I love rice. You can find plenty of recipes for rice on the blog.
Thanksgiving has been an evolution for me. It has always been my favorite holiday, a time for my mother and me to cook together. For years, the goal was to have a beautiful Thanksgiving table with the classic roast turkey and all the sides. I will always miss cooking with my mom, but I know I am making new traditions with Poet and Flower.
How much time do we have? Sometimes it feels as though we have all the time in the world one moment and then none. Most of the time, we don't think about time at all because we believe there is so much of it.
It's easy to lose things. I lose or misplace things all the time, like my keys or my wallet. I'll leave my wallet in another bag or on the counter and find myself halfway to the hospital only to realize I cannot buy lunch.
Childhood memories are powerful. I grew up hearing about my parents' childhood. But it is now only as an adult that I realize the importance of these stories. I would love to share experiences I had as a child with Poet and Flower.
I don't want to watch the world go by. In my twenties, I spent most of my time doing just that, or at least it certainly felt like it. I applied to college and medical school together while in high school.
Our culture is both our strength and our weakness. Growing up, my parents worked hard to give my brother and me a sense of where we came from and our strong Indian background. But it was hard. We lived in New Jersey and went to elementary school with a total of three other Asian children.
This has been the year of the bubble. Or perhaps the illusion of a bubble. We have spent the good part of the year spending time with family and friends who have been carefully screened and scrutinized.
Are blowing out birthday candles a thing of the past? I love a beautiful birthday cake with lots of candles, happily blowing them out with gusto. Suddenly a regular birthday tradition has become taboo.
Cooking during these crazy months has been challenging. Our routine was always dinner out once or twice a week to help offset work and running around.
Basics and Staples
Can we really go home? I visited my childhood home for the first time in years. Home, meaning the place where I grew up.
Vacations. Expectations run high, and they hold so much promise. But sometimes, things don't go as planned. Sometimes things go very, very wrong.
It had been some time since we had been out for dinner. Perhaps my expectations were too high. This dinner was before these times of social distancing, and before our favorite restaurants disappeared.
Yesterday the postman delivered a package with two glasses and a seashell. My dad had carefully packed the box, and the delicate glasses had not broken. Every few weeks or so, he sends me small packages with things that used to be my Mother's.
As a kid, one of the highlights of visiting India was going shopping. My mother loved saris and jewelry. Her collection of saris was vast, silk saris, chiffon saris, with borders and without. She had an extensive collection.
Or chut-ah-nee as the kids call it. One of my earliest food memories is of chutney. Chutney is a spicy Indian condiment that you can eat with almost anything. My mom loved to make chutneys and she always had one at the dinner table.
Sweets
Shortbread is a classic dessert. Made from simply three ingredients, butter, sugar and flour, it's endlessly versatile. I love this recipe from King Arthur Baking. Drizzle with chocolate and pistachios, it's the perfect decadent little cookie.
Birthdays are a celebration. Or, to be more exact, it's about celebrating someone. Remembering that special day when that special someone came into the world. Growing up, I always felt celebrated on my birthday.
I am not from here. Here meaning the Midwest or even the United States. Where I am from is thousands (and thousands) of miles away, India.
Mom? Flower was almost asleep but said the word softly, checking gently if I was still there or had quietly slipped out of the room. And for an odd moment, I thought she was talking to someone else. But there was no one else, just me. I'm mom.
Flower was not enthusiastic about the tattoo parlor. Why would a little kid want to go to a tattoo parlor anyway? Flower had approached us suddenly, saying she wanted her ears pierced.
A funny thing happened at the gas station. Poet and Flower were home for President's day weekend. These two little ones constantly challenge me. We are always trying to keep these two energetic, curious, and enthusiastic little ones entertained and busy. What can tire out G and myself does not even make a dent in their energy level.
Are we the in-between? I am an Indian American, more than one foot in the US, but with culture and roots from India. A place that I barely know, only a handful of visits during my childhood, and many stories and traditions from my parents.
G's face turned just a little green. He tried to manage a smile but wasn't sure what to do. He had tasted mulled wine for the first time. It was warm and spicy, an unlikely combination. Drinking mulled wine for the holidays is a tradition. But, somehow, we've always managed to have a mulled wine mishap.
I've never been a fan of Christmas. I sound like a scrooge when I say that. Growing up, we did not celebrate Christmas. We did not have a Christmas tree, or lights, or gifts. I would go to school in the New Year feeling empty-handed. All the little kids, talking about how they had made out like bandits with gifts and toys from family and friends. I always felt left out of the cold, both literally and figuratively.
Sometimes we aspire to be what we want through food. Years ago, before Poet and Flower and before we were married, G and I visited Paris. I had been to Paris as a teenager with my parents. It was the quintessential family trip seeing the Eiffel Tower, visiting the sites. I remember vividly eating at the Hardrock Cafe because we had tired of eating French food at our hotel.
What inspires us? It can be the smallest of things that triggers a memory or sparks an idea. I love writing for the blog, coming up with ideas and stories that are hopefully meaningful and thoughtful each week.
Art doesn't have to be in a museum. I found that out much later in life. I grew up going to museums. As a kid, my mom loved art in the very traditional sense. She loved museums, and we would travel far and wide to see art. She shared that love with me.
Parenting is like a sea of landmines. One wrong move and you're left with yelling, crying children. But if you acquiesce every time, you have complacent, entitled children who always get their way.
I married a big kid. Or perhaps we are all just kids at heart. G loves all things that are playful and fun. Before we had Poet and Flower, he would climb the kids' play structure and wave from the top.
We drove, finding ourselves on a one-lane road with signs saying 'high elevation, drive in the lowest gear'. We turned onto an even smaller road deep in the woods. It was our first vacation in over a year, and we were looking forward to being out in nature and simply relaxing.
G hates farmer's markets. Perhaps that is somewhat strong. As we tell the kids, he does not prefer farmer's markets. This weekend, for the first time in over a year, we ventured back to the market.
Avoid trail three at all costs. We had received a fair amount of advice about hiking in a new park. We had crossed the suspension bridge (a little unsteady, but not too bad). Then we climbed 70 steps (according to the sign), and we were now at a fork in the path.
I jumped into the deep end with careless abandon. I was maybe 5 or 6 years old and had taken a few swim lessons. As a master of the pool, I thought I could fearlessly swim on my own. But within a few seconds, I began to sink despite paddling furiously.
good cup of masala chai. I would check the temperature outside and think about how many months there were until spring. This year the pandemic has turned everything upside down.
It is the simple things, a recurring theme over the last year. When G and I first met, I loved fussy food. I mean food that required 20 different ingredients (perhaps a little bit of an exaggeration).
Boys can like pink too. Poet loves his pink sneakers, pink jogging pants, and a pink hoodie. For one winter, his favorite pants had pink llamas on them. He would wear them every day, so often that he had a row of pink llama pants in his closet, his little power suit for school.
Christmas has always been fraught with landmines. Growing up, my family was not very religious, but as a Muslim family, we did not celebrate or even acknowledge Christmas in any way, shape, or form.
It is the best of both worlds. Poet and Flower get to celebrate Eid and Diwali.
October has almost come and gone, and Halloween is almost here. Growing up, my mother did not often cook with pumpkins or squash. She had a delicious squash halwa she would make, and I still have to find that recipe
My parents were immigrants. Yours may have been too. My mother and father came here in the '70s in search of something better. I'm pretty sure they didn't know exactly what that would be.
bubble. Slowly the green fields begin to appear on both sides of us. The kids always wonder, are we going the wrong way, are we lost?
Snacks
The hill sprawled out in front of us. Poet and Flower couldn't wait. We spent the weekend snow tubing. It was their first snowy adventure. We haven't had any snow this season, a dusting here and there, but no more.
Poet and Flower have slowly accumulated things. Things being a vague term to describe clothes, toys, books, and more toys. These items have slowly accumulated despite my best efforts. They have filled the kids' rooms and have slowly spilled out into other parts of the house.
We eagerly looked out the darkened window. Flower was already fast asleep in her bed, but Poet was still up eating his bedtime snack. His snack of choice this week is almonds, cashews, and chocolate chip trail mix. As he munched, we turned off all the lights, and Poet peered out into the darkness.
I never seem to have enough time. My days are filled with work, school, errands, and a to-do list that never ends. In the evening, Flower will always ask for her fifth "last" book. Both Poet and Flower love to listen to us read books, and we could do it forever.
Soups and Salads
Thousands of ducks raced by us. The canal was filled with them—little yellow rubber duckies with cute red noses. For a moment, you would have thought someone's bathtub had overflowed. It was the annual Duck Race.
What makes someone an artist? One thing is for certain, I have never thought of myself as an artist. Or at least until now. For the longest time, I was a daughter or sister. And then a physician, which has been a big part of my identity. But recently, that has changed. Which makes me thing about we view ourselves and a question about identity.
Hygge. Or hoo-gah. It's the Danish word for a sense of cozy contentment. Or, more simply, it means the joy of the little things and being together. G first mentioned this last winter, when we were shuttered in our house, just us, distancing from friends and doing too many things over zoom.
Poet and Flower have slowly accumulated things. Things being a vague term to describe clothes, toys, books, and more toys. These items have slowly accumulated despite my best efforts. They have filled the kids' rooms and have slowly spilled out into other parts of the house.
Drinks
This is a lightly spiced milk served in South India. I used maple syrup to gently sweeten it instead of sugar. Ground almonds and cinnamon, cardamom and clove give it a heady delicious nutty taste. Perfect as a light dessert.
Poet and Flower sat slumped on the bench. It was hot, very hot. After a rainy spring, the weekend turned out to be warm and sunny. It sounded like the perfect day to spend outdoors, running around and burning off all that little kid energy. But nobody was prepared for the heat.
I'm waiting. I spend a good part of my life waiting for things. I wait at the grocery store in line. At school, in the car line to pick up the kids. I will get there with several minutes to spare, only to find a long and tortuous line of moms who spend even more time waiting than I do. But when is it ok to say I'm tired of waiting?
G's face turned just a little green. He tried to manage a smile but wasn't sure what to do. He had tasted mulled wine for the first time. It was warm and spicy, an unlikely combination. Drinking mulled wine for the holidays is a tradition. But, somehow, we've always managed to have a mulled wine mishap.
Avoid trail three at all costs. We had received a fair amount of advice about hiking in a new park. We had crossed the suspension bridge (a little unsteady, but not too bad). Then we climbed 70 steps (according to the sign), and we were now at a fork in the path.
As a kid, one of the highlights of visiting India was going shopping. My mother loved saris and jewelry. Her collection of saris was vast, silk saris, chiffon saris, with borders and without. She had an extensive collection.
October has almost come and gone, and Halloween is almost here. Growing up, my mother did not often cook with pumpkins or squash. She had a delicious squash halwa she would make, and I still have to find that recipe
Vegetarian
Set Dosa
This is a variation on a classic dosa from Karnataka. It's golden brown one side and puffy and soft on the other. It's a lovely variation that is just as delicious.
I am not from here. Here meaning the Midwest or even the United States. Where I am from is thousands (and thousands) of miles away, India.
Can we really go home? I visited my childhood home for the first time in years. Home, meaning the place where I grew up.
Why did I choose medicine? Perhaps it chose me. Or it was chosen for me. Whatever the reason or reasons, I find myself along this path.
Vacations. Expectations run high, and they hold so much promise. But sometimes, things don't go as planned. Sometimes things go very, very wrong.
Thousands of ducks raced by us. The canal was filled with them—little yellow rubber duckies with cute red noses. For a moment, you would have thought someone's bathtub had overflowed. It was the annual Duck Race.
Summer rules! The lazy days of summer are finally here after a long and soggy spring. Indiana weather is fickle, and this year was no exception.
I'm an old mom. I wasn't twenty-nine or thirty. I was older when Poet and Flower were born. Or, in medical terms, I was what doctors refer to as advanced maternal age or AMA. Written in big capital letters in all my medical records from pregnancy. What does that even mean?
It was a big green monster. Or was it? On closer look, it wasn't a monster at all. It was a frog. It was a cute, cuddly green frog that talked. The Great Muppet Caper was the first movie I went to as a kid. I remember going to the movies for the first time.
What makes someone an artist? One thing is for certain, I have never thought of myself as an artist. Or at least until now. For the longest time, I was a daughter or sister. And then a physician, which has been a big part of my identity. But recently, that has changed. Which makes me thing about we view ourselves and a question about identity.
Hygge. Or hoo-gah. It's the Danish word for a sense of cozy contentment. Or, more simply, it means the joy of the little things and being together. G first mentioned this last winter, when we were shuttered in our house, just us, distancing from friends and doing too many things over zoom.
It has taken me years to become a good listener. There is an art to everything. The art of photography, the art of medicine, and the art of listening. They are all important, each in their own way.
The hill sprawled out in front of us. Poet and Flower couldn't wait. We spent the weekend snow tubing. It was their first snowy adventure. We haven't had any snow this season, a dusting here and there, but no more.
There was a big crash! Poet and Flower came home with huge news. They couldn't contain themselves, and the words poured out. Their friend had been in a car accident. No one was hurt, and he was ok, but this was something new for them. They detailed how he had been on his way to their favorite park, Bumpy Slide Park.
We were clearly outnumbered. Our simple trip to the zoo had turned into a little bit of a marathon. We spent the holidays celebrating with family, three families to be exact, and six little cousins with an abundance of enthusiasm and energy. Poet and Flower had talked about their upcoming trip for months and were so excited to play and enjoy time with their cousins.
G's face turned just a little green. He tried to manage a smile but wasn't sure what to do. He had tasted mulled wine for the first time. It was warm and spicy, an unlikely combination. Drinking mulled wine for the holidays is a tradition. But, somehow, we've always managed to have a mulled wine mishap.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. I hear this from my patients, from friends, and I realize that it is also a little voice inside my head.
I've never been a fan of Christmas. I sound like a scrooge when I say that. Growing up, we did not celebrate Christmas. We did not have a Christmas tree, or lights, or gifts. I would go to school in the New Year feeling empty-handed. All the little kids, talking about how they had made out like bandits with gifts and toys from family and friends. I always felt left out of the cold, both literally and figuratively.
Growing up, grieving always felt like a taboo. I remember my mother standing by the kitchen sink. I must have been eleven or twelve. She was washing dishes and crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said that my grandfather had passed away. She looked out the window sadly and then went on washing the dishes.
Family is like the unseen glue that holds things together. As the years go by, there are cracks and sometimes outright breaks, but much of the time, some glue (or maybe a lot) can help to put things back together. Now and then, the story of Humpty Dumpty comes to mind, and all the glue in the world cannot mend things.
Authentic is a tall order. In food, is anything truly authentic? As recipes are passed down during the generations, they slowly change. They are adapted to new tastes and ingredients. The food may change but it retains its essence.
The joys of childhood are simple and boundless. Watching Poet and Flower discover things for the first time has helped me see the world in a different light. As a photographer, I'm always trying to look out at our world (and particularly food) from a different lens or perspective. Poet and Flower do the same daily. Sharing in their joy is a unique pleasure.
Rituals are important. We have so many of them in our lives, both large and small. Some I don't even think about, but play a large role in giving shape and structure in my life. I think perhaps we don't think about them until they are gone, slowly realizing their importance in the first place.
Taking a break is hard. It's a constant balancing act that often ends up on the floor in a collapsed heap. But, it doesn't have to be that way, and taking a break can help. Just stepping back for a few days or the day can help to reset our busy lives.
I never thought I'd be living in middle America. But, inevitably, it is now home. Poet and Flower were born here. Their childhood will be marked with Midwestern sensibilities and a place that will hopefully always be an anchor for them.
Is life a race? As a kid growing up, it sure felt like one. At least life was a race academically, if not in other aspects. As a child of Indian immigrants, my parents were certain education was the only path to success. Getting good grades was paramount.
Poet and Flower have slowly accumulated things. Things being a vague term to describe clothes, toys, books, and more toys. These items have slowly accumulated despite my best efforts. They have filled the kids' rooms and have slowly spilled out into other parts of the house.
Cancer sucks. For the longest time, this phrase would irk me. Perhaps that is an understatement. It was more of an annoyance in a deeply visceral way. I think the words hit so close to home.
We eagerly looked out the darkened window. Flower was already fast asleep in her bed, but Poet was still up eating his bedtime snack. His snack of choice this week is almonds, cashews, and chocolate chip trail mix. As he munched, we turned off all the lights, and Poet peered out into the darkness.
I sometimes think that children are really little gnomes in disguise. One moment they are adorable little children, and in a flash, they have turned into little creatures ready to wreak havoc and destruction.