London calling

The story so far, Part I

April 2016 was the two year anniversary for my husband at his work. As the challenge of learning and working in a new environment was wearing off, I sensed he was getting restless for the next thing. When we moved to the greater Boston area, we had decided that we would try to stay put till the kids went off to college. So he did the next best thing. He pursued an opportunity to work with the same company, in a different city, which turned out to be London, England! When we discussed this, another move albeit a temporary one, it took me two days to go from "Are you sure we should do this now? The kids are just settling in. It is going to be hard to come back to 8th grade for our son." to "Oh man, I cannot wait!"  

Our 8 year old daughter mirrored her brother's shocked reaction but changed it to a a hesitant "I want to go, but I will miss my friends. That is why I want to stay". However, my son was inconsolable. Given our history of moving every two years, he refused to believe that this was a short term assignment, a one year 'sabbatical'. We explained, cajoled, consoled threatened and ignored him for the next  48 hours. In the middle of the morning on the third day, my sweet 11 year old, texted me from his school bus, "I am ok to go to London, Mom".  And that was it. All four of us were going to be spending a whole year - July 2016 to July 2017 - in London! The possibilities, as they say, were endless.

Weeks of paperwork and trans-Atlantic calls followed. After the much-awaited assignemnt letter detailing the 'ex-pat package' was received, the priority was to enroll the children in a school. An exhaustive Google search revealed that admissions to local state schools (equivalent to public schools in the US that our kids were used to) in UK are done the fall of the previous year. I searched for schools in highly rated Local Authorities around central London as we were hoping for a city life experience for this year. I learnt about over-subscribing, wait lists, free schools and discussions on  Mumsnet.com forums about families moving into cities like Westminster, Kensington and Chelsea and paying exorbitant rents only to find out that their kids were bussed to schools in other areas. We did not want to take this chance and it was now clear that the kids will not be schooled in the local British system. We followed the path most expats take and decided to look through the International schools. The adage 'Seek and ye shall find' was probably coined with a divine conotation, but it is truest in the context of the modern day wonder of Internet. A few week's worth of searching and re-searching followed by telephonic conversations with always helpful directors and deans of admissions, followed by two days of intense personal meetings at the short listed schools and our children were enrolled in the school we liked, ACS in Cobham.

Now the kids were really excited. It was June and school work was getting wrapped up here and they were busy planning end of the year activities and parties. I had to answer questions like "Will I be able to learn badminton from a real teacher there?"(as opposed to mom)," Can I join the cricket team?", "Do they teach Shakespeare?",  "Will we have a big house?", "Can I take the bus?",  "Can I take the train by myself?",  "Will they have horse riding lessons? In the school?"

I was starting to wonder if they would be ready to come back after just one year.

This was going to be the year of travel and adventure for us. We had to remind ourselves that we had not won the lottery or struck gold and our travel plans would have to fit similar limitations in budget and time off  from work any other year. But the idea of being at the doorstep of an entire continent just brought out the Christoper Columbus in us and soon we had a must-visit list of countries. Using the school's holiday calendar and the work days off, we soon had weeks and weekends marked in a cheery pink with the intended destinations. Visa appointments for a UK work permit and a quick house hunting trip followed. Family was notified and the tickets were booked.  July 24 2016 was picked as the start date of our year of adventure. 

The day arrived hot and bright. The suitcases were packed and whatever did not fit in them had already been shipped. We were ready....London, here we come.

All the Light You Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

   

 It is difficult to assign a title to a story in a way that it conveys the essence of the story and touches its core. Anthony Doerr has succeeded in overcoming this difficulty, brilliantly. All the Light We Cannot See is a story about the physical absence of light - in case of its blind protagonist Marie-Laure LeBlanc - as well as a metaphorical absence – in case of the other protagonist, an orphan German boy, Werner Pfennig. Growing up on opposite sides of history, these two young people bring alive the sweeping tragedy of the Second World War and the horrible events in  Germany, Russia and France. Their lives play out independent of each other yet destiny brings them together at a crucial juncture, both of their lives and that of the War. This parable is sweeping yet intimate, panoramic yet microscopic. Told in two voices in alternating chapters, this is not an example that a novice writer might follow in terms of the theory of writing. The edicts of point of view, structure, character arc, scene-sequel etc are upended in favor of short chapters and shorter paragraphs and sentences that convey just enough information for the reader to make up his mind. Doerr appeals to all of the reader’s senses except the sight in scenes where Marie Laure's point of view is expressed and uses detailed, scientific enquiry when the story features Werner. The pace is crisp and the language, exquisite. The story gallops through the final years of the War yet finds time to languish in little alleyways and nooks and corners long enough to engulf the reader and transport them into its core. There is a surreal, almost magical nature to the entire story. If it were to be made on screen, it would be made in a sepia tone, with bright flashes of color in between to jolt the viewer out of their lassitude.  

The writer’s tone feels apologetic, at times, as if he is sad to tell you a story which may make you cry in the end. But he holds your hand the entire way and does not rush you; letting you enjoy the melancholy or ecstasy by your own timetable.  The secondary characters are  well-developed; everything and everyone is in the story for a reason. I would have liked it even more, if it was slightly shorter. The last three or four chapters felt extraneous, as if Doerr was having so much fun with his characters that he did not want to let them go. And I for one, do not blame him. 

The Art Forger by B.A.Shapiro

Pablo Picasso is believed to have said, “Every now and then one paints a picture that seems to have opened a door and serves as a stepping stone to other things”.  

The series of paintings titled After the Bath by Edgar Degas have inspired author B.A. Shapiro to do just that. She uses it as a stepping stone- rather, a diving platform in her book, The Art Forger to examine art, the artist and the value of art. What makes a piece of art valuable? Is it the art itself or the fame (or notoriety) of the artist? Can an artist get more value as a forger of a painting made by a famous artist while being ignored for her original work? How much do the experts really understand about what they assess and how much stock should a non-expert put in their recommendations and valuations? A struggling painter Claire Roth tries to reconstruct her shattered professional life and find answers to questions such as these in this brisk paced tale filled with intrigue and gorgeous details of place and time.

The main character is explored in detail and so are the myriad techniques of painting - Impressionist, classical and contemporary. The same cannot be said of the rest of the characters and the relationships Claire has with them.  The detailed analysis of paintings and painting techniques, of Degas himself, of the world inhabited by artists,critics and collectors tilts the balance of the story away from the minds of its characters. There is a love interest in the story which is portrayed in a hurried and callous way, along with a lot of secondary characters and events that are unrelated to the main story. The ending is abrupt and leaves the reader feeling shortchanged.

In spite of these shortcomings, The Art forger is a fast read with exacting details and descriptions of works of art that will make you want to find out more about the intriguing world of artists and art collectors. 

Fishy.

“Something smells good, Mom”, my eight year old son calls out over the music of “The Adventures of Tintin” that he is watching with his five year old sister. The smell interrupts my husband’s Saturday night semi-fugue state, induced by old Hindi movie songs, ghazals and single malt Scotch. My industrial grade Viking hood is doing the best it can, but is no match for the heady fragrance of dinner, cooking in bubbling oil on its way to a heavenly state of golden brown crispiness. I am frying Pomfret.

Wikipedia says pomfret is a perciform fish belonging to the family Bramidae. It is found in the Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific Oceans. I say, they have no idea what Pomfret is.

Pomfret is my mother, announcing on a Saturday morning, that my brother and I were to watch out for and stop the local fishmonger  as he made his way through the neighborhood. The object of our attention for the rest of the morning was a short, dark man with round eyes and a quick smile. His bushy mustache apologetically made up for a receding hairline. He usually wore a mundu, a long rectangular cotton garment worn at the waist, and a shirt, with a scarf-like piece of cloth wrapped around his head.. He would ride into our alley on a bicycle with a basket tied precariously to the back seat. He announced his presence with a loud horn – the sound a cross between a duck’s quack and a broken reed. It was in this basket, over a thin layer of ice, under dark green banana leaves, that he presented the manna from local rivers and the Arabian Sea, occasionally his prized catch, the pomfret. It is an exciting day for us because cooking fish at home was a show of culinary bravery for my mother. She had grown up with strictly vegetarian, staunch Hindu parents and had tasted meat only after she got married .She was adventurous enough to cook fish but was not confident about buying or cleaning it. That was Amma’s job.  “Amma” is Malayalam for mother and to us, it seemed like the whole town called her Amma. She was a stern lady of indeterminate age, who worked in our house as a housemaid/translator/spreader of neighborhood information. As soon as the fishmonger stopped in front of our house, Amma was dispatched to do the needful. She wiped her strong and heavily wrinkled hands on her work cloth and walked up to him. She gave the man a once-over as if silently warning him against any mischief. Then she peered into the basket and moved back the banana leaves. She picked up the plumpest, whitest of the fish and gave it a good sniff. If it passed her olfactory test, its gills were pried open. If it was nice and pink inside, Amma gave the man a slight toothless smile and picked a few more. The care with which she picked fish for us made us feel like royal children, whose food was tested for poison before it was served. After the necessary payment was made, all of us followed Amma to the back of the house where she proceeded to clean and prepare the fish and hand it over to my mother for further processing.

Pomfret is my father, ordering fish for me, at every restaurant that we went to, even when it was the most expensive dish on the menu. The love on his face, having ordered the best dish for his favorite child, in my opinion, was returned with a grin on my face, when the waiter brought the plate of crisp golden fried fish, head intact, eyes open, garnished with red onion rings, chopped cilantro and a lemon wedge. For my brother and I, eating out at a restaurant was a luxury, a status symbol. To have a special dish ordered just for me was hence, a momentous achievement. Over time, the restaurants changed from a “dining hall” of five or six tables covered with white table cloths over worn out reddish brown carpets lit by shabby chandeliers to avant garde restaurants in five star hotels in Mumbai but the ritual never changed.

Pomfret is little fingers, peeling off the crisp skin to reveal firm white flesh held together by a skeleton of long bones. The fingers do not have find and remove tiny bones that hide inside other kinds of seafood. The fish has been fried whole, with two short slits on each side where the marinade of garlic, ginger and turmeric, green chilies, cumin, coriander and salt has made its way inside. The skin is a crispy golden brown, while the flesh has cooked in a fragrant steam of the marinade, giving it a flavor even the finickiest of eaters cannot ignore.

The smell reaches deep inside me, taking me back to the land where I grew up, thousands of miles away from this beautiful prairie that we now call home. It is the link from my childhood to the life that I am trying to create for my children. It inspires me to make memories with them, which they can turn to, when they grow up. I hope that this fine specimen of the Bramidae family thrives and multiplies for generations in the saline ocean waters so that my children can share the joy of a perfectly fried pomfret and steaming rice with their loved ones, for years to come.

A different shade of green

     A line of old Ambassador cars greets you as you step out of Kochi International Airport. This is one of only two states in India where these rotund and sturdy cars of the 1980’s have not fallen out of favor. Sleek elegance, modern amenities and power are aspects not associated with this car, but their drivers do not seem to mind. Well-maintained city roads direct the fast and unruly traffic and billboards advertise mega gold jewelry marts and silk saree emporiums. As you make your way towards the rural interiors, you remember the caption on the tourism department’s brochure – Kerala, God’s own country. Roll down the windows - use your biceps, no power windows here - and inhale the gorgeous sea air, there is no doubt you are in a tropical paradise.

     No matter what the season, there is equilibrium between the water content in the atmosphere and the air so that there is just enough air to let you breathe comfortably but the humidity makes it thick enough to be palpable. Paddy fields, with thick sheaves of rice, sitting in puddles of water put on an intense display of green. Acres upon velvety acres are tended to by hand, mostly by women, who try to coax rice, the life blood of the region, from this stubborn plant. The straight, brown trunks of the coconut trees rise up tall with a head of lush long, yellow–green fronds. It is capped off with a big bunch of coconuts and stalks of small yellow fragrant flowers. The soft, flimsy stems of the banana plants support  wide leaves and big bunch of fruits which are loved by humans and animals alike. Elephants are the workhorses here, carrying loads of timber from forests with the same aplomb as serving in religious festivities in temples, decked in gorgeous livery. 

     Then, there is the water. Tucked away in the southwestern corner of Indian peninsula, Kerala has a long coastline along the Arabian Sea. This is the landing ground for the majestic monsoon, which gathers up from the Indian Ocean, drenching the land for most of the year. Water collects everywhere; in small ponds, lakes and gurgling streams, filling up with water lilies and buffaloes in the blink of an eye. Three large rivers traverse this small state spilling their energy onto the shores and into the people. The vast waters of the Arabian Sea to the west of the land mass form the perfect backdrop for the tiring sun to rest, every evening, bathing the coconut groves and rubber plantations in a surreal golden hue.

The houses are modest, complementing a population that is cultured, conventional and hardworking. One or two story concrete buildings, painted in light colors with red tiled roofs. A compound wall marking the property line and a gate, usually an intricately welded iron one, making you pause before you enter. The yard is dirt with bushes of brightly colored flowers along the walls. Hibiscus, gardenias, jasmine and roses vie for attention under the tall presence of coconut palms and jack fruit trees. The scent in the air is primal, of a happy balance between nature and its human tenants. Technology and the progress that modern amenities promise have found their way to this remote corner of land but the culture of respectful indulgence in nature’s bounty has created a harmonious lifestyle for its population. With as many people wearing the latest fashion in jeans, skirts and pants as there are men wearing the cotton mundu and young girls wearing the silk white and golden sarees, God’s own country is not stuck in time. She is relishing time, as it flows like the deep waters of the Periyar river towards the sea.

Back To School

“Can I wear this right now, Mom?” My seven year old son asked me at the checkout counter, fully expecting me to say no. He had a brand new back pack in one hand and a big bag full of folders and pencils and supplies in the other. I started to say no, out of habit, but I stopped myself. His enthusiasm and genuine excitement rubbed off on me and we walked out of the store with him wearing a new jacket and an empty backpack on his back.

     In case you missed all the advertisements, it is Back to School season! With just a week left to go before school starts, we braved the pouring rain and similarly motivated families to go shopping for clothes and school supplies. The atmosphere in the store was akin to Christmas. Bright signs and flags marked the way to a large section of the store dedicated to Back to School items. Some frequently bought items were packaged together into convenient bundles for hassle free shopping. There were three or four rows of shelves for just binders and folders. Pencils, crayons, markers and sharpeners were spilling out of cleverly placed end caps. Overall there was a mood of gaiety and celebration all around. 

     This made me think about my back to school routine. I spent most of my childhood in a small south Indian town which had one hospital, four churches, two temples, a small vegetable market, one bakery and one stationary/book store. Summer vacation ended around the last week of May and we made that first trip to the school, before the school began, to get our school uniforms. That was the beginning of the week long ritual to get ready for the new school year.  A list of textbooks and notebooks was provided by the school but everything else was optional and left entirely to the financial ability of one’s parents. Pencils were mandatory till the third grade and after that; we could only use fountain pens. That meant bottles of nasty smelling Camel brand blue ink also made their way into the shopping bags. Backpacks were made of durable canvas and were available in basic colors such as black, blue, beige etc.  Pencil boxes were fashion accessories. In the higher grades, we had to buy the geometry box with a compass, divider, ruler, Set Square, protractor, eraser and a pencil sharpener. Mechanical pencils were a big deal, available in bright colors and usually “imported”.  Being that the highly anticipated southwest monsoon usually made its entrance around the same time as the school started, raincoats and umbrellas were a necessary purchase. A stop at the local Bata store for a pair of black lace shoes and white socks completed the shopping trip.

      The second part of the ritual was a family affair. We would lay out the books to be covered and labeled. Rolls of brown paper were taken out along with sheets of name labels. My parents would cut out the brown paper needed for covering each book and meticulously cover and tape that book. Warnings on keeping the books neat and organized ensued. When they thought I was old enough, I was trusted to cover my own books and a few of my younger brother’s. There were single lined notebooks for Social Studies and Science, four-lined books for English and two-lined books for the two local languages, Hindi and Malayalam.  While my parents worked hard to make them look academically dignified, I would open up textbooks and browse through lessons on the Human Body, Differentiation, Robert Frost and the vast maze of newsprint that was to be my companion for the next year. The final touch was the label. Very basic in form, this was a rectangular piece of paper with pre-printed lines for Name, Std., Section, School and Subject. With each passing year, new and exciting innovations occurred in the field of the labels. One year it was sticker labels while another was all about Mickey and Minnie and Donald Duck or bright floral prints or cute animal themes. My father would then write our names, proudly and neatly, on these labels, with more instructions and warnings to keep the covers and labels on the books at least till the first Terminal examination. Then all the books and pencil boxes were put away in the respective schoolbags, awaiting the start of yet another exciting year.

       The school lists have changed, the supplies options have upgraded significantly but the excitement and anticipation of going to a new class with some old and some new friends, is still the same. For my children, at this age when getting the right pencil grips, erasers and sharpeners is as critical as finding out who will sit with you in the class and on the school bus, which kid you will have to avoid and what the new teacher will be like, back to school shopping is an important event, as it was for me. I am looking forward to the new school year and I smile as we join this last minute frenzy of back-to-school celebration. 

Travel by Stomach - Colombia

I love Latin American food. Having lived in California, I fell hard for the bright flavors that result from the combinations of onions and garlic and tomatoes and avocados and oregano, combined with lots and lots of varieties of chilies. The ingredients are familiar to an Indian palate yet their distinct application results in a flavor very different from the Indian cuisine that I grew up with. I visited Puerto Rico recently and that food solidified the favored status of Latino food for me. After I tried Peru, we stayed in the South American continent and moved on to Colombia. Picking just a few dishes for this project was difficult and I have decided to go back and try some more of the recipes that I have gathered for Colombia, later. I have used this beautiful blog a lot in my research and kudos to Erica for introducing her native Colombian culture in such an amazing way.
The ingredients are easy to find and the dishes taste as good as they look. Enjoy!!

Fried plantains - Platanitos.

Every South American country has its version of these delectable chips. These chips are twice fried and hence have a dense center yet crispy exterior. Cut the plantains on a bias so that when the chips are flattened after the first frying, they get long and thin, perfect for scooping the spicy aji or hogao sauce.

 Ingredients:

3 semi ripe plantains, peeled and cut on a bias into 1 inch ovals

Canola oil for frying

Bowl of cold water

Salt

Fill a wrought iron skillet 1 -2 inch deep with canola oil and heat. Peel and slice the plantains on a bias. Fry the slices, in small batches in a single layer, without crowding. Fry for 2-3 minutes till golden. Do not fry till brown!

Take the slices out and drain on a paper towel, dip in a bowl of cold water for a few seconds and drain again on paper towel. Place on a smoot surface, cover with a plastic wrap and press down with a mallet or the bottom of a heavy pan. Fry these flattened slices in hot oil till golden brown. Take them out, drain on paper towels and season with salt while warm. Serve with hogao or Colombian aji made with jalapeno peppers.

Hogao

A traditional Colombian sauce, this can be used with any dish as a dipping sauce or a condiment. I stored some in the refrigerator and it was good even after 7 days. A variation of this can be made by adding chili powder or chili flakes to add a little heat.

INGREDIENTS

1 cup chopped scallions (white and green parts)
2 cups fresh chopped tomatoes
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon ground cumin

2 tbsp canola oil
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground pepper
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro

DIRECTIONS

1. Heat the oil in a saucepan, add the tomatoes, scallions, garlic, ground cumin and cook gently for 10 minutes, stirring until softened.

2. Reduce the heat to low, add the salt, pepper and cilantro, cook for 10 minutes more, stirring occasionally until the sauce has thickened. Check and adjust the seasoning

Colombian Aji with jalapeno

10 jalapeno peppers, seeded

1/4 cup water

1/4 cup white vinegar

1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

 1 1/2 cup chopped green onions

1 cup chopped cilantro

2 tsp salt                                         

Blend all the ingredients well until smooth. Serve cold.

Arepas

The first time I ate Arepas was when a dear friend from Venezuela made them for me. At the time it seemed a lot of work and I remember her cooking them in the oven. This recipe is easy.  If you have any experience making tortillas or roti, this will be a natural progression. The areapas however, do not taste like either of them. The cornmeal makes an earthy bread that is rich and grounded at the same time. Lightly brush with butter as soon they are done and serve warm.

INGREDIENTS

1 cup pre-cooked cornmeal or arepa flour
1 cup warm water
1/3 cup queso blanco, grated
2 tbsp butter
Salt to taste

Makes 6 arepas.

Combine the cornmeal, warm water, cheese, 1 tbsp butter and salt, mixing thoroughly. Let mixture stand for five minutes. Knead with your hands for about 3 minutes moistening your hands with water as you work.

Form small balls with the dough. Place each ball between 2 plastic bags and with a flat pot cover flatten to ¼ inch. Or flatten them on the palms of your hands after you oil them. Add the butter to a nonstick pan over medium heat. Place the arepas in the pan, and cook about 3 minutes on each side, until a crust forms or they are golden brown.

Bistec a la criolla - Steak in creole sauce

Ingredients

2 pounds skirt steak, trimmed and cut into 4-6 equal portions
2 tbsp. vegetable oil
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 tsp.  ground mustard
1 tbsp.  ground cumin
Salt and black pepper
2 tbsp. fresh cilantro, chopped
1 1/2 cups hogao (creole sauce)

 Place the steaks between sheets of wax paper, then pound until each steak is about ¼ inch thick.

Place the pounded steaks in a zip lock plastic bag. Add the mustard, cumin, garlic, cilantro, salt and pepper.

Refrigerate for 1 hour or overnight making sure that the steaks are evenly covered. In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Place the steaks into the skillet and cook for 3 minutes per side.

Add the hogao, cover and cook for 7 minutes more.