A Banoffee Friday

So, all you working folks are sighing 'TGIF'! today - but what do you do when you are on leave in Delhi and have nothing important to achieve during the day?

Well, if you and your younger sister are both vela, both have sweet tooths (sweet teeth?), and both have just read the latest (Jun 07) Reader's Digest and found a simple recipe for the simple yet delicious sounding ''Banoffee'' (Banana+Toffee) Pie; you apparently spend the morning making the Banoffee Pie!

Now, while you could just follow the simple recipe as stated in Reader's Digest, here is the process we followed so that you additionally get the benefit of our experience:

- Crush 250 g of Marie Biscuits to a powder - this suits me just fine because I have never really liked Marie Biscuits - they are just so bland and boring - they even look boring- so I crumbled them with a vengeance. But the Sister pointed out that it was meant to be a 'coarse' powder and not a 'fine' one, so I stopped after a while, rather reluctantly. Also, while the recipe says to put the biscuits in a ziplock bag and use a rolling pin, I found that using my hands worked just fine for this.

- Add 3 Tbsp of melted butter to the biscuit crumbs, mix well and set the mixture in a pan firmly - We had a little issue here because the butter just didn't seem to be enough to mix with the biscuits. I then figured that the Sister had taken 3 Tbsp of solid butter and melted them, whereas, in fact, it was 3 tbsp of Melted butter, which is very different. I have the benefit of being older and wiser, of course, and so bear no grudges against the little one.

-After the mix above has been refrigerated for 20 mins, take 3 bananas, slice them up and add them as a second layer to the pie - This was rather simple and we accomplished this without incident.

- Add the Toffee Layer as the third layer - Now, this was the interesting part. I neglected to mention that you need to boil a can of Milkmaid (400 g) for three whole hours in advance to starting this process. Our maid of 24 years, Kajal Didi, was to be asked to do this. But Kajal is very different from Zareena (our maid in Bombay) and is liable to be rather eccentric, slow and absent minded (although this is very understandable, given her long years of interaction with our fairly eccentric family). Anyway, as we were going out yesterday, I had instructed her to boil the Milkmaid can - my Sister discovered this only when we were out and was horrified by this. Apparently, if the water runs out while the can is being boiled, there is likely to be an explosion of no small proportion. I protested that I had informed Kajal about this, but my Sister took a grim, ominous view of the whole situation anyway. We returned later, with keen interest and trepidation, and were relieved to note that the house was still intact. However, this was only due to the fact that Kajal had promptly forgotten to do as asked.

Anyway, the can was boiled, under Sister's supervision, this morning - and we were pleased to discover that the condensed milk had turned into 'toffee' - which basically means it had changed from white to brown. It tasted exactly the same to me, although Sister said that 'there was now a distinct flavour of jaggery to it'. I nodded along insincerely, not being a believer in fruitless argument. We spread the thick layer onto the banana layer and put it in the fridge for another 20 mins.

- Add 250 ml of whipped cream as the fourth layer: I had lost interest by this time so the Sister found the whipper, whipped the cream to a light, fine texture and spread it over the toffee layer. It was looking quite fascinating by this time and I regained interest. It was again refrigerated for a final 20 mins.

- Garnish with Dark Chocolate: We didn't have any Dark Chocolate but we did have some Lindt Milk Chocolate. Now, I view Lindt very differently from some crummy Marie Biscuits so I looked very sadly at the sacrifice we were making, until Sister assured me there was much more chocolate in the fridge. However, it turned out that in the hot weather of Delhi, it was impossible to grate the chocolate and it sort of just melted in small lumps which we artistically (?) spread over the whipped cream.

And Voilà! There it was - our sumptuous looking Banoffee Pie! We were so pleased that we took a picture of it. Looks pretty nice, eh? (Those are my elegant hands holding it out proudly)

We eventually did eat it, too – and it was truly delicious although a tad too heavy. The combination of ingredients is really a winning one. My sincere compliments to the inventors.

The only real issue was that despite our following the given instructions to a ‘T’ (almost), the pie hadn’t really set properly for some reason, and all the layers fell apart as we scooped them out into our bowls - but, we philosophically chose to ignore this since it does not affect the taste – it all ends up in the same place, right?). And as for the original pie, the whipped cream layer sort of just settled back, slowly and goo-ily, to cover the areas we had gouged out. Wonderful, we thought, a regenerative pie!

And took another picture, as below, to show how it still looked the same even after we had finished our first helping. (Well, almost, eh?)

Here’s to Holidays!

And to quote PG Wodehouse:

'Every day, in every way, I am getting little bit fatter and fatter!'

The Bread Pakoda Solution

So yesterday was a particularly bad day at work and I came home in a horrible mood.

Sometimes people in my office really amaze me, but let us not get into the details. Not good for the blood pressure. And anyway, I have decided to become a highly spiritual, forgiving person and rise above and beyond all the little matters. I will look at all my fellow human beings with a kindly eye (not sure what the other eye is supposed to be doing at this time) and try and understand other people's perspectives more. No more judgements - even for the cretins I work with.

But till I reach that stage, I will have to learn to deal with the bad moods. And I think I've hit upon one possible solution.

It is called 'Home Made Bread Pakodas and Chai'

Vijay came home at an unusually decent time yesterday ( may be indecent from his boss's perspective but who cares about that!) and started talking about going out to Bandstand for a Bread Pakoda, his favourite snack. I demurred (cool new word) because I could imagine the dirty brown lumps floating in a sea of unhygienic, reheated oil. As a compromise for him, and to get my mind off the bad day, I offered to make Vijay his snack at home, and he delightedly agreed.

I shall carefully list the steps for those of you who don't know how to cook: this is one stunt you can definitely try at home!

1. Go to the fridge, open it and start moaning that none of the ingredients you need are there. Get the husband to come and find all the ingredients from different parts of the kitchen. Feel vindicated when you prove to him that there is no white bread in the house. Make him call up nearby store and deliver the same speedily.

2. While the store guy brings the bread over, happily discover three already boiled potatoes in the fridge. Warm them in the microwave and then mash them up with your (washed - well, ideally) hands, enjoying the warm, gooey feel between your fingers. Be in a happy, relaxed mood at this time, and do not equate this in your mind to bashing somebody to a pulp.

3. Once the potatoes are properly mashed, grab a nearby knife while husband watches nervously. Don't bother to wash your hands at this point as you will need to get them into the potatoes again. Use the now mash-potatoed-knife to expertly and vigorously chop one large onion into teeny tiny pieces, all the while not imagining cutting an annoying colleague to bits.

4. Add the chopped onions to the mashed potatoes and energetically use your fingers to massage them into a nice paste. Add a spoon of salt and two spoons of red chilli powder to this mix and continue to pound away, while not bitching about office politics to your husband at all. Do not choose this moment to remove your hair from your eye, thereby getting chilli powder into your eye and running around screaming until you find a tap.

5. Through watery eyes, if your eyes happen to be watery at this time for any reason, cast a withering look at your concerned, hovering husband and ask him coldly 'Who's going to prepare the besan?'. Watch him mix the besan, water and a pinch of salt to a fine consistency. As your eyes stop burning, feel better about life and therefore do not nag him about the besan mix being too thin and too thick alternately.

6. Heat some oil in a pan and watch it blankly for a while. Then ask your husband 'Who's going to slice the bread?'. Watch him cut the bread into neat pieces. Do not snap at him when he asks you if it should be cut into triangles or rectangles. Just say 'Rectangles' quietly ( You can also choose triangles if you're in that kind of mood).

7. You are now ready for the final act! Put your tasty alu-masala-mix in between the bread slices, trying not to 'sample' too much of it while doing so as this is going to give you a stomach-ache later. Since you have dirtied your hands enough, ask your husband to take over at this stage. Watch him dip the stuffed bread slices into the besan and gently drop them into the heated oil. His hands are all messy with the besan and soon, so is the ladle he is using to fry the bread-pakodas, and also the entire stove area. Do not reprimand him for strewing all the extra fried bits and pieces merrily all around the kitchen instead of into one plate.

8. Prepare the roti-dabba with napkins so that the husband can deftly drop the golden, delicious looking treats into the same, where they will remain hot and tasty until the tea is ready. Remember the tea at this point. Since you are no longer doing anything useful, prepare the tea, using only my brand, Red Label.

9. Impatiently wait for the husband to finish making the last of the bread pakodas. Useful tip: ball up the remaining alu masala into round balls, dip them into the last of the besan and fry them into delicious kofta-type balls. Voila! 6 bread pakodas, 3 kofta-balls, 2 cups of steaming tea are ready.

Ignore the fact that your kitchen looks as though its been hit by a tornado and that your maid Zareena may either have a heart attack or quit tomorrow morning when she sees it (it's a cruel world and her occupational hazards are her concern).

10. Last step: Excitedly run to the drawing room with all the food, run back, switch off the gas, run into the drawing room again to enjoy your home-made treat. Remember to take some Maggi Hot & Sweet Tomato Chilli Ketchup (It's different), and the tea with you. Sit cross legged on your mat, enjoy the sea view and pretend you are enjoying the sea breeze too ( hey, it's hot in Mumbai and we need the AC). You will notice by this time, you have forgotten all about your stupid colleagues and you realise it's wrong to let such insignificant things bother you.

After you have enjoyed the perfect cup of tea and eaten the hot, tasty, spicy, crisp bread pakodas (1.5 nos.) and kofta (1 nos.) and your husband has devoured the rest, you lie back contentedly together like 2 over-stuffed bread pakodas - and watch a two hour special on the Birth of the Universe on National Geographic. This further helps to realize how tiny you really are, and thereby strengthen your belief that all the little things in life that get you down are even tinier, so they're just not worth it.

But the converse is not true: the little things in life that make you happy are indeed worth feeling good about.

And as you lie there half asleep, you realize you've totally spoilt your dinner for the night - but what better way could there be to do it?

They're here! The Mangoes are here!

Aah, the mango. Has there ever been such a sublime fruit?

Mangoes are my absolute favourite. They are so versatile. You can have kachha mangoes with salt and chilli that make your face scrunch up all squinty-eyed - or scoop out the sweet parts of the side pieces with a spoon - or cut them into long, elegant slices - or abandon all elegance and make a little hole at the top, and squeeze the pulp out straight into your mouth like a happy little monkey.

On the weekend, I was walking with my husband to the market (how domestic), and we came across a dilapidated fruit shop with boxes of alphonso mangoes and a 'For Sale- Mangoes' sign. How ultimately delightful, I thought - I was just in the mood for mangoes, having recovered from a bad stomach infection that had made everything taste like cardboard.

We approached the shop hopefully, and started picking up fruit randomly. I asked the price of the mangoes, and the man muttered something that sounded like 'thousand rupees'. I nodded wisely and waited for my ears to clear up and asked again. But he repeated 'thousand rupees'. I examined the box. It had a dozen pieces in it. I clarified 'A thousand?'. He nodded. I said 'For a dozen?'. He said yes. I said 'Achha' and wilted.

Vijay had been on the phone during this exchange, and he got off it and said 'What about the mangoes?' in a businesslike fashion. I whispered to him 'The man is saying one thousand'. Vijay sprang backwards and said 'What?' in the manner of the outraged consumer. He turned towards the man 'Bhaiyya? Ek hazaar?'. The man said yes. ' Ek hazaar, ek durzon ke liye?' The man nodded. Vijay bubbled over with indignation and sputtered 'Sone ka bana hai kya'? The man's lips tightened into a fake smile at my husband's razor sharp wit. However, he refused to lower the price, so we left disappointed.

We soon chanced upon an even smaller, more dilapidated shop where the rate was Rs.600 for a dozen. Vijay immediately blurted to this new man 'But that shop over there is charging Rs.1000'. The new man swallowed his emotion and shrugged non-commitally. I looked aghast at Vijay wondering what kind of new bargaining style this was. After some dillying followed by some dallying, we decided to try our luck and asked for just two pieces. The new man protested loudly but eventually, he grudgingly parted with two for a hundred. We walked back with our booty, Vijay holding all the other fruit ( melons, bananas, apples, oranges, etc) in bulging large packets, while I carried just the two small mangoes gingerly.

In the evening after dinner, I cut the mangoes into small pieces, careful not to waste even a bit of the pulp, and we ate them (okay, I ate most of them) with vanilla ice cream. And Oh, they were Heavenly! They were dark yellow, with a melt-in-the-mouth sweetness beyond description. The most perfect dessert ever, and worth every paise, according to me. I went to bed happy that day.

But the mangoes were over.

The next day, we found ourselves outside the second, smaller shop again. Vijay jauntily asked the man 'Aaj kya rate hai, bhaiyya?'. The man replied equally jauntily 'Aaj to sasta hai. 600 rupaiye durzon'. Vijay did a double take ' par yeh hi to kal ka rate tha...'. The man also did a double take, and recoiled as he recognized us 'Oh. Aap! Haan, ek din mein kaisa girega, saab?' He turned his attention to me as I gazed longingly at the mangoes 'Par meetha tha na, Madam?'. I blushed and muttered yes ( I really don't know why I am so coy about mangoes, it's really inexplicably weird). He continued hopefully 'Pack kar du aur?' I nodded assent and he said 'Ek pethi ya doh?'. I said 'Doh'. He beamed for an instant but I clarified quickly 'Doh piece'. He was aghast 'Doh piece? Phirse?'. But then, he noted the steely determination in our eyes and said weakly 'Teen to leh lo'. We took pity on him and bought three for Rs. 150.

The next day, Zareena ruined one of the precious three by cutting it up for us and leaving it in the fridge the whole day and it got all brown and rotty-looking. But in the evening, I salvaged the remaining two with the vanilla ice cream and we enjoyed the sweet sublime perfection again.

If I had known that I would feel this way about mangoes at this point of time, I would have eaten a lot more in those summer days of my childhood. I would have climbed more mango trees. Would have picked more mangoes from those trees. And maybe, would have thrown fewer at my brother and sister, too.

The thing is, I don't know how long I can keep doing this fake-nonchalant 'doh piece dena, bhaiyya' thing - I really hope the prices come down soon. But I have now made up my mind, and I intend to eat a LOT of mangoes this summer season. It just strikes me as one of those things that make this life worth living.

The prices will come down soon.

And I will be waiting.