Recycling something that didn’t go well on my taste-buds

Like any other art form cooking has its own share of disasters, it is natural as the artists are human beings, who are beautifully imperfect. So, talking about such a cooking disaster let me rewind a week earlier. It was my   brother’s Upanayan ceremony(holy thread ceremony), as societal mores dictated we had to organise a reception to mark the day after which he could partake non-vegetarian food (which includes onion and masoor dal as well).

One of the items on the menu was a ‘sorse paneer’(cottage cheese cubes in mustard sauce) , it was brilliantly disastrous as the mustard was undercooked. Imagine 800 gms of paneer wasted just because the cook thought that ‘people would prefer eating fish, so never mind that humble paneer’.

I am used to recycling bad food, it is something I had to learn owing to the hazards that usually occur  when one is living away from home and hearth. But let me delve into the crux of the matter the Bhattacharjee’s as a rule prefer mustard in their fish and not in their paneer, and on top of that Papa Bhattacharjee doesn’t eat paneer! So, after a few minutes of brainstorming( while carefully examining the disaster in question) I decided to make something which looked like a plebeian  relative of the Shahi Paneer.

The disastrous Sorse Paneer

I am not sure of this impromptu recipe, if you want to try it, I would suggest you make a few additions of your own.
 Here it goes :

WARNING: This so called recipe should not be read by people who do not know that to heat oil in a pan you have to put oil and before that light the gas. (There was one girl who asked me whether onions can be fried in unheated oil!)

Tentative ingredients:

1.       Potatoes for Papa Bhattacharjee: Which were boiled, peeled and fried. Of course cut it into halves before boiling them.

2.       A paste of poppy seeds and onions (separately); I did this after having look at the amount of paneer. *Always trust your instinct it is your best friend in the kitchen.

3.       Ground little bit of dry roasted garam masala and black pepper. (We have this fantastic mini-hand pestle at Tezpur,it is better than any machine grinder.)

Poppy seed paste(below) and onion paste(above)

Garam masala and black pepper powdered in a hand pestle

Cooking time: 15 minutes or more (frankly speaking I don’t remember).

How I did it:
I fried the potatoes, kept them aside and didn’t eat them, no matter how hungry I was!

Naturally I had to heat oil, in this case, white oil in a deep bottomed pan. Then I fried the onion paste till it had that lovely lilac colour ( yes, lilac and not pink as Sanjeev Kapoor says).If you do not have nasal congestion you will get that lovely smell…wow!

After this, I put the delicate poppy seed paste into the pan, fried it together till my common sense told me to stop( *also taste it and trust your taste-buds). Then I put the segregated paneer, i.e. the paneer which was separated from the undercooked mustard paste.

 I did not wash off the mustard totally kept some of it, as the colour suggests

 But I also made sure that some amount of the mustard was still clinging on to the paneer.
At some point of time I also put in the fried potatoes.

Got hold of two small cups of milk. Oh! Yes milk oops forgot to mention it above, anyway it’s an impromptu recipe forgive my unmindfulness. After that I poured in the milk and let it simmer till the gravy thickened to my liking.                                     

* Optional: For corrupted East Bengalis like myself you can put some sugar to balance the taste.

At last I put the ground garam masala-black pepper powder and mixed it well.

We had it with rice in the afternoon and with paranthas at night; tasted good both ways.

PS: I might have missed a few steps but I hope that you don’t have to try it out, because seriously folks undercooked mustard paneer is one pain in the ‘you-know-where’.

Served hot! My favourite cook- my mom gave me full marks for this

Her crowning glory

“Why don’t you take the taxi?”

“You know I won’t, I hate traffic jams.”

“But I think you should now that …” he broke off, as he felt a lump in his throat.

“I know”, she smiled, “don’t worry, I will be fine and anyway you will pick me up when it gets over.”

Damayanti walked out of her house, she knew the people on the road were staring at her and those who ‘knew’ avoided looking at her. Soon, she reached the subway station and rushed through the crowd like she did normally. Then the train arrived and again with other women she rushed towards the ‘Ladies’ seats.

She settled down and she tried not to pay any attention to the school girl who looked at her as if she were some display in the zoo. The other passengers stared at her and began they began to concoct various theories about her appearance.

“Please stop doing that to your hair,” said her mother.

“Maa, it feels so good to feel my hair after I wash it, ahhh… smells so nice...” said Damayanti as she moved her fourteen year old fingers through her tresses.

She woke up just in time. She had reached her destination station. 

Soon she was making her way past the sanitised interiors of a building which was conveniently located near that station. “He is waiting for you”, said the girl in a uniform.

Damayanti opened the door to Dr Sen’s chamber. He looked at her shaven head, “It was not necessary to do it at such an early stage, Damayanti. Anyway you can try this wigmaker a lot of my patients prefer him, I can tell him to go to your place.”

She smiled and waved her hand airily, “They say hair today gone tomorrow. Don’t worry doctor; I am only scared about the chemo. So tell me does it hurt? ”

Damayanti felt her husband’s gentle hand on her head  and she said, “Stop doing that I just combed.”

“Come on who is going to see you at this hour? Mmmmm…I love the smell of your hair.”

“Madam, it looks just like your hair. You can take it with your eyes closed”, said the salesman, who was silently calculating what to charge for the wig after having a look at Damayanti’s plush flat.

Damayanti asked, “Whose hair it is do you know?” She felt stupid after those words escaped her mouth. The chemo had made her a bit dizzy these days.

“Oh! If you are uncomfortable, you can try the synthetic ones, they are cheaper, but won’t last long. But I think you will need something that lasts.”
She smiled.

That night she put on her wig and waited for her husband to come back.  She heard the door opening and waited with bated breath as his foot-steps were approaching. He entered the room, kept his bag and gave her a questioning look. Without saying a word, he came towards her and gently ruffled the mane of hair.

“Stop doing that …just combed…my h-a-… ”, she stopped and tightly held back her tears.

“I love the smell of your hair” he said softly and  pushed off the wig.

Reality smells, Fart and the Neo-Indian Grotesque Art

My friend does something which is called 'arty-farty programming'(Arts Programming). I have nothing against the arts or programming part, what amuses me is the farty part. Why farty?? Is that really bad?  A lot has been spoken and written about that arty part. So, let me elaborate on the farty part, at the risk of being termed as irritating, mindless or whichever adjective you may choose.

Since childhood we Bongs are taught Fart or Paad/Gas Maara (break the wind) is something disgusting and that we shouldn’t fart in public. So, as a child I guess each one us had to find our very own farting place, away from the olfactory glands of others. Well, I know farting is smelly but it’s so natural. According to the dictionary: an emission of intestinal gas from the anus, esp an audible one. See, how natural it is!

I can bet on my imaginary millions pounds stashed in a Swiss Bank account, that every one farts, some admit and some don’t. I admit once again, farts can be disgusting to our sense of smell but please let us not take that ‘holier than thou attitude’ and reduce it to a taboo. You can take out your hanky to cover your nose when you get the smell of fart and get irritated, but please ‘don’t pretend that you don’t fart, as your intestines are listening.’

I see columns on how to find the right partner, they give shitty advice, don’t follow them. Listen to me: fart in a closed room with that ‘would be partner in life’ sitting next to you. If you get a reaction, after which you will remember to suppress your 'future' farts , in front of that person, then reader you are doomed for life. You really need to get out of that relationship!

Perhaps, thinking really irrationally we can have an exhibition on ‘fart being the purest form of art’ as it emanates from the inside of the human body. We can say 'Fart' is the neo-Indian Grotesque Art, as it hits your sense of smell directly and thus leading to the involuntary realisation of the grotesqueness of the 'art' itself.

Nicely theorized!

Yes, I can go on and on with that, because everyone I know farts, just that they have a very good place to hide that smell.

PS: I started it with my friend being an arty-farty programmer, well lost that thread. Some other time,if the farts come out well.