Not My Monkeys

Several years ago, I was inspired to keep a quote book. Truth be told, I was intending on emulating someone I rather deeply admired and took the idea from him. Not that it was thievery by any stretch of the imagination, but it's become something I'm very glad I did (though that admiration has somewhat been redefined over the years). I collect the quotes I find in books and hear on podcasts. I'll jott down phrases spoken by friends and the famous, and anything other collection of words that tickles my fancy. Any and all are typed out on my phone, later to be transcribed into my handy little book. It's fun to flip through and see what struck me as impactful over the years.

There's a quote scrawled in the margins of the early pages of the dog eared quote book that seems inexplicably applicable to my adventures in India. I think I found it online, so it's veracity should be questioned but I like it all the same. "Not my circus, not my monkeys" my looped handwriting reads. I do think it is attributed to a Russian Proverb, but the quote kept popping in my mind during palace tours, car rides, and street wanderings while India. I suppose that could be read as a very prophetic and deep analysis of the cultural differences I was scrutinizing, but mostly it was because there are monkeys everywhere in India. Monkeys everywhere=monkey quotes. It's simple logic.

Granted, there could be a little more depth to that quote than I give it credit for. There's a certainly carelessness that accompanies me when I travel. Not that I abandon all sense of a schedule, but things just don't matter like they do back home. I guess that's where the "not my circus" part of the things may come into play, but the monkeys were actual monkeys and were nothing metaphorical. Running around on palaces, chomping on fruit in the middle of the road, and swarming the rooftops of all the neighborhoods; Yes, the monkeys made India pretty magical.

And while there weren't monkeys running around all the places we visited, India still maintained that magic...case in point, the Taj Mahal. There is something surreal about seeing one the proclaimed seven wonders of the modern world. Not that I was counting, but this was number three out of seven, soon to be followed by a fourth in the spring (I'll pretend readers are dying to know where that mysterious location will be, but you will just have to wait for that announcement). I do think since the spring of 2016 will cross off four out of seven, I might as well just make it to the next three. It would be a shame to just stop halfway, and never see the others.

The thing that is difficult to realize is that travel is like a virus. It's something you catch and its voracious appetite is only temporarily satiated when you book a trip but the craving only intensifies to consume more culture, experience new adventures, and taste new foods. I'm contemplating my time in India while chomping at the bit to get onto my next cultural meal. It's a vicious cycle. India held many adventures, and still maintains a mystery I didn't quite fully decipher during my time there. It's a place I'd visit again, though I don't think that chance will come for another couple of years...Maybe on a trip to see the seven world wonders for a second time.

Emily Eats India

Not that my globetrots are planned around my "epicurious" nature, but cuisine does seem to explain my inexplicable pull towards India. India has always been a brightly colored land I've been itching to visit. Crowded streets smoking with the curling steam of chai masala seems too good to pass up for someone completely lured in by food, culture, history and architecture. Though there are several countries on my "to visit" list, India always seem to find its way to the top five. So, when the chance to explore the alleyways of Delhi and the painted facades of Jaipur, I took it (obviously). The trip to India came via an invitation to a friend of a friend's wedding in Chandigarh, however the whole experience was a captivating slew of days that I doubt will come again in this lifetime. The sites and sounds and stories of the trip as a whole can be found on another post or two, but today's offering is all about the tastes.

 

Eating primarily Italian, Mexican, Chinese and French growing up, Indian food had an addictive introduction in college. With flavors and textures so uniquely different from what I'd been used to, Indian food quickly grew to be a favorite cuisine. The lovely Ms. C and I would haunt a fabulous little place in Provo, under the reservation of "Mr. Batman", mostly because  hearing "table for Mr. Batman" with a prominent Punjabi accent would put anyone in a fit of giggles. Ah, though college had provided an admirable introduction to Indian food, I don't think I was fitfully prepared for the real deal. Channa masala and dal tadka quickly soared to my favorite go to dishes. The creamy and spicy sauces swirled with roti or naan then chased down with a mango lassi seemed to be the stuff dreams were made of. I wholeheartedly dedicated my time in India to tasting anything and everything, mostly with rather pleasant results. I say mostly pleasant because a roadside stand owner did convince me to taste these metallic covered cardamom seeds and it took several sticks of gum, a good douse of water, and an hour or two to get the soapy, metallic, and oddly floral taste out of my mouth. You win some, you lose some I suppose. 

Proper mealtimes were always rather structured, wandering down to the first floor of a hotel for breakfast to mispronounce an order of parantha and dosa and inhaling a late lunch of curries and paneer stuffed naan. However, once arriving in Delhi, the street food was calling my name. I had cultivated quite the food list of items to try on my trip to India, and Delhi was marked as the place to get momos and kulfi off the street. The Chinese style dumplings were an easily delicious find and the quest for kulfi made for quite the adventure. After awkwardly navigating the ordering procedure and confused as to why the dense ice cream broken into bits to be doused with a sweet and creamy sauce, then showered with limp noodles, I was able to cross kulfi off my list...with mixed results. The oddly chewy frozen texture was a bit off putting, while the noodles took the "completely baffling" category by storm. Not something I thought I would have again, though I did break that mental agreement later in the trip. As a head's up, order the kulfi sans noodles; the texture of the kulfi is enough to keep your mouth occupied. 


Snacks were always discovered by serendipitous happenstance; warmed-by-the-sun lime orange juice outside of Raj Ghat, or a spicy bag of Lays Masala chips at a roadside stand, or the sickeningly sweet Panchi provoked after seeing advertisements plastered on every street corner. Snacks were a fun adventure, but it really was those curries and dals that I came to crave.

I've already delved into research of how to make such dishes in my own little kitchen, and although I did by best to pick up cooking tips and spices while here, I do think part of the appeal of Indian food is the India part....though I doubt that will stop me from making (and eating) my favorites when back in Salt Lake.

An Unexpected Thanksgiving

You  unknowingly pack expectations when you travel. It's usually the first thing I toss in my mental suitcase, along with headphones and my passport (things absolutely essential for any international trip). It's human nature to harbor expectations, with India as no exception. Tucked away in Northern India and tantalizingly close to the Pakistani border is a rather small city known for the religious site of the Golden Temple. Of course I was looking forward to every bit of my itinerary in India, but I didn't know how impactful certain experiences would be. My afternoon in Amritsar was one of those certain experiences.

The Amritsar visit coincided with American Thanksgiving; a holiday I adore. How can Thanksgiving be beat? It's a holiday based on history, family, and eating a meal so fantastic you look forward to it all year long which doesn't really hold a candle to many others. While this Indian trip certainly was once in a lifetime, I still felt a little pang of regret when that Thursday rolled around, without a morsel of stuffing or pie to be found. It was, however, a serendipitous twist of events that I still had my hands in flour, bent over the stove, and dripping with soapy water on that Thursday despite the fact I was on the other side of the globe.


Each day, the Golden Temple hosts hundreds of volunteers, all of which help to run the 24/7 kitchen that will give a hot meal and place to sleep for the thousands and thousands of people on a daily basis. Taking in this whole production was mesmorizing; people from all walks of life sat clutching a steaming silver bowl of chai in echoing rooms upon thin rugs which ran the length of the floor. Upstairs, families sat and talked as they ate dal, curries, and naan on spaces equally simple, but just as large. Rows of brightly dyed fabrics and bobbing turbans created splashing sea of color in the cement structure as bare feet stepped on floured floors where the naan was being made. From the windows below, you can see the mats and blankets of people who are curled up in the outer rims of the temple's courtyard, still sleeping in the morning sun.

The upstairs room slowly emptied after a time, only to be filled up again with hungry people and volunteers doling out dishes onto silver trays. I was profoundly touched at the thankfulness, humility, and gratitude I witnessed while in Amritsar. It wasn't communicated by words I could understand (my Hindi and Punjabi skill are nonexistent) but was so clearly demonstrated through actions that language became arbitrary.  The entire experience was beautiful in every sense of the word. Sunlight flitted through the upper room, basking a small group of naan making volunteers in a warm glow that was hazy from the flour and the curling steam. Six or so women chatted idly as they rolled out smooth balls of dough into  rounds of dough, later to be placed, flipped, and flipped again on the steaming hot plate behind them.

The day's only criticism was that it was the wrong day to wear black pants, but was easily overlooked.  I sat down on a low stool, crossed my bare feet in the powdery flour and rolled out round after round of dough. After a few dozen tries, I think I got the technique down, though I certainly wasn't as practiced as the women beside me. Next, immensely huge cauldrons of curried needed to be stirred as I watched a man pour out chai in 5 gallon tin cans as spiced steam made its spiraled escape out open windows. My flour dusted arms got soaked in soapy water as metal trays, bowls and spoons were tossed in troughs to be washed, then dried.  It was a day in the kitchen; one that I don't think I'll get again.

While I spent the morning and afternoon in the kitchen and filled with gratitude, the evening was a different matter. If you get the chance to see the Wagah Border ceremony, go. It's got an electric charge that rivals any sporting event I've attended, and the scent of popcorn is an oddly humorous contrast to the stern guides and the tight security. Be sure to join the flash dance party before the ceremony, and feel extremely patriotic for a country you've only been in for less than a week.

The Ugly Dumpling

I've had my eye on making dumplings for a quite some time. The whole process seems rather therapeutic; rolling out thin rounds of dough, spooning a tiny amount of filling inside and artistically folding each little half tightly before tucking it atop a floured sheet and under a damp towel...Not to mention the indisputable fact that potstickers are delicious and I'm a staunch believer in gastronomy therapy. This whole week had me hankering for dumplings of some kind,  so Saturday seemed the ideal time to test out my wrapper folding skills. Though I've seen the wonton wrappers in the grocery store and knew it would streamline my afternoon in the kitchen, there's something about making a meal completely from scratch. Yes, you could buy the frosting to schmear atop your cake, but it kind of feels like cheating once you've put in the effort to make the majority  of the edibles all by yourself. 

For potstickers, the ingredients are simple enough; basic elements mixed together to create something that is from it's foundation delicious. Salt, water, and flour was all the dough needed, in addition from a few minutes of kneading. Hands removed of ring and watch stirred flour from a knobby mixture into a smooth dough that tightened up quite nicely into a firm and solid ball. Ground chicken, loads scallions, spicy grated ginger root and a few other ingredients made up the filling and that's really all there was to it. 

Almost. 

The painstaking process of making these dumplings should have been thought out more thoroughly. A late breakfast Saturday had me skipping lunch and arriving home ready to tuck into a heaping pile of the crunchy yet juicy little dumplings. Although I did get my reward, it wasn't until I had rolled out dozens of evenly round circles of dough, spooned tiny bits of filling inside before folding the dough over and haphazardly 'perfecting' the crimping fold. A tray full of mostly proportional sized dumplings gently floured just waiting to meet their tasty demise meant we were getting closer, but weren't quite there yet. 

Then came the boiling and the frying and the agonizing wait until the entire batch had been rolled, filled, folded, boiled, and fried. Then, and only then, was it was time to eat. Albeit a little uneven and a tad bit ugly, were delicious.