This list is a damned lie because the University of Wisconsin is not on it. 3 comments #
Day 1004: Of Water And Dosas
May 28, 2008 - Filed Under desi / india, family & friends, food & drink
Friend Viji has been busy traveling and writing for the Christian Science Monitor. This article is a part of her plan to put Mylapore, my mother’s Indian hometown, on the map.
… Chennai’s efforts to tackle its water shortage bears watching. By 2030, about 60 percent of the world’s population is expected to be living in similar large metro areas with limited natural resources. The renovated [Kapaleeshwarar temple] tank with its greenish water offers reassuring evidence that efforts to harvest rainwater here – a pragmatic step to fight water shortage – have begun to yield results.
Geography does not favor Chennai: No major river flows through this semi-arid city. But the city averages 48 inches of annual rainfall, six times more than Phoenix. Historically, importing water from neighboring states has been fraught with political tensions.
Another piece describes and celebrates the dosa (South Indian rice crepe), of which Alli recently enjoyed the masala version at That Indian Place. Dosas, you are so amazing on the palate and equally irksome to make.
… Making dosas used to be hard work. Cooks soaked rice and lentils in water for several hours and ground these ingredients in a stone mortar. After this muscle work, the job still wasn’t finished. The batter needed to ferment. Then, once bubbles rose to the top, it had to be refrigerated, or it would turn too sour and be fit only to make uthappams, a pancakelike dish I don’t like.
Used to be?! It is still virtually impossible in the absence of a gigantic, mechanized ammi, a Sumeet or a Preethi, which, with their voltage differences and conversion requirements, would take out the power to all of the Lower Garden District. Even with today’s American blenders, it is a royal pain in the lower back to combine the right quantities of soaked urad dal and rice flour paste, grind, mix, grind, mix and, finally, pour the viscous batter into a container while trying your hardest not to get it all over the countertops and hardwood floor.
Come to think of it, the last time I was done grinding dosa batter I cried for two hours straight and prayed to the heavens above for a divine-intervention shoulder rub. The chili powder in the open wound was cooking those dosas on a hot, hot evening a month before Katrina hit, and the cooking was the easy part. Oh no, you evil temptation dosa, you can’t lure me into making you again here in New Orleans, not when I can eat them at Komi’s or about twice a year at my parents’. Avast, my flat and flavorful yet fickle friend.
And, before anyone even mentions it, I’d rather never eat dosas again than look at, much less cook with, pre-packaged batter. Scoff.
Great, now my stomach is growling. A fortuitous thing I’m making rajma tonight.
Day 977: Van Gogh & Wilde Nothing More Than Raging Drunks
May 1, 2008 - Filed Under food & drink, science & technology
LiveScience: Absinthe’s Mind-Altering Mystery Solved
The culprit seems plain and simple: The century-old absinthe contained about 70 percent alcohol, giving it a 140-proof kick. In comparison, most gins, vodkas and whiskeys are just 80- to 100-proof.
… The modern scientific consensus is that absinthe’s reputation could simply be traced back to alcoholism, or perhaps toxic compounds that leaked in during faulty distillation.
… After uncorking the bottles, they found relatively small concentrations of thujone in that absinthe, about the same as those in modern varieties. Laboratory tests found no other compound that could explain absinthe’s effects. “All things considered, nothing besides ethanol was found in the absinthes that was able to explain the syndrome of absinthism.”
Despite this research, the absinthe back on American shelves is thujone-free. Fret not, New Orleanians, we have Lucid.
Day 975: Jazzfest Food!
April 29, 2008 - Filed Under food & drink, new orleans, photographs
What’s Jazzfest without food pr0n?
Crawfish At Big Al’s Seafood House On Annunciation - The spice in this batch was a bit on the low side, but the sides were great.
Cochon De Lait Po Boy During Inhalation By D
The Best And My Favorite For Last - Fried Eggplant With Crawfish Sauce!
Day 974: Several NOLA Changes
April 28, 2008 - Filed Under food & drink, music, new orleans
* While I was at Hana’s birthday party last night, D and a visiting friend attended The New Orleans Bingo! Show at One Eyed Jacks. Aside from waking me up at 3AM today to rave about the show, D mentioned that Clint Maedgen revealed to the audience that he is moving to Los Angeles soon, but will be back to visit at least two months each year. Clint’s growing and has garnered quite a bit of acclaim recently - it’s sad he has to leave to make it big in the music business, but wish him all the best. All right, my baby!
* Komi is putting That Indian Place in the food court at Place St. Charles up for sale. No more Chili Chicken?! What will I do without Chili Chicken and a side of Raita? Woe. Prospective buyers are encouraged to contact Komi via the TIP website. More importantly, if you haven’t been there yet, get thee to Komi’s stat before she closes shop for good.
* My dear and talented friend, Amanda Walker, is moving back to New Orleans!
Day 921: Every Ting Be Eire, Mon!
March 5, 2008 - Filed Under culture-society-history, family & friends, food & drink, geology, global, photographs, recovery, travel
Last Saturday, 1100 miles away on the island of Jamaica, I turned the same age as Jesus and John Belushi when they died. Perhaps this will be the year a woman breaks into the Stonecutters Freemasons and is then promptly axed. Axed to leave, that is.
For one week, our friends, Olga, Osbourne and Salome, took six of us from the Wisconsin gang into their villa and arms once again. We swam in a lovely pool, sat by it while soaking up the sun, ate scrumptious Jamaican dishes cooked by Olga herself, walked and swam in the Caribbean and enjoyed meeting and hanging out with Runaway Bay and Swansea locals. Not once during the seven days did we know what was going on back home or in the worlds of politics, sports and entertainment. Nor did we care to know. I’ve come to realize that it’s not all that important, unless there’s a missile being lobbed in your general direction or Brett Favre retires. “Why did it take us five years to come back? Are we collectively insane?” we wondered, especially the ones who live in Wisconsin and Ohio. Two years is as long a gap we will now afford before returning to paradise.
While we vacationed, life in Jamaica went on around us. The general economic atmosphere in the portion of the north coast that we travelled (from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios) is one of building, quarrying and transportation. You couldn’t say the same five years ago, when the pothole-ridden streets and almost-dead silence of the place frightened me, until I came to know certain parts of New Orleans before and after the flood. The only troubling aspect of the enthusiastic construction there is the sheer number of sprawling mega-resorts and tall condominium towers rising up on the Caribbean waterfront, impeding views and access to locals. One observes a lot of cranes in the sky, but few are for Jamaicans, reserved instead for foreigners with money who will live part-time or permanently in Jamaica.
From what I heard and observed, the island as a whole seems to have recovered nicely from Hurricane Dean with newly paved roads and other facets of rebuilt infrastructure like schools, hospitals and shops.
[Aside: During a visit to the vast and breathttaking rock-gasm that is the Green Grotto cave system, I learned that the word hurricane arrived in our vocabulary from Hurákan, the storm god of the Mayans and the Taíno, the indigenous people of Jamaica better known to the west as the Arawak. In fact, in above-ground clearings surrounded by immediate entries to the caves, the Taíno performed many a ritual to appease the angry storm god. It is unfortunate that the current existence of the Taíno in Jamaica can only be speculated upon thanks to their massacre by successive waves of colonists. When pressed, our tour guide referred to them simply as "extinct."]
There is a price to pay for living in paradise. “Had Dean not veered away, there would be no more Jamaica,” our friends muttered slowly. Some asked me about New Orleans and what is taking us so long. When I explained that the onus of post-Katrina/Flood recovery is on the New Orleanian and the communities we form, they laughed and asked us why we don’t riot and get rid of corrupt politicians like they do. “If we don’t like those in power, they don’t stay in there too long,” said Olga. “You are Americans. We are not so rich, but we fight. What’s your excuse?” What is our excuse? Sheepishly, I grabbed my plate of fried plantains and walked away to mull it over. That was my excuse.
Mmmmm, fried plantains. The most inexpensive and delicious fruit, vegetables, seafood, spices and sweets cooked and served three times daily. Mangoes, breadfruit, pineapple and papaya to die for alongside jerk chicken and freshly-caught lobster and fish. After every meal, we promised one another not to get used to it, lest we come back home and expect the contents of the refrigerator to magically transform, auto-cook and appear on our dinner plates.
Popular Jamaican music, however, is not as insipring as the food. There is, it seems, no limit to the number of times an artist or dj can insert an airhorn into an otherwise relaxing bit of reggae, while the islander obsession with country music baffles me. Why, oh why, must my eardrums get damaged by listening to Garth Brooks and Shania Twain lyrics in off-key patois? If the fad persists, please stick with Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. Thank goodness, however, for the melodious respites offered by Bob Marley, Jah Rule and Lady Saw.
The end of the week came. Olga and Osbourne shed tears as we hugged and said our goodbyes. When asked why, they responded that we are some of the nicest folks they’ve ever met, they are surprised we’ve stayed friends for half a decade and we don’t put on airs around the help. Apparently, not many visitors treat black Jamaicans with the equality and camaraderie we bestowed upon our hosts. I’ve noticed that, in general, middle-class Americans who travel abroad may not be the most cosmopolitan and, hence, stick out like a sore thumb, but do not put themselves in a class above the locals or help. The wealthy from any nation and all classes of Europeans, on the other hand, tend to maintain a strict social barrier between themselves and foreigners or those who serve them. I view it as a remanent of the baron-serf, colonist-colonized, owner-slave relationships that existed between these people and may persist until nations like Jamaica are not viewed as former colonies but as freestanding nations. Understand that this is a cultural nuance, but not one that has to endure or be tolerated. Olga, Ozzie and their families are my people now, as it should be.
Reminiscing about this trip, the one thought that floats to the top over and over again is “Thank you for letting me see, hear, feel, eat and breathe this. Thank you for the time to let go. I’m so lucky.”
The two foodies in this house make reservations for No Reservations. In addition, Alan Richman is not invited ever since this spiteful ball of confusion was printed in GQ. (If Richman can make non-confrontational D write a rebuttal, something really ain’t right with that man.) So, imagine our glee-times-two when we found out from Alan that Anthony Bourdain hosts the Golden Clog Awards and that THE DOUCHEBAG went to Alan Richman! Ha! 3 comments #
There, I bought the increasingly Suspect Device a beer. But not for Nader. Why then? I don’t drink beer (except for the occasional Guinness or superfresh product from America’s #1 rated brewery), can’t have one right now and gotta man him up a bit after my mom thought of him as a nice boy. That’s why. 4 comments #
