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.
