Rumblings: Taste Tyrant

27 October 2013 - 02:03 By Shanthini Naidoo
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There is a tiny lady who lives in a cooking bible, Indian Delights. The cookbook - penned by a doyenne of local Indian cuisine, Zuleikha Mayat - is sometimes gifted to an Indian bride, if someone has high expectations for her dinner table

The thing is, if you buy the book, you buy the tiny lady. She may be called Sita, but nobody knows for sure. She wears a perfectly draped sari, a large bhindi (married, of course), and sometimes holds a spoon as if ready to stir a pot, dip into a gravy or rap someone over the knuckles.

Should Indian Delights be consulted, Sita hops out, perching herself on one's shoulder to watch as a traditional recipe comes to life. "Have you roasted and ground the garam masala yourself?" she asks in her high-pitched voice, nose sniffing. Feigning deafness, I open jars couriered from Durban.

Sita appeared weeks before my first post-marriage Diwali, nagging that there were sweetmeats to be made and handed out as per tradition. "At least five varieties, or the tray will be bare, it is the first Diwali," she warned, waving the spoon and jingling her bangles to stress the haste. "The barfi will need time to set!" Sita was quiet about the fact that the delicacies rival Kobe beef in price, share the intricacy of macaroons in their preparation and require sushi-like precision in their decoration.

Indian Delights is heavenly and heavy with distracting photos of Mayat's curries, biryani, basic roti, complicated rotis (like Sita would make) - and the sweetmeats section. "Move along," Sita commanded, hopping through the pages, her sari flapping behind her.

The colourful illustrations created a vision of what my tray would look like. But the recipes. I broke out in a sweat. Sita frowned. Coconut ice seemed easy, but is not traditional. Ladoo, savoury sweet balls of delight. "But everyone knows they don't take much skill," Sita sniffed.

The traditional favourites are tricky.

Barfi, milky and creamy - "Make sure it sets!" - sticky doughnut-like gulab jamun drenched in syrup - "Soft and no crystals!" - earthy, fudge-like chana magaj - "Toast the chickpea flour till it is nutty!" - and the wonder that is jalebi, thin, crispy intertwined tubes, filled with syrup but dry outside. How does the syrup get in there? "Don't try it this year, please," she scoffed.

"Temper, glaze, cream butter into soft clouds, sieve flour, light as air!" Sita demanded. And then decorate with intricate gold leaf and coloured, shaped almonds? I'll try, it is our first Diwali, I thought. I sieved flour and fried dough, blanched and toasted almonds, roasted chickpea flour, cardamon and cloves.

"Never mind your tasty lamb curry and nobody worries about your busy career! At least five, or the tray will be bare!"

Buckets of sugar syruped till it spun a thread, butter creamed until my biceps screamed, flour sieved till it started to float. Yet, I dipped heavy-as-rock fried dough in syrup, crystals shattering the gulab jamun dream. The barfi tasted alright but didn't set; impossible to cut into pretty shapes.

Chana magaj went into the bin. "Of course, the flour was raw!"

Sita sat with her pretty head in her hands, crying: "The tray will be bare!" Actually, a Milk Tray will do. Ten minutes to buy, decorated with a ribbon and delivered with love. And Sita? She is quiet today, in a tightly bound book, packed high up and far away with her pokey nose and prying spoon. If I listen carefully, I hear her knock on the cupboard door. "It's the baby girl's first Diwali ... the tray will be bare!"

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