Melbourne Memories

Reading through my posts brought on nostalgia! So, here's what I will remember -

First of all, reconnecting with my cousin Penny who is still the delightful presence that I remember from childhood – the only cousin whom I have really known. And her husband, Ian, is a darling too.  I am all of 64 years old and he calls me ‘Kiddo!’ What’s not to love?  I got to catch up with her sons and their wives: the elder is the baby I carried - he is now a grown man with teenage sons and a person of eminence.  The younger son, who was a little fellow when I first encountered him, still retains his shy smile and happy demeanour.  He’s also ace at choosing fabulous places to eat!! 

I got to catch up with other cousins, too, some of whom I had met years ago and one who I was meeting for the very first time!!  David is still the big and burly giant to my slight frame but definitely closer in image to Santa than the teenage lad who used to take me piggy-back.  His wife, Jackie, was all affection and super-efficiency.  And I was the pampered ‘little cousin’!  I loved meeting their children and extended family – most of all I loved Tim’s renovated caravans.  A home on wheels is a beckoning adventure!  

Catching up with Eslyn and his lovely wife, Christina, brought back happy memories of Uncle Dudley, my Mum’s older brother.  And the ‘tea party’ in Melbourne city with Penelope Jane rounded off the encounters of the relative kind.  

From the original family of ten that my mother belonged to, this may seem like a small number but quite a few of her siblings did not marry, some (as I) are only children and one cousin has, sadly, passed on.  My visit did achieve what it aimed to do – catch up with family!

And then there was the road-trip to Sydney and Canberra with the Anglo Indian Association. Boy oh boy, that was a family trip of a very different kind.  A joyful, exuberant, friendly busload of people who were glad to share their memories of an India that would be totally unrecognizable to them today.  They also shared an amazing variety of food (reminded me of our train journeys when I was still a child and the picnic hampers we carried from destination to destination), the songs of yesteryears and Bingo!!  Yes, the memories are plenty and nostalgic!!!

Of Melbourne itself (in preference, Sydney and Canberra come a distant second and third) I will remember the tree lined suburbs with houses boasting the prettiest gardens – the freshest air, the cleanest water (I did not need to carry my bottle – we drank straight from the tap), the well-kept surroundings, the fantastic food.

Of Australia, as a country, I will remember the really huge open spaces, the miles and miles of road that made up the longest distances, the outsize servings that are characteristic of every meal and the rejoinder ‘no worries, mate’ to my sometimes necessary ‘sorry’!  But what made the greatest impact is that here one sees that good governance really works – it is visible in every aspect of daily living: the efficiency, the courtesy, the observance of rules, the honesty and accountability.  I never heard a car honk and the consideration observed on the road by every driver is to be seen to be believed. It is perhaps significant that on the only occasion when I was almost ripped off, it was by someone of Asian origin!! 

And all this is just the ‘outline’!  

Yes, it was a good trip – a fantastic trip - and as memories grow distant, my heart will still carry the happiness of a month much enjoyed, the anticipation of living as family certainly achieved.

Food, Glorious Food (or, an AI in an EI Kitchen – Part V)

The real rite of initiation for a new bride is her first stint in the marital kitchen (and I brook no argument!). For one who has never stepped into a kitchen before, the trepidation in advance and the ordeal that follows rivals any feat of endurance. Think of all the weapons of mass destruction – fierce flames, hot cavernous ovens, sharp knives, choppers and skewers, heavy skillets, pungent and dangerous condiments (when you chop a hot pepper, for heaven’s sake, don’t rub your itching eyes – a very novice error!) If you’ve been there done that, smile. If not, look forward to it. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.

But once the first terror has been overcome, the rest is a rollicking adventure as you pick up culinary skills that are at once unique and fascinating. And you can chuckle at the goof-ups that made you cringe. Thanks to an affectionate and helpful mother-in-law I was coaxed and coached into learning hubby’s favourite foods - like all good EIs, he loved variety and quantity on his plate. The highest accolade I could hope to achieve was ‘just like Mother’s’ (I never made the ‘better than’ grade). I was often regaled with stories of feasts and festivities and special dishes which now reside only in memory and imagination (mine!). I stuck to the daily fare and left the fancy to the more experienced hands. Occasionally, I would slip in a few AI variations. Hubby would take a tentative first spoonful and then utter a plaintive, ‘What’s this?’ He knew authenticity when he tasted it.

Over the years, I find that I have a acquired a goodly collection of recipes – EI, AI, local and international cuisines - which embrace the instructions received from hubby’s mum and sisters and also those gleaned from friends, cookbooks and magazines. The books (yes, I have many) have been well thumbed and the firm favourites splattered with tell-tale smudges - relics of the working kitchen. And now that I’m a battle-scarred veteran of the senior citizen's brigade, it is my turn to pass on the folklore, the helpful hints and tips. This is why I have decided to embark – very ambitiously – on a recipe book. I doubt very much that the next generation will find it useful, but they can read and dream.

So, if I am absent from my blog, you’ll know the reason why.

An AI in an EI Kitchen – Part III

Bottle Masala: I first met hat EI staple in all its pungent, fiery splendour when the annual quota was in production at Mum-in-law’s home.

As I ascended the stairs, my nostrils started tickling and the heady aroma grew stronger as I neared the kitchen. There, in the center of the large dining table, in an enormous steel thali (rimmed tray cum plate) sat this tall, sprawling heap of freshly roasted and ground masala. Hubby’s Mum and sister were busy filling the powder into narrow necked bottles using sawn off funnels and a wooden baton to tamp the masala down, packing it so tightly that subsequent removal would require a lot of friendly persuasion (I use a knitting needle or chopstick which is tucked away safely in my kitchen drawer)! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Hubby, following me, sniffed the air, did an about turn and trotted down the lane double quick. I thought he was chicken. But he returned in ten minutes flat, with a plastic bag of ‘hot, hot’ potato wafers, fresh out of the fat, from the neighbourhood ‘chip shop’. The wafers were emptied onto a plate, a generous pinch of fresh bottle masala sprinkled on top and, presto, he had the perfect accompaniment to his bada chhota peg (a large, small whisky!).

I think that the true test of an EI is the ability to face the freshly prepared masala without having to emulate a masked highwayman. I needed to live down quite a few twitches in the olfactory canals before I got accustomed to the condiment. That first occasion certainly had a salutary effect on my sinuses – never before or after did I have such a clear nose!

Now, I can face the bottle with equanimity. I can even sniff and tell whether the content is good, bad or indifferent. And I use it generously in my own cooking. The proof as always is in the curry: if the colour and taste turn out right, you have the perfect product.

Mum-in-law’s generation always made their own quota from a carefully guarded family recipe. Thankfully, the quota included a daughter-in-law’s needs as well. Slowly but surely, the number of people making the authentic EI Bottle Masala is dwindling. Will the pizza popping generation, who prefer the instant meal, still need the magic ingredient? I cannot say. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope that it will be available to me till my time runs out.

It will be a sad day indeed when this very desirable flavour becomes just a memory.

An AI in an EI Kitchen - Part II

How do you cut up an onion? Let me count the ways!

Hubby’s Mum was making a curry. I offered to help. Asked to cut the onions, while an unexpected visitor occupied her time, I cleaned and chopped with a will. When Mum-in-law returned to her kitchen, she was presented with a neat bowl of onion chopped exceedingly fine. The exercise had been undertaken, slowly and precisely, using a very sharp knife (I was grateful that I could count ten fingers, all intact, after the achievement). She looked and said, “No, no! The onions had to be cut round.” Apparently, it was common knowledge that for that particular curry, onions had to be prepared that way. Unfortunately, I was not party to that 'common knowledge'. Fortunately, Mum-in-law was quick with the knife and we had onions cut in the round, in no time at all.

Onions are used at the beginning of most preparations. And, once fried, they disappear into the other ingredients which are added in their appointed order. Once ingested and digested, who would be able to tell which way the onions had been cut? But Mum-in-law insisted that it made a difference and, all her life, she would fulfill the demands of the dish by cutting up the onions exactly as required. So well did I learn the lesson, that even now when laziness tempts, conscience insists that I slice, dice, chop fine, cut round, half round or long as stipulated by the book.

Does it make a difference to the taste? I am not sure. I think the rule was created to instill discipline in the art, to keep attention focused on the job in hand and to add variety to what would otherwise be a run of the mill occupation.

What does make a difference to the taste is that ‘pinch of love’ that inspires perfection at every stage of preparation of a meal. An ingredient that you will find in every EI kitchen!

My nephew who blogs

Technically speaking he is my husband’s nephew since he is his sister’s son. In India, however, anyone who has the advantage of ten years or more becomes a complimentary uncle or aunt anyway. So there!

The blog which is now in print has made news and how. The language is strongly flavoured, redolent of the precinct and the patois – a sort of sorpotel/vindaloo meets prawn balchow meets custard pudding, all washed down with kokum sherbet. There is a pungency in the message and a sweetness in the memory which allows the encounter to linger satisfyingly – like a cordon bleu banquet - long after bidding the blog adieu. The analogy to food is deliberate – EIs excel in this department and the ability to provide a good meal is more often than not the yardstick for prowess!

There is no doubt that he is a denizen of Bandra, but that he has chosen that peculiarly AI epithet ‘bugger’ tickles me no end. Whatever his reason, this is one bugger that has done Bandra real proud. And to know so for yourself, do log on to: http://bandrabuggers.blogspot.com/

Bon Appetit!

While Walking the Dogs

Our niece walked through her front door, face suffused with suppressed amusement laced with a tinge of indignation. “Wait till I see that Uncle Albert!” “What’s happened?” “I have lived on this street all my life and this is the first time that the mochi, the chanawala, the fruit man and the paanwala, and sundry other people have called out to me!!”

I guess I should start at the beginning. We had moved in temporarily with our niece; we meaning my husband, our two dogs and I. My husband was away for the day and the niece had volunteered to walk the dogs – something my husband enjoyed and indulged in three times a day. Since we did not join him in this pastime, we had a lot of learning to do! Our niece – a dog lover too – was happy to be led by the large collie and the little pom while following their usual route. What she did not expect was to hear herself being hailed every so often with the call, “Uncle kahan gaye? Hell-ow Bonnie, hell-ow Sweetie.” To say that she was taken aback would be an understatement. Apparently, my husband had made friends with everyone on the block in the space of just a few days.

I was to discover still more. I undertook the ‘night shift’ and last walk of the day. And I was duly greeted by every watchman at every gateway. Since my four-legged companions insisted on completion of the route before turning back toward home, I followed them gingerly through dimly lit alleyways. I did not have to worry about safety: the collie’s size and the pom’s bark were sufficient to the task of safeguarding their mistress. Also, the policeman on the beat had apparently made their acquaintance. Somewhere along the way, two scantily clad women heavily made up and leaving no one in doubt about their occupation swooped noisily on the dogs, cooing and fussing over them, calling to them by their names.

When hubby returned the next day, I was waiting for him. “I can understand the vendors and the watchmen. But the ladies of the night? Really!” “What can I do, they wanted to pet the dogs,” he replied with a sheepish grin, “they mean no harm.”

All future walks, whenever I stood in for my husband, were always eventful, with new ‘friends’ to greet: the elderly gentleman on his morning constitutional, the schoolchildren all vying with each other to shake a paw, the street urchins and other dog walkers. I began to look forward to these sociable encounters.

This was a side of my husband that I was happy to discover – the ability to ‘walk with crowds and keep his virtue or walk with kings and not lose the common touch’. Very few have the gift.

And it is a lovely feeling to know that I am watched by friendly smiles when I venture down the street, even though Bonnie and Sweetie are no longer around.

My mother’s eldest sister

The firstborn in a family of ten, her place in the family annals was assured. I knew of Aunt Roz long before I met her, and I certainly felt her presence: a prized red sweater knitted with love, warm and embracing, which saw me through a few north Indian winters; a knitted doll with distinctly Jamaican features, dress and accessories, and gifts sent from time to time for a little girl she had never seen. A black and white photograph, my first memory of her, revealed a luminous beauty.

My mother was the last but one of the ten and, I think, a little in awe of big sister. Tomboyish, strong willed, fun loving, determined and also very talented, according to my mother, Aunt Roz met life head on.

I finally caught up with her when I was around eleven years old and legend did her justice. I loved my aunt on sight – she was the ideal foil to a shy, uncertain, self-effacing child. I remember laughing eyes and an infectious, sometimes ribald, sense of humour (something my mother did not appreciate which made it the more delightful!), a never say die attitude and a very accommodating temper. Her children, my cousins, were grown and gone, she had retired from teaching and, so, I was favoured with her full attention.

The setting was the railway colony in Jhansi and the timeframe was a couple of months which also included Christmas. I learned how to make Rum Punch and Christmas cake. I also learned to distinguish salt from ground sugar! Aunt Roz decided that eleven was a good age to be introduced to the working kitchen and ‘Banana Fritters’ just the right recipe. The ingredients were freshly bought and tied up in paper bags, waiting to be emptied into jar and bowl. I duly opened a packet and, without checking the contents, emptied it into the bowl which already had the mashed banana and flour (that was the time before mixers and food processors). Luckily, the mistake was discovered before mixing commenced and we ended up enjoying the ‘slightly salty’ result. This was the first time an adult did not go ballistic when I made a mistake and I loved her for it.

Attending Sunday Mass entailed a long walk and the crossing of a stream, accompanied by a question and answer session, mostly Sunday School stuff. Mass was followed by the recitation of three rosaries – five decades each, back to back. I would keep checking to see if she had finished and find that she was right at the beginning once more! When she was done, we still could not leave because one could not walk out while a Mass was in progress. Yes, we heard three Masses on Sundays. Perhaps that grace still follows me. If so, I have Aunt Roz to thank.

When she visited us in Bombay, she would take me to the movies and the tunes of ‘My Fair Lady’ are inextricably linked with memories of Audrey Hepburn, Rex Harrison and Aunt Roz. When I was with her, I could be myself without censure. I think she was slightly puzzled by a child that was so in contrast to her own two very outgoing and independent progeny, and so decided to give me free rein. Whatever the reason, she always seemed eager for my company as I was for hers.

Very strong on family ties, she made it a point to stay in touch even when she migrated to another continent. Her distinctive handwriting embellished Christmas cards, birthday cards and the in-between aerogramme with family news and a message for - or enquiry after - me. There was never a gap in the correspondence, even if we did not reply. Of all my mother’s sisters, she was the one I knew best.

From all accounts, her zest for living never faltered and her last missive to me told of knitting needles occupied by a pair of socks and the desire to try her hand at Hungarian Goulash!

They say that when those you love pass on, they become a memory and, in time, that memory becomes a treasure. Aunt Roz, you are surely a memory I will always treasure.