son, and live in Brooklyn. Fortunately my son has an Indian play-mate, a son of two doctors, and the two boys and his nanny and I hang out together, a woman from Kerala, in Southern India. Lo and behold, I am swept away again—entranced by the southern delights of idli cakes and dosas, coconut chutneys and curry leaves. Stella kindly teaches me a few dishes—which become cupboard standards for me. This is my first time encountering real home-cooked dal, which tastes like heaven, flecked with mustard seeds and curry leaves, as is the southern tradition, as opposed to the mud-like porridge generally served in restaurants. Finally, I know what my taste buds have been craving all these years.
We moved away from Brooklyn, after my few months of initiation into the rites of dal and dosas, and years passed by, with nary an Indian flavor, save an occasional buffet here and there or frozen samosas. A divorce followed and a long period of adjustment. Much food was cooked between catering and feeding my sons, heralding the holidays or just simple, comfort fare, but very few Indian dishes passed through our kitchen. No one seemed to share my passion, especially my two little boys who only wanted the simplest nibbles. But after some time, the lion of my spice cravings reared its head once more and I took charge, eschewing the books this time.
It hit me. Why couldn’t I learn from another Stella? Where was Stella? (I never found her again. She went back to India.) In desperation, I put out the ad. It was almost like I was searching for connection as well as good food. Who would’ve guessed that I would find culture, as well? Or even love? Yes, not only was my appetite for real Indian food reawakened in the home kitchens of my Indian neighbors, but my heart was reawakened—after a long, cold spell after divorce—by a love affair with a man who hails from India. Through the process of cooking in these homes, I also found a new spiritual partner, someone I’ll call “V,” a man I could discuss all my interests with, without deities or dogma, an exploration of the consciousness of one’s self. I went looking for Ginger and I found Ganesh. The musings of my palate led me to the cravings of my heart.
I see a small statue of Ganesh in an Indian store, staring at me with his doleful eyes.
I buy it. I buy incense. I start thanking him and ask him to clear obstacles, to bless my creativity. I read Ganesh likes bananas and I give him one occasionally.
Slowly, the obstacles fell away on this journey, and the doors flew open, leading me into a path of discovery, love, and coconut chutney.
Vishnu of Suburbia
The teeming bazaar of the market is now a cold, plastic Costco. But you can still buy basmati rice in a burlap sack
SO, OFF TO the suburbs in search of real Indian food and per-a haps more (adventures!), I drive into the gleaming developments, with their spraying fake lakes, the hot sun beaming on the sticky asphalt. Houses neatly packed in streets with cleverly wrought names—Mooncourt, Fieldstream—as somehow poetic tidbits meant to evoke a new world.
It is a new world.
Technology companies line Route 50 and the surrounding areas. BMWs shine in the parking lots, lovingly washed by their owners, and, looking around one would think they had strayed into some expensive gated community in India. Everyone is Indian. They wear the popular sporty clothes of Nike and Adidas, they drive American gas-guzzlers, and they fill their carts at Costco with Go-Gurts and frozen Mystic pizzas like any American soccer mom.
But when I enter the homes, my shoes left at the door, it is as if stepping back through the centuries. Gone is the flash of modern American culture. Breads are made by hand, quickly squeezed and rolled on round wooden blocks, and seared on old cast iron tawas (flat griddles). And the spices they use have been used for thousands of years, each with medicinal purposes, each lending a subtle note to the finished dish.
These methods have survived in a world spinning as fast as we can stand, hurtling us forward into ever-fresher horizons. And yet, behind the doors the ancient world still exists: women passing on their treasured dishes to each other. No, you roll like this. Here, try like this one. Our throats slightly choking as hot chili oils fill the air. The delicate and mysterious paste of sweets brought over on the plane from Gujarat, most generously offered. It’s an ancient bonding and one I seem to need, the feminine tradition of hearth-tending. Why have we fallen away from it in our rush to succeed in the world? Why is cooking a lovingly prepared meal from natural ingredients, from “scratch” as we like to say, gone to the wayside? And, as a vegetarian, flexitarian, or even plain meat-eater, who wouldn’t want to learn the vast bevy of vegetable dishes that Indians delight in?
There is another element at play in this journey: my newfound vegetarianism comes from a place where I am trying to experience ahimsa, the Hindu and Buddhist concept of “do no harm.” Of course, this applies to what we consume; essentially, animals that have experienced harm and violence arrive on our dinner plates. But I am also exploring the idea that energy, positive or negative, can permeate our food. We talk of food “cooked with love” as if it palpably makes a difference to our taste buds, and I think it does. Surely the energetic state of food preparation—either in a cold, sterile factory or the hands of a loving person—contributes to the blandness or the goodness and delectability of food. I have to believe this is so, even for those who would mock such new age thinking. Therefore, it seems to me that when we are taught cooking, person to person, we are engaged in the highest method of teaching, a shared respect and kindness, a cultural exchange and a lasting warmth that just reading a recipe cannot impart. Well, you may say, isn’t that what you are producing here, just another book? Yes, but I am hoping that these recipes feel as authentic and true as when they emerge from the hands and mouths of these ladies, and that you too will feel the love and kindness that was imparted. These weren’t produced in test kitchens: they were shared like old stories, lovingly described and respected. And I am hoping that this will encourage you to reach out to your neighbors, be they from Pakistan or Romania or Appalachia or Long Island, and ask them: What are your family recipes? Can you teach me?
I notice a stark difference culturally in kitchens between Indian and American concepts: Americans have transformed their cooking spaces, or at least they long to, into casual centers of social entertaining—islands with stools for lounging on with chardonnay as the host chops a few shallots. Americans have great grills for flaming this and that. Even a sitting area bleeding into the area for more social activity. And, if you can afford state of the art technology for the best culinary experience, customized sub zero refrigerators. There are Aga stoves that keep temperature perfect for instant baking, pizza ovens, wine coolers, etc. And yet, in these kitchens, most do not cook. Bring them a chicken and they will look at it warily. Show them a pile of okra and they will not know what to do. Cooking has come to mean an entirely different thing: there is so much convenient food, cooking has been stripped of its sensuality. We do not need to touch food to make a meal. We are opening packages. Salad and vegetables are packaged, as well as meat. We tear these open, slide them on a plate. Dinner is done without a hand actually touching it.
The Indian kitchen is simple, a factory with a few well-worn tools: cutting board, knife, pressure cooker, chapathi roller, tawa, and blender. Besides a few pans and such, that is it. Oh, and a precious spice tin that they all seem to have: a cylindrical container with six spice bowls and a small spoon, kept by the stove, called a masala dabba.
AND SO, ON my strange modern journey of female apprenticeship, I drive through the plasticized furrows of Virginia, venturing into a smooth and expressionless development to augur the elements of an ancient rite: cooking and talking with women who will teach me the methods of a home. In a sense it is like sitting in the darkness of a cool movie theater, awaiting the feature. I am expectant and happy. There is a great sense of trust already flowing through the air, because first of all, the domestic location has eased everyone’s minds. It feels safe and comfy. And next, there is a certain respect being shared and honored, that I, coming from such a modern country, would care to know these things. Most of the people who responded to my ad seemed genuinely surprised that I cared to know about their food. But where else would I learn? From a cold book procured at Borders, flopping on my table, as I try to measure the ingredients? How would this teach me anything? I was craving continuity, connection. A femaleness. This is how we do it. And it’s complicated, Indian food. There are many spices and herbs,