Ridiculously easy to make and deeply satisfying. Nom nom!

I had a sudden desire to eat thenkuzhal today. I’ve seen my mother make it a million times. Back in the day when eating something fried wasn’t quite the sin it has become now. Think my mother made a full spectrum of things and was quite sane in her advice – eat everything in moderation. As a 19 year old, I ignored it, and binged on fried fiends, but I find my own cooking quite reflective of her style. Minimum oil, most things slightly steamed, no overkill with every damn spice in the shelf, never really over-cooked and everyday meals that don’t involve back-breaking effort (mostly).

So anyhow, back to the sins of thenkuzhal. While poking my nose about online I discovered this wonderful maama-maami combo who make these wonderful videos from their kitchen in Srirangam. There’s something about their unassuming style of conversation (all in Tamil), their utensils, the arranged chaos that screams home to me.

For instance take a look at this – one of the videos for making Morkozhambu.

The videos aren’t edited or jazzy. You never quite see their faces, just maami’s busy (and magically effortless) hands, and her responses to maama’s various doubts and questions. Thanks maama-maami – you made someone very happy today.

Perhaps some places are better if they don’t move with time. UCH is a bit timeless that way. On an average you will struggle to see anyone under the age of 35 there. (Yes, I am 28, but I possibly look 35 anyway – and plus have always had a mildly ancient soul). The trendy crowd doesn’t really stick around in Connaught Place these days, having migrated en masse to the glitzy malls.

It’s the kind of place that works exceptionally well in the hot summers. The insides are a few shades darker and the air conditioner appears to provide that slightly sleep hum. The chaos of CP, right outside appears to melt into little puddles at the door.

I am still in awe of this place. The innocence of it so appealing that the kitsch stops being kitschy. It’s for these mildly unapparent reasons I love Delhi. In the winters, it alternates between being a moody cat that finds the insides of your bag appealing, and a bored dog – only interested in getting some sun. Either way, you need to flirt with the city to get it to like you. And we Delhi women like to flirt. It all works out.

PS – The food is not amazing. Just about above-average. But that never seems to matter.

What’s more, even the best desi restaurants here use that awful paneer. I cannot describe how bad it is. Apparently if the brick is chopped up and immersed in hot water for five minutes, it turns a little soft. But it just turns spongy, and goes right back to being some inedible thing.

Today, at work I discussed the merits of making paneer at home. Another desi girl and I sat and spent ten minutes on how hot the milk should be, what sort of agent you should use, and how long you should drain the solids and press it under something. Yes. That’s how paneer should be. Firm, yet soft. Not yellow, but a pale white. Something that soaks in the masala and yet retains a distinctly dairyish but not milky flavour.

I yearn for some good paneer now, but there isn’t enough milk in the fridge. And it’s too cold outside to go out and get some. I come back from work, and all I really want is to make paneer. My domestication is complete.

PS – Just in case I wasn’t gloating enough… I make really nice paneer. Am just lazy that’s all.

It’s raining outside. And personally I’d like a Molaga Bajji or two to go with the current mood. I like my workplace a lot – very outgoing people with a slightly twisted sense of humour, but the flipside is that at any given point in time a lot of them are out in the field. So in this moment, between closing one file and opening another, I’d really like to be able to bite into a piping hot molaga bajji. And drown it with some masala tea or filter coffee.

I would have said I will sell Molaga Bajji at my stand, but given my current state of mind, I will probably eat them all up and not sell any of them. But food is definitely on my mind today. I even gave out the recipe for Carrot Halwa to a colleague. Let’s see what comes of it. On that note, I give you one of my all time favourite kitchen songs – Samaithu Kattuvom from Unnal Mudiyum Thambi.

Now, the other day while a friend was attacking a rava dish, and insisting that it was the perfectly Tree-Tamil (Mara Tamil) thing to do, I told him that rava (wheat rava) is a relatively new entrant in the Tamil kitchen. Possibly not more than a hundred years or so old. Which explains why most of the items made with rava are stand alone. Tiffin items. Idlis, dosais and the like. Or even kesari. I am not sure if it’s new to the North Indian kitchen, but even their items are usually stand-alone.

WA tells me her grandmother will not even look fondly at rava, which further gives some strength to my logic that rava is rather new by the usual standard. Any idea anyone? A brief history of rava or suji in your kitchen?

PS – Yes, I know my dissertation is not on rava/ suji. Stop it already!

It is setting up a manufacturing plant and offices, followed by a series of shops across Britain. The company aims to grow quickly, with 45 jobs being created after one year rising to 100 after three years, said Think London, the capital’s official foreign direct investment agency.

Haldiram’s. Yum!!!