Mints' Khandeshi-Style Methichi Bhaji

Are sansaar sansaar, jasa tavha chulhyavar
Aadhi hatala chatake, tevha milate bhaakar 

(Rough translation: Life is like a hot griddle on a stove/You will burn your fingers before you learn how to make bread)

I love poetry spun from life's gritty fabric because not only is it starkly beautiful, but it can be transcendentally wise and gloriously witty.

It is said that Bahinabai, a 19th-century poetess, responded with these lines when her mother-in-law chided her for scalding her hands as she made bhakri, a delicious rustic bread that's eaten in Maharashtra, a sprawling state along India's west coast. Here's the kicker, though: Bahinabai could not read nor write and her poems were all composed verbally, flowing from her eagle-sharp observations of life and nature.

Although she died before her poems were published and before anyone in the wide world knew about her, Bahinabai's poems have become an indelible memory for many like me who grew up speaking Marathi, the language of Maharashtra. I heard her songs, often sanitized into "cleaner" Marathi (she composed in a dialect) but with their essence intact, sung by other singers on radio. I remember, as a child, watching a TV film about her life with images of a very simple but radiant woman singing beautifully as she strained to grind flour in a stone hand-mill.

But most of all I remember those two lines, and I can't help but hum them ever so often. They strike a delightful analogy between the two worlds we live in: the practical world that we all see, share and enjoy/endure each day; and the emotional one, that secretive, sometimes dark place we allow no one but ourselves to visit, but where we also find our strength.

Last night I thought again of Bahinabai and her earthy wisdom as I made Mints' Khandeshi-style methichi bhaji. I don't really know a whole lot about this region along the northwest border of Maharashtra that's famous for its distinctive, fiery, earthy cuisine, but I do remember reading somewhere that Bahinabai was born there.

What really captivated me about Mints' recipe was the use of peanuts. The cuisine of Maharashtra tends to be deliciously and generously spiked with this nutty legume which, as you likely already know, is great for you. (Even Lucy loves peanuts-- especially the ones still wrapped in their fibrous, golden shells. She will wait patiently for Desi to peel some for her, and gobble down the peanuts. If he forgets to give her some, she will sit next to the jar, look at it, then look at Desi, and this will continue until he notices. Sometimes, when he's not looking, she'll steal the stripped peanut shells and munch on those too!)

I followed the recipe faithfully except one addition-- curry leaves. I love these flavorful leaves so much, I am always looking for a chance to add them to whatever I cook up. I toasted the curry leaves along with the green chillies and peanuts, before grinding them up into a paste. We ate the dal with some aloo parathas hot off the griddle. And I used a spatula, so no, I didn't burn my fingers! :).

Thanks, Mints, for a delicious recipe. And for great memories!

India's Horrific Dairy Farms: Can You Stomach This?

We Indians tend to seek and find God in everything, from stones to rivers to trees and even books. It is not surprising, then, that we see God in the gentle eyes of a cow.

Which makes it all the more ironic, then, that India is the world's largest consumer of milk and milk products.

I've often tried talking to friends, families and relatives -- usually not successfully -- when they insist that cows do not suffer, or die, to give us milk.  Well, you know how they say a picture-- or a video-- is worth a thousand words?

A discussion on an Indian animal rights listserv sent me to this new video from PETA India that documents the abuses in the Indian dairy industry. I hope every one of you who loves milk products -- or thinks they cannot live without cheese or ghee or yogurt-- will take a moment to watch it. And think about it.

I remember the moment I decided I wouldn't eat meat again: Desi and I were hiking past  a pasture in Costa Rica's beautiful Monteverde valley. We were the only humans around, and as we walked past the fence, dozens of cows trotted toward us and then just stood there and watched us, their eyes large and soulful and full of curiosity. It made me never want to ever hurt one again.

So next time you feel like some dairy, look into the eyes of a cow. Or watch this video. I couldn't embed it because it's been flagged by some YouTube "users" (read dairy industry minions), but you can watch it at PETA India's Web site right here.

Remember, cow's milk is completely unnecessary for humans. Vegetables and grains provide our bodies with more than enough protein, and alternatives like soymilk are easily available everywhere now, including in India. There really is no good reason why any of us should be consuming milk-- or curd or ghee or butter or yogurt or paneer-- anymore.

Multigrain Wholegrain Bread: Hearty and Easy

Here's a bread I make almost every weekend so we can have something nutritious to snack on when hunger hits.

My multigrain, wholegrain bread is not just divinely healthy, it's also one of the best breads you'll ever taste-- guaranteed. What's more, it is totally versatile. It works beautifully for sandwiches, makes the crunchiest toast you can imagine (the way we like it), and is great even with a topping of nothing but ol' peanut butter and jelly.

Over the past few weeks since I first came up with this recipe, I've tried shaping it all sorts of ways. As two loaves, one loaf, a loaf-shaped loaf, and a round, bulbous loaf. As you can see, I went with the last option this time, but they all work great.

The best part of this bread is, it requires very little rising time-- just two rises of an hour each. So as breads go, this one is quite an efficient guy.

Vaidehi Manni's Super-Crispy Potato Wadas

Madras is a bursting, flourishing metropolis in the south Indian state of Tamil Nadu that remains, to this day, firmly rooted in age-old culture and tradition.

This is where Desi was born and where he grew up before moving to Bombay for a job. Some of his siblings still live there, so it is always a stop on our return trips to India.

My ideas about Madras, or Chennai as it is now called, began to take shape long before I met Desi. As a child growing up in Bombay, I learned of the city through the stories and anecdotes that my best friend and neighbor, Radha, brought back with her after each summer vacation spent visiting relatives there. Radha painted a fascinating land: of arid, acrid summers where some people walked miles to find water; a megalopolis suffused with small-town charm, where neighbors strolled in and out of open doors any time of the day and night and where women gathered in the verandahs of their single-storey homes after the day's cooking was done to share news of their small but lively worlds.

A city so orthodox that, she told me once, deadpan, a crowd gathered to watch her each time she stepped out of the house wearing pants (saris and salwar-kameezes are de rigueur for women here).