Food by Any Other Name…

Italy, for me, is a wonderful country for many reasons:
The language. The food. The people. My friends. My family in Florence.

Italy, for my sister, means one thing:
The birthplace of tiramisu.

On vacation there last week, she first checked the back of the menu in the restaurants to check. Phew! We could stay. She ate it every day…as in every single day. The day she didn’t, she compensated by eating tiramisu gelato.

And she thinks I am über-addicted to stuff.

Don’t get me wrong – I love it as well, but not as much as I love the meaning. From tira + mi + su = pick me up or draw me up. Reference being to the sponge cake sucking up the rum, the coffee giving one a little pick-me-up or the best one yet – eat it and you are transported straight up to heaven. Surely my sister will agree - though it would’ve been better to pull her back down to earth to try something else for a change.

The Turkish people have their own version of a dish purported to send you straight to heaven, or at least faint, presumably from sheer gastronomic delight: Imam Byildi - the Imam fainted. While it didn’t exactly have me keeling over, I do admit to it being on par with melanzana parmigiana. (Hopefully this will not get me into trouble with my Italian friends). They are pretty creative with names in that country. While I was there, I decided to stay away from the kadinbudu kofte, not exactly thrilled with the idea of biting into something that translated as ‘woman’s thighs’. Gives ladies’ fingers (okra) a run for their name.

Back in Italy, given the recent abuses of the church, it was with pleasure that I ordered strozzaprete or priest stranglers. Years ago, it was common practice to let priests eat for free in restaurants and homes.

According to the story, some restaurateurs wished that the “freeloaders” would choke on the pasta course before they could get to the more expensive meat and fish courses and so they rolled the pasta into a shape that might get lodged in the priest’s throat. Hmmm… too bad I am a pacifist - would’ve dearly loved to invite some of the folks down at Channel 11 to come over for dinner, temporarily forgetting how to carry out the Heimlich Maneuver.

Italians of course have always been creative (and prolific) with their pasta names - all 600 of them. Identifying them is fun. I love ‘radiatore’ (radiators) and ‘mostiaccioli’ (little mustaches) and gemelli (little twins) and torchietti (little torches). Someone had a lot of time on their hands.

The names are one thing. Try identifying them. Any idiot can tell the difference between fusilli and rotini. And just when you can tell spaghetti from bucatini (the latter is hollow), along comes perciatelli. Before you start scoffing, try telling agnoloti apart from mezzelune, or cavatelli from orecchiette. I made a fool out of myself when I pointed to a dish and asked for the penne. Turned out to be garganelli. Duh! They could’ve fooled me. Of course, if it does turn out to be penne, you have to be careful they are not pennette (small penne) or pennoni (big penne) – the same with spaghetti/spaghettini/spaghettoni.

I also make ‘confusione’ with farfallini and tripolini or “little bows”. One is little butterflies and the other was named to honor the Italian conquest of Tripoli in Libya.

Talking about conquests, there is the historical apocryphal story of the croissant roll being made in the shape of the crescent of the Turkish flag, after the defeat of the Turks in the Siege of Vienna in 1683. Recipes for croissants do not appear in recipe books until the early 1900s and the earliest French reference is in 1853.

Some words are unfortunate enough to just sound disgusting. Take ‘barfi’ for example. To Indians it connotes a wonderful milky dessert. My kids refused to touch it – saying they felt like adding an ‘ng’ behind the word. My husband begs to disagree, and given half the chance (which he isn’t, thanks to the statin he has to slug every day) would eat gobs of the stuff, which is sweet enough to curdle your teeth. The Asian dish ‘lumpia’ is another word that has you imagining a clump of unappetizing goo staring back you at from a plate with a disconsolate “Are you going to eat me or what?”

And how would you like to eat razor clams? Arrghh! I clutch my throat in pain.

Go down the alphabet and you have a veritable salmagundi of unappetizing-sounding names: scrod and sprat and squab – the first two being fish and the last one being ‘young pigeon’ – who could be so heartless as to eat a baby bird that hasn’t even been given a chance to fly? Probably the same swines who eat shark fin soup.

If you are not already on your way to heave, allow me to continue. Raise your hand if you love eating a goblin’s fart…that’s pumpernickel for you. How about devil’s dung (duivelsdrek in Afrikaans) – that’s the name for asafetida ('hing' in Indian English) because that’s what it smells like.

Ok. I will stop now. I could go on, but I have to go get me some of that Trader Joe’s tiramisu from the freezer. In honor of my sister.

Don’t fly with me, Maharaja.

Three hundred dollars can buy a lot of things.


An espresso machine.
A Magnum of Cristal Brut Champagne.
Front row seats to a ball game.


Most of all it could have bought me a ticket on Emirates, $ 300 being the difference between Heaven and Hell. Heaven being Emirates - one of the World’s Best Airlines and Air India – one of the World’s Worst (as deemed by anyone, yes, anyone, who has flown on this chromium piece of crap).


But frugality being encoded in a Gujju’s DNA, I opted to hit the Select button for Air India instead.


I think back often to that moment…the finger hovering over the Select button and wish instead I could press a Rewind Button. The trip was like a bad movie, except this one lasted much longer and involved delays, surly, unprofessional and past their expiration-date flight attendants - conditions akin to what the slaves faced on the Amistad. At least those poor bastards had the option of jumping overboard – we didn’t.


My first mistake was thinking that Air India had a website. Ok. A website that worked. The sign “System busy…please try again later” flashed the first fifty times I tried. Well, alrighty then. I would call. To my surprise, I got connected…on the very same day! I put it on speakerphone and soon the soothing sitar music lullabied me into a deep sleep. An hour into my refreshing nap, I woke up to hear an irritable Hullo? Hullo? I explained I was trying to do an e-check-in. He quasi-snorted and informed me in a huff that it rarely worked and would “Madam pliss go to airport itself and check in then only”. By now, any restful gains made by the nap had evaporated and I barked that even ghoda-gadis had an echeckin that worked.


Fast-forward to airport.


Our second mistake was showing up on time for the 2.30pm flight. Of course it was delayed. There were no signs to tell us this – Air India passengers rely on word of mouth to keep others up to date. We stood in line, politely, because that was what basic protocol demands, but quickly figured out that nice guys finish last. Pretty soon, we were shoving and pushing like the best of them, and when glaring had no effect, resorted to yelling and cussing. Finally reached the counter and a surly, unsmiling clerk labeled our luggage. Not wanting my bags to be sent to Yemen, I kept my cool and even managed a Thank you.


We proceeded past Customs and Immigration, where the havaldar exacted his petty power-play and held us back in line for twenty minutes while he picked at his teeth and cleaned his ear with the same finger. Ushering us through security, we dutifully removed our shoes and belts, grateful not to be made to remove our underwear, no thanks to the Christmas Nigerian bomber.


Like almost every monument in Bombay, the airport is also named after Chhatrapati Shivaji – the Maratha’s one claim to fame. It was a pleasant surprise: polished floors, clean bathrooms and carts with wheels in the same direction - although I did wonder how it managed to be named Best Airport in India, because, according to FlightStats, only 50 percent of its flights arrived on time.

In Servitude

While my husband and I heaved the suitcases out of the trunk of the car (note: by ourselves), our three-year old ran into the house, excited to be back home from an India-vacation.


Checking each room, she came back with a puzzled expression on her face.


“Where are our servants, mama?”


I sat her down, gently placed two hands on her shoulders and replied: “You’re looking at them, kid.”


One of the toughest situations I had to face after getting married and moving to the States was the ‘No Servant’ deal. I do not remember signing up for the position of scullery maid. What I do remember is getting married to a guy in sixteen days…to someone I never met before in my life. No big deal. Moving my life to a new country forever. Piece of cake. Leaving my family behind – it would be painful, but doable.


But, no servants? Fuggedaboutit!


I had questions:
Did I had to make my own coffee in the morning? Who would squeeze the oranges for my juice? Use a vacuum cleaner? Who would make a garam rotlis and shaak for lunch and serve it on a thali? Who would dust the furniture and mop the grungy floors? And did people in the States really iron their own clothes?


To which I gave my own answers: Yes, me, me, me, me and yes.


There would be no dhobi to wash and iron the clothes. No vasanwali to wash the dirty dishes. No one to make lunch. Nor dinner. In fact, no cook. Would I really have to make my own food? Um, slight problem there. I did not know how. Never made a cup of coffee. Not even washed a dish. In fact, never lit a stove in 28 years.


To my credit, I had taken a Tarla Dalal class in the 70s, but the only memory I have left of it is a file full of recipes. And she never taught us how to light a stove anyway.

Ciao America, Ciao Italia!!

Well, I am off for a ten-day trip to Italy…to gorge on pasta, prosciutto and gelato, visit friends and family, inhale aria fiorentina and romana… and to repeat one million times “I am in Italy!!” in sheer ecstasy. Last time I was there, my friends threatened that if I said it one more time, it would be my last, as well as swore to engrave it on my heart before dumping my body in the Arno. I suspect they got the idea from fellow Italophine Robert Browning:
“Open my heart, and you will see
Graved inside of it ‘Italy.’”.

People often wonder how I came to learn Italian. The plan was to go to Italy and learn the history of Italian art…in English I presumed. Well, I presumed wrong. I guess I didn’t read the fine print. What can I say - it was the 70s. We didn’t read the fine print then. When I got to the Eurocentro School in Florence, I was given a form in Italian to be filled out. 

I caught the gentleman’s eye. Excuse me, I said politely, explaining that I needed the English form for the Art History course.


It seemed there was no forma in inglese, because the corso was in italiano.


Non c’é problema, signorina, the teacher Signor Piancastelli continued, as I stared at him, borderline hysterical.


Helllooo…it was going to be a problem. A big problem. How the hell was I going to learn the Arte d’Italia using only the words signorina, buona sera, and amore (all courtesy of paesano Dean Martin). And oh, spaghetti and pizza, but I guess you can’t count those.


Long story short, I took Italian in the mornings and learned about the great Masters in the afternoons. Six months later, with another language tucked under my belt and a lot of Chianti inside my self, I was equipped with what I consider the best language in the world.


Now my husband will seriously beg to defer, saying it is Urdu. And not that it is necessary, but he has composed a shairi in its defense:


Khilaa Ho Jis par, Khoobsurat GhulaabTo Kaanton se Bhari,
Daali bhi Achhi Lagti Hai
Urdu Zubaan ki, Baat hi Kuchh Aur Hai
Urdu mein Dee Huyee, Gaali bhi Acchi Lagti Hai


I will offer a translation, but be warned, it does get lost in translation!


Even if a rose bush has a lot of thorns, it still looks beautiful.
In much the same way, the Urdu language is so special that
even a curse sounds like music to the ears.

A Prosciutto-eating Vegetarian

Aah!! Prosciutto. A gift from the gods. Oh alright… from pigs first.


Whoever heard of a prosciutto-eating vegetarian? If you have read my previous blog, this may seem a bit hypocritical, and understandably also a bit confusing, taking into account that I am known as the High Priestess of Vegetarianism. Although, it must be admitted, that those close to me have ceased to be baffled by anything I do. According to them, I have long since checked into the Mental Marriott – with no check-out time in sight.


All through my childhood, we never saw meat on the table. My grandmother, or Ba as she was known, would have never allowed it. And neither would the cook. Our retinue of servants included a Brahmin maharaj, whose ‘twice-born’ self would have had an apoplectic fit had we even mentioned the word ‘meat’ - let alone bring any of it in the house or the inner sanctum of his kitchen.


In my late teens and early twenties, I traveled extensively out of India. Traveling around Europe in the 70s, I discovered that finding vegetarian food was akin to walking into an AA meeting looking for alcohol. In Germany, ‘curry-rice’ meant white, non-basmati rice with a liberal sprinkling of yellow curry powder. This concoction was in point of fact served to the three of us during a boat trip on the Rhine. At the bottom of this river there may still, as of today, repose three bowls of the stuff, probably in pristine condition - the fish refusing to eat it with the same disdain my sisters and I had shown. In Italy, there is only that much pasta you can eat every day, before it plugs up your system for the rest of the trip. In Spain, the paella always included fish and the only other viable option was eating patatas, which made us happy, because it tasted similar to the way maharaj made it (albeit sans haldi and jeera). But five patata meals later made us want to see never see potatoes again, in any form – so that pretty much ruled out eating pommes frites in France as well. In Switzerland, we survived on cheese for a week, till we never wanted to see cheese again, not even a cow. In fact, we would have dearly loved to wipe the smirk off Elsie’s bovine face.


And so, out of the humble desire to stay alive during my ‘phoren’ vacations and photo conventions, I turned to eating meat…which included prosciutto. And I was hooked. Like the Pope to his Bible.

An explanation for those that have never tasted it: prosciutto is cured ham, a specialty of Parma, Italy, salted and air-dried for up to two years. It is then cut into paper-thin slices and eaten raw, sometimes with melon or mixed in a salad.


When I moved to California in the 80s however, I became a born-again vegetarian. I think it may even be a law if you were to move here. Out of the 7.3 million vegetarians in the country, I would be willing to bet the hemp shirt off my back that half of them live in California. Another (big) incentive was marrying a devout vegetarian and die-hard follower of Gandhiji (never, ever, say Gandhi without the ‘ji’ in our house).


But giving up prosciutto? It would be like asking Charlton Heston to give up his gun. (I wonder if they did pry it from his "cold, dead hands”). On this one subject, therefore, I shrink from my veggie convictions and make an exception.


And yes, there is a major guilt factor, not to mention nightmares about being chased by machete-wielding vegetables crying “Leave pork off your fork!”


Glossary:


maharaj: cook
haldi: turmeric
jeera: cumin

Una Vegetariana in Italia

Sometimes, Good Plane-Karma kicks in, and we find ourselves next to an empty seat! We hold our breath with every passing passenger. We put a magazine or a purse trying to hold the seat, as if to reserve it. Good luck with that, I say… if it works.


On a flight out of New York, the good karma flew straight over my head, making a beeline for someone presumably more meritorious. Just as the doors were closing, a six-footer trundled towards the seat.


I sheepishly removed the magazine and my purse, and gestured towards the seat. He reciprocated with a chivalrous nod and “Signora”. Ah, an Italian. Benissimo. Instead of stretching out on two seats, I would at least get to practice a little Italian on the way to Milan.


The way Marino recounted it later, is that I practiced a lot of Italian. In fact, he said that I did not stop talking the whole seven-hour flight. (So I am not known for my reticence, I admit).


Well, that’s his version. Long story short, thanks to my wonderful conversational skills, combined with my charming personality, I was offered an invitation to stay at his house. I did ask him whether his wife was used to him picking up strange, garrulous women on flights, but apparently, it is modus operandi for most Italian men, be it on airplanes, or anywhere else for that matter. If one were to include the word ‘sexy’ (being one of the crucial criteria), it would be the modus operandi for all Italian men.


I declined the invitation to stay at their house, though taking them up on their offer for the tour of Milan. Marino and Donatella not only gave me the royal tour of Milan, but generously included my friend Herbie, who was visiting from London, as well. We saw La Scala, the Duomo and the Galleria and most importantly, they had procured tickets to see the Last Supper, followed by our supper – one which (thankfully) did not involve the killing of anything that once flew, swam, crawled or walked.

Spare the thappad… and you spoil the child

I was born the year Stalin died.

And my father was convinced I had inherited his soul.


So, whereas this was presumably good news for Stalin’s soul, it was bad news for my kids. No, I did not send them to the Gulag, however tempting it was at times. (It’s their parents who are doing hard labor to afford the tuition for law school and grad school).


Now prior to motherhood, I seemed to be the apple of my father’s eye. I could do no wrong. He beamed when he saw me, bragged about me when he didn’t, (Indian parents are not known to praise kids within earshot)… and then I became a mother... or Dictator Incarnate (as he saw it). No! No! No! is all he heard me shouting at the kids. Every visit to our house just underscored his sentiment that I had turned into a tyrant, imposing absolute rule and raising them with too much discipline.


Show me an Indian American mother (IAM for short) who has not called her offspring ‘eediot’ (or ‘stoopid fool’) and has not placed a well-deserved smack on his/her derrière, and I will show you someone who has the common sense to lie about it and do it behind closed doors.


Oh, we IAMs are smart!!! Give us some credit. Of course, we are not going to give them a good thappad in plain sight of someone who would use their iPhone to take a picture and then call Social Services. When the brats scream and throw a tantrum in {insert store}, we take them by the hand firmly and tell them in {insert Indian language} that if they didn’t stop it right that instant, thaher ja! they were they were going to get a tight smack when we got home. The smile on our faces while we are enacting this charade routinely brings nods of approval from bystanders, who imagine an ideal world, in which all parents have the same patience as these immigrant mothers.


Both my kids insist that ‘thappad’ was the first Gujarati word they learned. (It may have been ‘jhapad’ actually). On a visit to India, my son mistakenly asked his grandmother for a thappad, instead of a pappad. The shocked look on my mother-in-law’s face prompted me to play innocent. It was laughed off and attributed to her approaching loss of hearing. 


I must admit, however, that vacationing in India gives one plenty of opportunities to dole out the occasional thappad. The annual two-week vacations in the motherland turned them into wild junglees, negating all the years of positive conditioning, and leading me to implement severe behavior modifications upon our return (can you tell I work in Special Ed?). Between the grandparents and a horde of doting relatives, both the kids were also given free reign of the apartment, the servants, a car and driver and a carte blanche to do what they wished…but best of all, the phone number of Smokin’ Joes Pizza and Baskin Robbins (would you believe they deliver?). It was their idea of Utopia, made especially enjoyable, because their mother left them (almost every day) to go shop like a maniac, lunch at Swatis and dine at the club with her friends.


We had a No Lying policy in our house – which was not restricted to the kids. I would therefore, be upfront and tell my son, who was in throes of the Terrible Twos that I was, in fact, totally lying when I said we were going to the park. Sobbing up a storm, he would insist on the truth and I would shout (à la Jack Nicholson) “You can’t handle the truth!” (I leave it to the reader to choose what was worse: the insanity mother or the inanity of the son).


I never did any of that “Wait till your father gets home!” business. In fact, it was preferable to punish them before their father came home, who often fell in with the opposing counsel on the Stalin theory. For every No! that I barked out, they would just come back with: I will go ask Papa, he will say Yes.


And what’s with the “Go to your room!” punishment? So they can watch TV, play PSP, use the computer or text on their phone?? I don’t think so! When they got too old for the thappad, I had to think fast of an alternate, appropriate punishment. That’s when the ingenious The Wall idea was born. It was our very own personal Wailing Wall, for the many tears that were shed facing it. The idea is fairly simple. Just make the kid stand and stare at the wall. And do nothing. You may think this is not so bad. I urge all mothers, IAMs or not, to try it. It drives the kid absolutely crazy. Five minutes of staring at a white wall (a painted one if you have been following too much HGTV) and the kid starts to fidget, stand on one foot and then the next, twitch restlessly, cry, and then swear never to do anything bad…until they forget and it’s back to the wall.


So, I implore you, do not spare the thappads and spoil the child. And maybe you will be spared of interrupting your daily program to visit your offspring in Juvi Hall.


And…a message for the soul of Josef Vissarionovich Stalin: you are in good company. My father also referred to my sisters as Hitler and Mussolini.


Glossary:
thappad: smack
jhapad: smack (a little stronger)
thaher ja! just your wait!
pappad: thin, crispy flatbread (also called pappadum)
junglee: wild (from 'jungle' - duh!)