Monsoon Diary Read online

  Jennifer advanced me a couple of hundred dollars, which I used when I went shopping. Mary gave me free rein of her kitchen but told me firmly that she and Doug had other plans on the actual night of the benefit.

  So it came about that I stood in Mary’s kitchen on August 20, cooking up the world and awaiting twelve guests. Many were acquaintances I barely knew. About half were foreigners who had appeared on my radio show, and the other half were artsy Americans who liked the idea of eating to support a human cause. They had accepted my invitation, even after I told them that they had to pay for the all-vegetarian feast.

  Jennifer arrived that afternoon, laden with dozens of plastic Halloween lanterns that she’d gotten on sale at the flea market. Mary had arranged for a dozen plastic chairs and a table to be delivered from her church. We arranged the lanterns on the grass and spread the chairs around tables before discovering that there was a thunderstorm watch that night. Hastily, we moved everything into Mary and Doug’s dining room. It was a tight fit, and I worried about people banging into things and breaking precious objects.

  In a continuation of my Americana theme, I spread a bright blue tablecloth and littered it with silver stars and candy canes (in lieu of stripes). The centerpiece was a small American flag that I stuck in a vase. I also added flags from several other countries so as not to offend the foreigners, until my table looked like a veritable United Nations.

  My guests arrived, professing hunger and eagerness to sample my food. Jennifer stood at the door dressed in a tuxedo and collected donations. “We made it,” she said jubilantly after the tenth guest. “They each gave a hundred dollars. Isn’t that nice? You don’t even need more people. You can turn the other two away for all I care, or let them in for free.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I have to pay you back two hundred dollars, remember?”

  Before dinner I felt like I had to come clean. So I stood before the group and awkwardly told them that the charity in question was in fact me. They had paid to put me through school, I said, and in gratitude I was going to give each one of them a sculpture of their choice from my portfolio. I felt morally compelled to add that they could take back their money in case they didn’t like my food and was encouraged when they made dissenting noises.

  They sat around the dining table looking innocuous as they awaited my chilled avocado soup. The mango-cilantro salsa made a colorful garnish. But when I brought it out to the table, Todd, the painter, said he was allergic to mangoes, and Carlos from Guadalajara hated cilantro. How could a Mexican hate cilantro, I thought as I spooned out the garnish from Carlos’s bowl. Margo, the macrobiotic, wouldn’t eat avocado since it wasn’t native to the Northeast, and Robert, the banker on the Pritikin diet, was banned from eating it because it was high in fat.

  Things got progressively worse. Niloufer, the daughter of a Turkish diplomat, took one look at my dolma and said, “That doesn’t look like the ones my grandmother made.” Reza, the Iranian consultant, announced that he wouldn’t eat Turkish food, since his ancestors were murdered by Turks. Todd, I discovered, was allergic not only to mangoes but also to cabbage. He was the only one in the group who touched my umeboshi-cranberry sauce, which the entire group pronounced inedible. Olivia, my fashionable Italian friend, stated that she “simply couldn’t” eat the pine nuts that I had liberally included in my dolma stuffing, and spent the entire meal scratching her plate to spot and discard the offenders.

  With each dish, I had to recite its ingredients in excruciating detail and answer questions—had I used stone-ground flour? Was the produce organic (it wasn’t)?—all of which determined who would deign to eat my delicacies.

  The wine flowed freely, and so did the conversation, sometimes louder than I liked. Olivia waxed eloquent about how pine nuts were among the fattiest substances on the planet. Reza and Niloufer exchanged cutting remarks. Todd talked about his multiple allergies to anyone who would listen. Robert and Carlos got punch drunk, and Margo spent the night slapping their hands off her thighs.

  “The whole evening is a disaster,” I hissed as Jennifer and I assembled the dessert plate in the kitchen.

  “What do you mean?” she replied. “I thought things were fine.”

  “No one has eaten a thing, have you noticed?” I asked. “Not a thing. Not the dolma, nor the aleecha, the babaghanouj, or the umeboshi sauce.”

  “The sauce was a bit much,” Jennifer admitted.

  “They’re all going to demand their money back,” I said worriedly.

  “Not if you stun them with some last-minute item,” Jennifer replied.

  I flipped through my recipe book, looking for something equivalent to a soufflé. Something that would surprise and delight my guests into prayerful silence, make them forget the entire sorry meal and end the evening with panache and pizzazz. I had to redeem myself. And I had to accommodate all their allergies and preferences.

  I decided to make upma. Upma is a one-dish dinner as simple and comforting as a casserole, not to mention wholesome, quick to make, and easy to like. It has no extraneous allergy-producing ingredients and could be made rich enough to satisfy on its own.

  I rummaged through the cupboard for some cream of wheat, tossed in some onions, peas, ginger, and green chiles after making sure nobody was allergic to them. By the time I finished roasting the cream of wheat, everyone crowded into the kitchen, attracted by the scent of ghee that I was cooking on the side. They watched as I tossed the vegetables into a large wok and whipped everything around like a professional. I added some water, salt, and a little turmeric for color. By the time the cream of wheat softened, people were licking their lips. A dash of lemon juice, and the upma was ready.

  I scooped it onto plates and handed it around. Todd took a taste and sighed. At least he wasn’t breaking out in hives. Robert and Carlos glared at each other and offered to feed Margo. Olivia examined the upma for offending nuts and then proceeded to polish off her portion in one sitting. Reza and Niloufer stopped fighting long enough to murmur approvals.

  Jennifer simply leaned back in her chair and smiled expansively. In her top hat and tuxedo, she looked like a circus ringmaster. She took another swig of beer and nodded. It was all right, she said. The whole thing was all right. We had made our money, and the guests were happy.

  UPMA

  My parents wanted my brother, Shyam, to meet this girl, Priya. She is beautiful, they said, talented and versatile. No matter, said my brother; “Can she cook?” My parents didn’t know but managed to arrange a meeting. When Shyam met Priya, he was so bowled over that he proposed on the spot. Only after marriage did it occur to him that he still didn’t know whether she could cook. By then it was too late.

  The young couple moved to Philadelphia, where Shyam was attending business school. On his first day back from classes, Priya set out a candlelight dinner. “What’s cooking?” asked Shyam. “Upma,” she replied. Shyam’s face fell. He hated upma. “Oh, my favorite,” he exclaimed when she led him to the table. He tasted a spoonful. The semolina was roasted and cooked to creamy perfection. The vegetables were just right, and the spices were used judiciously with a restrained hand. It was the best dish he had tasted in his entire life.

  “What do you think?” asked Priya.

  “It’s perfect,” said Shyam. “My favorite,” he repeated. And this time he wasn’t lying.

  Upma is one of my favorite dishes because it marries the delicacy of vegetables with the girth of semolina. The crowning glory is the tangy spritz of lime or lemon juice. A good upma needs no accompaniment. It offers all the satisfaction of a virtuoso soloist. That being said, upma is frequently eaten with chutney and sambar.

  SERVES 4

  3 teaspoons ghee

  2 cups rava, also called sooji or semolina (available in Indian grocery stores)

  1/2 teaspoon black mustard seeds

  1 teaspoon black gram dal, also called urad dal

  1 teaspoon Bengal gram dal, also called channa dal

  1 tablespoon br
oken cashews

  1 medium onion, chopped

  2 green chiles, Thai or serrano, slit in half lengthwise

  1 teaspoon grated ginger

  1 teaspoon salt

  Juice of 1/2 lime

  1 teaspoon grated coconut

  Chopped cilantro for garnish

  Pour 2 teaspoons of ghee into a Chinese wok or Indian kadai. Add the rava and roast for 1 to 2 minutes over high heat, stirring continuously. Watch carefully, as the rava should not change color. If it starts turning brown, remove from the heat immediately. Pour the rava into a plate or bowl and set aside..

  Pour a teaspoon of ghee into the same wok. Add the mustard seeds. When they start sputtering, add the black gram dal, the Bengal gram dal, and the cashews. Stir until everything is golden brown. The color of the three ingredients—the two dals, and the cashews—will vary. They will be different shades of brown. But if one of them starts to blacken, lower the flame or add the onion right away.

  Add the onion, the chiles, the ginger, and salt, and sauté until the onions become golden brown and translucent, about 2 minutes. Add four cups water and wait until it starts boiling. Lower the heat to a simmer, and slowly add the rava, stirring continuously so that it doesn’t form lumps. Once all the rava has been added, keep folding and stirring for about 2 minutes until all the ingredients are mixed together and the moisture is absorbed. The upma should be the consistency of porridge.

  Add the lime juice, mix together, and garnish with the grated coconut and chopped cilantro.

  NOTE: If you like more vegetables, you can add some grated carrot or peas along with the onions.

  THIRTEEN

  Summer of Bread and Music

  IT WAS A YEAR of small successes.

  I was delighted to be back at Mount Holyoke. My family, too, after their initial anxiety about America, had adjusted to my being there, fortified by my letters about how happy I was. I took painting courses, art history, and printmaking. I argued with DeLonga about art and aesthetics, something that he encouraged. I made dozens of sculptures and assembled a portfolio of slides that got me into Memphis State University’s graduate art program. When New Englanders arched their eyebrows and asked why on earth I was moving to Memphis, I said, “Because they are giving me the most money.”

  I knew that I would miss Mount Holyoke, and especially DeLonga. His teaching methods were decidedly unorthodox, but he made an artist out of me. Not a great artist and perhaps not even a good one, but one who believed fervently in art and its creation. By the time I left Mount Holyoke, I thought of myself as an artist, hung out exclusively with painters and sculptors, and considered everything else boring and plebeian.

  Like all his students, I worshipped DeLonga. For his birthday, a group of us welded a steel cake, covered it with chocolate icing, and stood outside his bedroom window at dawn serenading him. When he tried to cut the steel cake and couldn’t, we laughed in delight at our trick. Sandy, DeLonga’s wife and a surrogate mother to many of us, gave us cupcakes and coffee for breakfast.

  We were like sponges, absorbing his philosophy completely. In our approach to art and to life we became miniature DeLongas: bold, confident, even a little cocky. We believed in ourselves even when the whole world said that we were wrong, as it would when I reached graduate school.

  In the middle of the term, Shyam came to see me. His ship had docked in Baltimore, and he hitchhiked up to South Hadley. We went skydiving in Northampton—brother and sister bonding at eight thousand feet.

  Before I knew it, it was time for graduation. Maya Angelou spoke at our commencement and released us into the fabled “real world” that everyone kept talking about. My parents asked me to come home for the summer, but I told them I couldn’t. I had to work and make money for graduate school.

  I had two jobs lined up. First I was going to Michigan to work for a month at a summer camp. Then I would move to Boston, where Jennifer had helped me get a job at Inkadinkado, a rubber-stamp-making company where she had worked the previous year.

  CIRCLE PINE CENTER IN Delton, Michigan, was lush. It was also the first place where I wasn’t a minority as a vegetarian. Among the dozen or so staff members, vegetarianism was just the tip of the ice-berg. Ky Hote, one of the two coordinators, espoused the virtues of slippery elm tea and drank gallons of the stuff; to me it looked like mucus. Owl, Ky’s girlfriend, called herself a witch and was a vegan. Steve, the other coordinator, ate organic food exclusively and drank kukicha tea. Tom and Daisy ate only one vegetarian meal a day, a habit they said they cultivated while in prison years ago. Mathew believed in UFOs, lived in a school bus, and was always on fruit-juice fasts to clean out his system. Kim, the resident naturalist, ate leaves, flowers, and dead insects. With respect to food, I was the most conservative member of the group.

  This eclectic group broke down all my stereotypes about “New Age hippies.” They worked hard and cared deeply about the children who had been coming year after year to summer camp at Circle Pine. As the assistant cook, I spent most of the time in the kitchen, working with Michael, the chef. He was a genius at turning out flavorful, healthy fare that satisfied the picky appetites of the twelve-year-old campers.

  Many of the staff were former campers. “See this brick right here?” said Rachel, another assistant cook. “I laid it in 1972 when the barn was built.”

  After a full day of activities, Warren would come from nearby Kalamazoo and teach us folk dances. At night we went skinny-dipping in the lake. Soon the month passed and it was time for the farewell ceremony. We walked quietly through the whispering pines, holding aloft lit candles that flickered like dancing glowworms. We set the candles adrift on the lake with a wish, a prayer, silent thanks, or a sob. Next stop for me: Boston.

  THE BEST THING ABOUT the town house near Harvard Square that Sophie and I stayed at was breakfast. All the other meals were washouts, probably because we were a motley group of people occupying the four bedrooms. There was Michael, a precise, analytical Harvard rocket scientist; Tamar, a copywriter at an advertising agency; Ben, a junior law clerk; and Sophie. Actually, I occupied Sophie’s room. She spent most nights with her squinty-eyed Italian boyfriend, Pablo, to whom Jennifer and I vociferously objected. Except for Michael, who had worked on a Ph.D. for as long as anyone could remember, we were all fresh out of college and working at first jobs. To save money, we decided to share household expenses and chores. We developed an elaborate system of rotation, where one person did the cooking and another washed the dishes each day, a complicated exercise that collapsed when people took off on weekends. So we stuck notes with stern injunctions at strategic places—over the sink, on the refrigerator, and near the trash can. “Replace the filled trash bag with an empty one BEFORE you take out the trash lest you forget after.” “If you eat ice cream late at night, it is YOUR responsibility to wash your bowl. Do NOT leave it drying in the sink till the next day.”

  We devised schemes to save money, like using grocery bags instead of garbage bags to collect trash and buying at warehouse clubs. Ben asked to borrow a car on a weekly basis from his lawyer friend and then got upset when the friend demanded that he refill the gas tank. “The skinflint,” said Ben. “He gives me a near-empty car and demands that I fill it up with gas.”

  Ben’s solution was to fill up the car with just enough gas to make our trip to the warehouse club outside town and then back to his friend’s house. Once he shaved it too fine and the car sputtered to a stop on the highway, loaded to the gills with toilet paper, detergent, mops, and cleaners. We all yelled at Ben, who had to walk to the nearest gas station, empty out the detergent, and fill the bottle with gas. We made him pay for the detergent.

  Mostly we squabbled. We were all short of money, and we fought over whose turn it was to vacuum the apartment, why people weren’t making an effort to cook a decent meal, what to do when people reneged on their chores, and who was spending the most on items that weren’t necessities. We argued about what constituted necessities. Ben thought th
at seltzer water was a necessity, even though the rest of us drank from the tap. Michael wanted to include beer in the pool even though the rest of us didn’t drink. Tamar was upset because we wouldn’t let her buy the European chocolates that she loved.

  “Why? Is American not good enough for you?” asked Mike, curling his lips. “Why can’t you eat Mars bars like the rest of us?”

  “I think we should place a moratorium on all name-brand goods and just buy generic everything,” said Ben, the lawyer-to-be.

  “We wouldn’t have to buy cheap generic stuff if Shoba didn’t buy all these expensive fruits like pomegranates,” replied Tamar. “Who eats pomegranates? Why can’t you eat apples like the rest of us?”

  “Might I remind you that I am paying for the meat that you all consume?” I said self-righteously.

  “See, I think that’s unfair,” said Mike. “I think we should take out certain items from the pool and pay for them ourselves. I could pay for my beer, Ben could guzzle as much seltzer as he liked, Tamar could load up on chocolates and Shoba on pomegranates.”

  “Oh, it’s too complicated,” said Tamar, fanning herself. “And it’s too hot.”

  Indeed. Boston was experiencing an unusually hot summer, which didn’t help my commute. Every morning I cycled up the Charles River all the way from Somerville to downtown Boston for my job at Inkadinkado. Jennifer and I worked alongside dozens of Korean, Chinese, and Vietnamese ladies who cut rubber stamps while hurling insults at one another with staccato clicks of the tongue. Or maybe they were just talking politely.