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Hardcover
First published January 1, 1969
My grandmother’s kitchen was a very special place.
…like the kitchen of any orthodox Hindu home… Nobody was allowed to enter it with his shoes on; my grandmother herself had to bathe and put on clean clothes before she could go in, and we younger children, considered as yet unpredictable and possibly lax in the thoroughness of our washing habits, could go no farther than the doorway. Inside, you could quite literally and safely have eaten off the floor… a base of dried mud, over which a thin layer of cow dung is spread by hand.
When the pickle has matured… it holds the sudden excitement of—say—seeing one’s first tiger in a jungle.
The familiar phrase in recipes “season to taste,” has a peculiarly individual meaning in India. It refers strictly to your taste, rather than to that of some omniscient, arbitrary outside authority. You should have sufficient trust in your own palate, and enough of a sense of adventure to improvise—but, as in Indian music, to improvise within the rules.
…a farm woman, near Madurai, in South India, picks out rotten pods from a field strewn with drying chilies, and turns over the good pods to let both sides dry in the sun.
The variety, the combinations and the uses of spices are the major factors that distinguish Indian cooking from any other cuisine in the world.
With sufficient piety and ingenuity a Hindu could make a holiday of almost any day of the year.
A magnificently strong and versatile Kerala fish curry achieves its characteristic, bright red color through the use of powdered chilies and the South Indian fruit called kokum, which is described in Sanskrit literature as resembling, in color and texture, the mouth of a beautiful woman—not, presumably, in taste, which is exceedingly acid.
No one ever wishes you happiness in India. This is supposed to be in your own hands, of your own making.