Banana Cardamon Muffins Kosher-Indian Style

When I bought my first Indian vegetarian cookbook, I hadn't even tasted cardamom-- or if I did, didn't know it. Makes me feel very parochial.

It is likely that the chefs at the kosher restaurants in Seattle and St. Louis cooked with cardamom (we haven't discussed the latter). Surely it is n desserts and lassies, but when you don't know what you're looking for you can't see it, can't put a label on it.

Thus the story goes that after following several recipes on the Internet at some point I found this one, altered somewhat (experience helps!) from Meera Sodha's FRESH INDIA. Ever since that first batch-- and it wasn't great, I over-baked them-- cardamom became a serious contender as one of my favorite visceral pick me ups, morning, noon or night. You simply inhale the flavor to raise your serotonin.

Meera warns that this is a sticky dough and difficult to work with, but the warning should be emphasized ten times over. Making these muffins is a super pain! But if you wash your hands well, and often, they are worth it.

The banana makes the dough slimy, and the ratio of flour to liquid is very different than that of any other type of bread I've made. To work with the dough after the first rise, powder your hands with flour.

You can almost see the moisture of the bananas, milk and butter in the picture to the right, first rise. FD tells me that the oil in this recipe is from the bananas. It isn't as low cal as I had hoped it to be.

One thing to know, when reading the Indian chefs, is that Indian yeast must be much more active than American yeast. Or so it would seem. Meera's recipe suggests that the dry yeast in the recipe be tossed in along with the rest of the ingredients, meaning the yeast will do its job, awaken, grow, and lift the dough, I guess by contact.

She should say that yes, in your lifetime it will rise in this fashion. (Rachelle, if you're reading, this is what happened to ours, they never rose and then I over-baked them. It is a learning curve).

 On the fourth try I realized that starting the yeast in a little water with sugar and waiting for it to bubble is a far wiser strategy.

This morning I made these for my mother-in-law, started the first rise at 8:00 am. The eight rolls were complete by 10:30 am. She loved them. She can't get over how the cardamom seems to blend with the banana to create an entirely new flavor. She's right.

Thus let's try it again, this time with the American method (very similar to how this Jew would go about making challah in step 2., but I'd use less sugar for challah).

Step 1: Soften 2 T of butter and set aside.

Step 2: In a large mixing bowl place 2 t. yeast (it doesn't have to be fast-acting) in 1/4 cup water with 1/2 T  sugar.

Step 3: Take the chill off 1/2 cup of milk (microwave 8 seconds) but be sure it isn't hot or it will kill the yeast.  If you're unsure, don't bother. The chill won't matter. Set that aside, too.

Step 4: When the yeast is bubbling, add the milk and butter.

Step 5: Mix the following together in another bowl :

1 T plus 2 t. sugar 
1/2 t. cardamom mixed 
2 cups of flour or a little more

Mash in 2 ripe bananas.

Step 6: Add that to the large bowl with the yeast, milk, and butter and mix/knead the dough the best you can;  it will be sticky. Don't worry. You can't ruin this recipe.   Let it rise until it is double in size.

Step 7: Preheat the oven to 375.

Step: 8  Divide into large pieces and roll them into balls. Place in a muffin tin and allow to rise again.

Step 9: Baste with a whole beaten egg. You can see how it will slide off the muffins from the picture.

Bake until brown-- test with a toothpick.

Heavenly.

The Flying Bubbie Goes Kosher Indian Vegetarian

By way of introduction:

It is true, the Flying Bubbie hasn't blogged in a zillion years. Much has happened, some of it blog-worthy. We've logged a few air miles, managed to get free luggage with an expensive credit card. But oh, the stories you have missed! Good stories. People are born, some have passed on. FD and I conducted research on an important topic from coast to coast. 
 And yet, it didn't feel like a reason to blog.  
Now, however, we have one!

Spices to cook Indian

Thus begins The Flying Bubbie's Kosher Indian Vegetarian Adventure.

Technically it should be The Flying Bubbie and Saba's Kosher Indian Vegetarian Adventure, but FD is doing NONE of the work and a large percentage of the eating. So forget him.

Now. . . back to the food! The peppers, you should know, are mild. Let's get going. You need to know how all of this began.

Look, being a kosher vegetarian isn't very hard, if you want to know the truth. There is nothing unique about it, and although many have asked Why did you choose to be a vegetarian, others are fearful, rightly, of my daughter's suggested snobbishly judgemental reply:   You still eat meat?

You still eat meat? doesn't really work without the verbal intonation, the condescension. There's no accent on any of the words. Suffice it to say that the attitude is not defensive, rather a turn toward offensive, if anything.

This is the time of year for change in the Jewish world, personality change, a concerted effort toward identity growth.

But this Indian Vegetarian food obsession has been going on since July 17, and I fear it makes me a  fairly shallow person, considering the things a Jew is supposed to be thinking about before facing real judgement and the King on the high holidays. How does one even remember a random date like July 17? How does the brain do that?

You have to have a receipt from a restaurant-- in this case a Kosher Vegetarian Indian restaurant in Seattle, PABLA Indian Cuisine.

It was my second time there, only on this trip there was no stopping the primal need for spice. My mother-in-law maintains that you either love curry or hate curry, but to me curry is only one type of dish, one mixture of spices. Have you had vindaloo, for example? Did you know it was vindaloo? Did you care? I never had it until I made it, and after that, again, those intrusive thoughts.

When will I make it again? Perhaps use a different vegetable, not sweet potatoes? What to do, what to do!

Believe me, if anyone has interventions to stop intrusive thoughts, that would be me. But there has  been zero motivation to stop them. It is almost as if I encourage them. I do.

It would be a problem if FD weren't so easy to please. If it is food, he will eat it. He has no need fora date stamp, either, which can be scary. And yet, so many years together, never a word about feeling sick from old food. Fact is, we rarely eat out. This could explain it.

Chicago has no kosher Indian restaurants and this is not exactly our thing, starting restaurants. We are health professionals. Not that the thought hasn't crossed our collective mind. FD will fantasize with me about this quite often, a Kosher Vegetarian (or Dairy) Indian restaurant in Chicago. How great would that be?

Very great.

Call it Hindi's? 

What is a woman to do barring making her own food if there is no source of take-out?  Especially a woman with very little motivation to do the organizational work to accomplish such a thing, rallying interest in a  kosher vegetarian Indian restaurant in Chicago.

Make ours on Touhy. Next to a Chinese restaurant, next to Thai. All kosher. Fine, add a pizza joint.

I have friends who eat at vegetarian Indian restaurants in Chicago, vegan establishments with no kosher certifications. My friends are quite sure the food is fine, that there is nothing not kosher about the cuisine or the preparation.

I ask, "Have you been in the back? In the kitchen?"

No.

"Then you probably do not know that many Indian restaurants have little goddesses tucked in nooks and crannies in their kitchens, little statuettes that are thought to bless the food.

If a person is Indian then this feels right, indeed it is a lovely thing. But if one is Jewish, it is less than lovely, eating food blessed by a god that isn't our God. Indeed this is a transgression of the Torah, Jewish law, eating in such an establishment, even taking-out. (I'm not a rabbi, feel free to argue in the comments if this is incorrect.)

In the Jewish rule book gods other than the one who had conversations with the Patriarchs, Moses, and a prophet or two, aren't supposed to be in our kitchens, let alone bless the food. They simply don't belong. It isn't a racist thing. Our Commander in Chief is very serious about loyalty.

Thus, rather than start our own restaurant (too much work), the female in this story did a little research, read a few great blogs by Indian chefs (Swasthi is wonderful at Indian Healthy Recipes I think she's female)  and began to buy things-- because to follow a recipe properly one needs the correct ingredients.

Finding them wasn't easy, a story for another time. Do spices need kosher certification? Hint: Not all do. Many do.

I had very little in the cabinet by way of Eastern spices, aside from ground cumin and tarragon and felt the need for a new spice rack. It got very intense. But my labels are nice, no? I kept the prices down, found that La Criolais very reasonable and has kosher certification which takes the guess work out of it for kosher Jews but can add to the price.  (I found La Creola at Tony's on Elston and prices are less than half of McCormick's).    

Because of a previous make-your-own-sushi stage, an 8 inch parve rice colander already occupied hallowed space in our parve cabinet. Parve is a designation for all things not milk, not meat. 

FD and I have (used to have) a firm belief that it is virtually impossible to keep utensils parve. With proper labeling however, in your face labeling, it may be possible. We will let you know. 

In-your-face labels for Parve

If you look carefully at the rack above you will see that the cumin seed jar is empty. This reflects exactly how much cumin seed a family will consume in two months. These little bottles don't hold nearly enough for daily Indian cooking, and after awhile a person begins to buy large quantities of spices in crinkly plastic bags from the Indian markets on Devon or larger bottles. After decanting to the counter spice rack, back in a shoe box they go. But even the larger quantities don't last forever.

A rice-lentil-split-pea strainer

WHAT'S EASY TO MAKE? Well, the thing I love the most is a mint-dill-pea soup that can be served hot or cold (another day). Served with this sublime dish is something called a tarka.  The tarka I learned to make requires a simple slug of oil and 2 teaspoons of cumin seeds. Heat the oil hot, add the seeds and toast until dark brown (not black). It is an art worth cultivating.

What is a slug? I do not know but have interpreted it to mean 1.5  to 2 T of oil.

Top your soups with tarka and groan with contentment.

There! You have your first recipe.

Enough about me for now. I must fly. Last night, returning from 7-brachot (a party for a bride and groom, absolutely nothing Indian about it) a young couple shouted hello from a bench outside the door of my building. And tonight, his father called to tell me he is engaged! I may have witnessed the entire proposal. So embarrassing!

So yes, this evening is another party. Mazal tov.

Best,

Flying Local

Achdus and Israel at War

I don't know about Conservative, Reform, or other kinds of Jews, but those of us of the Orthodox persuasion talk a lot about achdus.  Achdus means unity.  We don't do nearly enough about achdus.  We don't try nearly hard enough to be inclusive, to open dialogues with Jews who don't do things exactly like we do.

When you think about it, who does do things exactly like we do, any one of us? Yet we can't let our own children do things differently (as if we have this choice), can't give them a blessing when they choose to disregard a traditions. Disregard is a soft word.  Usually we say, he's strayed, eschews the religion, is off the derech. Encouraging differentiation isn't a strong suit for those of us who call ourselves Orthodox, or observant.  We're nuts about conformity, emphasis upon nuts.

People have free choice, and choosing to be yashar should have meaning. Not everyone can fake it.

Facing a war in Gaza, one that is perhaps in full swing even as I write this, a war that seems to never have had a beginning, may have no end, our people are united.  It is the one time that Jews really do unite.  In Chicago, Atlanta, and other cities (I only follow where I fly) everyone who rallied downtown yesterday couldn't have cared less about what type of Jew held the sign.

We were united, we are united.  It shouldn't take a war to make us feel this way.

Flying Strong

Flying Less

I made this huge deal that I had to fly thousands of miles to see my kids and grandkids to do what feels so right, grandparent.  Meaning, I complained on occasion. 

To feel better, I started this blog.  FD called me Coast to Coast Bubbie.  But The Flying Bubbie won out as a handle, ultimately.  

Crazy thing happened, the west coast bunch moved back to Chicago!  Now I only have to travel to one city to see their cousins. I travel a lot less, having eliminated California.  Some see this as a great loss, not visiting California three to four times a year.  But flying is expensive, and we could say enough already, to CA.

 Nobody is retiring anymore, and those of us who still work, seem to be working more than ever,  certainly the case with me.  We’ve already discussed that when you're busy time flies, no chiddush (Yiddish, rhymes with hid-dish, hard "ch").  It's out of control, how much it flies.  Time wins frequent flyer miles contests.  

Blogging, deliberately capturing the finer moments of not working is feeling like a good idea, even if the technical intent of some of my trips down south are to present corporate or educational workshops.  

Unlike my other writing, however, there's no tremendous therapeutic import here, just observations, opinions.  Feel free to comment on them.  

A granddaughter graduated kindergarten, so we flew south.  We almost didn't make it, airfares are so high, but white knuckled the wait for them to drop.  Eight days before the big day, Delta dropped below the $200.00 mark (from Ohare yet).  So we popped.  

I mean, it's a graduation.



There's a spin on what they learn in kindergarten, arguably among the most important things they will ever learn in school..

Little munchkins in blue caps and gowns.  Pretty adorable. Instead of long speeches, you get songs!
And before it's over, time for cookies, and off to enjoy the day.  As opposed to college graduations, these are over by 11:00 am.

It's hot in the south.

So after the ceremony, cake, and peanut butter and fluff straight from the jar for lunch (and yogurt, fine), we went to Centennial Olympic Park to run crazy in the fountains.  It wasn't an original idea.

When Your Guy Gets the Flu

I wrote about this, how a Jew will feel more guilty for giving over the flu, than suffering through the illness, even though it feels like you're dying. And it does.

So FD comes home from band practice and he's shivering and he says, "I got it! You finally gave it to me! I'm dying."

His hands are ice so I say, "Get away for crying out loud!" (No, I don't say that.)

But I do get him some Tylenol and this morning, at 6:00, he's already gone to shul. Guys are crazy, seriously, in a good way though. You would never see women rush out of the house to pray with a bunch of other women. Never.

The Healthier Bubbie

The Flying Bubbie

I just spent almost months of my life avoiding music, not going to movies, missing every wedding and bar mitzvah (not the services, but for sure the luncheons). And I'm about to come out of that state of mourning.

It's a pretty crazy, giddy feeling. You don't miss those things so much, not until the last month or two. I didn't even want to watch TV, which for me is ridiculous, because even if I only watch a couple of hours a week, those hours are nirvana.

About a month or two ago I started changing the designs of my blogs, so that tells you something. Things are looking new. Before two long, I can give away some clothes, buy some new ones. Not a lot, but something. A hat. Gevaldik.

So I don't feel comfortable talking about this process anywhere else, even though some of my readers on other blogs wouldn't mind, might even like it. But here, where everyone loves a bubbie, it seems safe.

The Yahrtzeit is the 29th of Shevat, also the Yahrtzeit for my brother.

I already bought the candles.

Your Flying Bubbie

The Shoes

Last night I dropped off Aba (the father of my children) at the hospital so he could put someone's health back in order. He must have paged five times on Shabbas, and he's not on-call. It's a great life.

Doubled back to Target (wouldn't you?) in search of house shoes, again. My Dad needs something between a shoe and a slipper, and he can't shop, and he wears a size that does not exist, so I'm running around finding bargains (for myself, of course, too, so as not to waste time). I found the last pair for him at Marshalls, but they didn't work. Is anyone out there a size 10?

I buy two different 11's, one of the pairs really stretches,thinking if he doesn't like either, well, Aba's an 11.

Of course neither are any good. We watch the Bulls beat the Timberlakes and mom shows me a dress she has that maybe I could wear.

"A little old for me, maybe?"

"I didn't think of that."

I take it anyway, just to see. Her stuff is always in perfect condition.

Flying Dressed

The Garage Door Opener

Tonight I check my phone after Shabbas and there's a text from my brother:

The garage door opener works!

It's a miracle. My parents' garage door opener has been missing for 15 years. I assumed we would find it after the snow melted, when we didn't need it anymore.

But my father, apparently, has known its whereabouts all along and disclosed the secret to my brother. Why it had to be a secret is anyone's guess. Could be because they lived in Florida for the winter, they didn't want anyone to have access. But this is only a theory.

Anyway, the other option was a universal. I told Tam (s-i-l), "Something about a universal remote is disturbing to me."

Good thing they found it.

Flying Secure

P.S. I've subsequently learned that it never was a secret, that Dave rummaged around in a cabinet looking for it, and there it was. But the truth is, when I asked Dad, he said he had no idea. Maybe he just didn't hear me.

Atlanta

So I tell my parents, "I think I'm going to take the last week in February to visit the kids."

"A whole week?"


Flying Anyway

The Beauty Parlor

Outside there's snow, lots of it, so I think, skis. I should ski to work.

Aba (the father of my children) helps me shlep the skis upstairs, very into the idea that we should get some exercise. We've put on weight and it's already January.

The fat isn't working, I'm still cold.

Anyway, I'm thinking of a week, not a week-end in Atlanta, for those of you who really want to know, for Purim

The first task of Thursday has to be making sure that Boobah (my mom), gets to the beauty parlor without wrapping herself around a tree. This isn't so easy. You don't just tell a person who has been driving all her adult life, perhaps 60 years of it, without a fender bender, "The streets are bad, I'm driving you to the beauty parlor, and that's it." There has to be some politic.

I say to her, "The streets in Chicago are lousy, but in Skokie, maybe they're plowed. Maybe you'll be okay. Probably you're fine out there in the burbs." (This is called a paradox.)

"It's all of four blocks away. I'll drive slowly," she counters, not buying it.

"I'll tell you what." I try again. "I have to go to Bagel Country anyway (this is nearer to her house than mine) so I'll call you and tell you about the condition of the roads. If they're bad, I'll swing over and drive you."

She's okay with this, tells me when she has to leave the house, and I call her five minutes before. I tell her the streets are terrible, which they are. She lets me drive her.

She's off to get beautiful, I go to the post office, Bagel Country for a dozen bagels, a dozen bialies, assume she'll take half (which she does), fill up the car with gas, go to Marshall's to find a pair of shoes for my father, buy lemons and cheese, that's all they need, at Jewel, and cheese for my parents, and what we still need for Shabbas, then swing back and pick her up.

"You look beautiful," I tell her, and she does.

The plumber, unfortunately, has parked in the drive-way. She's all set to tackle the curb and the half-foot of snow on the grass, get out of the car from the street. "I'll get off here," she cries. "Just stop here!"

I pull into the driveway. She sternly informs me, "You're taking away my independence!"

I say, "Be independent on your own time, Ma. None of us want to visit you in a nursing home with a broken hip. Not that we wouldn't, but it would hurt us to see you in so much pain. These things really hurt."

She's mad but accepts this. Love you, I say. Love you, too.

And I walk her to the door.

Flying Challenged

Using Grandchildren

Jake is driving Grampa to dialysis on Friday and they're up in arms, my parents. My father doesn't want to put anyone out, no one should resent him.

He wants his wife to take him.

Flying Exasperated

Independence

My brother and sister-in-law are putting in a washer-dryer upstairs for my parents so Mom doesn't have to go downstairs, risk breaking her neck. Dad won't ever be going there again. That has to feel weird.

And a freezer in the kitchen.

My mother doesn't want this. She complains to me. "You children can't control my life; it feels bad to me."

I say, "You just don't like being on the receiving end. You've been a giver all your life. Okay for you to give, but when we do, uh uh."

She thinks about this. Has never thought about it like this before. Progress.


Flying Happy

The Blanket

Dad has to go to dialysis and I'm supposed to help him down the stairs in the garage. Wes, the handyman, is in the kitchen taking apart the stove.

"I won't charge you for the time," he tells my mother, "if I can't fix it."

I feel doubtful, raise an eyebrow when he's not looking.

I go down to the basement, since my father is still trading on his computer. What's more important, honestly, being on time, or whatever it is he's doing. I begin to shelp up stuff that Purple Heart will carry away on the 12th of the month. Irene, from Purple Heart, my bff, has called me to tell me this is when they'll be in the neighborhood.

I find all kinds of very old stuff, drag it up to their front hall closet. This work-out is good for me, works muscles I didn't know I had, and is much better for me than sitting in the office.

Anyway, in a torn new plastic, either new or hardly ever used, is a very heavy blanket, but it isn't wool, and it isn't down. It's just a blue and white blanket, and my bedroom is in shades of blue, so what the heck, I took it.

Got it home and washed it. Petted it.

I'll bet he got it on a fishing trip in Canada, way North.


Flying Warmer

Sending Someone Instead

I assume my brother or his kids visited our parents today. It's the first Sunday in January, and I had all kinds of work to do at the office (when you work for yourself, you're your own slave driver), so I didn't leave until 3. For a Sunday, that's late, and it means I'm starving, like every other Sunday afternoon.

Not a fast food person, I scoot straight home to scrounge in the refrigerator and cook. This kills the late afternoon, but takes priority over visiting people. Anyway, I visited last night, and never even told you about the other things we did, the l'chaim (beautiful) and the shiva call (always meaningful).

But forget it. That was yesterday and yesterday's gone.

Plus I had to feed the grandfish. Duv's tank has been left in my charge while he and Cham are in California visiting that bottom piece of the sandwich, his sister and her family.

The fish were pleased. They all came out to greet me. I took their picture.

I added water, too, to the tank. And watered Cham's plants, lest they die. If they die it will be my fault for watering them, for I don't understand moderation when it comes to water, not generally.

I sent the youngest son to my mom and dad's with a little left-over chicken and some rice, to take care of the top slice of the sandwich. I didn't make the chicken, is the thing, a guest brought it over on Friday night and everyone raved about it, so I assumed the 'rents would, too. We'll see. I'll let you know.

Promised the doc I'd work on taxes with him, so gotta' go.

Flying Quiet, in a bathrobe at 7:35 pm.