With reference to the below link,
I am writing this piece to apologise for being an incompetent lazy-ass human
being.
Judging food based on
presentation has never been my forte though I personally like to serve (on rare
occasions that I do cook) food that is well-plated. So the only way I could
criticise food would be based on the taste. Or not? What if we are served the same
tasty dish, each day every day? Would we still relish the food?
My aunt who is a decent cook, for
some reason, serves the same alur torkari (potato curry) for breakfast
every day. She serves it with ruti or porota or luchi. So,
naturally I look forward to the days when she serves noodles (on special
occasions), daliya (which I used to hate until recently) or a classic Bengali (also,
“Rabindrik”) combination of milk, muri and kadali. I would’ve
understood the logic of it if she cooked in bulk one morning and preserved it in
the fridge, to reduce her daily work load and reheat it every morning for
breakfast. But, no! She actually cooks the same potato curry afresh every day. The
same phoron (or chhonk or shombar), with the typical Bengali
kaalo-jeere.
The fact that a potato curry can
be cooked in the same style yet with different tastes, just by using different
spices in the phoron, say mustard or jeera or methi
definitely rules out the fact that she cooks it this way to save time or energy
in the morning rush-hours (unless of course the spices are kept at different
heights in the kitchen-shelf!). If the kalo-jeere is so sacred, why not add
some random vegetable which would at least bring about a change in texture of
the torkari and also provide a much healthier option rather than having the
spud alone?
My aunt’s obsession with the
potato seems to have overtaken an ordinary Bengali’s obsession with the alu
(potato) who gladly cook them with chicken, mutton, fish or biryani. In fact, the
humble alu is so ingrained in the Bengali culture that a man with
overtly excessive appetite for women is known to be having alur-dosh (Potato-defect).
Irrespective of the potato heritage,
it is quite natural that despite being accustomed to having the curry every
day, I’m still baffled every time I sit at the breakfast table and look at the potato
cubes coated in the yellow gravy with small black dots spread out. I had
started writing this piece to vent out my frustrations on the curry but as I went
on composing this piece I realised that there must be something deeper in the
story of the torkari. And unless I confront my aunt about it, I can
never know the true story.
So, I did what I have been doing
full-time for the last few years and let my mind map monkeys. Being a phony
student of literature and life, I couldn’t help but fulfil my sacred duty to
put things into perspective and generalise things. So, I proceeded to carry out
my arm-chair philosophies and presumptions.
I think the potato curry represents
a daily drudgery of life, quite similar to the mornings of an office-goer. You just
do it because it has to be done. At
least office goers have their weekends off or have a retirement age, but what
hope does a reluctant homemaker have? And unless the other members of the family
become sensitive to my aunty’s work load and society at large recognise (the
soul-sucking vitality of) domestic labour, nothing can ever improve the potato
curry.
Thanks to my aunt’s potato curry,
I keep longing for food made by my maa.
Recipe of the fabled Alur (nirdosh)
torkari
A) Preparing the potatoes
1. Wash, peel and cut 4 potatoes into cubes.
2. Add the cubes in hot water along with some salt.
3. Let the potatoes cook for a while.
4. Check the required consistency of the potatoes using a knife. The
knife will pass smoothly through the potato without any resistance (just like I
have my curry, i.e, without any resistance).
5. Strain the potatoes.
B) Cooking Procedure
6. Now, add some (Bengali) mustard oil in a thick-bottom pan.
7. As the fumes start appearing, add a teaspoon of kalo-jeere
(which is kept ready in the nearby shelf).
8.
9. Toss in the potato cubes.
10. Add 1 teaspoon of turmeric.
11. Fry the potatoes well.
12. Add 4 cups of water.
13. Add some salt to taste.
14. Let the gravy thicken and coat the potatoes richly.
15. You’d know the gravy is ready, intuitively. Bengali mothers and
aunts and cooks do not follow any measurements. So, follow my instructions at
your own risk.
C) Serve
16. Take 2 ladles of the potato curry.
17. Pour into a bowl.
18. Make sure you got enough potatoes sprinkled with the occasional kal-jeere.
19. Serve it with the bread of your choice.
D) Caution
Do not use any
other spice other than the kalo-jeere, if you do feel like preserving
the authenticity and of course, drudgery.
