Chasing shadows

It's May, that paradox of a month when it's green and just the right amount of pretty on the other side of the globe and all we are left with is a big, blazing, burning sun that never shies away from showing off its summer might. Unfair!

As I sit at the kitchen table and watch the morning sun flood the apartment in rays of gold, many things scamper and skid through my mind. Off late, I have been chasing shadows a lot, of all shapes and kinds. Some go years back in time, when the sun was mellow and seasons were a part of life, and some very recent whose bodies are too patchy to give a name to them.

In such times, I came across Kamila Shamsie's Burnt Shadows — the heroic story of a woman, spanning decades and their history, who wears the scars of her past on her skin, literally, and carries their ominous shadows across the length and breadth of the world. Hiroko Tanaka, a brave, resilient Japanese woman, miraculously survives the horror of the 1945 Nagasaki bombings and trails her journey across the world, mapping her life through the troubled territories of Delhi, Istanbul, Karachi, and New York, in turn witnessing more death and disaster brought on by man upon man. Battling her own ghosts, she sees it all — the waning years of the British Raj in India, the bloody partition of India and Pakistan, the rise of terrorism in Pakistan, and finally the harrowing episode of 9/11 in New York. She sees it all, living and losing through each of these catastrophes. But what pestered me through the pages is this nagging question — whether the shadows just announced themselves wherever Hiroko arrived, or it was she who kept chasing shadows relentlessly all her life?

Some people have a reputation of casting shadows wherever they go, after all. Just like some carry a legacy of brewing storms in picture-perfect calmness.

Change

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."

~ Anatole France

I wish I could frame and structure my emotions better than what the great poet has already said, and how beautifully. Achingly beautiful, actually. How very ironic it all seems - when the whole world around me is undergoing a spring makeover and getting dressed in the splendor of a newly sprouted green, inside, I am groping for ways to embrace this whole other kind of change.

Change, however insignificant or huge, has never been my forte. An annoyingly stubborn creature of habit, I can crack and burst under the slightest of pressures, a trait I have continually loathed. Last week saw the beginning of the much dreaded goodbyes - bittersweet dinners and parting gifts - and as much as I would wish this all away, I know it's out there lurking around the corner.
However this time, I'm still in one piece and that is quite unusually strong for someone like me. The feeling is yet to sink in, although the countdown has certainly begun knocking at the back of my head. I don't know if this is good or bad but trudge on I must, belting my emotions for a proper unleashing, for some day quiet and befitting. Whether this is being brave or just wallowing in denial, let it just be. It's only a handful of days anyway.

The sparrows have come back in flocks and broods. The bird-feeder, never left a moment alone, swings in joy from the dance of their communal meal. Jostling for space while eyeing that next precious morsel, the patio fills in with their noisy chatter. The furry little guy has returned too from his long winter sleep, scurrying up and down the mossy branches, sometimes even hanging upside down in the most precarious of positions. Plump, promising buds on my potted azalea stir to burst open, the full-bodied May bloom of which I won't be here to see. Unfamiliar birds grace the berry tree, just like new future residents will inhabit this apartment. Chocolate-pecan scones, the last of the homemade goodies to come out of my oven here. And thus, the temperamental baker signs off. Of course, for the time being only. 

Cookie comfort

What can be more comforting than a dozen homemade cookies. Stacked neatly and surrounded by the smiling chocolate eyes. Their faint yet stirring aroma lingering in the house, somewhat like the memories of long lost days. Baking sure does me good, every time.

February rains, go take a hike.

Carrot cake and Mr. Darcy

Carrot cake, yet again. Pecans and spice, and all things nice.
The bewitching Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice, yet again.
The perfect union for long winter nights.

Curl up then! Happy weekend.

Fruitcake nostalgia

A little kick-start to the festive baking with these easy-peasy strawberry muffins aka 'the muffin with a heart' because of the slice of strawberry sitting prettily on the top.

The post-Kansas inertia still throbs inside me, beating together with a tired and insomniac heart. But tarry it must no more, for the time has arrived to give shape to things. Red and gold, green and bold. Golden bakes and boozy cakes. The day seems to have almost arrived.

But before I head to the kitchen and don my baker's hat, I must share a golden thread with you. One that keeps my childhood tied together in its gossamer embrace.
I still remember the X-mas holidays (that's what they were called back then in India) when we were in school. How we would hoard and treasure every single day of that! Unlike its superior cousin, the summer holidays that lasted for about two months, this counted down to just a fortnight. But like all grey clouds this too had a silver lining - no holiday homework! Hence to romp about was our singular motto, much to the parents' vexation. But the highlight of the holidays was Ma's fruitcake, the aroma of which would fill the home and spread warmth everywhere. Every now and then I would rush to the oven and try to see the puffing cake through the glass. I would even count how many cashews and raisins had plumped up to the surface of the cake. As I write this, it brings back a faint, fond smile on my face like all cherished memories do.

The time soon came when I would leave home and set out for an independent hostel life. I would be home for the winter holidays again and this time Ma would bake an extra cake. It would be packed neatly and wrapped in a special package for its journey on train to Hyderabad where my friends would be waiting to devour it. What gluttony that was! And one of the very rare times when my figure conscious girlfriends wouldn't mind the calories at all. Of course the guys cared little anyway.
Even when my parents came visiting, Ma would be there with her bag of goodies of which her fruitcake was the star. But more than that what actually shone was her smile, warm and so very child-like. I cannot wait for April to come when I would see that smile again and at last I wouldn't need Skype for that.

Such lovely and simpler days they were. Gone with the wind and lost in the years, leaving behind a trove of fragrant tales... And cakes.

A French affair

It has been somewhat unruly since my last post - a writing assignment, the transition from a prophetic Yeats to an enigmatic Joyce in class, the depressingly gloomy Seattle weather and the usually moody me. It was also migraine fest since the past couple of days, adding to all the above mentioned drama. So out of impulse and habit, I inched towards what I do best in such confusing times. Baking.

Thus began my pondering in and out of the kitchen, trotting in and out of food websites. Remember my time and again allusions to France and my obsessive love for anything remotely French? Well, today I thought I should celebrate that and hence settled with the classic French dessert, clafoutis. Luckily, there were some handful of cherries lying abandoned in a corner of the freezer. And with their season gone, I did not have the heart to throw the pretty little things away.
So there I was, the temperamental baker, amid my favourite things - eggs and flour. And when it is French food, I better not look any farther than Julia Child. Having baked it once before, I find her cherry clafoutis to be non-fussy and quite honest as well. Just what I needed today. Other than its comforting warmth, my most favourite part is to watch all that beautiful puffing and preening magic that goes on inside the oven. There, I already was half-purged!
But before digging your spoon into this half-cake, half-custard awesomeness, one must dish out a perfect, cackly 'Bon Appétit' like Madame Child.

After being transported to the beautiful French countryside with my soul's fill of clafoutis, I wondered what else could be done to give this French love affair a classic end. It didn't take me long to figure it out - Amélie! I have lost count of how many times I have watched this endearing movie, yet every time it ends I know I'll come back to it again. I'm hooked, head over heels, to its quirky and quotidian soul, to its charming, vintage pockets of Montmartre and most of all to its dewy-eyed, wonderfully weird heroine.

And just like Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain, mine too perked up! It had to, with this clafoutis-like heart-melting smile.

Say "Boo"!

It's pumpkin time. When its overwhelming mellowness follows you in an aroma trail wherever you go - pies, breads, lattes, lanterns, pumpkin patches, and sometimes in the most unusual of places, my head. Because it's Halloween. Another colourful festival. Another excuse to switch off the unmelodious, humdrum song of life. And surely another day to live and love.

So when a much preoccupied devil woman was baking these pumpkin spice cupcakes and fretting over the messy icing, her hippie husband was beaming over how perfect his carving of a spider was. And what a contest of charades - his abnormally large, bouncy wigged head to her glaring red horns!
The warmth oozing from the heady mix of the pumpkin and the spices, and the quaking golden leaves from the kitchen window painted a perfect little autumn paradise. Dusk fell and then came along the other masqueraders, some ghostly and other adorable but all radiant in their bizarre best. And it was a happy, happy night that followed. Of fun, food and friendship. 

Wish you all a very happy Halloween! Boo!!

Plummy goodness

What does one do with a couple of unused plums? And oodles of boredom? Whip them up together with eggs, butter and flour and let them be friends inside a temperamental oven. The result - a warm and beautiful plum cake for tea, especially for the overcast, drizzly late afternoons that we are beginning to be threatened with. What's worst, they are here to stay. Just brew a fine cup of chai, preferably ginger or cinnamon, and a damp autumn never felt half so good.
Oh and yes, don't forget to invite the birdies. For I've heard a tiny dollop of birdie gossip makes this cake perfectly plumtastic!

For the interested and curious:

Plum cake 

serves 6

2 eggs

1/2 cup milk

1/2 cup butter

1 cup all purpose flour

1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
2 plums, pitted and sliced into thin long petals

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Grease and flour a 9 inch round cake pan.
In a small bowl, cream the butter with the sugar. Then beat in the eggs and the milk.
In a larger bowl mix together the flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt. Make a well in the center and pour in the egg mixture. Whisk gently till the batter is silk-like fine.
Spread the batter evenly into the greased pan. Arrange the plum slices attractively over the batter (I prefer it the free-spirited, whirlpool way!).
Bake for forty minutes or until a toothpick when inserted comes off clean.
Transfer to a cooling rack and allow to cool before serving.

That Steve Jobs is no more, still hasn't sunk into me. There are some people whom you don't need to know personally to feel that strange void once they are gone. May the man who changed the way we live today rest in eternal peace. In his own words, just "Stay hungry. Stay foolish".

A patio and an oven II

A few more stories, freshly baked and sun-bathed...

My very own March Hare! But sadly, I'm no Alice although this city is no less than a Wonderland. Just to watch this precious creature munch away the greens is one of my most reliable stress-busters.

Chocolate cupcake batter, ready to get into the oven for that much needed puffing and preening.

And here they are! Chocolate cupcakes with red jelly icing.

A baby gerbera beaming with pride after its victory over lack of water and sun. Blame me, for the yellowing leaves and prolonged flowerlessness had almost convinced me of its decay.

And finally, the observer.

My summer of love

Humans have an inscrutable tendency to keep returning to things of the past. For me, summer is one of them - the summer of childhood, the summer of love and sometimes just the nagging sultriness of the season. With summer there comes a bundle of green memories that stir one to the very soul - the old and stubborn habit of recollecting tiny fragments of the past like a child gathers seashells on a seashore, and in the due course giving birth to a myriad of unexpected emotions. Memories that one loves to revisit, sometimes relive too, despite the inevitability of fate. Despite your own faults. 'Pleasing pain', the oxymoron is called.
Just like I keep returning to one of my most potent elixirs - Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez which is pure, unadulterated poetry in the guise of prose. A truly vintage read. If only there was a man like Florentino Ariza made of flesh and blood, and love, that walked this earth. If only love could actually transcend age and years, and hover on flapping its wings for an eternity of fifty-one years, nine months, and four days. That's how long he waited for Fermina Daza. Despite his six hundred twenty-two affairs of heart, very carefully in the dark whirls of his being, he had preserved his soul for her. I know it is magic realism at its best, but then what is life without a dollop of magic?!

Like the book, I must keep returning to my baking too, to keep my senses up and about lest the world discovers these fleeting moments of delusion and kick a good laugh out of them. Hence the return of the orange cake - classy and summery, yet light as fluff. Oozing with the love-like aroma, tangy and sweet at once, and laced with the orangeness of the zest, it is summer personified. And it's perfect companion - ice tea packed with fresh mint leaves and a hint of lime.

Summer sure fell on my lap like the elusive fruit from heaven!

A patio and an oven

This lady sings all by herself, swaying in the wind and sometimes acting coy too when she catches an admirer watching her with a cup of tea.

My sturdy azaleas, all decked up in their summery pink finery.

Geranium, for that much needed 'red' for my patio. 

No tantrums with this lassie!

Blueberry muffins, plump and pretty just out of the oven.

The little neighbour's bike. Blessed childhood!

Seattle loves them who love Seattle II

It is that time again when nothing feels right. Nothing, except the place and its faint cry of belongingness. Hence the sequel.

Before chaos gets to me full throttle and warps my grey cells with life's little surprises, I better scribble away the updates. True, after wasting almost half a year cocooned in a monotonous hotel suite, one does become somewhat disoriented with spaces. And I am no different. Having said that, howsoever greedy it sounds, I am insanely preoccupied with hoarding every single minute of domestic bliss; etching my presence in every nook and corner of the apartment as if I never ever lived in one.

Since food plays the utmost important role in man's comfort, our story must begin from the kitchen. I had missed my baking sorely, but mostly it was the aimless loitering around in quest of ideas and ingredients. Nothing feels more cathartic than basking in swirls of aromatic goodness crawling out from the oven, and watching the sun set amidst a cluster of mossy pines. To put it in an elegant way, the calm reverberates T.S. Eliot's evening - "a patient estherized upon a table..." During such moments one does wish the reverie to continue, for the calm to live forever. Unfortunately, I am a creature of the real world and return must I to it.

The most precious icing to my perfectly baked Seattle cake is the thrilling proximity of the dramatic Cascade mountains, aka "America's Alps". While returning from an evening stroll a few days back, we spotted it for the first time in all its glory. There it was, hovering like a spreadeagled creature on the evening sky, humbling and towering at the same time. The best part is, on sunny days (which are oh-so-rare here) when the skies shine, I can catch a glimpse of the magnificent snow-caped peaks from our patio. What more could a mountain lover ask for?!

If the mountains humble and soothe my frayed self, spring does a beautiful patchwork on my ever tattering quilt of hope. The burst of colours in my patio infuse an unknown courage in me, one that I wouldn't know otherwise. What else is life after all? You dream, you fly, you fall and before you know you are dreaming again!

In the manner of a true bedouin, I'm guarding every inch of my newfound space, soaking in its every single drop - decorating, gardening, baking and of course ruminating. Like a caterpillar devouring a leaf's green life, I, too hold on to these little quotidian moments ferociously before life comes knocking again. The caterpillar knows being a butterfly ain't easy after all! Beautiful? Yes. But certainly not easy.

To have a room of one's own is probably the greatest of all joys. I have learnt that well during all these years of the on and off living out of suitcases. Virginia Woolf once wrote, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction". Since I own no bank, a room would do just fine. For the moment.

Baker's delight

Plum cake, one of my much prized initial successes as a baker

I came across this little piece of truth in one of the cooking websites - "Nothing is more attractive around the home than the smell of fresh baking". It has been a month and a little more since the baker in me has been on a full-throated song. I must have baked more than five cakes, completely mindless of the bursting calories, and thus jeopardizing our fitness routine and dietary resolutions. I have always enjoyed cooking but had never given much thought to the age-old, classic art of baking. The only baking that I had ever dabbled in before was the traditional American fudge brownie from the oh-so-convenient brownie mix. And that ain't much of a talent. So after reveling in the pride of a frequently complimented cook, the time had come to don the mantle of a real baker. I wonder why it took me so long to think about baking from scratch. May be because I am a little idiosyncratic, therefore the 'new' or the 'different' does not strike me immediately. Somehow I am always stuck with the old, repetitive pattern. There are many 'lates' in my life, including Harry Potter and Friends, both of which have become so crucial to my existence that without them my world would seem rather drab. Before I stray any further, let us get back to baking. So there I was, scouring through allrecipes.com for a simple cake, something that ran the least chance of being a disaster. I went for the orange cake for I wanted something exotic as well, and there I was beating eggs and grating orange zest. I had planned it as a surprise for Sam but the heady aroma of orange and baking gave it away. However the cake had turned out really well, the way cakes should be - moist and soft. Hurrah! With such a triumphant debut, there was no stopping me. I searched for variety and more flavours and ended up making them all - orange cake, chocolate cake, banana muffins, fudge brownies and even a plum cake. The trouble is, if I am good at something, I become obsessed with it till I have had enough of it and this is exactly the situation with my current baking spree. It just feels the most perfect thing to do.

What I love the most about baking, other than the hypnotism of the senses, is that it keeps my mind off from wandering away. I feel a soothing calm while baking, as if it was a healing process. The little swirls of aroma crawling out from the oven purge my mind of the buzzing monotone of life. At the end of a messy day, you know when you add eggs and butter to flour, it turns out perfect. And nobody can take this comfort away from you. Absolutely nobody.