Suprita Sarkar | September 20th, 2021

I grew up in Jamshedpur, a small town in Jharkhand. For its small size, Jamshedpur was very cosmopolitan. Maybe because the town attracted top talent from all over the country for the steel and automotive companies based there.

It was commonplace (and almost expected) to have neighbours from different states. Each one bringing their food, language and culture to the mix. Growing up in such a milieu meant that there was always easy access to different and interesting food.

The food cooked at my home seemed to pale in comparison. I disliked eating plain rice, I disliked the vegetables (contrary to popular belief about Bengali food, there are plenty of different vegetable preparations), I disliked fish (again, various kinds of fish and their preparations) and particularly disliked that my nails seemed to have a daily yellow tint from the day’s fish dish. None of the dishes seemed to have nice sounding names. And I couldn’t imagine asking my friends to join me for lunch impromptu, after a hectic morning of playing. If I didn’t like this food, how could they!

The snacks made at home were a different matter though. Mostly deep fried and heavenly. As were the meals cooked when we invited people over. I loved this food! Why couldn’t we eat this food every day? Sometimes my mum tried to explain. Mostly, she just let me know I did not have a choice and just had to eat what was prepared.

After high school, I joined a college in the western part of India. It was exciting living without direct parental supervision, doing what I pleased in my free time and most importantly, eating whenever and whatever I wanted. There were moments when I missed the easy availability and predictability of food at home. However, such moments were usually drowned out in the fast pace of college life. Before long, I found myself pursuing a post-graduate management course. The schedule was hectic. Classes, assignments, projects, internships – all in a day’s work for us students. Sometimes, late at night, after having completed an assignment and missing dinner in the bargain, I would find myself reminiscing about home food. I was finally growing up.

Since then, I took up a job, moved cities, got married. Gradually, I realized I was more often craving the everyday foods I grew up with, than not. My taste had evolved, and I found myself appreciating the simple and clean flavours of this food. Appreciating the subtlety of the spices or the tempering that enabled the vegetables or fish to be the star of the dishes. Not to mention the ease of rustling these up. I started seeking out recipes from my mother for the very dishes my younger self had so avoided.

Mine was a typical Bengali household. The food was Bengali with various varieties of rice, dals, vegetables and fish in our average daily diet. We used to consume the dishes in a specific order – starting with the bitters (e.g Karela fry or shukto), then moving on to the vegetarian part of the meal (a dish or two of vegetables and a dal and sometimes a fried item), followed by the non-vegetarian (fish or mutton or chicken dish) and finally finishing off with something sweet (a chutney, usually).

I appreciate now the detailed thinking that went into each day’s meal. Ensuring variety not just within each meal, but also that the dishes do not get repeated often. Which brings me to the sheer variety and different preparations of vegetables in Bengali food. For example, the humble bottle gourd (lau, in Bengali) can be transformed each time with just a minor adjustment in tempering, or addition of ‘bodis’ or dals, and can become the absolute delicacy of lau-chingdi (bottle gourd cooked with tiny shrimp). The same applies to almost every vegetable one might be familiar with.  What I love about these vegetable preparations is that the minimal addition of spice and tempering always ensures the taste and flavour of the vegetable shines through.

Also, in Bengali cooking, no part of the vegetable gets wasted. The leaves, flowers, stalks, skins and the vegetables themselves, all can be cooked. Each one differently though. And each turns into a unique creation quite different from the original.

And the fish. There are multiple preparations of fish – from the well known machher jhol, to mustard based sauces, to doi machh, to slightly heavier gravies. There are different varieties of fresh water fish that Bengalis enjoy and there are multiple ways each variety can be prepared. Why, there are even different ways in which the simple machher jhol can be made!

I wonder how I could have been bored of this food as a child. Clearly, I had very poor taste back then.

I find I am best suited to eating everyday home-cooked Bengali food. It keeps my spirits up, comforts me, keeps me satisfied and keeps me healthy too (you know what they say about eating the food one grew up with). In the midst of this pandemic, this very food has given me a sense of purpose. Trying out my mother’s and grandmother’s recipes. Cooking vegetables I haven’t before. Discovering the beauty and aroma of ordinary spices as they get transformed.

It is likely the same for most of us. As children, the foods we found boring, unexciting, and sometimes embarrassing, now form a part of our identity. Our everyday foods anchor us to our culture in their own unique and quiet way. And make us who we are.

I’ll leave you, dear reader, with a recipe of a simple dal (since I haven’t focused on dals at all in this post) that has now become a favourite. It is simple to make and extremely comforting when had hot with steamed rice.

Bhaja Moog er Dal

Ingredients:

–    I like using Sona Moong dal for this (this variety of yellow moong dal has much smaller grains and much better flavour)

–    Green peas (optional)

–    Ghee, cumin seeds, whole dried red chilli, a pinch of ginger paste, & dried bay leaf – for tempering

Method:

Dry roast sona moong dal till you get a nutty aroma from it. Cook this dal in a pressure cooker with the peas and some turmeric powder and salt and sugar to taste (two whistles. I prefer my dal a bit grainy and mushy).

In a tempering kadhai, heat ghee, add cumin seeds, red chilli, ginger paste and then bay leaf. Once these splutter, take off the heat and temper the cooked dal.

I top it off with some extra ghee!