writebrained, rightbrained

eating Indian

We have been eating so well while we’re here, and I could probably write a dozen blog entries about this…. let’s see what I can fit into a single one.

Food is on another dimension here.  I don’t know whether it is because to start with, I adore home cooked Indian food.  I hardly ever go out for Indian food, either in India or America, preferring what I can make myself.  Most likely, my Indian friends are just as snobby about this as I am (at least I hope so!)…   And when in India, not going out to eat is even more true, compounded by some deep-seated cultural preferences and further snobbery about who makes the food you eat.  Of course, the latter is lifting now… and I note that I had some amazing restaurant food while I was here, including a gorgeous NYC-worthy Mediterranean meal in a sprawling and elegant converted house in Delhi, chaat (snacks) at a national vegetarian food chain in a suburban mall, and of course, sweets, which you can only properly get at your local sweet shop.  This morning my uncle has promised us two of our favorite sweets, and I feel about five years old all over again. 

I am once again struck by what a huge endeavor it is to eat in India.  Everything must be prepared from raw ingredients, no shortcuts.  I remember this on earlier visits.  Peas must be shelled.  Chicken must be cleaned and cut, when it is brought steaming hot from the butcher.  And of course, bread is made by hand and served directly onto your plate at the start of every meal.  At home I have a network of appliances and modern miracles supporting my meals (dishwashers? frozen peas? ), meanwhile here there is the vastly more complicated human labor network.  One girl coming in to sweep and scrub the floors, another just to do the laundry, and another to wash the pots and pans.  Finally, another girl comes and cooks.  Intellectually, I know that this is because there is a lower cost of labor, but in practice it means that there is a hugely complicated web of needs and desires which must be delicately managed.  Can we finish dinner early so the girl can go home before dark; if not, can someone drop her off in the car so she doesn’t need to take public transport? 

While I’ve been writing, my uncle has come in with fresh hot sweets.  My sister made new butter yesterday, and has been glowing with pride about the feat of churning these golden yellow finger-marked patties.  The butter is ready for application onto toast.  And there is a fresh cup of chai on the table with my name on it.  I had something more to say, but it will have to wait…. breakfast is ready.