right before one’s eyes at tiny roadside stalls and served on banyan leaves with a dash of hot ghee on top. These rotis are made from different grains
—bajra, jowar, ragi—
each with its own distinctive taste. But they are all topped with ghee.
Ghee keeps at room temperature for about two months, longer in the winter. It should be used like a condiment, in small quantities. Indians typically brush ghee on their breads, spoon it into rice, or stir it into their soups.
MAKES ABOUT 1/2 CUP
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
Bring butter to a boil in a small heavy saucepan over medium heat.
Once foam completely covers the butter, reduce the heat to very low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until a thin crust begins to form on the surface and milky white solids fall to the bottom of the pan, about 8 minutes.
Continue to cook, watching constantly and stirring occasionally to prevent burning, until the solids turn light brown and the butter deepens to golden and turns translucent and fragrant, about 3 minutes.
When the ghee stops bubbling, you can safely assume that it’s done. Remove it from the heat, let it cool, and pour it into a jar.
TWO
Baby Brother Arrives
WHEN I WAS fourteen months old, my mother and I went to stay with my maternal grandparents. In India pregnant women go to their parents’ home to deliver babies, a civilized and convenient arrangement if the involved parties can get along. Eight months pregnant with her second child, my mother was in no mood or shape to assert her independence from her parents. She moved into her old room, dropped her bags, flopped on the bed, and held out her arms for sympathy and pampering.
Every morning, my grandmother gave her milk spiked with saffron, ground almonds, and jaggery or cane sugar, which provided iron and calcium for my mother’s growing body. In the evening, relatives and friends brought her favorite foods, spurred by the notion that feeding a pregnant woman was akin to feeding God. Hindu custom dictated that anyone who satisfied a pregnant woman’s cravings would not only make her happy but get some karmic credit in the process. So my mother ate, drank, and napped, secure in the knowledge that the household would run without her help and that her toddler was well taken care of.
My mother is an only daughter, with four brothers, two of whom were married at that time. As it turned out, several of my uncles and aunts were staying with my grandparents when my brother was born. One was on vacation, another was between jobs, and the third lived nearby. I am sure that this kind of enforced camaraderie was tough on the adults. Not all of my aunts got along; my grandmother was a difficult, stubborn mother-in-law; money was short; steely wills clashed and people walked out in a huff. But I knew none of this as a child. I felt like I was the center of their universe. And perhaps I was.
Two of my aunts were pregnant, and they viewed me as someone on whom they could practice their maternal skills. One aunt bathed me, another rocked me to sleep, the third took me out to the terrace and pointed to the moon and stars while feeding me dinner. My unmarried uncles took me out on motorbike rides, while the married ones bought me presents. The result was—as my brother often says with a touch of bitterness—that I was spoiled rotten. I say that being spoiled early in life does not reflect a person’s future character, and point to my current stoicism as an example. To that, my brother says, “Ha!”
MY GRANDPARENTS LIVED in Coimbatore, a small town in the foothills of the Blue Mountains where the climate was more temperate than in the state capital, Madras (now called Chennai), where my father worked as a college professor. My grandfather was a government doctor who combined his professional knowledge of allopathic medicine with his personal regard for ayurveda, India’s indigenous medical system.
A confluence of such seemingly disparate
—bajra, jowar, ragi—
each with its own distinctive taste. But they are all topped with ghee.
Ghee keeps at room temperature for about two months, longer in the winter. It should be used like a condiment, in small quantities. Indians typically brush ghee on their breads, spoon it into rice, or stir it into their soups.
MAKES ABOUT 1/2 CUP
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
Bring butter to a boil in a small heavy saucepan over medium heat.
Once foam completely covers the butter, reduce the heat to very low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until a thin crust begins to form on the surface and milky white solids fall to the bottom of the pan, about 8 minutes.
Continue to cook, watching constantly and stirring occasionally to prevent burning, until the solids turn light brown and the butter deepens to golden and turns translucent and fragrant, about 3 minutes.
When the ghee stops bubbling, you can safely assume that it’s done. Remove it from the heat, let it cool, and pour it into a jar.
TWO
Baby Brother Arrives
WHEN I WAS fourteen months old, my mother and I went to stay with my maternal grandparents. In India pregnant women go to their parents’ home to deliver babies, a civilized and convenient arrangement if the involved parties can get along. Eight months pregnant with her second child, my mother was in no mood or shape to assert her independence from her parents. She moved into her old room, dropped her bags, flopped on the bed, and held out her arms for sympathy and pampering.
Every morning, my grandmother gave her milk spiked with saffron, ground almonds, and jaggery or cane sugar, which provided iron and calcium for my mother’s growing body. In the evening, relatives and friends brought her favorite foods, spurred by the notion that feeding a pregnant woman was akin to feeding God. Hindu custom dictated that anyone who satisfied a pregnant woman’s cravings would not only make her happy but get some karmic credit in the process. So my mother ate, drank, and napped, secure in the knowledge that the household would run without her help and that her toddler was well taken care of.
My mother is an only daughter, with four brothers, two of whom were married at that time. As it turned out, several of my uncles and aunts were staying with my grandparents when my brother was born. One was on vacation, another was between jobs, and the third lived nearby. I am sure that this kind of enforced camaraderie was tough on the adults. Not all of my aunts got along; my grandmother was a difficult, stubborn mother-in-law; money was short; steely wills clashed and people walked out in a huff. But I knew none of this as a child. I felt like I was the center of their universe. And perhaps I was.
Two of my aunts were pregnant, and they viewed me as someone on whom they could practice their maternal skills. One aunt bathed me, another rocked me to sleep, the third took me out to the terrace and pointed to the moon and stars while feeding me dinner. My unmarried uncles took me out on motorbike rides, while the married ones bought me presents. The result was—as my brother often says with a touch of bitterness—that I was spoiled rotten. I say that being spoiled early in life does not reflect a person’s future character, and point to my current stoicism as an example. To that, my brother says, “Ha!”
MY GRANDPARENTS LIVED in Coimbatore, a small town in the foothills of the Blue Mountains where the climate was more temperate than in the state capital, Madras (now called Chennai), where my father worked as a college professor. My grandfather was a government doctor who combined his professional knowledge of allopathic medicine with his personal regard for ayurveda, India’s indigenous medical system.
A confluence of such seemingly disparate
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