- > . : : ---- ’---- - W ' ' urry is an aromatic, curious, spicy and original dish— an achievement in culinary terms. Over the years I’ve prepared hundreds of variations; in fact, I can curry just about anything: bracken ferns, sting ray, buffalo liver, goat meat, dried, rock-hard yak cheese. Cooking is a cumulative process. As automatic as cracking an egg may seem, there is still a first time. When I first showed my daughter how to crack an egg, I tapped the egg just lightly enough to crush an exterior portion of the shell. “Then boldly push your thumb into the inden ta t ion ,” I told her. “ Seek the moisture you know is there. Pull apart gently, over the bowl. . . a double yolk is lucky; a spot of red—it’s fertilized.” She hesitated a moment, took a gulp of air, then copied my example. The preparatory act of cracking an egg is completely automatic—after the first attempt. Learning to cook an egg is a more complex and delicate operation. Variations like ‘sunny side up’ or ‘over easy’ require a sense of timing and temperature, awareness of the potential stickiness of the pan and finally, a familiarity with the consistency of an egg. Practice is the key. Regardless of the number of words a recipe book might offer under the caption fried egg, the maneuvering ability needed to flip or scoop an egg without breaking the yoke is best learned by doing. In cooking a curry, time-consuming preparations are as important as the actual cooking. In India mechanical conveniences like electric burners that heat up at the turn of a knob or refrigerators are unavailable^ The actual preparation of food might include such J ib tedious activities as winnowing the grain, grinding the flour W M or chopping wood. 1: X I * ' w __________ X — X Street shrine in Katmandu Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 25 No two curries are alike, even if the ingredients are exact. With pride I say I can cook curry; I learned the hard way, by grinding masala spices with a stone mortar, cooking over a wood and dung fire on the mud floor of a darkened kitchen in India. At home what little I learned in a seventh grade Home Economics class did not prepare me for India. True I could cook peanut brittle and mix a casserole . . . but no one can survive on peanut brittle. And casseroles, by definition, needed to be baked. Students in my class took ovens for granted; every kitchen in America had an oven, we figured, no problem. When at eighteen I left home, and traveled abroad, however, I discovered casserole preparations were useless in countries like India where there are no ovens. I needed to learn how to cook all over again in a country where cooking is never an isolated activity, nor is the procedure simple. Eating became an adventure and cooking a key to experiencing culture on a daily basis. My quest for food brought me into frequent contact with the men and women in the markets and villages. Barriers of language, caste and sex dissolved as I made the transition from outsider and tourist to one who follows the rituals.
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