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| Fado na Alfama, by Markus Lüske
I recently returned from a week in Lisbon. The holiday was
an incredibly thoughtful birthday gift from a friend, as I have always had an
unusual passion and interest for all things Luso. As young children, my parents
took my sister and me on our first holiday to the Algarve. I cannot say what it
was about the country and its wonderful people, but subsequently, I chose to do
my first memorable school project on Portugal. In my late teens, I developed a
taste for Brazilian electronic music, a deep enthusiasm for such artists as
Suba, Cibelle, Fernanda Porto, and Céu, then branching out to baile funk music
and Angolan kuduro, the latter genres being introduced to the international
mainstream by Diplo and M.I.A. I loved Maria Rita, Bebel Gilberto, and Mylene Pires,
and owned all the latest bossa nova compilations of both João and Astrud
Gilberto, and Stan Getz. I discovered the intense beauty of Portuguese fado. It
was from a desperate desire to understand Cibelle’s poetry and identify with
Amália Rodrigues’ longing that I sought out a Portuguese language teacher in
Neasden.
My friend and I debated for a while over which part of Lisbon we should stay at, and upon learning of its status as the birthplace of fado, my friend opted for history and culture over nightlife, and booked a bijou apartment in Alfama. The eccentric owner of the flat, Maria, met us outside Santa Apolónia railway station on the Tuesday evening that we landed. She proceeded to guide us down Rua Jardim do Tobaco, and began relaying amusing anecdotes about previous guests, the neighbourhood, and her colourful personal life with gusto and an air of effervescence. As we followed her across the road opposite the Museu do Fado, we passed through a small public square to enter Alfama’s archetypal labyrinth of steep and winding, narrow streets. By the time we had ascended the first couple of cobblestone inclines and were tackling the first set of steps, Maria was already out of breath, her gravelly voice wheezing and panting between sentences. A few more turns and steps later, we had stopped outside a tall terraced house. Maria reached her hand through an open panel in the door to release the lock, assuring us that this was the only way to enter the building. A rather steep and narrow wooden staircase led to our room on the top floor, and it took another good fifteen to twenty minutes of Maria nattering before we were finally alone.
It was, by then, after 10 o’clock
in the evening, and we needed to find something to eat. So we set off into the
streets of our new neighbourhood and settled for an al fresco dinner at the
first open restaurant that we came across, situated on a cobblestone side
street. A fado performance went on in a small square behind us as we picked on pastéis
de bacalhau and olives, awaiting our meals. We had ordered a jug of wine
and, when our food finally arrived, my friend began to wax lyrical about his
grilled sardines and boiled potatoes. I had initially found my own dish of bacalhau
à bras to be quite bland, almost like a fish khichri of sorts. It
was made up of shredded salted codfish cooked with sliced onions and strips of
fried potato. But I soon began to appreciate the subtle flavours and textures,
almost as much as conversing with the Nepalese waiters, speaking both in Hindi
and in broken Nepali.
The next morning was, for me,
unbearably hot; during our stay the temperature refused to dip
below 28°C. I had stupidly forgotten to pack my Kolhapuri slippers, and did not
bring anything in the way of summer clothing. Desperate to get some airflow
going, I was suddenly captivated at the east-facing window. The view was like a
scene from a postcard. The terracotta tiles of Alfama’s rooftops blazed red
before me, only to be offset by the brilliant white of the buildings they enveloped.
To the left stood the serene Igreja de Santo Estêvão, and ahead a vast stretch
of sea blue, almost like facing the edge of the earth: the celebrated Tagus
river.
I stood there for a moment, the sun’s rays hitting my chest, breathing
in Lisbon’s sweet air, taking in the beauty. After we had showered and got
dressed, we set off for a pastry shop nearby that Maria had recommended in
order to sample the famous Portuguese pastéis de nata for breakfast.
Something about the narrow streets and the heat of the day reminded me of
India, of Old Delhi and my walks around Jamnagar during the afternoon siesta.
Of course, Alfama was nowhere near as busy and crowded as any Indian locality,
but the clothes hanging to dry outside people’s front doors, the small square
windows looking into quaint home kitchens, and the camaraderie between its
residents; these little things caught my attention, reminding me of
neighbourhoods in India.
Many of the houses and buildings
throughout the city itself were tiled with striking ceramic tile work known as Azulejos,
an influence bestowed by the earlier Muslim inhabitants of Iberia. This too
corresponded to what I had seen in Northern India, similar geometric shapes and
floral motives adorning the grand buildings of the Mughal elite and the old
towns. The many churches too were, quite naturally, of a similar design to the
churches I saw in Diu, a former Portuguese colony until only 1961, just south
of the Saurashtra region of Gujarat. In fact, the Igreja de Santo António de Lisboa,
which stood close by at the bottom of our street in Alfama, made me think back to my visit to the Church of St. Paul in Diu.
We decided to walk to the Castelo de São Jorge, not too far from our apartment. Trundling up the steep steps of Beco de Santa Helena, we found that we had come face to face with the Cerca Velha, or the medieval Old Wall, and a bustling street bearing an imposing statue of São Vicente stood opposite the Museum of Decorative Arts. Following the tram tracks, we explored the town on our way to the castle, getting lost many a time along the way, discovering local life, walls decorated with bold graffiti, and more tiled buildings. The castle itself and the surrounding grounds also reminded me of Diu and its fort, while its structure and impressive size has similarities to the forts of Jaipur, albeit on a much less intricate and aesthetically refined scale. The amount of walking and the heat of the day saw us finally retiring at our starting point, the Miradouro das Portas do Sol. With a spectacular view of Alfama before us, we sat at a table on a vast balcony, the largest balloon glass of gin and tonic I had ever encountered, and a bottle of ice-cold champagne between us.
I took a spoonful of the chocolate mousse and sipped on
the ginjinha. The rich, dense mousse coated my mouth in a blanket of
bittersweet bliss, followed by the intense sour cherry liqueur: deep and
luxurious, syrupy, burning my throat and chest. The fadista began to sing. Her
voice was crystal clear and slightly high pitched. She moved and sang
perfectly, her actions and eyes matching the mood of the song; one slightly
jovial, the next more melancholy. The restaurant was lit with candles, and a
warm pink glow had settled on everything, the strapping guitarists, the
doll-like singer, the glasses of alcohol, and the mesmerised faces of the
seated diners. It may have been the ginjinha, but I was starting to feel very
warm. The performance ended to wild applause, and I went to pay for our bill.
Behind the bar, washing dishes in the kitchen, I spotted the waitress from
earlier. She caught my eye and managed to wave. I told her that we had been
waiting to hear her sing, that we had come especially for that reason at her
own request. She appeared hesitant for a moment. Then she lifted her index
finger and came to the bar. “Let me speak to my boss,” she told me. Perhaps she
could organise something. I ordered another round of ginjinha and returned to
my table. The guitarists looked as though they were set to head home, and I
could see the waitress almost pleading with the maître d’. Finally, the
guitarists returned to their places and began to play as one of the men sang to
warm up. The waitress entered the performance space and began whispering with
the guitarists nervously. With a song decided upon, the soul stirring strumming
commenced. Out of nowhere, a powerful and slightly husky voice boomed across
the room. As she found her feet, the waitress’ voice oozed from the depths of
her very core out through her mouth. The honeyed words trickled like heavy but
reluctant tears onto the audience, the words of sadness and longing, of love
lost and better days. She looked as though she was breaking down, the
microphone bearing her frustration, her feet stamping on the tiled floor. And
then, once the performance was over the agony on her face disappeared, and the
awkwardness and nerves returned in contemplation of the next song.
That night I was blown away. The two performers had such different styles, personalities, and performance deliveries. Where the first singer stood with poise and cool confidence, her vocals precise with a restrained playfulness, the waitress displayed humility and a sweet charm, desperation to some minute extent, whilst her singing alluded to personal loss and suffering. It was like watching a film, one of those old Indian films set in a brothel or a royal palace, where you view the lives of two artistes of different social classes and levels of expertise, and their journeys through love and privilege. Being lucky enough to observe a few more fado performances throughout my stay, including one where a spirited and amiable group of elderly friends took turns on the stage, they made me think of the old mehfils and mujras of Mughal India, so lavishly portrayed in art and media. The old friends reminded me of my family around the time I was born, when my grandfather would invite his pals over and they would all sit on worn Persian rugs and fraying bolsters playing musical instruments and arguing over the melody and lyrics of film songs and ghazals. Each of my aunts would be roped into singing as the remaining guests and family members would sip on tea and graze on snacks, mothers cradling their sleeping children in their laps. Of course, the history and social practices of mehfils and fado are not comparable, but the passion in the performers, the sense of desolation present in the florid lyrics, and most importantly the emotions these performances stir up, the bringing together of souls through music, this is the common ground I found between the musical performances of Northern India and Lisbon.
There is so much more to share about my trip to Portugal,
including visiting the fairytale castles of pastel-coloured Sintra, reminiscent
of my idea of South India merging with an aristocratic colonial hill station,
and the historical municipality of Belém. Visiting Lisbon made me feel
strangely at home. Perhaps understanding the language helps in familiarising
yourself with a place, adding to that my keen interest in the country, but it
felt like I was simply revisiting a part of my past with new eyes. Alfama
itself was magical, and we left its sweet old ladies and captivating fadistas,
its crumbling brickwork and glazed azulejo tiles, and its magnificent churches
and hole in the wall ginjinha bars in the early hours of the morning. That
night was the night of the total lunar eclipse and the Super Blood Moon. As my
friend caught a couple hours of kip in preparation for the early flight, I
stood at the window admiring the reflection of the brilliant full moon on the
Tagus River. As the hours passed, the moon began to disappear and surge higher
into sky, making me stretch my body further through the window. Around 2.30am we pulled our
suitcases as silently as we could across the cobblestones of Alfama. One or two
astronomy types were out with their telescopes and cameras, a truly surreal
sight in the old world surroundings of the town. I looked up as we approached
Santa Apolónia railway station, and I saw the luminous garnet moon watching
over me. It bid me farewell, following me all the way in the taxi to the
airport.
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Thursday, 19 November 2015
Lusophilia: Lisboa, te amo!
Friday, 2 October 2015
Breakfast: Azerbaijani Gozlemeh
I am quite fussy about breakfast.
I need it in order to function upon waking, but I am also particular about what
I will have. Growing up on Weetabix made with hot milk, cereal was the go to
choice for many years, but living alone brought along with it a myriad of
possibilities. Of course, as a child we did have the regular Full English on a
Sunday, the unsavoury odour of bacon rising to my bedroom, The Chart Show
booming 90s hits through the house. On some occasions, we would have Indian
variations thrown in: tiny pooris with dry potato curry and rice
pudding; chai, gaathiya and jalebi; crisp parathas and crunchy sambhaaro;
and once or twice in my lifetime, fresh masala dosa with all the
trimmings, made with the help of our neighbour Shashi Auntie.
It is these latter sorts of
breakfasts that I have found myself craving for as the years have mounted
living away from home. They are hearty and substantial, yet light and full of
flavour. Jalebi and gaathiya may sound too heavy and cloying for some to eat at
breakfast, but this is surprisingly not the case. The ideal jalebi should be
thin and crispy, with the finest coating of sticky, rose-perfumed syrup;
gaathiya, deep-fried chickpea flour savoury snacks, are delicate and flaky,
with coarsely ground black pepper running through them for gentle piquancy. In
Gujarat, these are usually served alongside a carrot or papaya sambhaaro. This
is a warm salad consisting of finely shredded carrot, cabbage, or raw papaya
stir-fried in mustard seeds, green chillies, and turmeric. It is seasoned with
salt and lime juice to give you fresh, crunchy, sour, and spicy all at once,
and all of these different flavours are brought together with a warm mouthful
of sweet masala chai.
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| Jalebi and gaathiya (Source) |
Being able to obtain good quality
gaathiya and jalebi is a bit of a mission, since most jalebi I have tasted
across the capital have been disappointing, to say the least. I feel that I
have perfected most breakfast dishes over the years: breakfast breads like
stuffed and plain paratha, poori, and bhakri, and the aforementioned sambhaaro,
which is especially quick and easy to rustle up. Since before I left home, I
always made an effort to discover and understand Iranian culture, and this is
how my taste for Persian and Central Asian cuisine developed. I regularly make
Iranian quince moraba alongside Indian amla murabba when these
fruits come in season during the winter months, relishing the quince for
breakfast with Bulgarian white goats cheese, warm Turkish bread, and sweet
black Iranian tea. From late spring, when robustly flavoured Greek basil and
heavily fragrant rose petal moraba become available, I begin to enjoy these
seasonal treasures as part of a sabzi khordan platter with cheese,
bread, a host of fresh herbs and vegetables, and soft boiled eggs.
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| My quince moraba, served with white cheese, Tabrizi bread, and Iranian tea |
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| Sabzi khordan |
Always on the hunt for varied
breakfast ideas, I came across Azerbaijani gozlemeh. This godsend of a recipe
came from the Turmeric and
Saffron food blog, a page that specialises in Persian recipes and stories.
I must warn you that this recipe is far from Ayurvedic. It follows incorrect
food combinations and is far too heating, with the inclusion of eggs, yoghurt,
and raw garlic. I overindulged in this one summer and, being someone with a
slight heat imbalance, developed nosebleeds and bleeding gums as a warning sign
to curb my enthusiasm. Regardless, it is, without a doubt, one of the easiest
and most satisfying breakfasts I have discovered in a while.
The blogger, Azita, explains
having stumbled upon this recipe in an old Iranian cooking manual, and
modifying it to current tastes and cooking methods. The original Farsi recipe
serves six, and calls for 500ml of oil, twelve eggs, a kilo of strained
yoghurt, and a single clove of garlic. Two of the eggs are required to be mixed
well into the yoghurt and cooked over a gentle heat before adding the mashed
garlic clove. This is the sauce of the recipe, and is served over flatbreads
with fried eggs laid on top. It specifically states that a liberal use of oil makes
for a tastier dish. My recipe turns the yoghurt sauce into a Turkish cacık of sorts, with salt, garlic, and dried mint, and layers the
uncooked sauce and fried eggs over a thin, buttered roti. The garlic is very lightly cooked in ghee before being added to the yoghurt, in order to balance its heating potency. I did try the recipe
with the ramazan pidesi bread that is always found in abundance at the
Turkish shop nearby, but found it to be too thick. There are other types of
flatbreads like lavash, and even thin Turkish pide, that would work just as
well as roti.
I like to tell myself that the
mint imparts a cooling quality to the dish, and the ample use of butter
balances the yoghurt, but I could be clutching at straws. Nevertheless, this is
a deeply satisfying breakfast to treat yourself to over the colder months.
Azerbaijani Gozlemeh
(Fried eggs with yoghurt sauce)
(Serves 2)
Ingredients:
50g strained yoghurt (Greek style
yoghurt will suffice, but homemade works best)
½ tsp salt
½ tsp dried mint (optional extra: 1 tsp
finely chopped parsley)
1 – 2 garlic cloves, finely minced
4 eggs
1 Tbl ghee / butter
2 rotis (frozen or fresh)
6 – 8 black olives, halved
Dried oregano
Dried oregano
Slices of cucumber, radish, and tomato,
to serve
- First prepare the rotis. If using frozen rotis, allow to defrost before cooking on the stove. Fresh rotis can be prepared and kept warm.
- Mix the salt, herbs, and garlic into the yoghurt, stirring well. A few drops of water can be added at this stage to loosen the sauce, depending on personal preference.
- Heat the ghee or butter in a frying pan. Add the garlic and cook for a few seconds, or until the raw smell only just begins to soften. Tip into the yoghurt with half of the melted fat and whisk well.
- Crack two of the eggs into the remaining ghee in the pan, season with salt, and allow to fry until they are cooked with slightly runny yolks. I tend to finish my fried eggs off under the grill in order to cook the tops to perfection.
- Spread a spoonful of the yoghurt mixture onto a generously buttered roti, and top with two fried eggs. Garnish with the olives, a sprinkling of oregano, and serve with a salad of your choice.
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| Azerbaijani gozlemeh |
Monday, 21 September 2015
The Food of the Gods: Yoghurt & Shrikhand
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| Cardamom and saffron-laced Shrikhand |
Yoghurt is one of the oldest foods in human history.
Supposedly originating in Central Asia, it has been mentioned in ancient
Ayurvedic and Persian texts, and written about by Roman philosopher Pliny the
Elder and medieval Turkish intellectuals. Cultures from Greece and Central Asia
through to the Indian Subcontinent incorporate yoghurt into their cuisines, be
it cooked into dishes, prepared as a soup, or served alongside meals; many
cultures still enjoy yoghurt-based drinks for their refreshing taste and digestive
properties.
Back when we were children, I
remember my mother making fresh yoghurt almost every night; she would place a
stainless steel bowl of cultured milk to set in the boiler cupboard each night
before bed. As the years went by she grew lazy, and fresh yoghurt was replaced
with shop-bought fat-free natural yoghurt. This never bothered me because I
cannot say that I was the biggest fan of yoghurt as a child, always preferring
milk or ice cream. Yoghurt was too sour, regardless of what preparation it was
being used for. My sister on the other hand loved yoghurt, and I would watch
with distaste as she took second helpings of the warm yoghurt soup kadhi,
and dropped large dollops of thick yoghurt onto her rice.
It was on my extended trip to
India last year that I began to appreciate yoghurt. Having spent four months
there in order to complete a clinical placement for my Ayurvedic studies, I was
fortunate enough to travel up and down the country sampling the different
gastronomic delights. Starting in the South, at a dusty town between Bangalore
and Mangalore, I savoured the cool yet spicy tang of curd rice, and found
surprising comfort in freshly prepared yoghurt that was rich and unctuous with
a thick layer of cream on top. In Gujarat I discovered shrikhand, a dense
strained yoghurt sweetened with rock candy and flavoured with saffron,
cardamom, and pistachio. It was intensely addictive stuff, a kind that I had
never tasted before, almost a cross between Italian gelato and mousse. Of the
few that I had tried back home, all had this terribly sharp tang to them that
did not agree with my palette. And then there was Delhi, my beloved Delhi… I
could not get enough of the sweet lassi from Kamla Nagar. It was thick and
creamy, but still thirst quenching and light, with electric crimson rose syrup
at the bottom of the gigantic plastic cup and a generous layer of crunchy
clotted cream on top. I always rewarded myself after channa masala and kulcha
with two helpings.
I managed to spend a little time
with relatives in Jamnagar and Mumbai before my departure, and observed an
almost obsessive fastidiousness around the preparation of yoghurt and mealtime
lassis. Each culture, indeed each individual, has their own taste preferences:
Iranians prefer sour yoghurt, allowing it to set for at least 24 hours to
achieve the desired level of sharpness. In contrast, most Indians prefer a
milder, creamier yoghurt and allow between 4 to 12 hours for it to set,
depending on the season. I remember my cousin in Mumbai shouting at her maid
around lunchtime to enquire if the morning’s preparation of yoghurt had been
placed in the refrigerator. I had not understood why at the time. My aunt,
incidentally my cousin’s mother, in Jamnagar had been obsessive about hygiene
surrounding her own yoghurt, and lassi had to be prepared in a very particular,
rather rigorous way for the lunchtime meal.
In India, the Ayurvedic view of yoghurt
has only somewhat prevailed amongst its people. Contrary to popular opinion,
yoghurt is viewed as a heating food due to its sour taste and fermentation
process of production. It is often considered heavy to digest, and should only
be consumed in the colder months when digestion power is strong, never to be
eaten at night or on a daily basis by way of its heavy qualities. It increases
fat, and strengthens both the sperm and the body in general. Therapeutically,
yoghurt has been prescribed for anorexia, irritable bowel syndrome, and urinary
tract infections, whilst its improper consumption can lead to fever, skin
diseases, and anaemia. However, certain
foods possess qualities that balance those of yoghurt, making it more agreeable
to the body and the digestive system. These include mung bean soup, ghee,
honey, unrefined sugar, and amla (Indian gooseberries).
Rediscovering Shrikhand
Rediscovering Shrikhand
Shrikhand is mainly eaten as a
dessert around the winter months in the Indian states of Gujarat and
Maharashtra. At celebratory gatherings and social dinners it is served
garnished with bright green ground pistachio, rose petals, and silver leaf.
Unrefined sugar is used to lightly sweeten the yoghurt, and cooling,
blood-purifying saffron is added alongside mucous-mitigating cardamom for an
overall balanced sweet. The yoghurt is strained to remove all the liquid whey
and to produce that luxurious texture. The name itself poses some interesting
questions. Initially, because I was studying Farsi, I thought that the dish had
its origins in Persia: shir is the Farsi word for milk, and qand
is sugar. However, upon commencing my Ayurvedic studies, we had to take one module in
Sanskrit, and there I learnt that kshīr was also the Sanskrit word for
milk, with khānd meaning unrefined sugar. The prevalence of shrikhand
centres on Gujarat, a northwestern state close to Rajasthan and Sindh, and
where the Zoroastrians first settled centuries ago. Although strained yoghurt
recipes abound throughout western, central, and southern Asia, it has been
difficult locating any recipes similar to shrikhand outside of India.
Having delighted in the tah dig
crust with a little too much gusto, my friend declined dessert, and I only
tried the shrikhand the next morning. Memories came flooding back. Delights to
the senses in Gujarat: the biting chill of the morning shade, cows cleaning
each other in the sun, the scents of freshly fried jalebis and gaathiya
coming from the bottom of the street, and strong masala chai wafting from the
kitchen. It was delicate, silky, and delicious! This one had been made with the
addition of fresh mango pieces, adding bursts of tangy sweetness to each
mouthful. Despite my attempts to savour the glory for as long as possible with
only two spoonfulls a day, by the third day I caved in and polished off the whole lot in one sitting.
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| Cows in love in Jamnagar, Gujarat |
Naturally, I set off to make my
own. Strained yoghurt could not possibly be that difficult. So I purchased a
tub of natural yoghurt from the local Turkish shop, poured it into a
muslin-lined colander, tied it up into a bundle, and set it over a bowl for the
liquid to drip away. A few hours later, I added some sugar, the required spices, and mixed well. Whilst the texture was acceptable,
the taste was completely off. Just like the ones I had tasted in my youth, this
shrikhand had that terrible sharpness that resulted in a mild smarting sensation on my tongue. Highly dissatisfied, I relayed the story to my friend and asked her advice. She informed me that her mother only used home made yoghurt to make shrikhand, and I
was instructed to allow it to strain in the fridge overnight. I had kept mine
on the kitchen table as I cooked dinner, so the surrounding heat must have
contributed to the yoghurt becoming increasingly sour.
Although I had put it off for a
couple of weeks, I was determined to make the perfect shrikhand. I sent my
cousin in Mumbai a message to enquire over her secrets for the best yoghurt. As
standard, I was to boil the milk, allow it to cool, and then mix in a little
amount of starter culture before placing it in a warm place
to set. But here was the trick. For the mildest, creamiest yoghurt, it had to
be carefully observed. As soon as the mixture came away from the sides of the
bowl, and a thin liquid had developed over the top, your yoghurt had set, and it had to be put straight
into the fridge to stop it from souring any further. So here is what I did:
Homemade Yoghurt
Ingredients:
1½ pints full fat organic, unhomogenised milk
1 Tbl Yoghurt
·
Preheat the oven to about 50°C.
·
Pour the milk into a large saucepan and bring to a
rolling boil over a medium-low heat. Make sure to stir the bottom regularly to
prevent any milk solids from sticking to the bottom of the pan. This process should take about 15 – 20 minutes.
·
Once boiled, take off the stove and allow to cool. At
this point, the milk can be transferred to a container of your choice. When a
finger can be immersed in the milk comfortably for 20 seconds, the milk has been
sufficiently cooled. A thick layer of cream will have developed over the milk.
·
Add the yoghurt and whisk well to make sure it has been evenly dispersed.
·
Place the container in the oven and immediately turn it off. In
about 3 – 5 hours, the set yoghurt will be coming away from the sides of its
container, and a thin film of liquid will be visible over the top. Transfer the
container to the fridge right away.
This method produces the most
creamiest, sweetest yoghurt I have ever tasted outside of India, with the cream
on top adding a layer of luxury. It is actually impossible to find anything even remotely similar in the shops, be it organic, fresh from the cow's udders, or made by devoted, golden hued farmers in Crete. Using this batch of yoghurt to produce your
next will only enhance
the quality of the yoghurt, so I am always careful to keep a couple of
tablespoons back to use as starter culture.
 |
| My home made yoghurt, complete with the layer of cream on top, courtesy of unhomogenised milk |
With the yoghurt perfected, it
was round two with the shrikhand. This time I made sure to allow the yoghurt to
strain in the fridge overnight, keeping a heavy weight over it. Sure enough, by
the morning I was left with strained yoghurt that had an almost solid consistency.
To this I added saffron rock candy that I had found at an Iranian shop nearby (nabat),
and cardamom. I mixed it well, trying to whip some air into it, and finally
sprinkled ground almonds and pistachios on top. And then to taste…
Yes! I found myself back in
Gujarat.
Shrikhand
(serves 2)
Ingredients:
250g homemade yoghurt
2 – 4 Tbls icing sugar, or ground
rock candy
3 – 5 cardamom pods, seeds
removed and ground to a powder
Pinch of saffron
2 Tbls pistachios, ground to a
powder
2 Tbls almonds, ground to a
powder
·
Pour the yoghurt into a colander lined with muslin and
pull up the sides of the cloth to tie into a tight bundle. Place the colander
over a bowl. A plate can be placed on top with a weight, such as a pestle and
mortar or a can of chopped tomatoes. Alternatively, the bundle can be hung and
suspended over a bowl, as is the traditional method.
·
Allow the yoghurt to strain for a good few hours in the
fridge, or overnight, until all the liquid has been drained. Squeeze tightly before
use.
·
Put the strained yoghurt into a bowl and add the
powdered sugar and spices. Mix well, whipping gently for a few minutes.
·
Taste and adjust the sugar if required.
·
Before serving, sprinkle with ground nuts and dried
rose petals. Dried and fresh fruits can also be stirred into the shrikhand for
flavour and texture.
NB: The drained liquid whey does
not need to be thrown away, and can be used in soups, cooking, and especially
in baking and bread making.
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| My own perfected Shrikhand |
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