Raining Cows and Monkeys

It has been raining for four straight days, and there are no signs of it stopping any time soon. There has been almost no lull in the torrential downpour. By now I have categorized at least twenty different kinds of rain, and I have even learned the Hindi word for this uncomfortable wetness emanating from the sky: varsha, which also happens to be the name of one of the girls in the hostel. At least it’s one less name that I don’t have to try and remember.

I have never experienced this much rain before. The locals around here have been complaining for the past several weeks that it has not rained nearly enough around here, and in India, this means disaster. So much of the country’s economy relies upon agriculture, and in this area, away from some of the benefits of the Green Revolution, rainfall is a must to ensure lively agriculture. Indra, the Hindu rain god, must have heard their complaints. She must have also heard me saying to everyone that I meet that I’m not cold, I don’t need a bigger jacket, and I’m used to much lower temperatures in Michigan. Only three weeks in India and karma is already kicking my butt.

Strangely enough, not being dry or warm for four days straight has not put me off as much as I thought it would. At home, I would be dreading going outside and my mood would turn absolutely foul if it rained for more than a half hour. I would put off leaving my bed as much as possible and make any excuse I could to stay inside. No umbrella or raincoat seemed to improve my mood. Yet here, the conditions are even worse. Excess rain means frequent power cuts, so I have taken to carrying a flashlight around with me in the house. There is no heating besides a small fireplace in the mud hut, and I can literally see my breath at night, yet there is nothing I can do about it. I can put on an extra layer or walk around some more to raise my body temperature, but ultimately I am at the mercy of the elements. I even have to continue walking a half hour to and from work every day. You know how your parents or grandparents would try to make you less spoiled by saying, “I had to walk uphill in the pouring rain and hail for an hour every day on my way to school with no car and no heat and no electricity!” Well, I have to walk uphill to KLB in the pouring rain and hail for about a half hour every day with no car and no heat and sometimes no electricity. And that’s normal.

Yes, even at KLB, attendance is a fraction of normal and when I arrived this morning there was no power and everybody was taking shelter under the balcony overhangs. In Michigan we cancel school because of a foot of snow. In Himachal school is canceled because of four days of rain. Also, in some places farther north, like upper Himachal, Jammu and Kashmir, some places are reporting 6-8 meters of snow. Two or three kilometers north of the mud hut, there is snow. If I could see the mountains uphill of here, I know that they would be completely capped in fresh white powder. Never before in my life have I seen such Mother Nature (or Indra) open up with power and strength.

The difference in attitude between Indians here and Americans to the weather is fascinating. I have already mentioned how agriculture relies upon regular rainfall, so of course they are grateful for that, but there’s something else. The rain has brought new life to the area in such a short period of time, it’s impossible to feel down. When I opened my door this morning to brave the hail on my walk to work, I was greeted with one of my favorite scents: fresh herbage. I smelled what I thought was cilantro, thyme and basil, but was probably a salad of local Indian varieties. I have never noticed it before now, so the rains must have jump started their growth. This smelled followed me for the next half hour; I loved it. There are also two areas in town that my friends have called “rivers,” but up until now they have just been a barren pile of dry rocks snaking through the valleys. Today, muddy waters were overflowing their banks and rushing downhill at rapid speed. Other waters moved through the streets like garbage collectors, removing the grime, filth and trash that had accumulated since the last rain. Even the monkeys, cows and stray dogs looked cleaner and happier than they had before, though their fur or hair was matted to their skin by the rain.

It was like the rainfall had purified the entire area and gave everybody a fresh start. So when I arrived at KLB this morning, I didn’t see a single face that wasn’t adorned with a bright smile. There was no power, no class, no internet, no chai (gasp!) and very little heat, but everybody was giddy and cheerful.

“Good morning, Pat! Namaste!”

“Isn’t this lovely Himachal weather?”

“ You are looking very smart this morning, sir.”

“Yes, very sexy! Highest degree, ha.”

I was taken aback. Not just by the sexy comment, though that was a bit disturbing. Rain just doesn’t cause this kind of a mood swing where I am from. Nature and the environment has been paved over and replaced by office space and parking lots. We hire people to clean our streets and pick up garbage instead of taking care of our surroundings the way they were meant to be treated. We plant young saplings and potted herbs where ancient trees, fresh flowers and natural gardens used to be anyway. Before coming to India, I have never been that much in touch with the environment. Even weekend camping trips with Boy Scouts left me feeling detached and longing for something more real and pure. Now, I have found a place where nature and civilization exist together. It’s a far cry from harmony and equal partnership, but maybe it can be called a mutual understanding. I feel blessed to be able to experience this and become a part of it so early in my time here. Never will I look at varsha the same way again.

Smells Like Victory

Breaking news: Pat has finally made something at KLB that was a complete success with almost no screw-ups. Why? Because I finally got to use eggs.

I’ve tried no less than three eggless brownie recipes since I got here, and they all have fallen far short of expectations. In fact, the last one I tried was burnt on the edges and way too gooey in the middle, yet it still qualified as the best one yet. Then Principal Ramdev asked me to make a recipe using eggs. While most of the people here are vegetarian and choose not to consume eggs, some are not, and it was those people to whom I was catering.

I just so happen to have a fantastic, simple and delicious brownie recipe up my sleeve that I have been using for the past couple of years without fail. It always turns out great, it’s forgiving if your measurements aren’t exact, and you can even cook it in a microwave if you find yourself without a decent oven. Now the ultimate test for this infallible confectionary was to see if it would pull through in KLB’s canteen kitchen.

Pat’s Basic Brownie Recipe (non-veg)

½ cup butter (4 ounces, 1 American stick, 120ml or 125g)
½ cup cocoa (120ml or about 50g)
1 cup sugar (240ml or about 200g)
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla (5ml, but this is optional, as the brownies are so chocolate-y)
¼ tsp salt
¼ tsp cayenne pepper or chili powder (trust me…)
½ cup flour (120ml or about 60g)

1. Melt the butter. While it is still warm, whisk in the cocoa until smooth.
2. Roughly whisk in the sugar until completely uniform.
3. Beat the eggs in a separate container, then whisk them in slowly, about 1/3 at a time, until fully incorporated.
4. Whisk the salt, cayenne or chili and vanilla thoroughly.
5. Fold in the flour. Before adding the flour, you can whisk the mixture as much as you like with no ill effect. Once you add the flour, stir it in with a spatula only until all the dry ingredients are combined, not a second longer.
6. Bake in a greased 8”x8” (20cm x 20cm) pan placed in a preheated 350 degrees Fahrenheit/180 degrees Celsius for 25-30 minutes.

This recipe works even if you have white buffalo butter that tastes different, whole-wheat flour, no vanilla, too-coarse sugar and a curious audience of Indian girls. While making it, I just felt so much more confident than I have in the past couple of weeks because I knew this recipe so well and I have done it so many times before that none of the obstacles bothered me. Even the poorly insulated oven couldn’t ruin it. The edges were a bit crisp and it took closer to 35 minutes to bake fully, but the results were still fantastic.

I got about 20 pieces out of a double batch that cost about 120 rupees to make. 6 rupees per piece is a bit more expensive than most sweets around here, and it has eggs, but I don’t care. It’s a good one, and it was my first solid success here. I’m making it again.

By the way, I’d at least double the batch if I were you. It’s kind of small, and these will go pretty fast.

Rhododendron Chutney

Before I left for India, I wrote a post titled “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the World,” in which I listed a few things that every traveler should do or have. I stand by it, but I would also like to add two things to the list of stuff to bring: a waterproof jacket and good hiking shoes, preferably waterproof as well.

You see, sometimes when you travel, you’ll make this crazy mountaineering friend named Atul whose job it is to look after you and make sure that you’re making your way around India safely, eating the right foods, engaging with the right people and generally having a good time. Sometimes, Atul will call you on a Saturday, when the weather is great, and ask if you are busy on Sunday. You will likely not have plans, as this is a rural town and you just got there three weeks ago, so you won’t have much of a social life. It is possible that Atul will suggest a short hike up a mountain to see a temple dedicated to a Hindu goddess and a beautiful pool and waterfall. If all of this happens, you will fully agree to it, because it probably will sound like a great idea.

Sometimes, you will make these plans to spend most of the next day outside, away from shelter, and the heavens will open up to take a piss on your beautiful, sunny mountainside. Sometimes it will continue to rain all through the night and into the next morning as you eat your breakfast. When this happens, logic will dictate that most people will cancel their day hike outside, especially since whatever hike you may be planning will probably take place on rocky surfaces that become especially slick when wet. You may have even had knee surgery less than a year ago, and may still be feeling some apprehension about engaging your new joint in strenuous, slippery activity for several hours. So given these hypothetical circumstances, you will decide that it is mostly likely that the day hike will at least be postponed.

Sometimes Atul will show up at your door at 10:30 anyway, asking if you are ready to go. He might bring his friend Paul, whose name isn’t actually Paul, but sounds enough like Paul to allow you to call him that. Paul will most likely speak perfect English, but being shy, he won’t speak much of it with you. Anywho, at this time, you’ll probably pack up some food in the house to take as lunch, and being the 3-hour journey uphill.

Uphill is almost certainly more of an uphill than you’ve ever done before. You are likely to find weakly marked trails, shifting rocks, sudden patches of deep mud and mountain goats as some of the many obstacles in your path. Of course, don’t forget that it will probably still be raining this whole time and you are traversing upward at between 20 and 40 degrees the whole time. Despite being anxious about your knee, you are liable to be in good shape and are going at what you consider to be a great pace, but the two crazy Indians will definitely still be pacing you. If the Fates really want to spit in your face, they will make sure that both of your companions smoke like dirty chimneys during the entire journey while climbing faster and more comfortably that you think is possible. Don’t worry, it won’t seem like their lungs can handle it, but they really can, so just go with it.

If you reach the top of the mountain, you will surely be greeted with a wonderful, if slightly rain-obscured view of all of Palampur, a Hindu temple and a peaceful pool of fresh water leading off to a small waterfall. It will be worth every step up, even in this weather. On the way down, you and your buddies will in all probability start looking for places to sit down and have lunch, but most of the out-of-the-way areas are already marked by feces, both human and animal. In fact, you will likely have to walk about 45 minutes out of the way to a gathering of wet rocks literally perched on the side of the mountain before Atul and Paul determine it’s a good spot to stop. You might disagree, given the relative ease by which one can slip off and fall to their untimely death, but again, shouldn’t you just go with the flow?

Paul and Atul may even decide to build a small fire while you eat. The wood will be very wet by this time, so you won’t think it’s likely. But maybe Paul will pull a water bottle filled with kerosene out of his backpack. That’ll get some flames going, and even if the wood doesn’t actually catch after an entire bottle, it’ll look pretty cool. Fire is usually quite fun, even if a runaway dash of lighter fluid causes the flames to eat at the seam on the bottom of your pants for a few seconds before you notice. Before you start the treacherous trek down the slippery slopes (excuse the annoying alliteration, it’s amazingly addicting), Paul and Atul might stop at a large tree with bright red flowers and start picking a few. It’s rhododendron, and it’s very pretty, but you may wonder why they’re picking so many. Atul may respond to your observations with, “We’re going to eat it, of course.” Apparantly, it’s very common in this area to make delicious chutney out of the leaves, mixed with some onion, chili powder and water, not much else. You may think this is awesome, especially if experiencing new food is one of your favorite parts of traveling. Doubtless you cannot wait to taste something prepared from something else that you have gathered yourself. Oh, and don’t be surprised if Paul removes his shoes and risks his life to climb the tree and get as many blossoms as possible. After that, you really can’t wait to try it.

Upon arriving back at your humble abode, you will probably prepare some chai for yourself and your compatriots to warm up while you rest your sore muscles and stiff knee. You will apt to be glad that you decided to go despite the lousy weather. But without a doubt, given all of the above to be true, you will be so grateful that you have a waterproof jacket and wonderful, waterproof hiking shoes. Without them, you would have been too miserably wet and cold to have any fun at all.

Close Encounters of the Indian Kind

It’s a rainy day in Palampur, and for the first time in the three weeks since I got here, it feels like I can finally sit down and relax. It’s time to make an evaluation of my life here to see I am coping well, and I am glad to say that results are positive. I can say that I’ve settled into my house, my routine and my diet, at least as much as I am able. I’m walking to work, making friends and navigating the market with a little more confidence. Yep, I’m definitely starting to feel comfortable here.

Although I’m not at all comfortable with the staring.

In India, it’s not rude to stare at people. Openly. Repeatedly. I’m realistic and I understand that in this small town, there are almost no white people. For some, like my rural neighbors, I’m the only westerner that they’ve ever seen. Most have never even been to a major city like Delhi. It’s only natural for them to express their curiosity the only way they know how: by staring openly at the strange white kid with the sunglasses when he butchers the pronunciation of “Namaste” because it’s the only greeting he knows.

In a fairly short time, I have had several interesting, funny or strange encounters with complete strangers that bear mention, solely because of their uniqueness in comparison with Western culture. I hope you have as much fun reading about them as I had experiencing them:

Agata and I were walking to town for lunch when two young men on a motor cycle slowed down and shouted to Agata, “You look beautiful in Indian dress!” She had purchased what’s called a Punjabi outfit so as to fit in more with the culture, which is baggy pants and a non-revealing tunic recommended for Western women who are accustomed to wearing tank tops and tight jeans. Moments later, the same men came back and asked if we wanted to buy ganja. I don’t have a lot of experience, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the way drug deals go down in the states.

I am frequently accosted by young children on the way to work who want to practice their English, but they seem too shy to just open up and talk. Usually they run next to me for about two minutes (I walk fast and they have short legs), talking to each other in Hindi before they ask, “Your good name? Your country? Oh, USA? America, yeah!” Then they run away. This happens at least twice a week.

To get to the mud hut, I have to take a short, winding dirt path that snakes in between my neighbors’ houses. Yesterday, several of them were gathered on their porch when I passed, and one of them motioned for me to join them. Why not? When I walked down the steps to their patio, the girls retreated to the far corner and started giggling and whispering. I shook them men’s hands, promptly forgot all of their names and just stood there. No English. For at least three minutes. Then Sanjeev (yes, I remembered one!) said, “Okay, nice to talk. Bye.” And I left.

I must say, the most interesting experiences are at KLB, where I am surrounded by over 800 girls who by now all know that I make brownies. I frequently am passing groups of them, and I am able to hear them say something like, “hindi hindi hindi brownies hindi hindi.” These wandering packs will stand in a small circle and take turns glancing over in my direction, then looking away quickly and giggling when they see that I notice them.

These are not the only awkward rendezvous I’ve had, nor will they be the last. You may think, “Pat, you should consider yourself lucky. You have a thousand young single women who are fascinated by your presence.” Well, yeah, it’s awesome… but not that awesome. It’s mostly embarrassing. I just feel awkward all the time. You know that feeling when you are sure that there’s somebody looking right at you? That’s what I feel whenever I leave my house, except that in my case, I’m usually right. Sometimes I just don’t even want to get out of bed, not because I’m tired, but because I don’t want people to stare at me anymore.

Professor Ramdev says a lot of it is due to my skin color. Indian people, both men and women, strive for lighter skin. He says that it is probably latent from hundreds of years of British rule, where white skin was associated with high status. American women spend their money on UV beds and tanning cream, while Indians stay indoors when they can and apply lotion to make their skin was lighter. Obviously, there are other things besides the color of my skin that make me stand out. I frequently like to wear sunglasses, I carry my backpack on my walk to work, I wear fewer layers than most because the temperature is relatively warm for me, my hair is unusually short, I walk alone most of the time and I speak American English. But I don’t want to completely blend in. I have my identity, and I want to keep it, regardless of how much it makes me be conspicuous.

The good news is that I’ve found a way to retaliate. I’m going to stare right back. No, it’s not entirely appropriate, and if I were a woman, it would be the entirely wrong decision, but it works. They stop looking. I don’t do it every time, but every once in awhile it at least makes me feel better, and it definitely makes them stop staring (at least females). Maybe they’ll even get used to seeing me and stop looking. Or not. We’ll see.

In other news, I’ve finally had enough internet access to complete the numbers portion of my nutritional profile for the hostel. It’s really nerdy, but Excel spreadsheets, when done well, can be pretty fun. What’s next is to take all the numbers and compile it into a written report, summarizing and making recommendations when necessary. That’ll take time, but time is something of which there is abundance here. Time and unwanted attention, of course.

Blinding Them With Science

Here’s another weekly report I wrote for Atul. Progress looks so much better when you summarize it on paper, don’t you think?

“I have begun more intensive work on the nutrition aspect of the hostel food service at KLB College. One problem that continuously plagues my progress is the internet connection. John did a fantastic job setting up wi-fi and a strong internet here, but as with any aspect of technology, there are sometimes unavoidable difficulties. As such, I have been unable to complete my research on the nutritive values of the ingredients served in the hostel. I am about three-fourths done, and provided I will have access to the internet in the future, I should finish it next week.

“Here is a summary of my nutritional profile so far. I have broken each day’s menu down into the raw ingredients used in each recipe. That was rather simple, considering that Indian cuisine takes raw vegetables, legumes and grains and cooks them simply. For example, chapattis are made with nothing but whole-wheat flour and water. Since there are no calories in water, all I had to do was make a few chapattis to estimate the amount of whole-wheat flour that goes into each one. Main courses were only a little bit more difficult. The dal dishes served were mostly water and spices, only about one-third dal. This observation was determined after “auditing” several meals and preparations in the kitchen. Of course, no matter how much measuring I do, I can never be exact about the amount of food given to each student, which is why I estimated the maximum and minimum amount of food served to each girl to get a range of values as well as an average. This was determined by both observing their eating habits and interviewing a random sampling of students – between five and ten out of the 37 currently living in the hostel – as well as measuring the plates used to serve the food. Thus, I was able to come up with a summary of all the raw ingredients consumed by the girls and their estimated amounts. What remains is to analyze their nutritional content, and I am in the process of that right now, using the USDA’s extensive database.

“There is, of course, much room for error. The biggest is that the girls most likely obtain food from outside the hostel kitchen each day. Also, the girls range in age, size and physical activity, which are the three principal determinants of energy consumption. In other words, each girl is different and requires different amounts of calories, fat, carbohydrates and protein to meet their specific needs. Plus, they generally tend to be very small for their age, at least compared to American women aged 18-22. Again, all I can do is estimate and come up with ranges that encompass as many girls as possible.

“To that end, I have come up with a plan for how to proceed with my nutritional profile, and I have discussed these methods with Principal Ramdev. First, I will conduct informal interviews with some, but not all, of the hostelites (the word used to describe the girls living in the hostel) to determine their levels of physical activity, as well as what food they eat outside of the mess hall. In these interviews I will also record their weight and age, but I will do so without recording their name. These figures will remain anonymous. Using this information, I can calculate their basal metabolic rate (BMR) and general physical activity level (PAL), which I can then use to determine their total energy expenditure (TEE). These calculations come from a report by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO), in conjunction with the World Health Organization (WHO) and United Nations University (UNU), written in 2004. By comparing these figures with the figures I will eventually procure from my analysis of the hostel menu, I will be able to draw some conclusions as to whether the food served in the hostel sufficiently contributes to a healthy diet, as well as whether hostel living in itself promotes a healthy lifestyle.

“At this point I must clarify that I am not a trained dietician, nor am I an expert in nutrition or fitness. I will not be making any changes or suggestions to the way things are done here at KLB without running them by Principal Ramdev, Neetu the cook, and Madam Utra the warden. Any conclusions I make and any work I do will be based on well-documented sources and none of it will be my personal opinion.

“In addition to my work on the nutritional profile, this week I also continued my learning about the way business is run at KLB and in India in general. Principal Ramdev is a very accommodating supervisor of my work, and he approves almost every single one of my requests. I have helped financially support some more of my cooking and baking, but he and KLB are still extremely generous in their funding. Honestly, I haven’t used more than 3,000 rupees (about 68 USD) worth of ingredients since I got here, so it’s not that much, and I have purchased about half of that, but it still means a lot that they are willing to support me. This week I made falafel and spicy mustard to go with it. The falafel was a hit, and while the mustard received less praise, it was at least spicy enough for Indian palates. It has become something of a contest, with these people challenging me to making something as spicy as possible for them, and me continuously falling short, no matter how much chili powder I use. I also experimented with another eggless brownie recipe which turned out much better than the first. Not only is it vegetarian, but it only uses four raw ingredients – flour, sugar, butter and chocolate – so it is relatively cheap to make. It needs more fine-tuning, and I need more practice working in the kitchen with that equipment, but it is promising.

“The work ethic here is much different than in the U.S. Things move at a much slower pace, and there is more independence and individual responsibility on the students to complete their work. Chai breaks are common, and most of the teachers and students are done with their work by two in the afternoon. Classes are only 35 minutes long, much shorter than the 50, 120 or 160 minute classes in the states. I am frequently told by Principal Ramdev and the other teachers to just sit down, relax and take it easy (shanti, in Hindi). This is something that will be hard for me to get used to.

“I am also making some friends among the staff here. I eat lunch every day with Ajay, an economics teacher; Anupam, the PE teacher; Jitender, who teaches science; and Pravesh, the computer instructor and the man who helped John install the wi-fi system. On a related note, I think I am getting better at remembering Indian names, at which I was horrible a few weeks ago. I look forward to learning more Hindi as the semester progresses.”

Let me tell you, it was a little bit awkward asking Principal Ramdev and Madam Utra if I could weigh the girls to determine their energy requirements. If I tried that with 18-22 year old Americans, I probably would have been slapped. Yet here, some girls had no problem with volunteering that information, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because body image is much more secure here and not as big a deal, or maybe they just have less of a problem with surrendering personal information. Anyway, I’m grateful, because it means I can be that much more accurate in my nutritional profile. In life, accuracy is everything.

I must also confess that I’m having a little fun researching all of this nutrition information and making calculations about food. I always hated doing math, but like I mentioned in an earlier post, when it has to do with food, anything is fun for me. Even science.

Building a Better Bread

4 February 2010

If I don’t have a project going in the kitchen, something long-term that won’t be ready to eat for at least another month or so, then I just don’t feel right. Idle hands, you know? That’s why last week I decided to try for myself one of the oldest food preparation techniques known to man: a sourdough starter.

Bread making began at the same time civilization appeared, between 10,000 and 8,000 B.C.E. It was probably one of the first prepared foods, and its intricate complexity and simultaneous simplicity makes it my favorite thing to eat and make myself. At its simplest, it contains only flour and water, but with any simple thing, every little detail counts. Those who have made bread before would ask, what about yeast? The dried-up little buggers that come in 7 gram packets in the grocery store are just brewer’s yeast scraped off the sides of beer tanks after they are emptied, but they are only one type of that particular microorganism; thousands exist all over the world. They’re everywhere, from the air we breathe to the water we drink, and all they do is eat and pass gas, which is responsible for making bread rise.

Sure, you can make reliable, good bread from store bought yeast, but the best breads in the world are manufactured from sourdough starters containing wild yeast. To make a starter, all you really have to do is mix flour and water and “feed” it by regularly adding more flour and water. My guess is some prehistoric foodie accidentally left his flatbread dough out in a warm place for a few days, forgot about it, and returned to find the resulting dough baked into a lighter, more delicious bread. It’ll take some time, but eventually you’ll have a healthy colony of yeast and their accompanying bacteria strong enough to raise a few loaves of bread and give it a wonderful complex taste. I really wanted to try it, not only to have something fun for me to do, but something good to eat. Like I said, good honest bread is my favorite thing in the world to eat, but Indian’s just don’t like it. They get their complex carbs from chapatti, an unleavened flatbread made from nothing but whole-wheat flour and water. It’s good, but it’s also plain and almost too simple, lacking complex flavor and completely devoid of texture.

My starter did not start out so well. I bought a 10-kilo bag of whole-wheat flour, because it’s so darn cheap, and a kilo of grapes for their juice to get the yeast going. Grapes are notorious for having delicious and strong yeast, which is why wine is made from them. I ran into problems right from the start. The mud hut is quite cold, and yeast needs a warm environment to grow and reproduce. I put it on top of the refrigerator to get some residual heat from the regulator, but I didn’t think it would be warm enough. Heck, it gets downright frosty in the kitchen at night. In addition, Shammi kept moving it off the fridge, which was the warmest spot in the house, so he could use it to make yogurt (yes, he makes yogurt from scratch, and it’s so much better than Dannon). Finally, I don’t even have an oven. Even if it did work, I wouldn’t be able to do anything with it. I was just doing something for poops and giggles to keep myself occupied, and I didn’t even have a goal in sight. Plus, there are so many different kinds of wild yeast, and it’s entirely possible that Indians don’t bake bread because the yeast in the area is either too weak or simply doesn’t taste too good. For the next few days of feeding my starter (I want to name it, any ideas?) there were no signs of life. I felt kind of worthless, like there were so many elements in my project that were against me from the start, even though nobody was to blame.

Actually, it started to mirror my work at KLB, both in cooking American foods and completing the nutrition profile for the girls at the hostel. So many people here want me to whip out these amazing baked goods and American snacks for them immediately, and I just keep falling a bit short. I tried making a different batch of eggless brownies as per a recipe tested from a friend back home who promised it would result in a fudgy and delicious confection (for more of her baking exploits, check out Whisk Kid). You know the saying that baking is an exact science? I hate it, because it’s wrong. You can never bake the same thing twice, and if you add an extra tablespoon of flour or play around with the spices, it’ll turn out just fine.

Having said that, there are quite a few things in baking that need to go right and occur in the correct order for your ventures to be a success. Today with the brownies, that just wasn’t happening. The ingredients here are different for one. Flour is coarser, sugar comes in giant crystals that never seem to dissolve, and butter simply isn’t the same in taste or composition (because some of it comes from buffalo. Fancy that). The equipment here is not suited for baking at all, and it is only appropriate for cooking simple Indian dishes. Most homes don’t have ovens, and the one that I am using in the hostel is the size of a microwave and is a bit stronger than a microwave oven. It’s really good at browning the top of the brownies and burning the edges, but not at cooking the inside of a baked product. I had to purchase metric measuring cups, which only come in one size; nothing here is measured in the kitchen. Kitchen scales for weighing ingredients are way too expensive, so all of my metric recipes calling for flour or sugar in grams are automatically going to be way off. I can’t even find a rubber, plastic or silicone spatula in any of the shops in town, and in my opinion, that’s the most important tool for any baker besides his bare (but squeaky clean) hands.

The problem as I’m starting to see it is that American and Indian cuisines are more than just a world apart. Indian recipes haven’t changed for the past several thousand years, and there is no outside influence or domestic desire to make them change. As a result, anybody who comes in and tries something different is bound to run into difficulties. The two styles are just incompatible. These were the thoughts going through my head as I pulled yet another batch of substandard brownies from my pathetic little oven. They were overly sweet, not chocolate-y enough, and still a bit runny in the center. I couldn’t get them out of the makeshift baking pan without them falling apart. It’s not the fault of the recipe, there were just too many circumstances going against it. Everybody loved them, but only because they were new and different. I think they were just trying to be polite.

I couldn’t even finish the nutritional profile on which I’ve been working for over a week. I have no internet access at the mud hut to look up nutrition facts for all the ingredients, so I can only do that work at KLB. But at KLB, I’m too busy botching brownies and getting mobbed by giggling girls to sit down for much time and research. When I finally do get the time, the internet is usually so slow that I can hardly load any pages or look up any new ideas for recipes.

To be honest, I was probably just feeling a bit down because Agata, my temporary Polish roommate, was leaving that day to go back home. Her visit was short, but we clicked so well. She’s an amazing dancer and shares with me a love of good food and a fondness for trying new things. It helped that we were the only two white people for a hundred kilometers, which meant we both got stared at constantly. We loved to joke about the Indian way of doing things (TII), and every evening when we got home from our work, I would open my computer, play some music, and the two of us would just spend the rest of the night dancing, eating and swapping stories. What more could you ask from a roommate?

On the walk home (uphill for 30 minutes, try that 5 times a week) from work today, I just felt a little bit frustrated. Even though I wasn’t remotely close to completely losing hope and giving India the finger, it made me feel somewhat lost and upset. I knew that I was coming home to an empty house and a dead sourdough starter. After dropping my backpack, I resolved to just 86 the ungrateful mass of wet dough and call it quits.

Wait… are those bubbles on the surface?

And what’s that smell? It’s like… wine, or beer. Definitely alcoholic…

…is it just me, or did it rise a little since this morning?

It’s… IT’S ALIVE! MWAHAHAHA!

I couldn’t believe it. Despite the relatively freezing temperatures and otherwise hostile environment, a colony of yeast and bacteria was able to thrive and begin fermentation. It was able to surpass all odds and make its own destiny, free from the oppression of… okay, I’ll stop, this is starting to sound like a bad Disney movie. Even so, coming home to find that at least one thing worked exactly the way it should have, even though I fully expected it to fail, made me feel at least a little better about being here. The canteen kitchen is tiny and cramped, the oven is a piece of rubbish, the ingredients are limited, the internet sucks, and everything I make here turns out burnt or undercooked, but at least they keep giving me another shot.

And I’ve finally got bread. Sort of.

This Is India

Today I was kidnapped.

Sort of. Let me start at the beginning

Indians like falafel.

In fact, I’m surprised that they’ve never had it before. When exploring savory snack options, I suggested falafel to Principal Ramdev, and he’d never heard of it. It’s nothing but chickpeas mashed up with spices and fried in oil. Considering that chickpeas (channa) are very common and cheap around here, the usual spices are very well-known, and it is fried (the most popular cooking method in India), I figured that it would be a perfect addition to KLB’s canteen menu. Principal Ramdev agreed to let me try a batch to see if the students and staff would like it on the canteen’s menu.

This is also a good time to introduce a saying I have invented to tell myself when I get frustrated with the way things go here: TII, This Is India. You can also say shanti, which means “peace,” but really means “chill out, bro.” Everything moves at a much slower pace, and every action has to be carefully consulted. But even then, details are ignored or left out, while the action must continue anyway for the sake of progress. It’s like planning for months to build a car, discovering that you don’t have any rubber for the tires, and building the sucker anyway, a month past the deadline.

When I arrived at KLB this morning to begin falafel (I had soaked 4 kg chickpeas the day before), I was greeted with the news that the canteen’s gas cylinder had gone empty and the cook (whose name I still cannot remember, pronounce or write) had gone to fetch a refill. I was familiar enough with the way things work around here to know that even though the market is a five minute walk away, this errand would take at least two hours. So I waited, working further on the hostel menu. I was unable to use that kitchen because the burners were too small to cook the massive pot containing the chickpeas, and lunch was being cooked on it anyway.

Gas arrived at about 11, and I asked the cook to put the chickpeas on to boil. Now, I knew this was going to take awhile. The pot was huge, there were 4 kg of uncooked beans that needed to soften, and then we needed to mash them up. TII, so there was no food processor, which means that we get to mash them by hand. Yay! Tumeric, chili powder, garam masala and salt were added for flavor, but even then, the mixture was too loose to be fried correctly, so I added arrowroot and white flour. Unfortunately, by this time, most of the students and teachers were gone (they like to disappear by 2), so instead of rolling out over 200 balls, we just did a handful so the stragglers could taste it.

And they loved it. They ate it with chutney, which is kind of spicy, but Ramdev asked me to come up with my own dip or sauce to go with it. Did you know that most Indians have never heard of mustard either? It’s not available in stores. So, tomorrow I’m going to make mustard from scratch with mustard seeds and vinegar. The only problem is that I don’t have internet at my place, so I can’t look up a recipe tonight. I know it’s basically mustard seeds and vinegar heated up in a saucier, and I’m going to add some extra chilies (some like it hot, but Indians like it hottests), but I don’t know specific ratios. Instead, I have to do it first thing in the morning tomorrow at KLB, then go to the market to buy the right ingredients, then make it, then make the rest of the falafel. TII, whatever. Not a big problem.

For the rest of the day, I decided to work some more on the hostel menu’s nutrition breakdown, but as soon as I started, the canteen’s cook came into the office. I’m going to call him Bubba. Bubba speaks almost no English, and I speak almost no Hindi, so it’s already off to a great start. Bubba motions for me to follow him, and he mentions going to the market. I figure he wants me to take him along while he buys supplies for tomorrow, and I can also get the ingredients for mustard, so I hop on the back of his scooter for what I assume to be a short trip to the market that’s only a half kilometer away. No big deal, right?

The first surprise is that he takes me to one of the sweet shops in town, one where he seems to be good friends with the owner. I follow him upstairs into the kitchen, and I realize that he’s doing me a great favor: showing me how Indian desserts are made. I think this is very cool, until I start going upstairs. The place is like a dungeon. Literally. Stone walls, narrow staircases, dark, damp and dirty. There are huge pots simmering with unknown substances, and it’s much hotter than outside, so the three workers are wearing few clothes and sweating profusely. Bubba is not Igor to me, pulling my hand and moaning “Come, master!” I don’t know whether I’m about to be murdered, tortured, or turned into a llama. Oh, and I won’t go into too much detail, but let’s just say that the torture chamber wouldn’t exactly meet U.S. health code. I won’t be eating from that place anytime soon.

We leave, and thus starts the ride that never ends. First we go to Bubba’s brother’s metal shop, where the two light up cigarettes and start chatting, while I sit twiddling my thumbs. Then we go to his sister-in-law’s house for tea (In India that takes at least a half hour). More thumb twiddling ensues. Afterwards we venture onward to his friends snack stand 15 minutes away, where Bubba and friend light yet another cigarette. My thumbs are getting tired. Oh, now we get to go back to the sister-in-law. They ask me if I want some more tea, and I politely as possible tell them to get me the hell back home. Before that, Bubba stops at another friend’s place in the Palampur market.

The whole excursion took a little over two hours. Let me be clear that in no way was I in immediate danger. Bubba is a very safe driver, we never drove into the middle of a forest, and I was not forced to do anything against my will (except actually go with him, of course). He’s just a bit of an idiot. Every time we stopped, I pointed at my watch, said “KLB now?” and pointed in the direction of the college. He always responded with, “5 minutes.” I was a little nervous for the first 20 minutes or so of the trip, but after I realized that he was just dragging me along on his social life, I was just pissed. I should also add that he left his wife back at the college, and she was waiting to go home the whole time as well. After about an hour and a half, I started getting texts and calls from Harmit and Principal Ramdev wondering where the hell I was, to which I replied “I have no freaking clue, he keeps saying we’ll be home in five minutes.”

Finally, I got Principal Ramdev on the phone and hand it to Bubba, and I can tell he’s getting chewed out. It was then that we finally got on our way back to KLB. By this time it was way too dark to walk back, and I had to call Harmit for a ride. I was tired, hungry, angry that I didn’t get any work done, and thoroughly confused. The whole time, no errands or chores got done. Why did Bubba feel it necessary to drag me along on his social visits? Nobody spoke English, and I spent the whole trip looking at my watch. There didn’t seem to be much purpose to my attendance. I didn’t get any of my work done, and now I have to get to work earlier tomorrow to make mustard for the falafel, and Bubba is supposed to help me make it.

Oh well. TII, you know?