Moved by Anne papillae and Pupils
This collection of new stories shaped gourmet describes the relations between members of an Indian family through the prism of food and cooking, essential ingredient of daily life. A book to enjoy as much as to eat, and delicious traditional Indian recipes.
Who dies dine, The Wrath of eggplant, mushrooms Madness, Feast for a dead man ... : Some titles of these stories give a taste of their flavor.
The stories, full of cooking smells, powerfully evocative and reports of conflicts between members of a household in India, of course emphasize the role played therein both food and those who prepare it. Women sketched from life there delivering moments of happiness, family secrets, love, childhood that sometimes the violence of desire or the bitterness of jealousy. But the real heroes are those revenues whether make a pickle of mango, carrot cake or a curry eggplant with yogurt, the reader taste, palate and tongue, the alchemy of Indian spices.
Throughout these stories the reader understands the importance and role of food and women who prepare it. Childhood memories family secrets, tradition, religion, cuisine ... India gradually unfolds. Subtle smells of mangoes, curry, fried eggplant and ginger await the turning of these pages. Leave carry you, this is a moment of pure pleasure!
Bulbul Sharma is an Indian writer and painter, tells the story of the Indians and send us the recipes that haunt or delight, making this delightful collection of stories a work entirely on the literary original.
An excerpt: Buaji were on the tips of his fingers while measuring the ghee (clarified butter - cooked and skimmed). Each spoonful was falling heavily as a mound of damp earth in a landslide, to land at the exact center of the bowl into a firm hand by the cook. Both the container while watching their lips silently formed a number ... seven ... eight ... whenever the ghi in reaching the surface with a mellow.
Buaji was sixty-five, cook a few more months. Both saw no longer clear, but never wore their glasses when they met in the reserve, each preferring to rely on his eyes weakened, rather than any kind of optical glasses during this time of intense concentration. Three times a day, Buaji measured so carefully rations handed it to the chef that no grain of rice, sugar and dal (generic term for some peas and lentils) in excess never entered the kitchen.
The reservation was locked. Its content was visible at six o'clock and eleven o'clock in the morning and at four o'clock in the afternoon, for ten minutes, as if it were precious objects on display in a museum. One piece of the huge rambling house plan which
entry was reserved, it inspired fear and respect for family members. They jostled in the hallways, invaded the living room, wallowing in the many rooms, but once they passed the reserve, their behavior changed. The men sped
the pitch to score their indifference, unable to resist yielding to a habit from childhood, to take a brief look. The women of the house were still trying to peep inside, taking care not to turn his head quite right angle to the door. A family legend was that a container was filled with silver coins that Buaji hid among the jars of condiments. But more than money, I dreamed of pickles which glistened like gold sequins ...
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