by Liz Hickok
And drink lots of water.
Mango Summer Nostalgia
By Gauri Khanolkar
My earliest memories of the start of summer are inexorably linked with the fragrance and taste of Alphonso mangoes. I grew up in Mumbai on the western coast of India, where the Portuguese set up colonies over five centuries ago and experimented with the cultivation of mango trees, leading to the birth of the exquisite variety of mangoes that have become central to the identity of my home province. Amidst pristine, white sandy beaches, towering coconut trees and the ruins of black-stoned ramparts of Portuguese forts, the coast is dotted with groves of mango trees that are laden with heavy fruit in the early summer months.
The rich, fertile soils of the region in concert with the warm, humid climate create conditions perfectly conducive for the growth of the mangoes. However, only a narrow, precious window of a few weeks yields the best mangoes before the arrival of the monsoons, which are long-awaited for the respite they provide from the scorching heat but spell disaster for the mangoes. These few weeks are then characterized by a voracious appetite for copious amounts of mangoes with the flavor of mangoes permeating almost every preparation cooked in the household.
In my childhood, the anticipation of the end of the school year and the beginning of summer holidays was heightened by the onset of the mango season. Wooden crates, filled with neatly arranged rows of mangoes ensconced in bundles of straw and hay, came to be a ubiquitous sight on roadside fruit stalls on carts pushed by hawkers screaming out their wares and in grocery bazaars.
In my neighborhood, families would rush out of their houses, stirred out of the lull of the languid, white hot afternoons by the call of the mango seller. Bunches of rustling straw were hastily pulled aside to examine the mangoes that lay underneath – glorious orange-gold orbs nestled in the crate like the unyielding, hot sun in the sky overhead. Each mango was held in careful, reverent palms, testing their firmness before holding it close to the nose, deeply inhaling their fragrance to gauge their sweetness and ripeness.
Everyone who gathered around the mango man was entranced by the smell and touch of the mango held delicately in their palms for a few quietly awestruck moments before the clamor of persistent haggling commenced. Five hundred rupees for a dozen mangoes! How about five hundred and fifty for the entire crate? The hum of indignant exclamations and excited banter tapered off as crates were swiftly carried into homes, mangoes eagerly plucked out of their straw beds to be eaten with relish.
Often mango-eating would turn into a contest among siblings, cousins, friends and neighbors. How many of the ripe, succulent fruit could one consume in a day? With appetites for the usual fare consisting of rotis, lentils, vegetables and rice considerably dulled by the relentless summer heat, sustenance was drawn instead from the smooth, cool, gratifying flesh of the mango in various forms. Mango was cut into long strips, the flesh eaten off the skin and picked clean without sparing even the flesh on the large oval seed at its core. The sensation of constantly having fine thread-like bits of rind stuck in one’s teeth, as a result, was a barely discernible irritant, a minute price to pay for the pleasure of eating the fruit in its delightful wholeness.
Most of the younger children preferred the less messy alternative – cutting off a strip of skin from the top of the fruit and putting one’s mouth to the opening to drink in all of its juice and soft pulp, coaxed out by gently pushing on the outside of the fruit – what our elders called a ‘mango water bottle’. My favorite was when my mother cut the fruit into three long strips and carved out rows of squares forming a neat check pattern on each of the large oval slices. I placed each square of flaming orange-colored mango in my mouth, picking it out carefully with a spoon without ruining the rest of the ordered design, savoring its deliciously sweet flavor.
My mother and grandmother chose mangoes from the wooden crate they deemed unfit for eating whole, either because they were over-ripe or softened. They diligently squeezed out the soft flesh of the fruit, not sparing the slightest bit, to create a smooth, even mango pulp – aam ras – to be eaten with rotis or mixed with milk to be had as a mango smoothie or with buttermilk to make mango lassi or to be used as an ingredient in decadent mango-flavored milk-cakes. The mango pulp would find its way into numerous foods, desserts and drinks. During the summer months, offering one’s guests neatly cut mango strips, or mango-flavored sherbet or cool, refreshing mango lassi became a common ritual.
The mango is considered the king of fruits in the Indian subcontinent. Amidst the scores of mango varieties that are available in my hometown and beyond, the Alphonso is unsurpassed in its flavor, sweetness and juiciness and is often called the king of mangoes, truly and befittingly, the king of kings of the fruit kingdom. Ones accustomed to its flavor, as those from my home state, are wont to think of the scores of other varieties of Indian mangoes as being inferior and disappointingly inadequate. The light yellow flesh and sour-sweet taste of the langda, the dry, faint sweetness of the dusheri, fail to satisfy the Alphonso-inclined palate.
After more than a decade of living away from home, the onset of summer still brings on a craving for the Alphonso mango. The tins of mango pulp in grocery stores and the occasional mango lassi at an Indian restaurant only go so far to assuage the longing for freshly-plucked mangoes. The flavor of the Alphonso mangoes, so unique to the western coastal region of my home state, has formed an indelible association in my mind, not just of the warm, leisurely summer season, but also of the joy and warmth of family togetherness further enriched by the common enjoyment of a rare, seasonal and unsurpassed fruit.
Cooking, Not My Forte
By Susan Lange
When I was growing up, girls took Home Economics (mostly cooking and sewing, I understand) and boys took Shop and made things out of wood. In the United States, that is. But we were living in Lima, Peru, where my father worked for the State Department, and that stuff was not part of the curriculum at the American School. We didn’t learn it at home, either, because every family had a cook – and a housemaid, and a chauffeur, and a gardener, and a nursemaid if there were young children, and a laundress... As my father explained it to us, there was no middle class; people had servants or they were servants, pretty much.
Anyway, it was very exciting to get an angel food cake mix when I was about twelve. I don’t remember where it came from. Maybe a relative sent it from the States. But wow! The instructions were right on the box; I could do this! I invited my best friend, Cynthia, over, and we beat the egg whites and all that, and buttered the pan, and put in the batter, and had preheated the oven as directed, and were really looking forward to tasting our masterpiece. We had to share with my brothers, of course, but we’d get most of it.
Unfortunately, the box did not say to not open the oven door every few minutes to check on the cake’s progress. It came out about an inch high, and pretty hard. Edible, but not a howling success. Discouraging, in fact.
We moved back to the States (to Portland, Oregon) when I was fifteen. My stepmom had been born and raised in Rio de Janeiro, so she had not learned to cook either. It was a great adjustment. She knew from supervising the servants how to clean house, wash dishes, a lot of that. But she had to learn how to drive and to cook! With five children already. We had a lot of hamburgers, hotdogs, Minute Rice, tuna sandwiches, peanut butter sandwiches, scrambled eggs, frozen vegetables, and other easy basics. But we survived. I was the eldest, the first to go off to college (where meals came with the dorm) and the first to get married.
Prince Charming and I learned how to cook together, kind of. We watched Julia Child on TV and still peel broccoli before cooking it. But it took a while. Our first Thanksgiving, we were invited to the home of the family he had boarded with one summer as a grad student. They asked if we would bring mashed potatoes, probably thinking this would be easier than turkey stuffing or a pie or something.
Oh, dear. I’d never tried potatoes at all. I got out my trusty Betty Crocker Cookbook and looked up
“Mashed Potatoes.” Hey, I had a Stanford degree; I could read. No problem, right? Uh, oh! It said, “Take six boiled potatoes…”
Ack! How do you boil a potato? Do you peel it? Do you cut it? Do you put it into boiling water or cold water? How much water? How long do you cook it? I finally called Mrs. Mertens, and she guided me through it, bless her.
By the next year, we managed a turkey, and my cooking improved as the kids grew up. But when I have to take a potluck dish to a picnic or barbecue, I still opt for a platter of raw vegetables with hummus and ranch dressing as dips for them. Cooking is not my thing!
One Cup of Chai
By Nisha Malani
This happened over ten years ago, but the whole scene is still as fresh in my memory as a freshly brewed, hot cup of chai. One day, my grandfather came home for a bit in the afternoon. My mother and our kitchen helper were not at home, so I offered to make him a cup of tea (Indian Chai) although I rarely entered the kitchen those days. I asked him to relax on the sofa while I go prepare a refreshing, hot chai for him.
I added a spoon of tea leaves and a spoon of sugar in half a cup of hot water in a pan on medium heat. As the chai started to brew, I poured in half a cup of milk. But it looked too dark, and I thought perhaps I put too many tea leaves, so I poured in more milk to make it lighter. But I knew my mom used a 50-50 ratio of water and milk. So after some “guesstimation” I put in more water. Since the quantity of water and milk increased, I added a little more sugar. I was trying to apply logic. On a side note, I was in the freshmen year of Bachelor’s coursework in Engineering that year… may be that explains it. Anyway, when I let the chai come to a boil, it appeared a little lighter in color than what I used to see mom serve. Without any sense of measurement, I put another spoon of tea leaves and let it brew longer.
The chai continued to get dark brown. At that time, I did not know that the longer I let tea leaves brew, the darker and bitter they continue to become. So then, I had to add more milk, more water, and more sugar. I sieved some chai into a cup, whiffed to cool it, and took a sip. Oh lord, the chai tasted way too sweet! I probably should not have added sugar each time I added water and milk. So I put in more tea leaves, more milk, and equally more water to reduce the sweetness. And prayed for this to be the last trial. Because the one cup of chai was turning out to serve almost eight people.
Finally, I sieved the chai into a cup, put some biscuits on a plate, and placed them onto a tray and proudly carried it to the living room for my grandfather who had been waiting past 40 minutes for ONE cup of chai. He took the cup by its handle, looked at me and asked, “Why did it take you so long? Were you making tea each time and throwing it away?”
I giggled.
Over ten years later today, I laugh so hard remembering this incident that my stomach hurts.
Oh, that one cup of chai.
The Old Brown Diary
By Krithika Yegneswaran
Maya searched frantically for the old brown diary. She needed it! Oh, how she desperately needed it, needed the strength that it gave her, especially in times like these! They were expecting 20 to 25 guests for dinner and her diary, her moral support, was missing!
It was an old brown leather diary. It was filled with recipes that her mom had handwritten for her when Maya’s marriage had been arranged, and she had to leave for the U.S. with her husband.
Maya had to leave in ten days. She had been a typical big city Indian girl. She had paid more attention to her education, friends, and entertainment rather than learning to cook. Being a good cook was essential to being a good Indian wife. Her mom was very concerned that Maya be able to fulfill this duty, which was the backbone of a happy Indian home.
So just days before Maya’s wedding, her mom sat down and started writing down the recipes for all the basic Indian dishes. It was the mid-1990s, and there were still no computers in middle class Indian homes.
Pulling herself back to her present predicament, Maya rifled through her kitchen drawers. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed, “Hiding under a stack of place mats!”
She looked down lovingly at the recipes. Her mom had described each and every step in simple, practical language. Her mom’s main goal was to help Maya make those dishes easily, but also, traditionally. It was the way she and her mother, that is, Maya’s grandmother, had made them for years and years. She was passing down the legacy, the way in which generations of women in their family had cooked!
The guests arrived, and Maya served them a hearty South Indian meal. With the help of her mother’s diary, she had whipped up a feast of pepper rasam, onion sambhar, fried baby potatoes, aviyal, and tomatoes in yogurt. There was almond kheer for dessert.
The guests were satiated, praising Maya on her cooking prowess. They had one compliment that they repeated over and over again as they left. “The meal tasted like home”, said Uncle Ravi. “It sure brings back memories of Pushpa’s cooking,” said Aunt Uma. “You certainly have absorbed all that she passed on to you, her daughter!” said Uncle Ramesh.
It was late. Her husband and daughter had already gone to bed. Maya started placing her precious old brown diary back in its usual place in the kitchen drawer. Then suddenly she paused and pulled it out once more. She ran her hand lovingly across the worn leather cover and hugged it to herself. She could feel her mother’s love come through across those pages. “I may not be physically with you right now, Maya”, she seemed to be saying, “but you will always feel my love for you through these handwritten pages of my recipes. They will remind you of me as I sat down for hours together and wrote them down for you! My concern for your happy future shines through these simple words!”
Maya pulled out a note pad. She wrote, “Show the brown diary to Shivani tomorrow.” It was time to pass on the love and legacy once more... down to her 13-year-old daughter!
Acknowledgements
The Bay Area Library ePublishers’ (BALE) second year of publication would not have been possible without the continued support of a whole village of people.
The Friends of the Sunnyvale Public Library generously sponsored the cover art, writer’s workshops, and Book Release Party. Their contribution ensured the second publication would succeed as a celebration of community creativity.
The members of the BALE volunteered countless hours on nights, weekends, and holidays to read submissions, edit the manuscript, communicate with the writers, format, and deliver the final monograph. Editor Heather Johnson took the lead for operations this year, and she led the charge to production with the administrative support of Liz Hickok, returning editor from last year’s publication. BALE membership also included returning members Ben Black, MFA, and Miya Reekers, MFA, both from San Francisco State University, Kate Gaidos Eppler at San Francisco Public Library, Nicole Pasini of San Mateo County Library, Mathew Rose of Sonoma County Library, and Morgan Rose Pershing of Los Angeles County Library. BALE membership expanded this year to welcome new members Kelly Quinn Chiu of Santa Clara City Library, Trevor Calvert of Alameda County Library, and John Spears of Pikes Peak Library District. The synergy of this dynamic team resulted in so much more than any one library could have done on its own.
Sunnyvale Public Library staff worked tirelessly on the project’s logistics and strategy. Librarian Richard Page was instrumental in the design and implementation of the online submissions process this year as well as for EPUB formatting and technical support of the downloading and access of the ebook. Sunnyvale Librarian Michael Nellany continued his role in coordinating the writing workshops and the eBook Release Party. Librarian Yelena German provided cataloging support and facilitated the sharing of the electronic record across library systems.
To the Sunnyvale Public Library’s administration, including Director Cynthia Bojorquez, Administrative Librarian Steve Sloan, and Adult Services Manager Christine Mendoza, thank you for your encouragement in pursuit of this redefining venture in library services.
Finally, the writers and the readers of this antholog
y are to be thanked and recognized for your role in re-imagining how libraries can connect with writers and how writers can strengthen their bond with their community.
Contributors
Sheila Scobba Banning is the author of Terroir, Intersections/Fast Forward, and the YA Carter Bros Mystery series: Failblog, Trolled Hard, and soon to be released Bang Bang. Her short fiction, flash fiction, and personal essays have appeared in Silver Birch Press, The San Jose Mercury News, BALE, New West, The San Francisco Chronicle Magazine, NYC Midnight, Rosebud, The Tab, and A Picture is Worth Five Hundred Words (or Less). Storm of Minutes, from her short story collection Intersections, was awarded First Place by the Jack London Writers Conference. Sheila lives in Sunnyvale with her husband, sons and menagerie of pets. She wears hats and fascinators and laughs until she cries every day. Her books are available on Amazon. For more information: Website, @SheilaBanning, Facebook.com.
Cathy Broderick has lived in downtown Mountain View for the past twenty years. She emigrated to the United States from Ireland. Born in Belfast in Northern Ireland, she has also lived and worked in southern Ireland, in Dublin, where she met her husband Richard, a true Dubliner (defined as born within the Pale). They moved to London to experience the action that was the “swinging sixties.” Cathy spent a total of 9 years living and working in England before returning to Dublin. She enjoyed writing, acting and volunteering in Ireland before falling in love with Mountain View. She worked in Silicon Valley and is now retired. Her daughter, Lisa, persuaded her to enter a story into the Sunnyvale Library competition and she is oh so glad that she did. Cathy goes back to Ireland every year to replenish her laughter and spirituality.
