Home Cookin'

Another large Tibetan family, my homestay family do a lot of cooking (and not just because they're bakers by trade). Some nights, dinner must feed over (a baker's) dozen people: various uncles, cousins, guests, monks, geshes, and, of course, my added mouth. But despite the sheer volume of the food to be made, it was always incredible. Fresh bread and baked goods in the morning, Indo-Tibetan-Etc food in the evening. So, you lucky ducks, I've decided to share with you the recipes for one of the meals from another one of my homes.

Chicken balls, five people

20g chicken, minced

10 g onion, minced

4-6 cloves garlic, crushed and chopped

1 small egg

3-4 tbsp corn starch

salt to taste

2-3 tbsp flour

Heat approximately 3” of oil on medium heat. Mix all ingredients in a large bowl. Form 1” balls and fry for 6-7 minutes, until medium brown.

Sauce

¼ cup oil

4-5 green chilies, thinly sliced

15 cloves garlic, crushed and chopped

2 tbsp soy sauce (to taste)

2 cups water

salt to taste

Corn starch, as needed

In a wok, heat oil on medium high. Cook garlic and onions for 2-3 minutes, until flavors and aroma are released. If desired, add green onions and coriander. Add water, soy sauce, and salt. Bring to a boil. Mix corn starch (appx ¼ cup) with warm water. Add the mixture to the sauce, a little at a time, until desired thickness is achieved. Remove from heat, add chicken balls.

 

Chow Mein

2-3 tbsp oil

1/3 garlic bulb, crushed and chopped

1 medium onion, minced

1 large bell pepper, sliced

2 medium carrots, julienned

1/3 head cabbage

1 kg noodles (any desired noodles, thin white wheat noodle), boiled

Salt to taste

3 tbsp soy sauce

In a wok, heat oil and garlic 2-3 minutes on medium heat. Add onion, pepper, and carrots; cook for an additional 3-5 minutes. Add cabbage; cook 1-2 minutes. Add noodles, salt, and soy sauce; cook another 10 minutes.

Enough chow mein for 13 people

Dinner with Guru-jis

Note: I made it safely back to the US, but will be retroactively posting the stories from my last few weeks in India.

The night before I left for retreat, Mittsu surprised me with a sudden invitation for dinner. Her (not so sly) questions about which types of food I like over the last few days had been something of an indicator, but I was pleased and honored by the invitation to infiltrate the private lives of my dear gurus by this visit to their home.

So at seven o'clock I found myself back at the thangka shop, chatting with Mittsu and the array of customers visiting her shop, giving each my personal thumbs-up for the quality of the paintings, the price of the paintings, and the choice of thangka. Every so often, Mittsu looks at me for help with translation, for over the last months I've grown comfortable with her particular style of broken English. “Very, very good. Many, many details,” becomes (with an addition of my own knowledge of the painting): “this is a very high quality thangka. Just look at the details and the gold work, made with real gold flakes. This one took the three of them two months to complete...” and yada, yada, yada. It's gotten to the point where people often ask me if I work at the shop, to which Mittsu enthusiastically replies, “yes!”

Customers cleared out and the streets darkening, we close up shop, finishing by piling stones and bricks over the cheap Indian made lock (which can be opened with just about anything hard and key-shaped) in a improvised sort of burglar-prevention system. With the shop as safe as it's going to get, we head down Bhagsu road and turn down a steep path to Amdo Village, in a small valley between Bhagsu and Mcleod.

It's my first trip to this village, an area mainly consisting of low-cost homes and rooms shared by Indian, Tibetan, Nepali, and Thaman families alike. As we walk, Mittsu greets friends of various ethnicities, then tells me in a hushed voice about them; they are primarily stories of generosity and community, such as “she took me to the hospital when I was sick,” or “they give us milk everyday.”

After a long row of rooms, we take off our shoes and enter one on the far end. It's a small room, not much more than 100 square feet, with two beds (one for Mittsu and her husband, the other for her brother), a small electric burner in the kitchen corner, and a small color television. The two men are already in the room, Sonam and Sonam, with one at the burner and the otherh pressing garlic in an improvised mortar and pestle. They serve me a glass of warm milk and continue to work as Mittsu and I watch the Tibetan/Nepali music video channel. A short while later, we all sit on one bed as I show them photos from home, Mittsu alternating between “very good,” “very nice,” and “veeeeeeerrrryy good.”

Dinner is served: the table between the two beds is absolutely full with enough food to feed dozens. The rice serving in itself is more than I can comfortably eat, but then comes the yak meat, carried down from Leh (further up in the mountains) by a family friend. Despite my Indian vegetarianism, I have to admit that yak meat is absolutely delicious, salty and less fatty than beef. Then there is enough fish to feed the family for several days, and a chicken dish that appears to have used an entire chicken. I'm convinced that, if beef were not illegal in Himachal Pradesh (even possessing beef means jail time, nevermind eating it), then there would have been an additional dish.

At the last minute, Sonam decides to bring out spoons for us, an indication that this really is a special event.

Dinner lasts for about three hours, and despite the huge servings, the piles of food show little signs of having been diminished (when I returned from retreat, ten days later, I had to ask if they were still eating these dishes. They weren't- but just barely). The whole family lines up to put on their shoes and walk me back to the road, past the most beautiful view in all of Dharamsala, and we part ways with a thankful bow in front of the thangka shop.

As I walk home, I feel incredibly honored. Not only did my friends welcome me into their small home, but they created a feast to celebrate the occasion despite their poverty (Mittsu once told me about the difficulty of affording rent in Amdo Village, approximately $20 a month). If I take anything from India, it is the knowledge that, if you open yourself, people (and the world) continue to astonish you.

For Carey

Sonam and Mittsu holding our painting; over a month of painting lessons and we finished it!

Sonam finished the painting with the face/gold details, slowly accumulating forgotten cups of half-finished chai.

Apologies

I have to apologize to those of you who have been reading fairly loyally; for the last few days, I haven't had access to the internet (due mainly to high-quality Indian business ethics). Try as I might, I could not explain to the clerk responsible for my internet connection how March 6 to May 2 does not actually add up to 60 days of service, and with only a few days before retreat finally gave up and resigned myself to the idea of 10 more days in India without internet.

My next retreat, on Mahamudra, begins tomorrow and will end on May 12. I leave for Delhi the evening of May 12 and fly out of the country on May 14. Wish me luck in keeping my patience in what's bound to be a massively increased series of security protocol at the airport. As I sit here, listening to a Japanese woman playing and singing "Redemption Song" on an acoustic guitar, I'm sorry to leave you.  For now, my massive reservoir of stories of the bizarre and the beautiful will have to wait.

Trying not to cloud my experience with the negative side of India, I've largely stuck to cheerful anecdotes. However, there is at least one  reason I'm relieved to be going home.

1. One Thing I'm Not Going to Miss: The Possibility of Dying from a Chest Cold.

As I've mentioned before, I've been having some trouble with a minor chest cold, something, I imagine, that 7-Up, chicken soup, and Dayquil could easily fix in the US. However, things here aren't so easy.

I made my way to Delek Hospital this morning, mostly hoping for a simple expectorant. The process was simple: put down a 25 cent deposit, give your name (the secretary was content with only my first name), then wait for several hours. Each of us received approximately 6 minutes from the doctor (was she a doctor?) and were sent on our way. I was told the name of a extra-strong cold syrup and left with instructions to take antibiotics only if there was no improvement.

Easy enough. I pick up the syrup (which costs approximately $1), take a dose, and fall asleep rather promptly. It wasn't until later when I learned that I was taking an illegal amphetamine (something even India had banned) with a high-risk of stroke as a side effect in young women. On the side of the bottle is a warning: prescription only. How was I able to simply buy this from the Med Shop? Maybe it was my fuzzy head from the syrup, but I had a moment where I wondered if I was still in the real world (whatever that is). 

A little later, I returned to the medical shop to ask for a different cough syrup. The man behind the counter instant became hostile, saying, "you drink the poison and then you read?" Jumping over the argument that I could not have possibly learned this was an illegal drug simply by reading the package, I tell him that his clerk sold it to me without a prescription (for, before it was banned early this year, it was sold by Rx only). He just laughed, doing a bad-English version of "oooh, you're in trouble now," and insisting that I might be at risk of going to jail for buying the medicine.

"But I just want another cold medicine," I repeat, to which he replies, after a long pause, "I'll have one tomorrow."

The Police Station is right next door, so I stop in, without any real hope that it will be an effective action. The officer listens for a minute, calls over about a dozen civilians to translate, and then shrugs.

Sounds about right.

Another Home for a Vagabond

I will admit, I've been home from retreat for a few days now, enjoying being a complete baby and sipping orange juice. Retreat, first of all, was an incredible experience- one about which I'll tell you when I return up to this beautiful mountain enclave for another retreat on May 5-12. Unfortunately, while I was hiding up in a luxurious version of a yogi's mountain cave, hot winds finally made their way into town, carrying with them some vicious allergen which left me to lounge in bed (albeit wheezing, coughing, sneezing, and occasionally sleeping fitfully) to read The Art of Happiness as well as youarenotsosmart.com/ lesswrong.com (which, by the way, are some of the world's best blogs).

Who am I to complain?

1. Coming Home

Humans, the amazing and terrible primates that we are, always manage to find a way to keep things interesting. The phenomenon we like to call "home" is one of the juiciest intangibilities we've managed to invent, and one which I've had (far too much) time to contemplate lately. Since that day in August, shortly after I had turned 18, when I first moved from a town of 5,000 people in New Hampshire to Manhattan (the West Village, nonetheless), I've been grappling with this concept of home. There are few experiences in this world that can compare to spending time in a new city, getting to know her like a new lover, growing and exploring each other until, one day, you realize that she has your heart.

Six years later, my heart is spread out all over the world, a bit of it resting in each of those places which I somehow, mysteriously, came to know as home. India is no exception, and Mcleod, most of all, has become another nest for this vagabond.

This was a sentiment cemented by my choice to move in with a Tibetan family for the last month of my stay in India, and it was here that I returned when I climbed down the mountain from retreat.


2. How it Happened that Nancy Pelosi Fell Asleep in My Lap

Smack dab in the middle of Mcleodganj, on the side of a small, street-side bakery stand (selling, perfectly, dark chocolate dipped tsampa balls) is a sign advertising Tibetan Homestay. Everyday, I walk past this, up the stairs, pausing at the stand to chat with the man inside after a greeting of "you're back!" or "welcome home!" Up the stairs to the second floor, I pass my bedroom door, behind which lies a homey room with enormous windows, from which I watch the afternoon foot traffic and the vegetable vendors through a garden balcony. In front of me, down the hall, is the bakery: an old-fashioned gas oven and the invariable smell of fresh baked goods. In the mornings, I wake at six or seven to the smell of fresh baked bread and the quiet hum of life in this modest bakery. To the left is the family kitchen, nearly always housing at least one member of the family and something good to eat; past this is the family room, where I sit down on one of the sofas and receive the dual greetings of the 12 year-old Choeyang and the family dog: Nancy Pelosi.

In the evenings, I share dinners with the family (the best Tibetan food I've eaten), listening to the recent news from the Tibetan diaspora, quizzing Choeyang on her spelling bee words, or playing around on the computer with one of the family members (Kelly? Would you help me make a facebook page?). As with most Tibetan families I've met, this one is not only extremely large (the one time I helped to make dinner it was for 11 people), but has rather blurred edges; various friends, monks, uncles, etc, are always stopping by.

Next to my juice in the fridge is a ball of homemade butter (a Tibetan tradition, of course!), part of which goes to the monks and part of which remains to be enjoyed by the family.

Most of my interaction is with Choeyang, her mother, Chuki, and one of the uncles, Tenzin (not to forget Nancy). Chuki is an incredibly hospitable host and overall sweetie, giving me the up-down and saying, "you've slimmed down," nearly everyday, or grabbing me by my natural waistline and saying "so small here." Choeyang, a loving and extroverted girl, alternates between giving me hugs and showing me the newest dance moves she's learned. As it gets closer to my time to leave India, she asks me: "but what if I never see you again?"

I reply: "I'm coming back to India soon."

"But what if I die first?"

Pause. "Then I'll see you in your next life," her response to which is a beaming smile and a jumping hug.

Nancy

Meanwhile, I've made a traitor of Nancy Pelosi, who jumps off the laps of family members to snuggle with me. Oops. Tenzin is a constant source of information, patiently answering my questions about Tibetan culture (so Tibetans have two first names?) and using words like "autodidact." If there was ever a person who embodies that word, it is him.

Every so often, I'll go up the the rooftop of the house to enjoy the sun, watch the street, or pretend I'm not watching the passing monkeys (who have taken to playing on the rooftops of Mcleod so much more in the warm weather). From here, I can see the whole town, from the main square to Amdo village below, from the snow-capped mountains to the valley. A home in the heart of one of my homes. 

The shrine corner of the living room

Out my bedroom window.