Of Machher Jhol in the Mountains

What’s a Bong without Fish? Nothing.  So, even though I hate fish, here’s a fishy post that’ll do all Bongs proud.

Hopefully.

Here in the mountains, some evenings are what I call rain-cosy. De-constructed, it refers to a rainy evening with grave looking clouds gathered over the mountain top and then ponderously moving into the valley beyond. There’s a drizzle of rain in the air, of a few naughty drops that have toppled out from the cloud without proper authorisation. There’s a breeze too, not too high but still cold enough to chill your nose and your bare toes. The evening has fallen early and a cloudy darkness has embraced the world all around you. You stand out in the open facing the valley and enjoy the little prickle of rain on your cheeks and watch the last stubborn pink of the sun being faded out by the clouds. Inside the home, the curtains are drawn, the incense lit and the radiant heater glowing a confident orange.

The evening is rain-cosy and Other Half has a dinner invitation somewhere. On such evenings, it’s my instinct to cook Maggi and then snuggle into my electric blanket heated quilt and spend the remaining evening bombarding my suffering-silently WhatsApp contacts with rot. But tonight the Mater is in town and even at forty-five I shiver with fear at the thought of her response to the suggestion of Maggi for dinner. I can recall quite clearly the time in my youth when one afternoon I was observed by her to be eating bread with ketchup. The steel-cured admonishment that she had directed at me that noon can turn my blood to jelly even today. So scarred was I for life, that forget eating such a medley, I have never dared to even store bread and ketchup near each other in my pantry.

So since the prospect of a Maggi dinner was thrown out of the window, I didn’t demur when Other Half offered to fish some fish out of the Bluebeard’s Cavern that is our freezer. My Mater too gave her go ahead for a Maccher Jhol and Bhaat (Fish Curry and Rice) dinner.

I must confess that even though I abhor fish, I love cooking and the prospect of Maccher Jhol and Bhaat for dinner on this cosy rainy evening seemed as good as comfort food and and  so I set to work.

First, the fish.  It was rohu from the beautiful Pong dam, fresh and sans the toxic industrial effluent that laces all fish from the rivers of Punjab. After thawing it (naturally, not in the microwave), I sprinkled it generously with turmeric (my present store of turmeric is from Shillong, the famed Lakadong haldi) and some salt. After the rubbing the fish with this very Bong mixture, I let it rest while I prepared for the curry. First, I sliced some small red onions into thin slivers. I don’t really know why Indian chefs on TV specifically mention ‘red’ onions, considering the fact that all onions that I have seen in our local markets are red. I think they do it simply because it sounds chic. Then, sniffling with the hydrochloric acid fumes from the onions, I dry roasted some cumin and coriander. I love my spices fresh and rarely ever use packaged ground spices. If you are into using packaged ground spices, try grinding some yourself and then let me know whether you felt any difference in the aroma and the flavour. Still sniffling, i transferred the roasted spices into my little chutney grinder, blitzing with vengeance and inhaled deeply the memory laden aroma of the jeera-dhaniya mix. The fish now marinated enough, were calling for attention; so I warmed my kachchi ghani mustard oil in my iron wok, a gift from my Mother-in-Law. This wok is small and battered and has been subjected to much abuse over the last decade. I specially remember the time, when having left some rohu to fry on full flame, I was gobbling down some silly TV soap and my neighbour summoned the local fire brigade when she saw smoke coming out of my kitchen window and from below my living room door. But the wok is a hardy chap and still delivers a sterling performance. Now, once the sarson ka tel had been warmed, I let slip the turmeric coloured fish slices carefully into the oil now sizzling with excitement. I fried the fishes, carefully adjusting the flames: now sim, now high, now medium, quite like the conductor of the London Philharmonic, to achieve that perfect reddish brown skin on the fish. If done correctly, though red-brown on the surface, inside, the fish-flesh would be soft but firm and a pristine white.........(Do I sound like Matt Preston from MasterChef Australia??)

With the fished done it was time for the curry. I removed the fish pieces from the wok on a slotted spoon and lay them to rest, to cool off before the next step. Then into my still simmering oil in the wok, I added the secret weapon of the Bong Cook, Kalonji or Nigella seeds.  I know they are physically no match in voluptuousness to Nigella Lawson, but trust me ladies and gentlemen, the flavour of these little flea like seeds is as full bodied as the beautiful Ms Lawson. I added a few bay leaves ( green, from my garden, not the dry ones), some battered ginger (again from my garden) and sloshed them around for a bit till the ginger turned darker. Then the onions were toppled in followed by some plump green chillies. I dimmed the heat to sim and stirred the whole lot around, a technique called ‘bhunno’. Nothing new here I know, but thought I’d mention it nevertheless. Slowly the onions turned golden and it was now time for the ground spices to join the gambol in the wok. Jeera, dhaniya, black pepper, turmeric and a pinch of Kashmiri mirchi powder for the red glam.....I stirred them all around and then added the potato halves. Once everything seemed well adjusted to each other, I poured in the water. Then covering the pan, I let the jhol or the curry simmer, quietly joyful.

The rice tonight was special, the small grained and fragrant Gobindobhog, a Bengali special. I measured the rice, then washed it carefully, inhaling the typical wholesome fragrance and let it rest in a bowl of water for about twenty minutes. I have still not perfected the technique of cooking rice in an open pan or even in the pressure cooker; so I always use the microwave, 720 watts for twelve minutes. So in the rice went after the mandatory twenty minutes of being dunked in water. By now the previously quietly  joyful curry was positively ebullient. I dunked the fish pieces in and turned the heat once more to sim for another round of simmering, this time about ten minutes.

My microwave whistled (rather peeped) after its twelve minutes were over. I removed the lid of the casserole and gave a quiet thanks to the Goddess of chefs for once more ensuring that the rice had turned out perfectly cooked, all fluffed up and smelling divine.

Dinner was great last night, redolent with childhood memories. Fragrant fluffy Gobindobhog and comforting Maccher Jhol with top notes of rohu, middle notes of jeere-dhone and bottom notes of fresh dhaniya patta. And of course how can omit to mention the mandatory accompaniment of a slice of lemon, a pinch of salt and one single shiny green chilli?

If you are a fish eater, why don’t you too try it out, tonight this festival evening and bring back forgotten memories.

PS: The recipe given above is not just for cosmetic purposes but is fully functional. You can try it out without any misgivings.