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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16930827133030472312017-06-22T12:21:05.890-06:00The Tiffin BoxMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-57051087681559449782017-03-20T13:04:00.001-06:002017-03-20T13:04:47.323-06:00Tales From India: 10 Tips For Driving In India

You stop for the exhibitionists.

Ah, the joys of driving in India. Once upon a time, I had no compunction jumping in and out of buses, sometimes even when they were moving. In fact, I spent half my life on the City Bus Number 5, first going to school, then pre-university, then college. Bus stops are for wimps and hanging out of dangerously swerving buses is the life.

Man, how things have changed. The last few times I've been to India, all I've been doing is stomping my foot on an imaginary brake. And wearing seat belts. How the mighty have fallen! And I told the conductor on City Bus Number 5 to stop, hold it, come to a FULL STOP dammit, then gingerly wiggled my way down. At a BUS STOP. Shame on me.

This time around, I took a road trip with my family. Oh the joys of a road trip with an Indian family. Everything from packed tiffins to constant arguments to toilet stops in random places. Yup, I missed that. The experience was so profound that I was moved to write these tips for driving in India. You know, as you would.

Please to stop for the cows and related bovines.

Driving in India Tip Number 1:
You shall not drive in India (okay, sorry, that was a bit too Fight Club, but I couldn't resist.) But really. Hire a driver. Ride an autorickshaw. Get your dad to weave dangerously in and out of traffic on his bag of bolts motorbike.

Driving in India Tip Number 2:
Indian drivers (men) REFUSE to take directions and will second guess a GPS! Ergo, prepare for twice the journey time. Google maps? Google schmoogle, what do those Google people know about India anyway?

Driving in India Tip Number 3:
The following are suggestions -
- Lane markers.
- Seatbelts (If there is a cop, loosely drape belt over shoulder. Do not clip in holder. Remove the seatbelt clips from backseats as they will poke people's butts)
- Speed limits.
- Traffic lights.
- The 'No Talking on Mobile Phones' signs.
- Left hand turn lanes.
- Turn signals.

Driving in India Tip Number 4:
The middle of road is the only place to be. Move over left or right depending on how the other driver honks.

Driving in India Tip Number 5:
Car seats for kids? What? Didn't we keep you alive this long without this car seat, car shmeet business? Note: If baby cries, remove said baby from the car seat in the middle of a four lane highway at highway speed. If Canadian mother of said baby objects, use Indian mother guilt. If she still objects, pull over to the side of a highway and then take baby out.

Driving in India Tip Number 6:
If in doubt about directions (see #1) go straight then left. Straight, straight, straight... then left. If you do ASK a passerby (by pulling over dangerously on a highway {yes, there will be a passerby on the edge of a highway too} of course) for directions... they will always be go straight and to the left. No no, correct, madam!

Driving in India Tip Number 7:
Pedestrians and cows (and some goats) are always welcome on gorgeous four lane highways! See previous tip. Also... perfectly acceptable to drive the wrong way down a double highway. Especially if you're a motorbike!

Driving in India Tip Number 8:
The side of the road is a toilet! Tree or bush optional.

Driving in India Tip Number 9:
Say hello by honking. Swerve around a car? Say sorry by honking. Oh hey, look a monkey. Honk. No honking sign. Honk. Honk at the lorries, how dare they take up the whole road? Oh look, Mr. D'Souza's nephews wife's sister's maidservant. Honk. Pretty woman? Honk. Pretty man? Honk. Cute baby? Honk honk (chooo chweet that baby, hanging out in between daddy, mommy, and three siblings on a bag of bolts motorcycle).

Driving in India Tip Number 10:
Traffic cops are friends not fish (sorry, that was too Finding Nemo). But really, cops are friends, with benefits. Benefits to them, I mean. Carry a handy stash of hundred rupee notes, and they won't eat you (sorry, sorry, more Finding Nemo).

A truck full of ginger. Yep!

Bonus Tip: If, when driving along, you see a tractor full of ginger (or any vegetables, mind!) swerve in front of said truck, honk until he stops. Then, bargain for very reasonably priced vegetables (or fruit. Or ginger). Oy vey!

Michelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-104043664511974572017-03-13T19:34:00.002-06:002017-03-14T17:04:03.491-06:00"Are You The Nanny?"

Adz and I (2014) Photo: Pritham D'Souza (Photosynthe)

"Are you the nanny?"

If I had a dollar for every time I was asked this question when I was out with Adz, well... I'd be about twelve dollars richer (yes, I keep count.) I understand, I really do, that it can be a bit jarring to see a white child with a brown person, though in this day and age it shouldn't be surprising. At the same time, however, should the automatic assumption be that I am the nanny, rather than the mother? It is a question I've asked myself several times, usually after one of said encounters.

Being part of a mixed race, mixed culture relationship is not easy. As an Indian woman, born and brought up in India, I was indoctrinated into my own culture and it was an abrupt transition when I first moved to England for graduate school. I met and fell in love with my partner within the first few months of school. I didn't plan on falling in love with a white Canadian man. I kept it to myself for the first couple years. It was only when I realised that this relationship was serious that I opened up to my mom. I told her I was seeing someone. When she asked, I might have lied stretched the truth and told her I was dating an Indian boy. Exactly how I was going to pass off my very white, redheaded, blue eyed boy as Indian was something I hadn't even thought about. It was after we'd decided to move in together that I confessed to mom. Surprisingly, she took it quite well, though I did have to go through some snarky comments about white Indian men from her. The rest of my family also took it reasonably well, though with some mild racist attitudes.

Mixed race relationships and racism

Being in a mixed race relationship in London was fine. It was a cosmopolitan enough city, that we didn't get much grief. At least, not that much. I did get yelled at on the street, told not to take "our men", got called a brown bitch and told to go back home. Par for the course, obviously. We also got quite a bit of flak from Indian people in London, especially since we lived so close to Southall, a predominantly Indian suburb of London. I got asked (in Hindi) why I couldn't find someone from my own community. We got plenty of sideways angry looks, but not enough that I was so bothered about them. As far as I was concerned, my family were fine with my relationship, even though mom refused to acknowledge the whole 'living together' bit, but well, you can't have everything.

We moved to Liverpool a few years after. Surprisingly, Liverpool was a lot more accepting, even though we were the only mixed race couple in Hoylake, our little seaside village. I can't remember any incident in Liverpool that targeted my race. My football affiliation though, got me plenty of abuse but this is just because I loved wandering around Liverpool in an Arsenal shirt, being deliberately provocative (Sorry, Liverpool and Everton fans, but you guys are so easy to wind up).

Through all these moves and life changes, though, our relationship stayed strong, and Kay and I got married in 2006. Adz was born soon after. No one in England ever asked me if she was mine. It was just assumed. She was a local. We were accepted.

We moved to Canada when Adz was two. I'd been told that Canada was a lot easier to live in as a mixed race couple. I was excited to move here. We'd been planning on moving for a while and we picked Edmonton, after a series of circumstances meant that we could actually move with a good nest egg.

I came into Canada on a tourist visa, with the intention of being sponsored as a permanent resident. By this time, I'd lived in England long enough that I was a naturalised citizen, and it was reasonably easy for me to come to Canada. We had a nice apartment picked out in a great part of the city and as I couldn't work until I became an official permanent resident, I was happy to be a full-time mom for the first time in two years.

When people assume you're the nanny!

Adz and I started off our Canadian adventure well. We explored our neighbourhood, found playgrounds, and favourite lunch places, went out for ice cream and coffee (for me), discovered farmers' markets and enjoyed the gorgeous Edmonton river valley. I got used to the famous Canadian friendliness and even though my British/ Indian soul was suspicious of all the smiles and sincerity and the yoga, it was a refreshing change to hear hellos and have polite bus drivers. I spent my time house hunting as well, as we hoped to move into a home soon.

The first time that our differences were pushed to the forefront was a bit of a shock, especially since Adz and I were getting used to being smiled at and doted on more often. We were at the arts centre, and this nice looking older lady came up to us, and asked me if Adz was mine. I smiled and said yes, thinking that she was going to comment on Adz's cuteness (and she was adorably cute, with her big brown eyes and auburn curls). The woman turned to me, and glared... and said 'Jesus will smite you woman, for claiming this pure white child as yours'. Woah, there! I nervously backed away with a rictus smile and legged it from there as fast as I could. I was shaken, for sure, but I put it down to mental illness on the part of the woman.

I put that incident out of my mind, and we continued to live our lives. The second time, however, was more deliberate. Adz and I were at the park this time, and she was running around, exploring. I decided to talk to a pretty young lady who was pushing her child on the swing. As I said hello, I got a cold stare back. I just assumed that she wasn't used to having people approach her, and smiled, and asked if she lived around there. At that point, the lady looked back at me, then at Adz and asked, quite deliberately, "Shouldn't you be doing your job and looking after the child?" I was confused, and said, "Yes, but we just moved here" – still not getting what she was getting at. At that point, she looked at me again, and said "As the nanny, you should really be keeping an eye on the kid". I was too shocked and embarrassed to respond, quickly gathering Adz and walking home. My husband was also gobsmacked when I called him in tears.

But still – mistakes happen, right?

That said, my next experience was in equal parts amusing and horrifying. I was sitting at the edge of the swimming pool with a Filipino woman. Our kids were all having lessons together, and I got to know this lady, and we usually chatted off and on. One day though, a middle-aged white lady came up and sat next to us. We both smiled at her and asked her if her child was in lessons. She responded in the affirmative, pointing out her child. And then (I swear I am NOT making up this shit), she looked at both of us and said "it must be really nice for you nannies to get together when the kids are in lessons, do you come here often?". Both the Filipino lady and I looked at each other in absolute disbelief, and she said, "they're our kids". And the other lady says, "oh, I just assumed you are the nannies, you look so different from them". What. The. Hell.

There was no apology, just a matter of fact, "you look different". Wow! What can I say? Every time I've told this story to people, they react with equal parts horror and astonishment that someone could be so tone deaf and have such a lack of awareness.

Thankfully, as Adz has grown up, she's begun to look a lot more like me. That said, I still get the side eyes when I am out with Master Sky and her, and we've been asked many times after that, usually by white people, if I am the nanny. Adz calls me mommy rather loudly and that puts an end to that line of thought.

"I am not the f*****g nanny"

I started writing this post about three months ago. As it turns out, this BBC video of Robert Kelly, an expert on South Korea, being gatecrashed by his children went viral, and it was almost like this post was fated to be.

When this video first surfaced, a lot of people automatically assumed that the woman who comes rushing in to get the kids is the nanny or the maid.

I didn't. My first thought was, that poor mom! Then I laughed, actually, as this is exactly something I have done myself. My husband had an early morning interview with CBC, and Adz woke up, and decided to head into his study to say "good mornging dadabat" (Aside: ahhhh, don't you just LOVE it when they mispronounce words?). It wasn't a video interview, thankfully, but I've never moved so fast in my life. If it had been on video, you'd have seen me in ratty sweats, with the worst case of bedhead, frantically dragging a six-year-old out of the study, with wild shushing movements.

But when I saw the posts on social media and other newspaper sites, I was disheartened at how many people had automatically assumed that the woman in the video was the nanny or the maid. As someone in a mixed race relationship with kids, and as someone who is relatively colour blind when it comes to race, it didn't even occur to me that people would assume such a thing. Though, after my experiences, I shouldn't have been surprised.

I did some more research, and came to the conclusion, though I might be wrong, that the majority of people making this assumption were white, middle-class people. And again, to my dismay, a lot of them were Canadians and British. It was so easy to stereotype a Korean woman as a maid or nanny, especially since she is with a white man. Looks like racial, ethnic and cultural stereotypes are still alive and kicking.

Breaking the stereotypes

I came across a lot of excuses for why people assumed that Jung-a Kim was Robert Kelly's nanny, rather than his wife. Here, I want to debunk some of those excuses as, pardon my language, bullshit.

I know that there are a few nannies in Canada, who are Filipino. I happen to be really good friends with a lot of them. I also happen to be friends with the mums of the kids they look after. I also know mums from all different backgrounds, as well as nannies and grandmothers and grandfathers and dads and babysitters. So it did make me sad to read some of the stereotyping that happened after this video went viral.

1. She looked so panicked, it was like she feared for her job.

Oh yeah, when something like this happened to me, I definitely feared for a job – my husband's job as an expert, as it happens. As the wife of a man who gets regularly called upon for his expertise, I would have reacted the exact same way, had my husband been on Skype with the BBC (I mean, it's the BBC. It's a big deal). Trust me, panicked is the least of how she would look.

2. She looked frantic and dishevelled.

Have you ever tried looking after a baby and a toddler and keeping them in line? I am mom to an almost six month old baby and a MUCH older child, and my normal look is like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. As I like to joke, I am awake and dressed. In actual clothes. That's enough to get me out. I work from home and make no apologies for looking like a slummy mummy. Nannies don't have a 'look'. Neither do mommies.

3. She was so rough with the children. A mother would have been gentler.

Give me a minute. BwahaHAHAHAHAHAHA! You're out of your mind if you think moms are gentle with their kids all the time. Getting my daughter ready for school in the mornings is a battle that I almost never win if I didn't have at least one moment, of "stay goddamn still, so I can brush your goddamn rat's nest of hair!" Cue - "owwwww, mom, owwwww, stop it mom, owwwww". Yeah, I am not gentle all the time, or if I am in a rush, or panicked in the first place. Show me a mom who is soft and gentle all the time, and I'll show you a saint. And for what it's worth, the nannies I know are a lot nicer to the children in their charge.

4. The kids look white.

Yeah, sorry, genetics is a thing. Both my mixed race kids look white. This excuse is, in my opinion, a cop-out. Kids don't necessarily look like their parents, and mixed race kids will favour one over the other. Sometimes. This is something I feel strongly about, as you've read earlier in my post.

My Adz has a good way of putting it: "I am like a bunny, mom, in the summer I go brown and in the winter I am white."

5. She looks so much younger than him.

I once got on a bus in London with my then-boyfriend, now husband, Kay. The driver gave me a child ticket, then gave Kay an adult ticket and a long, hard glare. I was twenty-three. Kay was twenty-nine. I still have that child ticket.

What I think that this video clip has made quite clear, though, is that racial stereotyping is still a thing. In 2017. Whether conscious or unconscious, we still have biases and one of them is about mixed race marriages and children. In a situation like this those cultural biases come to a head. To me, Jung-a Kim is a superwoman – daaaamn, those reflexes! Robert Kelly is a lucky man to have her in his life.

Source: The Wall Street Journal

Confronting biases and making changes

In this post, I wrote about my mom facing her stereotypes about gay people, and being courageous enough to change her preconceived ideas, ideas that were mostly church based, to be fair to her.

If your first assumption was that Jung-a Kim was the nanny, then maybe this is a good opportunity to take a close look at your biases and make a positive change. It doesn't take a lot to just say 'what beautiful children', instead of 'are you the nanny?'.

We can make this world truly colour blind and more accepting, if we are willing to let go of our assumptions and give people a chance. We don't choose who we fall in love with. We just do. And if more people felt the love, then maybe we wouldn't be fearful, intolerant or hate filled. And this world would be a much better place for it.

Michelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-67375154332549920002017-03-10T20:00:00.000-07:002017-03-10T19:49:42.256-07:00Global Recipe Swap - Beef Kheema Pav (A Mumbai Street Food)

I've been quite silent over here at The Tiffin Box, and first, I just wanted to say thank you to a few of you who have emailed me and asked me if things are okay. The internet is a funny thing. I don't know all my readers personally, yet so many of you messaged me, worried about me. It gives me this unbelievably warm feeling of being connected and cherished and so thank you again.

I am fine. To be completely honest, at first, I was just burnt out. Last year was an interesting one. After almost nine years of being an only child, Adz was going to be a big sister. I found out that I was pregnant and while we were quite unsure about this whole thing at first, we decided to roll with it. Unlike with Adz, where I had an incredible pregnancy, this one was quite hard. Maybe it was just me being older, but the last thing I felt like doing was cooking or eating, or even writing, for that matter. I'd sit in front of the computer, and I'd just be blank. I'd have ideas, but I couldn't seem to get them out on paper. I didn't even pick up my camera for a while, with zero interest in doing anything. My mother was visiting, thankfully, and she picked up a lot of my slack, and after a few visits with my doctor, I gave myself permission to take a few months off without the associated guilt.

I gave birth to Baby Sky in September. He's a gorgeous little squiggly handful of a guy, full of personality right from the moment of birth, and so very different from my mellow, easygoing Adz. Now that we have him, it is hard to imagine life without him. Well, technically, life is generally harder with him, seeing as I'd completely forgotten what having a new baby was like, but despite the complete lack of sleep and general zombie-esqe pattern of life (eat, play, nap, yowl, expel, and repeat) yes, life is better with this new little person.

It has been almost six months now, since Baby Sky was born, but despite all my bright ideas and thoughts, I still wasn't ready to write. Like before, I'd sit in front of the computer and have all these thoughts, but no desire to tap those keys and put them in writing. Now, I haven't been accepting a lot of projects recently. Partly because I just haven't had the energy to do anything, but also because I am a bit of a perfectionist, and I give my best to any project I take part in. I didn't think that I would be able to offer anything when I was still burning out.

Last month, however, I accepted a project from Merkato, a global recipe swap, rethinking beef recipes. The reason I accepted this project was the concept. I would be creating a recipe based on my cultural background, and swapping a recipe with another Canadian blogger, Shel Zolkewich whose recipe I am featuring in Part 2 of this post)

But in truth, there were other factors behind why I decided to break my blog silence with this project.

I went to India to visit with my family and introduce them to their newest member in December and January. Baby Sky was introduced to his great grandmother and a huge number of his extended family. We had an incredible time, and I reconnected with some family that I hadn't seen in well over ten years. It brought back to me the importance of connections and being there for each other. Maybe we hadn't seen each other in all these years, but as they say, blood is thicker than water and we fell back into our easy relationships with each other, just like we had when we were children, running back and forth from each others' houses. Social media has definitely made being in touch easier, and with Facebook, we are able to keep up with our lives, even though we live so far from each other.

I digress, however.

Family is certainly important, and my life has been shaped heavily by my own family, both in India and here in Canada.

But it was what happened on the way back from India that led me to write this post and take part in this recipe swap.

Adz, Baby Sky and I were connecting to our Canada-bound flight in Frankfurt airport. We had a few hours to kill, and while waiting for our flight to be called, I noticed that the gate agents were calling out these Muslim sounding names. When the people came up, there would be a hushed conversation, and then what sounded like people getting upset with lot of arm waving and some tears and general confusion. I wasn't sure what was happening, so I opened up the news on my phone.

That was when I saw the mind boggling news from the United States, banning people from seven Muslim majority countries from entering the States. I realised that the airlines were informing people from these countries about this ban and to be honest, I couldn't even comprehend what was going on. On one hand, I was just so grateful that I wasn't transiting through the States and was going to Canada instead. On the other hand, I could completely sympathise with these people who were travelling to the US, being tolday they couldn't travel for whatever purpose they were going there for. Having just come back from India and having had such an incredible family trip there, my heart was bleeding for these people. I could not imagine how they must have been feeling. I know that I would have been devastated, had I been told that I wasn't able to visit my family back in India, for whatever reason.

Since last November, since that ill-fated election in the States, my anxiety levels have been extremely high. I am a brown immigrant to Canada, and my children are mixed race. While racism is not a new concept to me, having faced it in England as well as to a smaller extent in Canada, the sheer vitriol coming from supporters of that person (I am sorry, but I just can't say his name without heaving!) against immigrants and people who were different was scary.

My experience of being an immigrant, twice, was much easier than others. I am not ashamed to say this out loud, and I am one of the lucky ones. In England, my path to naturalisation was easy, having been there as a graduate student, and then working there. When we came back to Canada, my path to residency was still easy. I didn't choose to fall in love with a Canadian, but the fact that my husband was Canadian helped ease my way. I was also lucky that I was so well versed in the Western world, that integrating into English and Canadian society was natural for me. I speak good English, I know pop culture inside out, I am abreast of news, and I listen to Blue Rodeo*.

But while my life as an immigrant is easy, to the point where a lot of people I know don't even see the colour of my skin, as long as I am able to keep up with conversations around hockey, or sport or music or sociology – this does not mean that I am unaware of how precarious my status in this country is. When people on the street look at me, they see a brown woman with white children and assume, a lot of the times, that I am the nanny. Some people talk slower to me, like they feel that I am not able to understand English. Some people are shocked by my lack of accent (see here). And I have been accosted on the street and told to go back home. It happens to all of us, those of us who appear different.

But to actually see the level of hate against immigrants that has manifested in that person being elected? I am truly flabbergasted and yes, it makes me anxious for my future and the future of my mixed race children. I'd like to say that such hate is not usual in Canada, but I would be wrong. Just a look at newspaper forums will tell me otherwise. People will tell me that those forums are not representative of what Canada is like, but then that's what we thought about the States. People will also tell me not to look at these news stories or engage with them, but it's like watching a particularly gruesome incident, and my morbid curiosity won't let me disengage. While both Canada and the States are countries founded on immigration, the rhetoric today has changed. Today, we are ruled by fear of difference. And when fear takes hold, hate is not far behind.

And that was one of the reasons why I took up this project. The people swapping recipes in this project are all people who have different cultural, national and religious backgrounds. But what we all have in common is that we are all Canadians.

I am going to be upfront with you all. I am not a nationalistic person. I've lived and travelled in too many countries to be the kind of person who believes that 'my country is the best' rhetoric. I love living in Canada, sure, and I adore the people I live with and all my friends, but I would be happy living anywhere else in the world, as long as I have my little family with me. Maybe this is an antithetic view of the world, but this is me and I won't apologise for it.

My recipe for this global swap project is inspired by one of my favourite Mumbai street foods. When I was in India this year, I took a little street food jaunt with my friend Addie, and we hit up this little Parsi cafe in Bandra where the food is tinged with Iranian influences. It is, and rightly so, famous for its kheema pav.

Kheema is a generic term in India for ground meat, and a good, spicy, salty kheema curry can have any kind of meat, with lamb and mutton being the most common. Beef, however, is also quite common in many communities in India, particularly the Catholic community. While it can be harder now to find beef in India, several places do have it, and this cafe did (or at least assured us that we were eating beef kheema).

There is nothing fancy about kheema pav. This is street food at its simplest and most filling. You get a steel plate of curried minced beef, a soft, cheap white bun and a wedge of lime. You squeeze some lime juice on the meat, and use your fingers to tear the pav and scoop the kheema into your mouth. The flavours are an explosion on your tongue, your mouth being assaulted by salt, heat, tang and the fragrance of spices. You take a sip of sweet chai, and then mop up the last bits of curry with some more pav.

For me, this dish brings back memories of my time in Bombay as a student. I was forever broke, but also hungry all the time. Many of us hunted out the best street food joints in the city, and we would travel in the horrific Mumbai traffic to head down to Sardar's for the best pav bhaji, or to small Punjabi joints for delicious tandoori chicken. The Catholic cafes had great seafood, and every colony in Bombay claimed that their pani puri wallah made the best version.

That said, my recipe for kheema pav comes from my aunt's cook, Christine, she of the delicious pork sorpotel. Her recipe is simple and uses minimum spice, but can easily rival any of those from these famous street vendors. Add my recipe for fresh pav, a squeeze of lime juice and a pat of butter on top, and voila! You're on the streets on Mumbai, taking in the unique flavours of the ordinary Mumbaikar.

Thankfully, my recipe swap partner Shel loved it too, and her photographs are so much better than mine, so check them out. I also adore the fact that she made them for Hockey Night in Canada. Now how much more inclusive do you get than that?

* I know you are dying to hear my Blue Rodeo story, yes? Well, when I was first dating Kay, my Canadian boy, he took me to see blue Rodeo perform in this tiny underground pub in London. Goodness, I think the entire Canadian population of London was there. I was only a couple of feet away from the band on the stage. After the performance, the band members all came and mingled with the audience, and I said hello to Jim Cuddy, who gave me a hug and asked me if Blue Rodeo was big in India. Well, I said, they were definitely popular with one particular Indian. Me.

--> Kheema Pav
(Printable Recipe)

A Mumbai Street Food Recipe

Pav (Bread Rolls)

1 tablespoon active dry yeast
¼ cup warm water
1 cup milk, scalded
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons butter + a little extra
1 teaspoon salt
3 ½ cups sifted all purpose flour
1 egg

Preheat oven to 375 F.

Soften active dry yeast in warm water.

Combine milk, sugar, butter and salt. Cool. Add 1 cup of the flour and beat well with a wooden spoon.

Beat in softened yeast and egg.

Gradually add remaining flour to form a soft dough. Knead the dough (around 7 - 8 minutes) until soft and pliable, then shape into a ball and place in a large oiled bowl. Cover and let rise in warm place until doubled in size (1½ to 2 hours)

Lightly turn out the risen dough on to lightly floured surface. Pat down and shape into 12 small balls.

Place the dough balls next to each other in a baking tray, then cover and let rise for another hour.

Bake at 375 degrees F for 15 - 20 minutes, until the rolls are golden. Brush a little extra butter on the crusts while still warm.

Kheema

1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander seeds
1 teaspoon garam masala
½ – 1 teaspoon mild (or hot) cayenne pepper, to taste
¼ teaspoon aamchur (dried mango powder)
2 tablespoons canola or sunflower oil
1 tablespoon ghee (optional)
1 cup, finely diced onion
4 garlic cloves, crushed
1 inch piece of ginger, peeled and grated
1 – 2 hot, green bird's eye chillies, finely chopped
1 cup, finely chopped tomatoes
500g ground beef
½ cup water
½ cup fresh or frozen peas
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Small handful fresh cilantro, chopped
Fresh pav, softened salted butter and lime wedges, to serve

In a small bowl, mix together the cumin, coriander, garam masala, cayenne pepper and aamchur. Keep this spice mix aside.

Heat the oil, and the ghee (if using) in a heavy based sauté pan, and add the onion. Fry on a medium heat for 7 – 8 minutes, until softened and beginning to brown on the edges.

Add the crushed garlic, ginger and chillies and stir together for a minute, until fragrant.

Add the chopped tomatoes and the spice mix to the pan and season with a little salt.

Fry, stirring often, for 10 – 15 minutes, until the mixture is thick and the oil is beginning to shimmer around the edges.

Add the ground beef and fry for 2 – 3 minutes. Add the water, cover the pan, and let the kheema simmer for about 15 – 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, blanch the peas in salted, boiling water for 2 minutes, then drain.

Uncover the pan, and add the peas to the kheema, and continue to cook for another 5 – 7 minutes, until the mixture is on the dry side. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Take off the heat and stir in the chopped cilantro. Serve with the pav, butter and lime wedges.

Disclosure: This post was sponsored by Think Beef.
Michelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-31682089726223214922017-03-10T19:48:00.002-07:002017-03-10T20:55:00.986-07:00Global Recipe Swap - PTL Chipotle Taquitos

Baby Sky's birth was wonderful. I had a planned C-Section – planned, because Adz's birth was pretty traumatic for me – but this one went without a hitch. I felt at peace and healed up beautifully. Mentally, however, I was still a bit unsure. On one hand, I was ecstatic with my beautiful new baby, but on the other hand, anxious again. When we took Baby Sky for his first immunisation and weigh-in, the nurse recommended I see a therapist, just to talk through things.

I mentioned my anxiety, and as we talked through it, I realised that the majority of my worry was from the election that had just taken place in the States. That person had won, and the fear in the pit of my stomach had never left. My therapist mentioned, almost as an aside, that I was not the only one who had had anxiety triggered by this election. As we chatted more, I realised that the root of my fear was the fact that I was brown.

I no longer felt as safe on the streets as I was. It might have been a false sense of security, but having now lived in Canada for over seven years, I was beginning to adapt to the Canadian way of living. When I first moved here, I wanted locks on every side gate and to the backyard. Now I was leaving our door open when we pottered around in the backyard. But suddenly, I was back to locking and triple checking everything. I was overthinking every sideways gaze at me and the children. I started spraying myself with fragrance because I didn't want people to think I smelt of curry. I kept an eye out on public transit instead of being immersed in my phone.

In some ways, I was happy to know that I was not alone, that there were other people who felt triggered by the nastiness of that election. But in some ways I felt more alone than I have ever been for a long time.

Even now, as I write this post, my hands are shaking, I feel nervous and jittery and my chest feels tight. If this is my reaction – the reaction of someone whose immigrant journey, as I mentioned in my previous post, was easier than most people's, then I can only imagine what people who came here fleeing war and persecution must be feeling. What those people who seek asylum and refuge in Canada are thinking. What the mental state of those people who are braving sub-zero temperatures to cross over to Canada from the States must be like. How they must feel, having their families torn apart, having to leave everything that they have behind, their worries for their children and parents.

I don't get it. I honestly don't. How did this person – this person who openly espouses intolerance and deals in hate and fear mongering – get elected? Was everything I knew about the States wrong? According to my Facebook feed, I am preaching to the choir. Everybody is against this person. Everyone is horrified. Everybody is exhorting resistance. Yet, there were millions upon millions of people who voted for this person. Who are these people? How do they not know that their history is also one of immigration, moving to the States for a better life, and fleeing persecution? How can they suddenly be all about white power and intolerance? I don't understand it.

But then again, maybe I do.

I might joke about this, but there is a reason why my family didn't make much of a fuss when I announced that I was marrying a white man. Just after Kay had proposed, I went back to India to go wedding shopping. My grandmother asked me to show her pictures of my future in-laws. She looked over carefully at the photo, and said, "well, this is good. They are white and fat and your children will be nice and fair." Eh, what?

I don't know how my folks would have reacted if I'd gone home and said I was marrying a black Muslim man. Or even if I'd outed myself as gay. See, it doesn't matter if you're being discriminated against. You can still be racist as a brown person. Or casteist. Or intolerant of another religion ("Jess: It's all changing now. Nasser Hussein is captain of the English cricket team and he's Asian. Mrs. Bhamra: Hussein is a Muslim name, their families are different.... Pinky: You can marry anyone you want. It's fine at first when you're in love and all that but do you want to be stared at, by every family that do because you married the English bloke? Jess: He's Irish. Pinky: Well, they all look the bloody same to them, innit" – fine, I am a 'Bend It Like Beckham nerd, but seriously... this.)

It takes courage to admit that some of your ideas about how things are in this world are wrong. I've snapped at some of my relatives when they talk disparagingly about 'furriners' (foreigners, as Indian people dub white people). My kids and my husband are 'foreigners'. Technically, so am I. Are they okay talking about me like that?

I had this experience with my mom, as I was trying to explain being gay and gay rights to her. She didn't understand it at all, and all her perceptions about being gay had been coloured by the vehement opposition of the church, as she is very religious. But we did have a conversation about it, and I got her to read this article on being gay in India  and the persecution they go through. At the end of the piece, she was in tears as she understood the discrimination and prejudice. She changed her mind that day. She is a brave, thoughtful woman who had the courage to admit that her convictions were wrong.

I wish a lot more people were like her. Perhaps then I would feel better about leaving this world to my children.

I found it rather fitting that my recipe swap partner, Shel Zolkevich, made these Mexican taquitos. In her recipe post, she has a funny story about why they are called PTL taquitos, I must admit I chuckled at that one, especially with a husband that mispronounces a lot of Indian words.

We don't need a wall in today's world. Having made and loved each bite of these, all I can say is that we need more taquitos, instead.

PTL Chipotle Taquitos

2 tbsp canola oil
1 large onion, diced
1 lb ground beef, lean
½ tsp salt
1 tsp chili powder
½ tsp cumin

3 cups mashed potatoes
1 canned chipotle, from chipotles in adobo sauce, diced
½ cup mozzarella, shredded

24 corn tortillas, 4-5 inches wide
24 toothpicks

1 cup canola oil, for frying

Optional:

Sour cream
Chopped avocado
Salsa verde
Cilantro

Heat 2 tbsp canola oil over medium high heat. Add onion and fry for three minutes. Add ground beef and fry until all traces of pink are gone, about eight minutes. Add salt, chili powder and cumin. Mix well. Set aside.

In a large bowl, combine mashed potatoes, chipotle, cheese and ground beef mixture. Mix well.

In a wide frypan, heat 1 cup of canola oil to 375 degrees F.

Place one tortilla on a flat surface and add 1 Tbsp of ground beef and potato mixture in the centre. Roll tightly and secure with toothpick. Set aside. Continue to make five more taquitos. Fry six at a time, for two minutes on one side and two minutes on the other. Repeat until all 24 are done.

Garnish with sour cream, chopped avocado, sour cream and cilantro.

Disclosure: This post was sponsored by Think Beef.

Michelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-9801802303474252342016-11-25T23:36:00.001-07:002017-03-10T15:00:15.661-07:00The Magic of Flying - Part 2: The Joys of Shopping at Edmonton International Airport

This is how I imagine myself flying...
the reality, however, is usually very different!
HBC Barbie, available at HBC Trading Post at the EIA.

This post is the second in my series for Edmonton International Airport (EIA). In my first post, last year, I talked about the forgotten magic of flying and about my experience with the eateries at the EIA. I was invited back this year to check out their shopping experience and as someone who is an avid shopaholic (and trust me, I make no apologies for that), I was pretty excited to see what the EIA had to offer.

I've been lucky enough to travel a lot, and in turn, experience airports all over the world. From the busy hustle and bustle of London Heathrow to the cramped discomfort of the tiny out-of-the-way Charleroi in Belgium, from the upmarket, almost intimidating Middle Eastern airports, to the recently renovated and colourful Sahar Airport in Mumbai, flying to me is synonymous with the start of vacations, or the excitement of seeing family and friends after a long time. I am an unashamed romantic when it comes to airports and railways stations, and the arrivals scenes from the movie 'Love Actually' always gets me emotional (please, ignore my love of corny British romcoms).

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-31604488124344339742016-09-10T16:55:00.004-06:002017-03-10T15:00:35.094-07:00Mom's Awesome Potato Bhaji, Breakfasts Around The World and Small Steps to Wellness

I recently read an article, 50 of the World's Best Breakfasts, and was pretty pleased to find my all-time favourite, the Full English, at the top of the list. Let's face it, there is nothing like a greasy fry-up of eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, baked beans, black pudding, fried bread and a cup of strong, hot, sweet builders' tea to start the day. Except, of course, for the impending heart attack that will probably show up shortly after. But as a broke graduate student, it couldn't be beaten for value.

Sadly, however much I wanted to, there was no way my grad student diet could continue without some serious health issues, so I had to reluctantly grow up, and make those changes that would led to a reasonably healthier lifestyle. One of these changes was cooking at home more often. Of course, this led to my current food writing career which has taken off a lot more than I could have hoped for, and it was that one small step that helped me along the way.

Breakfasts have always been an important tradition in Indian culture and families. Since I was little, as far back as I can remember, every morning has started with a hot breakfast. We started school at 9 AM, and my mom had to leave for work at 8 in the morning. So a lot of the breakfasts we had were either prepped late in the evening, or I would hear my mom up at 5 AM in the kitchen, making sure the family was going to be fed. A hot breakfast usually meant a pretty elaborate set up. Dosa batter was ground and fermented overnight, with chutneys and condiments already made. A hot potato bhaji curry would be made in the morning, simmering on the gas stove next to my mom who would be frying up hot, crispy dosas. Once we'd grumbled our way out of bed, we would get dressed in our school uniforms, make sure our backpacks were packed and then sit down for breakfast. The dosas, or rotis, or hot pressed sandwiches would come flying out at us, and we gobbled as much as we could before racing out of the door behind our mom to get to school on time.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-850770608707522432016-03-18T23:08:00.002-06:002017-03-10T15:00:58.853-07:00Trains, Planes and Pedhas - Vikram Vij and His Family Chicken Curry

Photo used with thanks to Sean Neild

Chef Vikram Vij, patron of Vancouver's famous Vij's Restaurant, Rangoli and Railway Express, and I share a fascination with Indian railways and their ubiquitous blue and red trains. Mine was honed through years of travelling around India with my family, and my own adventures on the trains from Delhi to South India. Vikram's, on the other hand, was all about the food.

"Were the pedhas worth it?" I asked him, after he recounts a particularly hilarious train story. "Yeah" he says, laughing, "but if I had missed that train, I would have lost everything, so maybe I need to rethink that answer". Vikram was travelling from Mathura to Bombay, and decided, underestimating the stop times on the train, to head to a nearby pedha shop. Pedhas, for the uninitiated, are deliciously milky, soft, fudgey Indian sweets that melt in your mouth. He got his pedhas, but as he approached the train station, realised that his train was pulling away from the station. As he recounts, "I ran, so hard, yelling, and finally managed to jump on to the last carriage of the train, where I waited till we got to the nest stop, so I could get to my seat". This story is familiar to a lot of us Indians, who love our railway food and drinks. From banana podis when approaching the Konkan coast, to vada pav in Mumbai, hot chai and lassis everywhere, everyone has a story about a near missed train incident. But in the end, the pedhas or the bhajiyas or the vadas are always worth it.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-9973252385073234402015-12-22T21:24:00.000-07:002017-03-10T15:01:09.567-07:00Roti/ Chapathi/ Phulka - How To Make Soft Rotis

In India we have a saying that all one needs for a comfortable life is roti, kapda aur makhan (food, clothes and home.) It is one of the truths of life that you can be pretty comfortable with very little and with the basic necessities of life, and there are a lot of people in India and in the world who live with just that.

I was chatting with my mum about money. As she put it, she worked all her life, and while she made enough money, she also spent it all on us and our education and to give us a comfortable life that lacked for nothing. Now that she is retired, she made a conscious decision to travel and stay with us, and to spend any money she had on experiences and family. It made me think about my own life and the role of money in it. I am a lucky woman. I have a husband who makes enough money to provide me and my family with a wonderful living, and I also have a job that enables me to have luxuries like being able to attend conferences, spending money on props and eating out, and generally having a very comfortable life. I also understood that I take this very much for granted, and talking to my mother about this made me understand how privileged my life really is.

It also made me realise how important it is to be grateful to the people who make our lives comfortable, happy and fulfilled.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-22512844543821430962015-11-09T20:20:00.002-07:002015-12-23T14:16:47.620-07:00Pear Tarte Tatin With Cardamom, Saffron and Rosewater for Diwali (+ Giveaway from The Real Canadian Superstore)

About a year ago, I was at Adz's school, talking about Diwali to the Grade One class. I talked a bit about India, and how we celebrated many festivals among all the faiths that make up this incredibly diverse and secular country. When I was talking about Diwali, the celebration of light in honour of the Lord Rama's return to his home town, one little voice piped up - "India sounds awesome, Adz's mom. Can you please take me there?"

India has a tradition of celebrating festivals with the kind of joie de vivre that is almost over the top. When Adz and I visited about a year and half ago, Christmas was being celebrated. Adz, who was used to the classy, restrained lights of Canada, was overwhelmed at the colours, music and lights that Indians celebrated festivals with, and to me, it reminded me of India at it's very best.

Diwali, in particular, has a special significance in India, and is one of the biggest festivals in the country. When I was talking about Diwali to the kids, I found this really cute video online, that they loved.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-62214696436259758712015-10-02T18:17:00.003-06:002015-11-09T20:24:46.776-07:00Indian-Spiced Turkey Stuffing for Thanksgiving

In the past few months, we have heard so much about refugees, asylum seekers and immigrants. It's election season here in Canada, and the rhetoric is out in full swing. We hear about immigrants not assimilating into 'our' culture, issues with niqabs, about #PeopleLikeNenshi and #BarbaricCulturalPractices. Racism, islamophobia, homophobia, immigrant hate, divisive politics - all par for the course.

Then we have a picture of a little boy washed up on a beach. Things change for a few days, as we rediscover our compassion, but then they're back to the usual. Fear, loathing and hate.

Stop the world. I want to get off.

I am an immigrant to Canada. It is probably a little more obvious in my case, as I am brown. I know a lot of people here in Edmonton, and I daresay, I am well liked. But in the world out there I am an immigrant, a face among millions that move from the country of their birth for reasons ranging from love (in my case) to fear, to escape, to seek a better life.

I am an immigrant. So –

Do you hate me? Is it because I am brown?

Do you hate that I took a job that should have belonged to a 'Canadian'?

Would you deport me if I failed to pay my library fine, especially if I become a second-class Canadian citizen? (see Bill C-24) Would you deport my daughter, because she was born in England, despite the fact that she was a Canadian citizen first?

Why are you surprised when I speak fluent English, while also being able to converse with my mother in my native language?

Are you scared of me? Am I scary? Am I the 'other'? Do I look like a 'terrorist' if I protest, say, for the environment, or gay rights or equal pay for women?

Do you hate that I write about Indian food?

Should I go back to where I came from?

Are you scared that I won't assimilate into 'Canadian' culture? What is 'Canadian' culture?

Does your family have a 'secret' recipe that came from your immigrant grandmother?

Do you absolutely dislike that I am going to take on a hallowed, traditional dish like stuffing and add my own little twist to it? Am I thumbing my nose at 'old stock' Canadians?

The absolute worst is when people look at me and say, but you're not the kind of immigrant we're talking about. I look at them with pity as I think, no, I am exactly the kind of immigrant you're thinking about. I should be the person you think of when you think of immigrants.

Perhaps all this is a bit too political for just a thanksgiving stuffing recipe. But I am angry. I am angry, and hurt and sad and upset. I am angry that this is the world I am handing over to my daughter.

I am like you, but I am not really, am I? What would it take for me to be seen as 'me' and not the 'other'?

Click for the recipe - Lightly Spiced Indian-Style Turkey Stuffing

Happy Thanksgiving from my immigrant kitchen!

Michelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-86645201969138091002015-09-10T22:52:00.000-06:002016-03-01T20:09:51.159-07:00A Cheesy Affair – The Cheese Grand Prix with Dairy Farmers of Canada (Guest Post by Addie Raghavan)

I was lucky enough be asked to style the winners of the Canadian Cheese Gran Prix 2015 for a few media events here in Edmonton. After the work was done, the fun began, as my partner-in-cheese-crime, Addie Raghavan and I tasted some of the most incredible cheeses that this country has to offer.

I don't know much about cheese, except that I like it (and I ended up eating a ton with some lovely wines), so Addie offered to guest post. Addie, and his friend Ian Treuer of the number one cheese blog in the country 'Much To Do About Cheese' (kindly, ha!) tasted the cheese for me, and here are Addie's thoughts. Over to Addie.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-53664230875634592782015-08-13T13:26:00.000-06:002015-11-09T20:24:33.112-07:00Sour Evans Cherry Jam and 'The Canning Kitchen' FBC Blog Tour and Giveaway

There are times when I feel that just yesterday was the beginning of summer, and as I sit down to write this, we are almost in the middle of August. These precious, fleeting days of summer are almost at an end, and this year I took a break from blogging to work on a personal project that is close to my heart. I have also been cooking, and eating a lot, and one of the joys I have rediscovered is cooking just for the sake of cooking – not to photograph or write or think deeply about what I was making. I needed this break for many reasons, not least because I was also mentally and physically exhausted and not taking the time to recover my joy of living and just being.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-32296330206544164272015-07-27T16:37:00.005-06:002015-11-09T20:24:24.227-07:00Taste of EIA (or The Magic of Flying)

How many of us remember when flying was special and magical? The days when you dressed up in your best clothes, packed carefully, counted down the days to that flight, arrived that airport four hours in advance, were all excited to go through security, bounced all over duty-free, and then... joy of joys, walked into the plane, fiddled with all the buttons, thought long and hard about what to eat and drink and how to sleep well. Perhaps, if you were lucky, the captain would let you come on deck and show you the controls too.

See, I didn't grow up with aeroplanes and airports. For me, it was rickety buses and rattly trains all the way. While they had their own magic, flying was still out of reach for the ordinary people, so you can imagine my excitement when, at age twenty, I was offered the chance to head to Thailand and South-East Asia on a plane. On. A. Plane. For the first time. Oh, the squeals of excitement!

The first time I flew, I asked if I could head in to the pilot's cabin. And I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity to do so. The pilots were amazing, as we flew over the brightly lit cities in India, they pointed them out to me. The stars were huge in the sky, as they told me which ones were planets and all the constellations. It was certainly a magical first flight, a truly memorable one.

Ever since then I have flown many times, across continents and oceans, as flying has become more and more common. But through this all, a small kernel of excitement has always remained, and I certainly wish that more people felt the same, instead of just seeing flying as being just another way to get from one place to another, with a few sides of grumpiness and annoyance and frustration.

Well, it doesn't have to be that way now, does it?

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-3614744582751855292015-06-15T18:41:00.000-06:002016-03-16T17:36:50.998-06:00Tales from India - Memories of Mai

It was mid-morning late in January, just over five years ago. Adz and I were visiting India, before our big move to Canada from England. I was lying on the bed next to my maternal grandmother, Mai. Perhaps, I was flipping through a magazine or a book of some sort. I was also wearing one of Mai's housecoats – it smelt faintly of her talcum powder, and the soap she used – as it was too hot to wear anything else.

Adz, then two, was sitting at our feet, chattering away, playing happily with Mai's rosary, the warm wooden beads worn smooth from all those years of her fingers caressing them in prayer. The sun filtered its rays through the ancient wooden shutters, warming the room. When the heat got unbearable, I got up and turned on the ceiling fan. The whirling, rattling sound was hypnotic, as I lay back next to Mai, dozing off and on.

Mai was talking. I was only half listening.

"... and you were a saitan, devil of a child", I heard her say, with amusement. "You decided that the best time to go and pull on the cow's horns was when I was milking her. She kicked at me, and the half filled pail was knocked over. Before I could come around and grab you, you'd disappeared. Even at that age you had a fine sense of drama. Probably ran and hid behind your grandfather, who was always too indulgent of you. Luckily for you, I had to go and finish milking that cow, otherwise you'd have had a smack on that fat bottom of yours. I finished milking, and came around to the kitchen with that pail of steaming milk, and there you were, innocent look and all, standing there with your little kutte (small mug), looking up at me hopefully with your big big eyes. I couldn't stay angry with you. So I filled your kutte up with milk and you drank it all in one go, like we were starving you. After that you grabbed all the cooking pots from my shelves and decided to bang them together."

Surprisingly, I actually remember that incident with the poor cow, though I must have been pretty young. I smiled at Mai lazily, and noticed that her eyes were closed. She was falling asleep, so I grabbed Adz and we headed out into the courtyard of my grandparents' home for a rousing game of chase-the-kittens. My cousins Hemma and Blaise joined us, and we hung around chattering away.

It was also possibly the last real conversation I had with Mai.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-88227611907340415672015-05-15T12:58:00.002-06:002015-11-09T20:24:12.946-07:00Chicken With Morel and Chanterelle Mushrooms (A Ricardo Recipe)

I love food magazines. I was devastated when I had to leave behind my carefully curated collection back in England when I first moved to Canada, as there simply wasn't enough room to bring them over. I did keep a selection of my favorite Delicious magazines, and a bundle of recipes that I had clipped from others.

When I moved to Canada, my first order of business was to resubscribe to a whole bunch of magazines. During this time, I came across Ricardo, and I bought some intermittently. There is something about buying a magazine, a secret treat, if you will, that makes me happy. Perhaps it is because they aren't that expensive, plus the feel-good factor is pretty high. Researchers call this the 'lipstick economic indicator', as it's been noted that lipstick sales rise when there is an economic downturn – women want to treat themselves to something small and relatively inexpensive, but something that makes them feel good about themselves. My lipsticks are food magazines, as looking the beautifully shot food and recipes gives me a high and allows my own creativity to flow.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-37224035263221119082015-04-26T14:45:00.000-06:002015-04-26T20:23:35.883-06:00Turkey Waldorf-Style Salad

You know how it all shakes out, right?

The day you have a really expensive hair appointment, spend a couple hours in the salon, and step outside, with your pretty, shiny, beautifully blow dried hair.

Cue - thunderstorm and hailstone sized raindrops. Sigh! Goodbye pretty hair. Welcome, completely chic wettus-rattus look.

And that, my friends, is what it's like to live in the metropolis of Edmonton. Summer one day, slightly chilly spring the next, winter the third day, and a few thunderstorms, you know, to break all that monotony. Maybe I am being a bit unfair on my fair city though. Summer in Edmonton is one of the best seasons, and the warm weather with a hint of breeze brings out the shorts and tee shirts and smiles in everybody.

When Kay and I lived in England he always told me about the suddenness of the changing seasons in Canada. Changing seasons are not something I was used to, having grown up in the warm sunny tropics. In England, though, spring felt like it took forever to arrive. In Canada, on the other hand, one minute it is snowing and the next you're looking at the pretty budded leaves on trees and birdsong in the air. Sure, it is unpredictable, but that's the beauty of my world now.

In the first of my brand new series of recipes for Tasty Turkey, I channel all that spring-like hopefulness, minus the hair disasters into a beautiful spring-like salad. The Waldorf salad, with its sweet, savory notes is the perfect salad for evoking warm summer evenings, stretched out on the deck with a chilled glass of white wine, the smoky scents of barbequing meat wafting into the sultry evening air.

I like to use leftover roast turkey breast to make it, however, you can also poach a turkey breast and use the moist, seasoned meat in this salad. I use crème fraîche instead of sour cream for a more delicate dressing, but you can also use low fat yogurt and mayonnaise to make it healthier. You can also substitute pecans for walnuts if you prefer. This salad is always a hit at potlucks and with kids, and is really easy to put together.

So what are you waiting for? Head on over to the Tasty Turkey website to download your recipe now!

Click for the recipe - Turkey Waldorf-Style Salad

And as usual, if you have any questions, mosey on back and I'll be more than happy to answer them for you :) Enjoy!

Michelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-79853398849244890052015-04-05T20:23:00.000-06:002015-05-15T13:05:26.650-06:00Cook Out of the (Gluten Free Pasta) Box with Catelli (Advertorial)

Disclosure: I received compensation in the form of product for this post. This post is an advertorial for Catelli to announce the launch of their public recipe competition.

Get Creative and You Could Win With Catelli

Anyone who eats a gluten free diet knows what a challenge meals can be. Use your noodle, though, and you'll find that a nutritious solution is a healthy bowl of gluten free pasta.

In celebration of Celiac Awareness Month, which takes place in May, Catelli Gluten Free pasta – a 2015 Best New Product Award winner, as voted by consumers – is offering three lucky Canadians a year supply of pasta in exchange for delicious, out-of-the-box gluten free pasta recipe ideas.

Catelli Gluten Free pasta is made from a unique four-grain blend of white rice, brown rice, corn and quinoa. Available in Spaghetti, Fusilli, Penne and Macaroni, it is produced in a dedicated gluten free facility and is certified by the Canadian Celiac Association's Gluten-Free Certification Program.

To participate in the Catelli Gluten Free Pastabilities Challenge, which takes place from May 4-31, 2015, all you have to do is:

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-81416873147942099582015-03-28T13:18:00.000-06:002015-05-15T13:04:53.051-06:00Tales From India - Shivanna's Charmuri Stall, Making New Friends (and a Recipe for Charmuri)

One of my friends recently posted a picture of her baby girl – who just turned six. I left an offhand comment on the post, saying that our children would be teenagers by the time we considered ourselves adults. Afterwards, I spent a long time thinking about that offhand comment. I've always considered my generation of Indians a rather unique generation – a lost one. My contemporaries were almost all born in the late seventies, and we are definitely not Millenials. We are also not flower children, or children of the war, or children of the freedom fighting generation. Nowhere else is it more obvious than when I go back to India and catch up with all my friends. In India, I revert back to being a teenager. When my friends and I all catch up – some of us after more than ten years – it is a warm, comforting familiarity, like we were never away, like we were still young and carefree, like we had families, but we were absolutely comfortable with leaving the kids with our parents when we are out drinking socialising.

This lost-ness is obvious in our professions, in particular. When we were growing up, we had two options (which increased to four, by the time I'd graduated) – doctor or engineer (or IT/ software specialist and investment banker or both). Somewhere along the line, things changed in my generation. When I go back now, I catch up with architects, advertising gurus, writers, entrepreneurs, those dagnabbed investment bankers, speculators, small business owners, restaurateurs and artists. In my generation, a switch flipped, turning us from robots who did what we were told to do (and what everybody else did), into bright sparks who followed our own way. However, a lot of us are still conflicted and this is where the gap is most apparent.

I mean – take my own story. I moved from a science based background, to being a sociologist to a grad student, to an academic, to a food writer. My teachers thought I'd end up being a poet (okay, I do consider food to be poetry, so they may be right there?). When my sister and I were born, my mom and dad became parents. They behaved like parents, they provided like parents, they loved like parents. When I became a mother, I found the deepest love I could have for another human being. But somehow, I didn't lose myself the way my mom did in us. I still stayed the same, and in many ways, I saw that sameness in my friends, in that retaining of their individuality, of what makes them who they are.

However, when I go back home, despite the familiarity and comfort, and the rightness of hanging out with my friends – there is a gap somewhere. That gap comes in when I meet the next generation, the one born after the Millenials (Generation Y? Z?). That gap acutely brings back to me the discomfort of being old enough to be considered an 'aunty', but young enough to easily get all the cultural references of Generation Y/ Z, thanks to the overwhelming reach of the internet. That gap, which is so painfully familiar to me and my generation of in-betweeners. I am always wondering where I fit in and this lack of space is what I always struggle with when I go back to India.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-85381531437921569522015-03-20T23:34:00.000-06:002016-03-23T13:00:12.520-06:00The NAIT Chef in Residence Chef Michael Stadtländer - Local, Community, Compassion, Respect

Chef Michael Stadtländer is an internationally renowned chef, whose Eigensinn Farm dinners are legendary among food lovers. A staunch supporter of the farm-to-fork movement, he was also the driving force behind 'Foodstock', one of Canada's largest culinary protest movements. In an earlier post on farmer John Schneider, I talked about the 'No Farms No Food' organization that mobilized the local agricultural movement against development, so when I heard about Foodstock, it felt like a sign, a theme, if I may call it that, of protest movements based on preserving food and agricultural traditions and making sure that food security continued to be an issue of paramount importance.

I was invited to a NAIT Culinary Arts Program lunch featuring the food of Chef Stadtländer, who is the current Hokanson Chef-In-Residence. But before that, I was lucky enough to get a interview with Chef himself, and I was curious to know more about the philosophy that drives his food and cooking style.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-71602178260683974642015-03-16T22:22:00.002-06:002015-04-06T18:43:45.607-06:00Savoury, Spicy Indian-Style French Toast

Some of the best times in my life were at JNU or Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi. I was a pretty sheltered kid for most of my life and lived at home when I first went to college. But by the time I'd graduated with my degree, I was ready for adventure, and in that spirit, I applied to go to what is arguably one of the best liberal arts universities in the country. Getting into JNU wasn't easy, as I was competing with the best of the best in a pretty stiff entrance exam. Luckily for me, I made it through and it was with giddy excitement that I headed off to university, leaving home for the first time. My mum and uncle came with me to Delhi to see me off, and get me settled in, and while there was a tinge of homesickness, the relaxed atmosphere of JNU made me feel at home and like I'd been there all my life.

JNU is like no other university in India. First off, it is a staunchly left-wing university, deeply political and very liberal in its outlook, compared to the rest of the universities in India. Classes were only held on Monday to Wednesday, and the rest of the time was all self-study. Let's just say for a fresh-out-of-the-'burbs nineteen year old, coming from a convent school and college environment, all the freedom certainly went straight to the head. I made friends easily, and before I knew it, I was comfortable ensconced in the JNU lifestyle.

One of the best things about JNU was its huge collection of street eateries, called 'dhabas'. Almost every hostel, where students lived, had a dhaba in front of it, and they served food pretty much twenty four hours a day. The JNU late nights are famous, and before long, I was in the habit of attending my afternoon classes, then hanging out with my friends late into the night, drinking copious amounts of chai and black coffee, and eating anda paratha (egg layered rotis), spicy bread omelette, freshly made, piping hot pakoras, samosas and meat tikkas. We rarely made it into bed before five in the morning, and it was not unusual for us to have breakfast before heading to bed. Ah, the joys of being young and sleepless.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-17525835799042006742015-03-02T16:28:00.002-07:002016-03-16T17:30:24.309-06:00Tales from India: The Fish Market (or, My Dad Thinks I Drive Up the Prices)

My father and I don't share a lot in common, but what we do share is a love of good food, and a keen eye for a bargain. As a child, I normally accompanied him on his trips to the fishing docks, holding my nose and gripping the back of his shirt, observing as he bargained hard for the best fish, vegetables and meat.

A year ago, I was back in India for a visit with my family, and I felt like I needed to revisit the docks with dad. Dad was reluctant to take me. With my Westernized ways, I was likely to drive up the price of fish. 'Come on, dad', I pleaded, and he grumpily agreed. We were up at the crack of dawn, and I precariously balanced myself, side saddle, on his rickety motorbike, and we rode off to the market. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, but the dusty haze was rising – the day promised to be hot. The spicy-sweet smells of cooking and wood fires were in the air and the sounds of the city awakening were loud and strident. There was a time when riding with dad like this was commonplace, but on that day, I clutched at his shirt and the back of the bike, trying not to wince as he recklessly bounced over potholes, all the time trying to balance my notebook and camera.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-84957416972142802582015-02-09T22:29:00.000-07:002015-03-02T16:30:03.930-07:00Indian Classics - Steamed Nutmeg Flan (Custard)

I am always endlessly fascinated by the synchronicity of food and culture. Take a simple mixture of eggs, milk/ cream and sugar, for example. From Mexico to England to France to Vietnam, there is a version of this dish that takes in the best of what the culture has to offer and turns it into a classic. Whether it is the Mexican or Vietnamese flan, the humble English custard, the fancier creme anglaise, or creme caramel or creme brulee, this simple, comforting dessert transcends borders and cultures.

A lot of the cuisine I've grown up with is an amalgamation of this cultural absorption. Having grown up on the edge of Portuguese ruled Goa and with a strong 'Western' influence on food, a lot of what we ate was the Indianised version of Portuguese, British or French cuisine. Vindalho, for example or jhalfrezi.

There were, and are, some dishes though that were a unique combination of the person making them, and traditional European classics. This nutmeg flan - a specialty of my mom's - is one of them. When I first decided to make it myself, I remember asking my mom where she got the recipe. She shrugged and said, nowhere. It was one of those recipes which she probably ate at a friends' place, and then recreated it at home, using her own memories of the dish.

This is an interesting aspect of cooking, for me. I grew up with instinctive cooking, yet over the years I have learned to follow recipes and techniques to come up with perfect dishes. Not to say that my cooking isn't good, but I must admit that sometimes I miss the instinctiveness of food, where you grab a glance inside the refrigerator and make a dish based on what you find there. The way my mom usually cooks. The best part about this kind of cooking is the modifications that individual cooks make to their own cooking. My Aunt Helen, for example, uses milk soaked bread in this same pudding - mimicking a classic bread and butter pudding, whereas my mum keeps it very simple with just milk, eggs, sugar and nutmeg, which is more reminiscent of a Mexican or a Vietnamese style of flan.

For me, this dish is the essence of my childhood. Despite its simplicity, Mum only made this for special occasions - or when she had some time off school.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-22899151294863544232015-01-26T11:02:00.002-07:002015-03-02T16:29:50.905-07:00Is Local The New 'Sacred'?

Is local the new 'sacred'? This is the provocative question asked by sociologist Mervyn Horgan in his thoughtful analysis of the movement against development and to protect agricultural land in Nova Scotia. Horgan's article focuses on the story of four farmers in rural Nova Scotia who submitted an application to rezone their land for commercial development. This led to an outcry – with the intention of keeping the farmland rural – led by the group, No Farms, No Food who worked collectively and overturned the rezoning of the land. Horgan argues that by invoking the 'sacred' aspect of local, No Farms, No Food successfully mounted a campaign that not just reverses political decisions, but also "turns the world around."

A similar protest occurred in northeast Edmonton, when agricultural land was rezoned for low-density housing. In this case, however, the project went ahead. While sympathetic to the agricultural cause, the mayor of Edmonton did not, however, see the economics working out in favour of keeping the farmland intact. These articles spurred me to write this piece on local farmer John Schneider of Gold Forest Grains. John's story is familiar – local, organic farmer tries to make a living by standing by his principles and hoping that we do the same.

There is no doubting that the words 'local' and 'organic' are trendy. But what does this mean for the people who farm organically? I wanted to talk to a person who has made being local and organic part of his life in an unassuming way – not because it is cool or popular or 'what we should be doing' – but because of his longstanding belief that we need to look after the land for future generations.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-15563980063636643672015-01-08T21:24:00.003-07:002015-03-02T16:29:42.542-07:00How To Sprout Wheat Berries to Make Your Own Sprouted Flour (Step-By-Step with Pictures)

This month marks the start of my seventh year of blogging and writing about food. It might be a cliched saying, but what a journey it has been. The last six years - and last year, in particular - have been a roller coaster ride of learning, teaching, understanding and connecting. I've done things that scared the living daylights out of me, but at the same time helped me to understand myself a lot better. I fell back in love with my home country, India. I embarked on a new job that I love, and I have been writing and developing recipes non-stop. I started food styling, learned that less is more when it comes to my own style of photography and attended conferences where I met and connected with people that I've admired greatly. 2015 almost seems like an anti-climax after all the excitement of 2014. But here it is, and it is time to start a new journey.

This year, I am going to start writing about things that challenge me and make me grow as a food writer and a cook. So over the next few months, I hope to do at least one post which is a step-by-step to something that I have never attempted before, or a dish/ technique/ idea that I have been working on, but never thought about writing down properly. I am also planning on doing a lot more writing, going back to the basics of why I started this site, which is to share memories of my homeland. So you can expect to see a lot more traditional Indian recipes on here and all the wonderful memories that they are associated with.

To start off with, I've been reviewing Bread Revolution by Peter Reinhart for The Kitchn. Reinhart talks about sprouted wheat flour a fair bit in his new book. I couldn't find the flour here, so I decided to make my own. A quick trip down to John's Gold Forest Grains at Strathcona Market, and I had wheat berries to start my own flour.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1693082713303047231.post-14031141393014105052014-12-29T17:35:00.001-07:002015-01-08T21:26:05.825-07:00Mediterranean Ricotta Cheese Fritters

This year, we had a quiet (yes, social media free) holiday season, and to be honest, it was relaxing. Just the three of us, opening presents on Christmas day, with hot chocolate, Archie comics and the couch, a simple but delicious Christmas dinner, some good wine and a twinkling tree.

And a peaceful holiday is what our family needed after a hectic year. It was a great year, for sure, and my life changed hugely from month to month. But it was when I was lying on the couch, absorbed in my Christmas present (for curious cats, it was a couch blanket and the Life with Archie series, best present ever) I realised that there is nothing like spending time with the child and partner, watching them build Lego and do puzzles, drifting in and out of sleep, and it made for a particularly relaxed end of the year.

However, I do enjoy socialising too, and I am lucky to be surrounded by incredibly supportive friends and colleagues. It has been a year full of ups and downs, and the ups were the friends I made and old friendships that blossomed into deep, enduring bonds. I can't believe that just about five years have passed since we upped and moved from England. While I still get homesick for both India and England, I love my life here and everything it has brought with it. So here is to another year, filled to the brim with memories and taking chances.

... CONTINUE READINGMichelle Peters - Joneshttps://firstname.lastname@example.com


text:
Keep Stepping to Succeed with Joy Marsden
I had the great pleasure of speaking with self-success speaker Joy Marsden about motivation, perseverance, and the power of keeping moving.
Keep Stepping to Succeed
Joy believes that we need to keep moving forward, to keep stepping, into the midst of challenge. And while not everyone may lead others or want to, we each must lead ourselves and find ways to do so that are effective Read more →

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