Last night was Camilla's birthday party. We met out on my patio with two other friends to have some cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. Camilla hates summer, but she likes her summer birthday, and she loves a pavlova, which I've made before for her special day.
I first came upon pavlova from Nigella Lawson, who makes many things seem simple, whether they are or not, but this actually is. A pavlova is a big, fat meringue covered in unsweetened whipped cream (because the meringue itself is sweet) and then topped with any kind of fruit that's in season. It's an especially easy dessert for me to make, because I often have a dozen egg whites in my freezer (Creme Brulee demands many egg yolks but not, alas, the whites) and a good dessert for people like our friend who has celiac disease, because there's no flour whatsoever in it. It also looks very festive and almost cake-like, so also good for a birthday.
It's also great to make for a party, because you can make the meringue a day or two ahead of time, and then all you do is whip the cream before serving. You pile on the cream and then decorate with the fruit. Nigella has a Christmas Pavlova covered in pomegranate seeds and a little pomegranate syrup. I've made a Raspberry Rose Pavlova, with fresh raspberries and a little rose syrup, which you can find in either Indian or Middle Eastern grocery stores. Last night we had raspberry and blueberry with a little rosewater sprinkled on top. If you're not familiar with rosewater, I'd strongly recommend that you become so. It's perfume-y without being sickening, and it's got a flavor that's indefinable for most Americans, but it's delightful. It's like this thing you can't identify, but you know it's the secret ingredient. Nigella calls for a little rosewater in the meringue for the pavlova, too, and I make sure to include it.
Happily, we had a bottle of Veuve Cliquot in the refrigerator, just waiting for a special occasion. Since the girls all had two Rhutinis and were wanting something more with dessert, serendipity ensued. Champagne, fruit, cream and sticky meringue: all very refreshing on a humid summer evening.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Forget Rhubarb Pie
Today I made rhubarb chutney. I've made rhubarb chutney before, but many years ago. I'm not sure where I found a recipe for it, though today I used one in The Joy of Pickling, a wonderful book that I broke down and bought last summer after having checked it out of the library four or five times in the past few years. Rhubarb is quintessentially Minnesotan, isn't it? I mean, maybe it's just Midwestern, but few things are as Minnesotan as rhubarb from your neighbor's wild patch. They sell it at the Farmer's Market and I'm always amazed: I mean, I just go to my dad's house and pick it.
"Well, not everyone has it," he says, with a bit of pride. "I brought some up to the nursing home. Those people don't have yards, they can't get it anywhere else." He's also fond of telling me that in exchange for supplying her with rhubarb, another neighbor makes him rhubarb crisp. When I got my latest crop, he asked me for rhubarb chutney. On one hand, my dad hardly asks anything of me; on the other, he asks outrageous things, like pulling weeds in his lawn. Yeah, right. So making chutney wasn't such a bad deal.
Mostly I use rhubarb for making Nigella Lawson's rhubarb schnapps. You chop enough rhubarb to fill a quart canning jar about two-thirds of the way full, put in half a cup or so of sugar, and top off with the cheapest vodka you can find. Let it sit around for a month or so, shaking the jar the first few days to dissolve the sugar, then strain and you're ready to make rhubarb martinis, or Rhutinis, as I like to call them. I know, I know, a proper martini is gin and vermouth and believe me, that's usually the only thing I drink, but rhubarb! In booze! How subversively Minnesotan!
This year I didn't have any sugar when my dad delivered my first batch of rhubarb, so I just went ahead and made a vodka infusion with the rhubarb and vodka. I figure I can add sugar syrup to the drink when I make it, right? Those jars look beautiful with their pink and green bits of rhubarb soaking in increasingly rosy vodka. The color is like pink tourmaline: crystal clear, and pink as a ten year old girl's bedroom.
Tomorrow for my friend's birthday we're having Rhutinis, and I've come up with a new version this year. I'm going to mix about three shots of the rhubarb-infused vodka with about three-quarters of a shot of strawberry syrup (from strawberries I put up last summer) in a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Then I'll strain it into a cold martini glass garnished with a fresh strawberry, and float a little bit of sparkling Rose on top. Doesn't that sound delicious? It promises to be the hottest day so far tomorrow, but we'll be fortified with those icy-cold drinks. In past years, I've made Rhutinis with the sweetened rhubarb vodka and a bit of Cointreau, or just shaken it with mint leaves. Very different versions, but both yummy.
The chutney today was wafting such strong vinegar fumes that I tasted it and had to add another quarter cup or so of sugar. I get that rhubarb is tart, but holy cow. The chutney tasted hot, too, from the ginger as well as a bit of dried red chile. I think it may have been a mistake to omit mustard seeds. The recipe didn't call for them, but I feel like they would have added another shade of heat, as well as some texture. I'm crazy about seeds: poppy seeds, sesame seeds, mustard seeds, even cumin and fenugreek sometimes, depending on what I'm making. This is why I like raspberries, too: the seeds. Of course, I'm constantly checking my teeth in my little compact mirror, but it's a small price to pay for the pleasure of crunching those little bits between my molars.
Most of the chutney got processed, but there's one big jar of it in the fridge for me to try out later. I think I'll need some cheddar of some kind, and some crackers. Next time I see my dad, I'll hand over two half-pint jars of the stuff and see what he thinks.
"Well, not everyone has it," he says, with a bit of pride. "I brought some up to the nursing home. Those people don't have yards, they can't get it anywhere else." He's also fond of telling me that in exchange for supplying her with rhubarb, another neighbor makes him rhubarb crisp. When I got my latest crop, he asked me for rhubarb chutney. On one hand, my dad hardly asks anything of me; on the other, he asks outrageous things, like pulling weeds in his lawn. Yeah, right. So making chutney wasn't such a bad deal.
Mostly I use rhubarb for making Nigella Lawson's rhubarb schnapps. You chop enough rhubarb to fill a quart canning jar about two-thirds of the way full, put in half a cup or so of sugar, and top off with the cheapest vodka you can find. Let it sit around for a month or so, shaking the jar the first few days to dissolve the sugar, then strain and you're ready to make rhubarb martinis, or Rhutinis, as I like to call them. I know, I know, a proper martini is gin and vermouth and believe me, that's usually the only thing I drink, but rhubarb! In booze! How subversively Minnesotan!
This year I didn't have any sugar when my dad delivered my first batch of rhubarb, so I just went ahead and made a vodka infusion with the rhubarb and vodka. I figure I can add sugar syrup to the drink when I make it, right? Those jars look beautiful with their pink and green bits of rhubarb soaking in increasingly rosy vodka. The color is like pink tourmaline: crystal clear, and pink as a ten year old girl's bedroom.
Tomorrow for my friend's birthday we're having Rhutinis, and I've come up with a new version this year. I'm going to mix about three shots of the rhubarb-infused vodka with about three-quarters of a shot of strawberry syrup (from strawberries I put up last summer) in a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Then I'll strain it into a cold martini glass garnished with a fresh strawberry, and float a little bit of sparkling Rose on top. Doesn't that sound delicious? It promises to be the hottest day so far tomorrow, but we'll be fortified with those icy-cold drinks. In past years, I've made Rhutinis with the sweetened rhubarb vodka and a bit of Cointreau, or just shaken it with mint leaves. Very different versions, but both yummy.
The chutney today was wafting such strong vinegar fumes that I tasted it and had to add another quarter cup or so of sugar. I get that rhubarb is tart, but holy cow. The chutney tasted hot, too, from the ginger as well as a bit of dried red chile. I think it may have been a mistake to omit mustard seeds. The recipe didn't call for them, but I feel like they would have added another shade of heat, as well as some texture. I'm crazy about seeds: poppy seeds, sesame seeds, mustard seeds, even cumin and fenugreek sometimes, depending on what I'm making. This is why I like raspberries, too: the seeds. Of course, I'm constantly checking my teeth in my little compact mirror, but it's a small price to pay for the pleasure of crunching those little bits between my molars.
Most of the chutney got processed, but there's one big jar of it in the fridge for me to try out later. I think I'll need some cheddar of some kind, and some crackers. Next time I see my dad, I'll hand over two half-pint jars of the stuff and see what he thinks.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Venice of India
Othello is coming to town, the postcard promised with a picture of two actors languid in the early stages of the play. At first, I thought, I'd like to see Othello. I wonder how long it's been? And then I started thinking, when will Othello be obsolete? There are lots of mixed race couples and, depending on which state you're in, those alliances don't cause the same reactions they did decades ago. In addition, they're not illegal anymore, either. Think of that: it used to be illegal to marry who you wanted because of their race. One day we'll look at gay marriage the same way: remember when it was illegal for men to marry men, and women to marry women? Isn't that crazy? we'll say to each other.
Or not. Mr. Hendricks and I are a mixed race couple, and here's the funny thing: we never think of it. Or we are rarely aware that our races are different. Mr. Hendricks is Mr. Hendricks: that is all. Yes, I see that he is lean and graceful and brown-skinned, but these separate attributes fade away and he is more of a gestalt (sorry, I couldn't come up with a better word). We live in a relatively progressive northern metropolitan area, and so we are not so unique. More noticeable is that Mr. Hendricks is thin and I am fat. In fact, the only public places that we notice bold stares are in Indian restaurants from Indian patrons.
And then we went to the homeland in January: the state of Kerala in South India. There are necks that are still sore from all the craning they did at us. There I was, in my full, fat, very white and sweating glory, next to the quiet elegance of my South Indian in-laws and husband. They are all to be commended for their ability to walk in public with me and appear to be completely unaware of the craning necks and unsmiling stares. I found it a lot more challenging not to tell people to fuck off (which I didn't, thank you very much) when they literally stared at me for unseemly amounts of time.
We talked about it after each outing. First, to be fair, there aren't too many American tourists in South India, so I was an anomaly. I can understand that. But here in the States (not a high standard of manners, to be sure), if one is caught staring, a smile usually softens the encounter. This is not so in India. In fact, there is very little smiling between people. Smiling is seen as stupidity. Smiling is reserved only for those you know well. Second, I am a large woman. Again, an understandable anomaly. Third, I am in the company of three Indians, and even though it looks as though we may be family, it is inconceivable that we are.
We went to look at jewelry with my in-laws in Trivandrum, the city in which they live. The shop was formal and it was crowded with people, as all of India is: chairs were set around all of the counters and there were several employees hovering around, each with a very specific duty. We looked at the earrings, and three men behind the counter to the left of us could not take their eyes off of me. The heat and the staring and the discussion in Malayalam (which I do not understand) started to take its toll. Mr. Hendricks tried to calm me down, and I did not want to embarrass my in-laws, but I really wanted to flip those guys off. The man helping us with the earrings engaged Mr. Hendricks by asking him all sorts of questions, and even with the language barrier, I knew they were about me. After something Mr. Hendricks said, the man looked very surprised and repeated his question, as if for confirmation. He looked at Mr. Hendricks and then at me and then again at Mr. Hendricks. We didn't buy any jewelry there.
Kochi, or Cochin, is a city north in Kerala we visited with my in-laws. Also known as 'Jew Town,' the city boasts the oldest synagogue in India, one from 1568. Around the synagogue are shops and the cemetery. Perhaps I had begun to become immune to them, but the stares this time around seemed either less frequent or annoying. In fact, it wasn't the stares that were so bothersome, it was the hawking of trinkets that started to bring me down. The hard sell was on, especially to the American. The sellers were relentless, and I bought far less than I might have if I'd been given a little room, both literally and figuratively.
Mr. Hendricks and I finished our trip in Delhi. We had a tearful goodbye with his parents at the train station, and after a trying ride of forty hours or so, found ourselves in a very nice hotel in the capital city. We ate only at its restaurants, purely out of convenience. In fact, we had three or four meals at one of the restaurants, and were served by the same waiters. On two occasions, we were given separate checks.
"They don't think we're married," Mr. Hendricks said as he signed both of them with our room number.
"What do you mean? We've been here for breakfast twice already!" I said.
"I think they think we're business associates, or maybe we're having an affair," Mr. Hendricks said.
"You've got to be kidding," I said. "This is a five-star hotel. They see Westerners all the time here."
"Yeah, but how many Indians with non-Indians?" he said. "They might see black and white couples, but Indians don't usually marry non-Indians."
That night we left for home. Our driver dropped us at Indira Gandhi International Airport. It was relatively small in size, but packed to the gills with people. I saw a young woman in a uniform who appeared to be directing people and their copious baggage. I approached her with a smile and said, "I'm on a KLM flight to Amsterdam."
"Do you have your ticket?" she said and actually smiled back.
"My husband does," I said as I turned to find Mr. Hendricks. He was behind the man who was behind me.
Her smile and eyes got wider. "He is your husband?"
"Yes."
"And he is Indian?"
"Yeah," I said as Mr. Hendricks showed her our flight confirmation and she looked at us with ill-concealed awe.
That's what was so astounding to all the young men and women in India who got an eyeful of us. They couldn't believe that an Indian man, very like themselves, married an American woman and lived to tell the tale. Personally, I don't think they were jealous of me. No. I think they were jealous of Mr. Hendricks and what appeared as freedom within his family to marry who he pleased. I think they were jealous because he was an Indian living in the States. I think it was hard to imagine such a life of liberty and, at the same time, isolation.
Desdemona didn't have the time to visit the in-laws, did she? Maybe it would have all gone swimmingly, and she would have sailed through the trials with flying colors. Or maybe everyone in Othello's village would have been stupefied that he married this white skinny swan while there were so many more suitable women for him at home. Women of substance, of classic Moorish beauty, of proper childbearing form. We'll never know.
Mr. Hendricks and I aren't the tragic types: I am no young, impetuous daughter, and Mr. Hendricks is no Army general. Othello is supposed to be about jealousy, critics argue: race is secondary. But here in the States, race is never secondary. Here in America, the debate rages on even as we watch our new president and his family in the White House. All about us life is changing, and not in the ways we thought it would. Othello this fall, the postcard says. I wonder what it will mean by then?
Or not. Mr. Hendricks and I are a mixed race couple, and here's the funny thing: we never think of it. Or we are rarely aware that our races are different. Mr. Hendricks is Mr. Hendricks: that is all. Yes, I see that he is lean and graceful and brown-skinned, but these separate attributes fade away and he is more of a gestalt (sorry, I couldn't come up with a better word). We live in a relatively progressive northern metropolitan area, and so we are not so unique. More noticeable is that Mr. Hendricks is thin and I am fat. In fact, the only public places that we notice bold stares are in Indian restaurants from Indian patrons.
And then we went to the homeland in January: the state of Kerala in South India. There are necks that are still sore from all the craning they did at us. There I was, in my full, fat, very white and sweating glory, next to the quiet elegance of my South Indian in-laws and husband. They are all to be commended for their ability to walk in public with me and appear to be completely unaware of the craning necks and unsmiling stares. I found it a lot more challenging not to tell people to fuck off (which I didn't, thank you very much) when they literally stared at me for unseemly amounts of time.
We talked about it after each outing. First, to be fair, there aren't too many American tourists in South India, so I was an anomaly. I can understand that. But here in the States (not a high standard of manners, to be sure), if one is caught staring, a smile usually softens the encounter. This is not so in India. In fact, there is very little smiling between people. Smiling is seen as stupidity. Smiling is reserved only for those you know well. Second, I am a large woman. Again, an understandable anomaly. Third, I am in the company of three Indians, and even though it looks as though we may be family, it is inconceivable that we are.
We went to look at jewelry with my in-laws in Trivandrum, the city in which they live. The shop was formal and it was crowded with people, as all of India is: chairs were set around all of the counters and there were several employees hovering around, each with a very specific duty. We looked at the earrings, and three men behind the counter to the left of us could not take their eyes off of me. The heat and the staring and the discussion in Malayalam (which I do not understand) started to take its toll. Mr. Hendricks tried to calm me down, and I did not want to embarrass my in-laws, but I really wanted to flip those guys off. The man helping us with the earrings engaged Mr. Hendricks by asking him all sorts of questions, and even with the language barrier, I knew they were about me. After something Mr. Hendricks said, the man looked very surprised and repeated his question, as if for confirmation. He looked at Mr. Hendricks and then at me and then again at Mr. Hendricks. We didn't buy any jewelry there.
Kochi, or Cochin, is a city north in Kerala we visited with my in-laws. Also known as 'Jew Town,' the city boasts the oldest synagogue in India, one from 1568. Around the synagogue are shops and the cemetery. Perhaps I had begun to become immune to them, but the stares this time around seemed either less frequent or annoying. In fact, it wasn't the stares that were so bothersome, it was the hawking of trinkets that started to bring me down. The hard sell was on, especially to the American. The sellers were relentless, and I bought far less than I might have if I'd been given a little room, both literally and figuratively.
Mr. Hendricks and I finished our trip in Delhi. We had a tearful goodbye with his parents at the train station, and after a trying ride of forty hours or so, found ourselves in a very nice hotel in the capital city. We ate only at its restaurants, purely out of convenience. In fact, we had three or four meals at one of the restaurants, and were served by the same waiters. On two occasions, we were given separate checks.
"They don't think we're married," Mr. Hendricks said as he signed both of them with our room number.
"What do you mean? We've been here for breakfast twice already!" I said.
"I think they think we're business associates, or maybe we're having an affair," Mr. Hendricks said.
"You've got to be kidding," I said. "This is a five-star hotel. They see Westerners all the time here."
"Yeah, but how many Indians with non-Indians?" he said. "They might see black and white couples, but Indians don't usually marry non-Indians."
That night we left for home. Our driver dropped us at Indira Gandhi International Airport. It was relatively small in size, but packed to the gills with people. I saw a young woman in a uniform who appeared to be directing people and their copious baggage. I approached her with a smile and said, "I'm on a KLM flight to Amsterdam."
"Do you have your ticket?" she said and actually smiled back.
"My husband does," I said as I turned to find Mr. Hendricks. He was behind the man who was behind me.
Her smile and eyes got wider. "He is your husband?"
"Yes."
"And he is Indian?"
"Yeah," I said as Mr. Hendricks showed her our flight confirmation and she looked at us with ill-concealed awe.
That's what was so astounding to all the young men and women in India who got an eyeful of us. They couldn't believe that an Indian man, very like themselves, married an American woman and lived to tell the tale. Personally, I don't think they were jealous of me. No. I think they were jealous of Mr. Hendricks and what appeared as freedom within his family to marry who he pleased. I think they were jealous because he was an Indian living in the States. I think it was hard to imagine such a life of liberty and, at the same time, isolation.
Desdemona didn't have the time to visit the in-laws, did she? Maybe it would have all gone swimmingly, and she would have sailed through the trials with flying colors. Or maybe everyone in Othello's village would have been stupefied that he married this white skinny swan while there were so many more suitable women for him at home. Women of substance, of classic Moorish beauty, of proper childbearing form. We'll never know.
Mr. Hendricks and I aren't the tragic types: I am no young, impetuous daughter, and Mr. Hendricks is no Army general. Othello is supposed to be about jealousy, critics argue: race is secondary. But here in the States, race is never secondary. Here in America, the debate rages on even as we watch our new president and his family in the White House. All about us life is changing, and not in the ways we thought it would. Othello this fall, the postcard says. I wonder what it will mean by then?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Ponmudi
Mr. Hendricks loves Wikipedia. Its entry on Ponmudi begins like this:
Ponmudi (The Golden Peak) is a hillstation in the Thiruvananthapuram district of Kerala in South India. Its [sic] located 61 km north-east of Trivandrum city at an altitude of 910 m. It is a part of the Western Ghats mountain range that runs parallel to the Arabian Sea.
So far, so good. Then it veers off into a downright dirty lie: Ponmudi is connected to Trivandrum by a narrow winding road whichoffers a scenic view on the way to Ponmudi.
Cut to the maniacal laughter of one who has escaped death a thousand times. Because that's what you will have done if you indeed take this "narrow winding road" with a "scenic view". Scenes of your impeding demise, maybe. Of course, there's no other way to reach the "Golden Peak," and I have to report that it is only worth seeing if you have the balls of a NavySeal. I don't, and yet I made it there and back with my lifeintact, but my adrenal glands were completely shot to hell.
The offer seemed innocent enough. My in-laws wanted to show their American/Minnesotan daughter-in-law the coldest place in Kerala. They had been there before, but not for a few years. Granted, the traffic in Kerala had already scared the shit out of me, but foolishly I thought that had somehow conferred immunity. I mean, how much worse could it get? How many times could you watch opposing traffic coming toward you at twenty-five miles an hour while your father-in-law attempted to pass the car barely in front of him, forgetting to downshift and praying for the millionth time that the car wouldn't die because it was in fifth gear at ten miles an hour? How many near misses of a pedestrian or a scooter (a small motorcycle) could you tolerate? How many times could you hold your breath every five to seven seconds and still remain oxygenated? How many times could you hear horns honking without jumping every time, even though the honking was constant, like some sort of hellish conversation you couldn't understand. Even Mr. Hendricks, a man with a disposition of Buddha-like proportions, was griping my hand so hard as to leave bruises. And this was just the ride out of town.
We pulled over at the side of the road to stretch our legs. We'd probably already been in the car for at least an hour, maybe more. Still oblivious to the terror that awaited me, I wondered how much longer the drive would be. My father-in-law had mentioned "twenty-two hairpin turns," and I thought he was casually remarking on a curvy, twisty road. The term "road" needs to be defined. If by "road" you mean a dirt path cleared of trees and boulders, but filled with rocks and holes and only wide enough for one car, then, yes, it was a road. I'm pretty sure I don't have to mention that there were no guardrails, but I will, just for good measure.
So we start up the hill again, and while gently disentangling my hand from the crush of Mr. Hendricks', I begin to feel tired but uneasy. I mean, where the hell is this place? Then, off in the distance, my family points out the restaurant we'll be going to after we see Ponmudi. It appears to be very high and very far away. The road is getting worse: it feels like the car has no shock absorbers. And then the unthinkable happens: the car horn breaks. We have no horn. This is the only way to alert opposing vehicles that we are on the other side of the hairpin turn, because you sure as hell can't see anything. We press on, and now I begin to shoot desperate looks at Mr. Hendricks. He seems as nervous as I do, and yet, his parents are only mildly disturbed. Sure, the horn giving out is unfortunate, but that's no reason to discontinue our treacherous climb.
Then I see a road sign. A yellow sign with a drawing of an actual hairpin, about a thousand times bigger, and the number "1". At first, I am in complete denial. That can't possibly mean what I think it means, I calmly tell myself. We continue on, without a horn and another five minutes goes by. There isn't another sign, and yet the turns we've made on this stretch of the road are between ninety and one hundred thirty five degrees. To my horror, another yellow sign appears, exactly like the first one, and the number "2" is on it. Now the fear sinks in: I've got twenty more of these motherfuckers to live through. At the next sign, again after another five to seven minutes and several sharp turns and one car we managed not to collide with, I nudge Mr. Hendricks. I glare and jerk my head in the direction of the sign. He misses it.
"Three!" I hiss. "We're only at three!"
He looks confused. "What?" He's interrupted by his mother. She says, "I know why Denise is worried, she's not used to it, but you? What's wrong with you? You've been here before!" I have to mention at this point that my in-laws do not speak English (well, my father-in-law speaks a little, but my accent is really challenging for him) and I do not speak Malayalam, the native tongue of Kerala. This was actually a relief, although I'm sure my alarm needed little translation.
We continue on, and even though I did not have respite from the terror, I will interject here another item from Wikipedia:
The climate is alwayspleasant and it serves as a base for trekking and hiking. The tea-gardens here are also famous.
I will grant that the climate is probably always pleasant, if in fact you can even notice such a thing during your ordeal. But the "famous" tea gardens are completely defunct. Mr. Hendricks told me that when he visited Ponmudi as a child, there were tea stands all along the road where you could stop and not only have tea, but buy some to take home. He thought he remembered coffee, too. Tea is one of the official drinks of India, but in the South, they prefer coffee. Apparently the tea stands (we saw their abandoned shacks) were put out of business by the ubiquitous strikes and fights with the state government. There are so many unions in Kerala that it's a miracle when anything gets done. More often than not, it doesn't. So the promise of tea, coffee, and gifts evaporated, and I had only hope to cling to as we continued our death ride up the hill.
Obviously we made it. The killer is that, while in fact it was very cool and windy, the view wasn't as spectacular as I had been led to believe. Or maybe the view of the edge of the Western Ghats did not justify three hours of nightmarish anxiety. We walked around a bit, took a few pictures. We then went to the restaurant, which looked like a large, glorified cafeteria without the line. We had a typical South Indian thali, which consists of several little dishes and rice, and any other curry you might order. We asked for a fish fry and a chicken fry, both of which were pretty good. South Indians eat with their hands. I never got the hang of it, but really didn't have to: a fork and a napkin always appeared on the table, just for me.
We finished lunch and stepped outside onto the terrace. The view outside of the restaurant was pretty nice, lovely, in fact. It was windy and sunny and we took a few more pictures. Then we started our descent, which I had been trying to avoid thinking about all during lunch. Actually, I had been ruminating about it during the drive up, too, thinking that even if we made it up the hill alive, there was still the trip back to survive.
But my mother-in-law, with her wonderful senses of humor and intuition, told us the story of Mr. Hendricks' birth during our trip down the hill. I was completely delighted, not to mention blessedly distracted. I had always wanted to know how Mr. Hendricks came into the world, and in a charming bit of serendipity, our birth stories share some features. Both my mother and my mother-in-law were first-time mothers when they gave birth to us, and both of them had somewhat precipitous deliveries after normal courses of labor. In fact, both of them were told, "Don't push!" by the panicked nurses who saw baby heads emerging. Both doctors were late, and my mother-in-law was attended by the doctor on call. My father-in-law had a friend who worked in the hospital. Because of this, he was able to stay in his friend's call room at the hospital so he would be there when the baby arrived. Usually, fathers weren't allowed in the hospital until after the delivery.
Mr. Hendricks, according to his mother, was sixteen days late. Not only was he big when he was born, about eight and a half pounds, but he had a ton of hair and the longest fingernails they'd ever seen. He was also exceedingly fair. All the nurses used to sigh and lament because he was so fair and pretty. "What a shame," they'd say. "He should have been a girl."
Given the language and geographical barriers between me and my in-laws, I never thought I would hear that story. When we got home to Trivandrum, I thanked her for telling us. "Well,"she said, "I know you deliver babies and I thought you might beinterested." I also found out why my husband is an only child. An only Indian child: what are the odds? My father-in-law casually remarked that he thought it was better just to have one child. My in-laws also said that by the time Mr. Hendricks was three years old, he often told them that he didn't want a brother or sister. "We don't need another baby," he'd say, batting those big brown eyes in his fair, pretty-girl face, up at them. How could they argue with that?
So while hissing the word Ponmudi in our house is code for what a fucking nightmare, it also brings a smile to my face when I think of listening to my mother-in-law telling the story of her delivery. The hairpin turns and the rocky road and the sheer drop off outside my window seemed to fade away as I imagine her all those years ago, waiting to have her very late and very pretty baby.
Ponmudi (The Golden Peak) is a hillstation in the Thiruvananthapuram district of Kerala in South India. Its [sic] located 61 km north-east of Trivandrum city at an altitude of 910 m. It is a part of the Western Ghats mountain range that runs parallel to the Arabian Sea.
So far, so good. Then it veers off into a downright dirty lie: Ponmudi is connected to Trivandrum by a narrow winding road whichoffers a scenic view on the way to Ponmudi.
Cut to the maniacal laughter of one who has escaped death a thousand times. Because that's what you will have done if you indeed take this "narrow winding road" with a "scenic view". Scenes of your impeding demise, maybe. Of course, there's no other way to reach the "Golden Peak," and I have to report that it is only worth seeing if you have the balls of a NavySeal. I don't, and yet I made it there and back with my lifeintact, but my adrenal glands were completely shot to hell.
The offer seemed innocent enough. My in-laws wanted to show their American/Minnesotan daughter-in-law the coldest place in Kerala. They had been there before, but not for a few years. Granted, the traffic in Kerala had already scared the shit out of me, but foolishly I thought that had somehow conferred immunity. I mean, how much worse could it get? How many times could you watch opposing traffic coming toward you at twenty-five miles an hour while your father-in-law attempted to pass the car barely in front of him, forgetting to downshift and praying for the millionth time that the car wouldn't die because it was in fifth gear at ten miles an hour? How many near misses of a pedestrian or a scooter (a small motorcycle) could you tolerate? How many times could you hold your breath every five to seven seconds and still remain oxygenated? How many times could you hear horns honking without jumping every time, even though the honking was constant, like some sort of hellish conversation you couldn't understand. Even Mr. Hendricks, a man with a disposition of Buddha-like proportions, was griping my hand so hard as to leave bruises. And this was just the ride out of town.
We pulled over at the side of the road to stretch our legs. We'd probably already been in the car for at least an hour, maybe more. Still oblivious to the terror that awaited me, I wondered how much longer the drive would be. My father-in-law had mentioned "twenty-two hairpin turns," and I thought he was casually remarking on a curvy, twisty road. The term "road" needs to be defined. If by "road" you mean a dirt path cleared of trees and boulders, but filled with rocks and holes and only wide enough for one car, then, yes, it was a road. I'm pretty sure I don't have to mention that there were no guardrails, but I will, just for good measure.
So we start up the hill again, and while gently disentangling my hand from the crush of Mr. Hendricks', I begin to feel tired but uneasy. I mean, where the hell is this place? Then, off in the distance, my family points out the restaurant we'll be going to after we see Ponmudi. It appears to be very high and very far away. The road is getting worse: it feels like the car has no shock absorbers. And then the unthinkable happens: the car horn breaks. We have no horn. This is the only way to alert opposing vehicles that we are on the other side of the hairpin turn, because you sure as hell can't see anything. We press on, and now I begin to shoot desperate looks at Mr. Hendricks. He seems as nervous as I do, and yet, his parents are only mildly disturbed. Sure, the horn giving out is unfortunate, but that's no reason to discontinue our treacherous climb.
Then I see a road sign. A yellow sign with a drawing of an actual hairpin, about a thousand times bigger, and the number "1". At first, I am in complete denial. That can't possibly mean what I think it means, I calmly tell myself. We continue on, without a horn and another five minutes goes by. There isn't another sign, and yet the turns we've made on this stretch of the road are between ninety and one hundred thirty five degrees. To my horror, another yellow sign appears, exactly like the first one, and the number "2" is on it. Now the fear sinks in: I've got twenty more of these motherfuckers to live through. At the next sign, again after another five to seven minutes and several sharp turns and one car we managed not to collide with, I nudge Mr. Hendricks. I glare and jerk my head in the direction of the sign. He misses it.
"Three!" I hiss. "We're only at three!"
He looks confused. "What?" He's interrupted by his mother. She says, "I know why Denise is worried, she's not used to it, but you? What's wrong with you? You've been here before!" I have to mention at this point that my in-laws do not speak English (well, my father-in-law speaks a little, but my accent is really challenging for him) and I do not speak Malayalam, the native tongue of Kerala. This was actually a relief, although I'm sure my alarm needed little translation.
We continue on, and even though I did not have respite from the terror, I will interject here another item from Wikipedia:
The climate is alwayspleasant and it serves as a base for trekking and hiking. The tea-gardens here are also famous.
I will grant that the climate is probably always pleasant, if in fact you can even notice such a thing during your ordeal. But the "famous" tea gardens are completely defunct. Mr. Hendricks told me that when he visited Ponmudi as a child, there were tea stands all along the road where you could stop and not only have tea, but buy some to take home. He thought he remembered coffee, too. Tea is one of the official drinks of India, but in the South, they prefer coffee. Apparently the tea stands (we saw their abandoned shacks) were put out of business by the ubiquitous strikes and fights with the state government. There are so many unions in Kerala that it's a miracle when anything gets done. More often than not, it doesn't. So the promise of tea, coffee, and gifts evaporated, and I had only hope to cling to as we continued our death ride up the hill.
Obviously we made it. The killer is that, while in fact it was very cool and windy, the view wasn't as spectacular as I had been led to believe. Or maybe the view of the edge of the Western Ghats did not justify three hours of nightmarish anxiety. We walked around a bit, took a few pictures. We then went to the restaurant, which looked like a large, glorified cafeteria without the line. We had a typical South Indian thali, which consists of several little dishes and rice, and any other curry you might order. We asked for a fish fry and a chicken fry, both of which were pretty good. South Indians eat with their hands. I never got the hang of it, but really didn't have to: a fork and a napkin always appeared on the table, just for me.
We finished lunch and stepped outside onto the terrace. The view outside of the restaurant was pretty nice, lovely, in fact. It was windy and sunny and we took a few more pictures. Then we started our descent, which I had been trying to avoid thinking about all during lunch. Actually, I had been ruminating about it during the drive up, too, thinking that even if we made it up the hill alive, there was still the trip back to survive.
But my mother-in-law, with her wonderful senses of humor and intuition, told us the story of Mr. Hendricks' birth during our trip down the hill. I was completely delighted, not to mention blessedly distracted. I had always wanted to know how Mr. Hendricks came into the world, and in a charming bit of serendipity, our birth stories share some features. Both my mother and my mother-in-law were first-time mothers when they gave birth to us, and both of them had somewhat precipitous deliveries after normal courses of labor. In fact, both of them were told, "Don't push!" by the panicked nurses who saw baby heads emerging. Both doctors were late, and my mother-in-law was attended by the doctor on call. My father-in-law had a friend who worked in the hospital. Because of this, he was able to stay in his friend's call room at the hospital so he would be there when the baby arrived. Usually, fathers weren't allowed in the hospital until after the delivery.
Mr. Hendricks, according to his mother, was sixteen days late. Not only was he big when he was born, about eight and a half pounds, but he had a ton of hair and the longest fingernails they'd ever seen. He was also exceedingly fair. All the nurses used to sigh and lament because he was so fair and pretty. "What a shame," they'd say. "He should have been a girl."
Given the language and geographical barriers between me and my in-laws, I never thought I would hear that story. When we got home to Trivandrum, I thanked her for telling us. "Well,"she said, "I know you deliver babies and I thought you might beinterested." I also found out why my husband is an only child. An only Indian child: what are the odds? My father-in-law casually remarked that he thought it was better just to have one child. My in-laws also said that by the time Mr. Hendricks was three years old, he often told them that he didn't want a brother or sister. "We don't need another baby," he'd say, batting those big brown eyes in his fair, pretty-girl face, up at them. How could they argue with that?
So while hissing the word Ponmudi in our house is code for what a fucking nightmare, it also brings a smile to my face when I think of listening to my mother-in-law telling the story of her delivery. The hairpin turns and the rocky road and the sheer drop off outside my window seemed to fade away as I imagine her all those years ago, waiting to have her very late and very pretty baby.
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