Today is Ganesha Chaturthi–the birthday of the elephant-headed god, and my namesake. This major Hindu holiday features vegetarian goodies and sweets (ladoo was said to be a particular favorite of the deity).

I celebrate this holiday as a nod to my father’s heritage. By a fluke of circumstance my father, the youngest of six, was the only “legal Hindu” in his household. My grandfather, having converted to Anglicanism (perhaps to spite his own father, a Hindu priest with whom he had a strained relationship) insisted his children all be baptized in the Christian faith. My grandmother dutifully complied–until grandfather died when my own dad was just fifteen months old.

With her husband gone, Sarah Elikha Ganeshram promptly returned to her pujas and her celebrations. Sure, a statue of Jesus or a painting of Mary was added to the altar with the other gods–but ultimately, hers was a Hindu house.

My father grew up vegetarian. He had his first taste of beef while working in the nearby Venezuelan oil field–just eight miles from his native island of Trinidad. He said he wretched for a full day, his stomach rebelling against the unholy food.

The “Indian” dishes I cook are really Trinidadian adaptations and evolutions of that which my ancestors brought from India in the 19th century. I like to think, though, that maybe a great great grandmother might have cooked this more traditional Punjabi dish  back in the “mother land”, hailing as they did from that very region.

My version of Dal Makhani is not traditional. Like most of my family’s cooking it’s cobbled together from personal taste and learning at the stove of others. This is an adaptation I picked up from a favorite Indian restauranteur some years ago.

Dal Makhani

Cooking time: 1 hr 15 min

Serves 4

1 cup Urad dal*, picked over to remove any stones

1 tablespoon, ghee, coconut oil or safflower oil

1 small onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon grated ginger

1 large tomato, chopped

1 tablespoon tomato paste

2 teaspoons garam masala* (recipe below)

1 teaspoon dried fenugreek leaves or 1 tablespoon fresh, chopped coarsely

1 cup heavy cream

*Available in Indian grocery stores.

1. Place the dal in a saucepan with 3 cups of water and bring to a simmer. Simmer until tender–about 45 minutes. Drain, rinse with cold water and set aside.

2. Heat the ghee in another medium saucepan over medium heat and add the onion. Cook, stirring until the onion is soft and translucent, about 2 minutes. Add the minced garlic and ginger and continue cooking, stirring for 1 minute more.

3. Add the tomato to the pan and stir well. Lower the heat to low and allow to cook, stirring occasionally, until the tomato is fully broken down and reduced by 2/3rds. This will take about 10 minutes.

4. Add the tomato paste and raise the heat to medium-low and stir well. Cook for 2 minutes. Stir in the garam masala and the fenugreek leaves and cook, stirring for 1 more minute.

5. Using a whisk, stir the tomato mixture while pouring in the heavy cream. Whisk so there are no lumps and reduce heat to low. Add the reserved Urad dal and cook for 10 minutes more, stirring from time to time. Serve with plain white rice or naan bread.

Garam Masala

Makes 1/2 cup

Garam Masala can be found in any Indian grocery store and more and more mainstream spice stores and supe markets but it is easy enough to make with items found in mainstream food stores. Garam masala is, of course, most associated with true East Indian cooking and while it is used in Trinidad it is not as ubiquitous. The term garam simply means “toasted.” The dry roasting of spices in this mixture adds a certain depth of flavor to the masala.

6 tablespoons coriander seeds

1 heaping teaspoon aniseed

1 heaping teaspoon ground cloves or 1/2 teaspoon whole cloves

1 heaping teaspoon cumin seeds

1 heaping teaspoon fenugreek seeds

1 teaspoon whole black peppercorns

1 teaspoon mustard seeds

2 dry hot red chilies, stemmed or 2 teaspoons red pepper flakes

1 heaping teaspoon ground turmeric

1. Heat a large frying pan over medium heat. When the pan is hot, place all ingredients except the turmeric in the pan.
2.  Swirl the pan constantly so the spices do not scorch. Continue swirling for 45 seconds to 1 minute, or until the spices begin to release their aromas.
3. Place the toasted spices in a food processor or grinder, and add the turmeric. Grind to a fine powder.
4. Remove and store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 1 month.

I toss the coriander, mustard seeds and cumin in the hot iron skillet and a pungent, aroma joins the sweet warmth of the cinnamon already toasting there with blistering cardamom seeds.  Next is the hot, dried, chili that releases a sharp odor, tinged with sugar. After a few more seconds I remove the spices from the pan and place them in a grinder to whir into a fragrant powder that will be the basis for my channa masala, a classic East Indian dish.  After a quick check of my nicely rising naan dough, I set about grating coconut for chutney. It’s a meal like grandma would make.

Well, somebody’s grandmother anyway.

Despite my Indian name and appearance, I know little of India. My father was the grandson of an indentured laborer brought from the Punjab to the Caribbean island of Trinidad more than 150 years ago and where he functioned as a priest and leader in his own community of fellow indentured.  Like my father, I grew up identifying myself as Indian, believing the hybridized religion and food ways we practiced were authentic. Only when I became a food writer did I realize nothing could be farther from the truth and what I thought I knew amounted to nothing at all.

When I was in college I was invited by the Indian Student’s Association at my school to attend a Ganesh Chaturthi puja at the local Hindu temple. Ganesh Chathurti is a month long devotion to the elephant-headed god culminating in a major feast day as determined by the phases of the moon. I arrived at the temple—a square concrete building that might once have been a youth center or small school—and took of my shoes. And that’s where my comfort ended. My Trinidad-father was East Indian by descent and he practiced what I had thought was true Hinduism in his childhood home. Yet as I stood in that temple, unsure of what to do, lamely following the lead of the other young people praying over a puja fire before the god, I realized that I didn’t know anything at all.

When it was my turn, I stood in front of the Pundit and held out my hand as I had seen others do. He placed a mealy substance in it and gestured with his own hand toward his mouth when I stared at him blankly. “rasad” he said to me.

It didn’t look like the prasad I knew from the prayer meetings I had attended with my father on visits to Trinidad. That Prasad was the sole reason he could entice me to the lengthy events—a delectable farina chock full of coconut, raisins and fried cashews.

I left the event discombobulated and avoided fellow Indians for the remainder of my college career. Still, sometimes I got called out: there was the Indian deli owner who insisted on knowing what part of India my family was originally from (I only generally knew); the various knowledgeable people who insisted my surname was “odd”; or well meaning folks asked me for my family recipes for tandoori chicken, channa masala or naan bread.

 I started identifying myself as Trinidadian, eschewing my childhood habit, learned from my father as proudly identifying myself as Indian. Certainly “real” Indians often reminded me I was not.

Things got worse as I embarked on a career as a food writer, and people wanted me to do stories about traditional Indian food from my “own experience”.  My experience is one of self-teaching and learning from new friends—because I love Indian food as much as the next girl, thanks to what I learned eating in restaurants and from well-loved friends.

I joke that I’m only a sometime-Indian—an erstwhile Indian. But it’s not really a joke at all.

The real question, though is does it matter? I’m not so sure it does, leastways not when it comes to food. I could argue that as a trained chef I can cook near about anything. I make French food and I’m sure not French. Italian food too for that matter, and a world of others.

But training isn’t the real reason why it doesn’t matter. The real reason is that I’m a child of the New World untethered, in many ways, by the rules and taboos about who can eat what and when. It means that I’ve spent a lifetime gleefully exploring food without inhibition—just because I want to.

And isn’t that the best reason to explore anything at all?

Ramin’s Chicken Tikka Masala

Chicken Tikka Masala is a dish that Americans can easily identify as “Indian.” Creamy with the tang of tomato, and absent of yellow curry that many westerners must learn to palate, chicken tikka masala is as close South Asian comfort food as our American minds can comprehend. I found the version I fell in love with at a restaurant called The Curry Club, in Stony Brook, New York. The owners Kulwant and Chani Singh were Sikhs who had spent years living in Afghanistan and so spoke a version of my mother’s language of Farsi. It was they who taught me their version of the dish for an article I was writing on global grilling for Newsday where I had been a food writer at the time. That was going on 15 years ago now—it’s still a staple in our house. Now that we are trying to go vegetarian, I substitute black or Urad dal for the chicken. Is the recipe “authentic” in the strictest sense? I couldn’t ell you. Probably not, coming as it did through a restaurant, by way of Afghanistan. It’s close though–and it’s extremely good.

3 pounds chicken, cut into eighths, skin removed from breast, legs, and thighs

1 teaspoon garlic powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons garam masala

1 tablespoon red food coloring

2 cups nonfat plain yogurt

1 tablespoon ghee (clarified butter) or coconut oil

½ teaspoon minced garlic

½ teaspoon minced ginger

1 tablespoon tomato paste

2 teaspoons garam masala

2 cups cream

1 tablespoon dried fenugreek leaves

1.     Place the chicken pieces in a large deep bowl and sprinkle with the garlic powder, salt and garam masala. Mix well so all the pieces are coated.

2.     Add the food coloring and mix well, using a spoon so all the pieces are deep red. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in the refrigerator for 2 hours.

3.     Remove the chicken from the refrigerator and add the yogurt. Mix well so all the pieces are coated. Cover again with the plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours or, preferably, overnight.

4.     Preheat the oven to 400°F.

5.     Place the chicken pieces, with the yogurt marinade in an ovenproof dish that is large enough to accommodate all the pieces without touching. Bake the chicken pieces for 40 minutes or until cooked through. The yogurt will separate and caramelize, leaving a watery liquid behind.

6.     In the last 10 minutes of the chicken cooking, place a heavy deep saucepan on over medium heat on the stove. The pot should be large enough to accommodate all the chicken and 2 ½ cups of liquid.

7.     Add the ghee or coconut oil to the heated pot and add the garlic and ginger. Fry for 30 seconds and add the tomato paste. Cook while stirring with a wooden spoon or a whisk for 1 minute.

8.     Add the garam masala and cook for 30 seconds more, while stirring.

9.     Using the whisk, start whisking the tomato paste mixture while slowly pouring in the cream. Whisk until the mixture is smooth without lumps of tomato paste.

10.Remove the chicken from the oven and, using, tongs add the pieces to the cream mixture. Add ½ cup of the clear cooking liquid from the baking dish to the cream mixture as well. Mix well.

11.Allow the chicken and cream mixture to simmer on medium-low for 10 minutes.

12.Rub the fenugreek leaves together between your palms and add it to the pot. Simmer 1 minute more. Serve with white basmati rice.

VEGETARIAN VARIATION

 Dal Makhni

5 cups of water

1 1/2 cups black Urad dal, picked over to remove any small stones then rinsed

1 bay leaf

¼ teaspoon asafetida (optional)

1.     Bring the water to a boil in a large saucepan and add the dal.

2.     Lower the heat to simmer and add the bay leaf and asafetida. Skim the surface of the dal of any scum that forms as it cooks.

3.     Cool dal until tender, about 30 minutes and discard bay leaf. Drain the dal and rinse with cool water.

4.     Prepare the cream mixture as you would for Chicken Tikka Masala

5.     Add the cooked dal to the cream mixture and allow to simmer for 10 minutes. 

6.     Rub the fenugreek leaves together between your palms and add it to the pot. Simmer 1 minute more. Serve with white basmati rice.

I am a native New Yorker of Persian and Trinidadian descent. My name reflects my mixed up background–”Ramin” is Persian male name (I’m not male) and “Ganeshram” is a common South Indian name. My ancestors were not South Indian. We came by the name when my great-grandfather came to Trinidad as an indentured laborer and was given his father’s first name (Ram) as a surname. His own first name was Ganesh. Years later when he took an Anglo name for his given name, Ganesh and Ram got mashed together to become Ganeshram.

I cook and I write professionally and also, (sometimes) for fun. This blog is a place where I hope to write about everything food-wise that interests me but doesn’t neatly have a place in my professional file drawer.

In other words this is where I’m going to chew on stuff and eat out loud (but don’t worry, I won’t talk with my mouth full.)

For most of my life people have been asking me where I’m from, “what kind of name is that?” and other usually just-curious, a lot of the time just-rude questions. But, inquiry is a good thing and it’s made me think lo these many decades about stuff like what is in a name anyway?

My name, like most anyone’s, isn’t just a reflection of where my parents came from (or didn’t) as the case may be, it’s a hook I hang my hat on–particularly when it comes to what I eat. My friend Jeff Yang, expressed this idea incredibly well in this article he wrote for his San Francisco Chronicle Column “Asian Pop“.

When Jeff and I, and our families, got together I made a singularly Trinidadian dish called Pelau. It’s a dish that reflects the hodge podge of culture on that island-nation and, for me, is a stand in for being a lot of different things at once, yet being whole.

Here’s my recipe for pelau, from my book Sweet Hands, Island Cooking from Trinidad & Tobago”

Pelau
6 servings

Pelau is one of those dishes that really exemplifies Trinidadian cuisine because it is an admixture of various cooking styles. Pelau (rice layered with meats and vegetables) is a variation of East Indian pilau, which originated in Persia where it is called polow. The Anglicized version of the dish is called pilaf. The process of browning meat in sugar for pelau is an African tradition and ketchup is a New World addition, although I suspect it has its basis in tomato chutneys available in British India and likely brought to Trinidad by the English.
Chicken is the most common meat in pelau but tender cuts of stew beef or lamb work just as well. In Tobago, pelau is often made with crab and that recipe follows this one.

1 cup dried or 1 (12-ounce) can pigeon peas, pinto beans, or black-eyed peas
3 tablespoons canola oil
3/4 cup sugar (white or brown)
1 (3-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces, skin removed
1 small onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 cup coconut milk
1 bay leaf
2 teaspoons green seasoning (recipe below)
1/2 cup chopped parsley
1 sprig thyme
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
5 scallions, chopped (white and green parts)
2 cups long-grain rice
2 cups cubed fresh calabaza or butternut squash
1 small Scotch bonnet or other hot red chili pepper, whole
1/2 cup ketchup
1 tablespoon butter

1. If using dried peas or beans, soak them overnight in 3 cups of water. Drain. Bring 3 fresh cups of water to a boil in a saucepan and add the peas or beans. Simmer for 15 minutes, or until almost cooked. Drain and set aside. If using canned peas or beans, drain, rinse with cold water, drain again, and set aside.

2. Heat the oil in a Dutch oven or other heavy deep pot over medium-high heat. Add the sugar and swirl in the pot; allow it to caramelize to a caramel brown color.

3. Add the chicken and stir well to coat. Lower the heat to medium and add the onion and garlic. Cook for 1 to 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Add 2 cups of water, the coconut milk, bay leaf, green seasoning, parsley, thyme, carrots, and scallions. Cover and simmer over medium-low heat for 10 minutes.

4. Meanwhile wash the rice by placing it in a deep bowl and adding enough cold water to cover. Swirl the rice with your hand until the water is cloudy and then pour off the water, taking care not to pour out the rice. Repeat 3 to 4 times or until the water becomes clear. Drain well and set aside.

5. Stir the rice into the chicken mixture along with the peas or beans, squash, hot pepper, ketchup, and butter. Cover and cook for 20 minutes, or until the peas and vegetables are tender.

6. Remove the lid and fluff the rice. The rice should be moist but not sticky. Remove bay leaf and thyme sprig. Serve with Trini Coleslaw (recipe below).

Green Seasoning
Makes 1 cup

Green Seasoning is one of those spice mixtures that is unique to the Caribbean and differs slightly from island to island. It is used in a huge number of Trinidadian dishes. In Trinidad, it’s distinguished by the use of shado beni (Mexican culantro), a local herb very much like cilantro. Fresh shado beni can sometimes be found in West Indian markets, but if not, fresh cilantro is a good substitute.

3 tablespoons chopped fresh chives
1 tablespoon chopped fresh shado beni or cilantro leaves
2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
4 cloves garlic, minced

1. Process all the ingredients in a food processor until the mixture forms a thick paste. Alternatively, process in a blender with 2 tablespoons of vinegar.

2. Use immediately, or store in a tightly sealed glass jar in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.

Trini Coleslaw

Coleslaw is known to have been prepared by the Dutch and later the English in the American colonies, so it is tempting to think those same settlers brought the dish to the Caribbean on one of the many circular trade routes between North America, Europe, Africa, and the Caribbean. Truthfully, I have not been able to find any evidence supporting this idea and I’m not really sure how coleslaw came to Trinidad. It could very well be a latter twentieth century addition to the Caribbean culinary repertoire, like hamburgers and hot dogs.
Trinidadian coleslaw doesn’t employ mayonnaise, perhaps a practical food safety measure given the country’s heat.

1 small red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 cup white vinegar
3 tablespoons brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon coarse or kosher salt
1/4 head green cabbage, shredded
1/4 head red cabbage, shredded
2 carrots, shredded
3 tablespoons minced pimiento peppers
5 shado beni or cilantro leaves, minced

1. In a large bowl, mix onion, vinegar, brown sugar, and salt. Whisk together to dissolve the sugar and salt.

2. Add the cabbages, carrots, and pimiento pepper to the vinegar mixture and toss well. Cover and set aside to macerate for at least one hour and up to overnight in the refrigerator.

3. Toss in the shado beni leaves just before serving

Today is a milestone in the ongoing work that has been my young adult novel entitled (after MANY previous iterations) Stir It Up! The book will be out from Scholastic Press this August but, today, the pre-order page was put up on amazon.com. Pretty exciting! If you want to check it out, you can see it here. Thanks, as always, for all your support!

Photo by Jean Paul Vellotti

This past Sunday I prepared a number of Trinidad Chinese dishes for a story I wrote for NPR’s Kitchen Window, to be published next week in celebration of the Chinese New Year 2011, the Year of the Rabbit.

The picture you see is what we in Trinidad call a lagniappe or “a little something extra”. Those of you familiar with New Orleanian culture will also be familiar with the term.

Using my Caribbean style practical-magic I threw together this dish with the bits and pieces from other items on the menu–rum washed pork, red pepper, onion, and christophene (also known as chayote). My husband, photographer Jean Paul Vellotti, took the photos of the dishes and this is the final result of my experiment with the extras.

And here’s another lagniappe: For this recipe–and others–to make a Trini Chinese New Year feast, check out NPR’s Kitchen Window, next Wednesday, Feb 2, 2o11.

Plus, don’t forget to check back here for a variation on the NPR-published version of this dish.

Special thanks to Miya’s Sushi of New Haven, CT for the use of their kitchen and dining room for the shoot.

Photo by Jean Paul Vellotti

What’s to say about that dark, rummy, aromatic fruit cake known throughout the Caribbean as Black Cake? More than can be written here. It’s the stuff family legend is made of, and mastering the perfect Black Cake is no easy task. Here is the essay about this must-have for holiday cheer, along with my now-infamous recipe that took many years to perfect.

A Cake to End All Others

Black cake is traditionally a Christmas cake or a wedding cake. When it is used for weddings, a boiled white icing is added. However, of late, I’ve noticed that it is also offered at other special occasions like graduations or christenings.

Every family has a bottle of fruit soaking for their Christmas black cake—usually, for some odd reason, under the kitchen sink, a fact that leads my friend Patrick Dooley to call it “under the sink cake.” In fact, as soon as I’m done doing my round of Christmas baking, the jar gets refilled to soak for next year’s batch. Most people have their own way of doing black cake, from the ingredients in the soaking liquid to whether the fruit is soaked whole or first pureed, to using white versus light or dark brown sugar. Some, like my friend Darrel Sukhdeo, like their Black Cake to be as moist as pudding while others like a more “cakey” consistency. The recipe in this book is one that I have developed based on trial, error, and personal taste and uses the creaming method for a fluffier but moist cake.

For me, Black Cake conjures up all kinds of personal lore. I remember my cousin Pinky from Tobago sending my father a Black Cake every December as a Christmas treat. She often added Guinness stout to her fruit-soaking liquid, although some folks, like my friend Shairoon Nicholas, use Malta Carib, a non-alcoholic stout. Pinky’s Black Cake arrived wrapped in tinfoil and nestled in a cookie tin, having borne the three-week boat trip totally and utterly unscathed. The long soaking in wine and rum, along with post-baking basting, kept the cake well preserved for weeks on end. It would sit, wrapped, on the kitchen table, and Ramesh and I would steal little nips of it, although we had been told to leave it alone because of its heavy alcohol content. I suspect the fact that we picked around the bits of fruit to the creamy cake itself, effectively mangling the poor loaf, didn’t help our case either. My only regret is that I didn’t master Black Cake until after my father died, so he never tasted my version.

Before my husband and I were married, during our first Christmas together, he watched me struggle to make ten Black Cakes for friends and relatives using an old hand mixer. I had never attempted to make such a volume before and the old machine was barely up to the task. It was a long, laborious process. Imagine my surprise on Christmas morning, when I opened a box to reveal a standing 6-quart mixer.

“I just couldn’t bear watching you struggle with all those cakes,” was J.P.’s comment.

That mixer remains one of my most treasured gifts and it proved its mettle when I made two hundred mini Black Cakes as favors for my brother’s wedding. Of course, every Christmas it sees its finest hours as I turn out batch after batch of Black Cake for eager friends and relatives.

Black Cake

20 servings

For many years I thought Black Cake was a variation on English plum pudding brought to the island by English colonists. On a research trip to Ireland in 2008, I came to learn about Christmas Cake, a confection of liquor-soaked dried fruits made specifically for the winter holidays. Sure enough, further research revealed that Trinidad was among those English colonial islands that had a fairly large population of Irish indentured laborers. Jamaica, Barbados, and Montesserat are the notable others. While subsumed by the larger Indian and African populations, certain Irish throwbacks remain, such as a love for Guinness, Sea Moss Drink, and Black Cake which only differs from Irish versions by the liquor used and the use of burnt sugar syrup to make the cake dark.

Many a culinarian has waxed prolific about the Black Cake’s rich aromatic flavors and unusual texture that is something between a plum pudding and a pound cake. Although it could technically be called a fruitcake because of the candied and dried fruits that comprise its bulk, no fruitcake ever tasted this good!

Special credit must be given here to Mrs. Irma Hannays of Woodbrook, a former librarian-turned-pastry-chef who is noted throughout Trinidad and many other Caribbean Islands for her sweet hands when it comes to making wedding and other special occasion cakes. Mrs. Hannays, who turns out prodigious numbers of Black Cakes every year for friends, family, and clients, developed the fast-soaking variation offered below—a great boon to Black Cake lovers who want to have their cake and eat it too “now for now” as we say in Trinidad.

Fruit

1 pound raisins

1 pound currants

1 pound prunes

1/4 pound mixed citrus peel

1/2 pound candied cherries

4 cups cherry brandy or cherry wine

4 cups dark rum, such as Old Oak

1 cinnamon stick

2 star anise pods

1/2 vanilla bean

Cake

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon grated nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon ground allspice

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

1 cup dark brown sugar

6 eggs

1/2 teaspoon mixed essence

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 tablespoon burnt sugar syrup*

Basting Liquid

1/4 cup dark rum

1/4 cup cherry brandy

2 tablespoons sherry

1.  Long-soak method for fruit (see alternate quick-soak method below): Place all the fruit ingredients except the vanilla bean in a gallon jar that can be tightly sealed—preferably with a suction lid. Split the vanilla bean and scrape out the seeds. Add these to the jar, along with the bean. Mix very well and seal. Store, unrefrigerated, in a cool, dark place for at least 3 weeks or up to 1 year.

2. Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease two 9-inch round cake pans.

3. Sift together the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice.

4. Place the butter and sugar in a bowl and beat with an electric mixer until fluffy, about 4 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the mixed essence and vanilla.

5. Using a slotted spoon, remove 5 cups of the soaked fruit from the jar or all of the cooked fruits from the saucepan if using quick-soak method, reserving liquid. Place in the bowl of a food processor and pulse to a coarse paste. Add fruit paste to the batter and beat well.

6. Add the flour mixture 1/2 cup at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the burnt sugar syrup and mix well.

7. Divide the batter evenly between the prepared pans and bake for 40 minutes, then lower the heat to 250°F and bake for another 45 minute to an hour, or until a cake tester inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean.

8. Remove from the oven and cool for 20 minutes in the pan. Combine the rum, brandy, and sherry for basting, or if you used the quick-soak method use the reserved liquid for basting, and evenly brush the cooled cakes with this mixture. Allow the cakes to cool completely.

9. Remove cakes from the pans. Wrap tightly in plastic wrap and then tinfoil. You may also place the cakes in a tightly lidded plastic container. Store in a cool, dry place for at least 3 days before eating. Black cake can be stored for up to 3 months in the refrigerator. If doing so, rebaste with the basting mixture once every 2 weeks.

*TIP: Commercially prepared burnt sugar syrup is available in West Indian markets. If you cannot find it, you can make your own by placing 2 tablespoons of dark brown sugar and 1 tablespoon of water in a dry frying pan over medium-low heat. Heat slowly, swirling the sugar in the pan until it starts to caramelize. Continue swirling until the sugar syrup becomes very dark brown—almost black. Add to batter as needed.

Alternate quick-soak method for fruit: Combine 1 cup raisins, 1 cup currants, 1 cup pitted prunes, 3 tablespoons mixed citrus peel, and 1 cup candied cherries, cinnamo stick and anise  in a large saucepan with 1 1/2 cups cherry brandy and 1 1/2 cups rum.Place saucepan over medium heat and bring the mixture to a simmer. Simmer for 10 minutes, then cover and remove from heat. Allow to cool completely before using.

Chataigne is more commonly called jackfruit.

Stuffing for 15-pound turkey

This unusual stuffing for your holiday bird is from Karen Felician of Maraval, Trinidad. Turkeys, imported from the United States, have become highly popular fare for Christmas and Easter in Trinidad & Tobago.

2 to 3 pounds chataigne (jackfruit)

1 1/2 teaspoons green seasoning (recipe here)

1 packet Maggi Spicy Seasoning (available in the Mexican aisle of grocery stores, or in Caribbean markets)

1 tablespoon canola oil

1 small onion, minced

3 cloves garlic, minced

turkey giblets, minced (optional)

2 pimiento peppers, stemmed and minced, [note, you can get dried pimientos from spice markets like Kalustyan's]

1 tablespoon butter

2 teaspoons Hunt’s ketchup, or 2 teaspoons other brand ketchup mixed with 1/2 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon soy sauce

1/2 cup raisins

1. Place the chataigne in a large pot with water to cover and bring to a boil. Simmer until soft, about 30 minutes. Remove from the pan and peel.

2. Cut the chataigne in half and dig out the seeds. Peel the seeds and set aside. Cut the chataigne flesh into chunks and place in the bowl of a food processor with the peeled seeds, green seasoning, and Maggi seasoning. Pulse to a coarse meal about the consistency of wet sand.

3. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot and add the onions and sauté until translucent. Add the garlic and fry for 30 seconds more and then add the giblets, if using.

4. Add the butter to the onion mixture and heat until the butter melts. Stir in the chataigne mixture. Add the ketchup, soy sauce, raisins, and 1/4 cup of water. Mix well and cook, stirring often, until all the liquid is absorbed, about 7 to 10 minutes. Cool completely.

5. Use this mixture to stuff a turkey following the same directions for bread stuffing. This stuffing can also be baked in a lightly greased casserole dish, covered with aluminum foil at 350°F for 30 minutes.

4 servings

Throughout the Caribbean, anywhere there is an East Indian influence, curry is a way of life and curried fruits are some of the most interesting and creative way that locals make use of the plentiful fruits on their respective islands. One that is wonderfully curried is pomme cythère or “pomsee-tay” is also called “golden apple,” really ambarella, a tree fruit in the citrus family. In Jamaica it is called June Apple.  Once upon a time it was near impossible to find this fruit in the United States, but happily, as professional chefs’ interest in unusual citrus has grown, fruits like ugli fruit, pomelo, and pomme cythère are pretty widely available. Pomme cythère now makes regular appearances at Caribbean markets everywhere and makes a really wonderful curry.

In Trinidad, cooks use a cleaver to chop the fruit into small chunks, slicing right through the spiny, dendritic pit. Although you may do the same, this recipe provides for peeling the fruit and cutting off large chunks, which is easier. If you are ever in Trinidad, try the curried pomsee-tay at Shianns’ on Cipriani Road in Port of Spain—it is the best I’ve ever tasted.

1 tablespoon canola oil

1 small onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tablespoon chopped shado beni or cilantro leaves

2 teaspoons ground turmeric

1 tablespoon Trinidad curry powder (page xx)

4 large pomme cythère, peeled and cut into large chunks

1 tablespoon light brown sugar

Coarse or kosher salt to taste

Freshly ground pepper to taste

1. Heat the oil in a heavy pot. Add the onion and sauté until soft, then add the garlic and sauté for about 40 seconds. Add the shado beni (Mexican Culantro) and cook, stirring often, for 30 seconds. Add the turmeric and curry powder and fry for 30 seconds.

2. Add the pomme cythère and sugar, and stir well to coat. Add enough water to barely cover the pomme cythère, and mix well. Cover and simmer over medium-low heat until the fruit is fork tender, about 30 minutes

3. Remove the lid and continue to simmer until the liquid is reduced to a thick gravy. Season with salt and black pepper to taste, and serve with rice or roti (recipe below.)

Paratha Roti

Makes 4

Like my father, I’ve found that my hand isn’t “set for” making roti. I’ve tried many recipes over the years and have better success with some than others. The best recipe I’ve found comes from my dear friend Darrel Sukhdeo whom I met shortly completing the first edition of this book in 2004. Darrel is an entrepreneur and wonderful cook who cooked at many an Indian wedding in Trinidad, where sometimes hundreds of guests are served roti that is cooked on a four-foot-wide tawa.

The secret to this recipe is not to over work the dough. If your dough is sticky enough to be barely able to be handled, then you’re doing it right.

Roti

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional as needed

2 tablespoons baking powder, preferably Lion Brand

1/4 teaspoon coarse or kosher salt

warm water as needed

Paste (Loya)

3 tablespoons cold ghee

2 tablespoons canola oil

1. Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and gradually add warm water, using your fingers to mix the flour and water together. Do not knead, simply gently combine the flour and water. Continue adding the water until you achieve a soft sticky dough that just comes together into a ball. Cover and set aside to rest for 15 minutes.

2. Make the Paste (Loya) by combining the ghee and oil. Set aside.

3. Flour a work surface and turn out the roti dough. Cut the dough into 4 large pieces and gently form each into a ball. Flour your hands as needed to be able to handle the dough and do not over knead .

4. Roll out each ball of dough into a circle 1/4 inch thick, and brush with the Loya paste. Sprinkle the surface lightly with flour. Make a cut halfway through the middle of one of the circles and roll the dough away from you into a cone shape. Roll the cylinder into a ball by pushing the narrow end of the cone in towards the wider end and pinching the edges closed. Repeat with the remaining circles of dough and let the balls rest for 15 to 20 minutes on a floured surface.

5. Roll the rested dough into 1/8-inch-thick circles and place on a hot tawa or cast-iron griddle. Brush with oil , immediately turn over, and brush with oil again. Continue to flip the dough until it is puffy. Remove from heat and place on a clean dishtowel. Fold the dishtowel to cover the rotis so they stay warm.

VARIATION: Buss Up Shut

This bread’s unusual name, meaning “burst up shirt,” comes from the way its soft cottony folds are shredded after cooking. Simply make Paratha Roti and when removing the bread from the tawa or griddle, use a wooden spoon and lightly beat the cooked bread on a flat surface until it shreds. Alternatively, gently tear into 3-inch-wide strips. Serve hot with curry.

TIP: You can easily increase the amount of roti you want to make using this equation: 1 tablespoon of baking powder and 1/8 teaspoon of coarse or kosher salt for every 1 cup of flour.

Miss V from Brasso Seco grinding cocoa beans and spices for cocoa tea.

If you are me, one of the few good things about the cold weather is hot cocoa. I’m not given to winter activities that freeze my toes (though I’ve decided to go in for ice skating lessons this December–don’t ask). I’ll console myself after returning home with a sore bum (since clearly I’ll be falling a lot) with some old school Hot Cocoa. That is to say, Cocoa Tea–the way they do it in the Caribbean and Central America. The Aztecs knew what they were doing when they ground up those precious cocoa beans with chilies and spices (sugar made it into the mix when it got to Europe, and then ping ponged back to the  cane-rich Caribbean.)

Here’s the version from my book, Sweet Hands: Island Cooking From Trinidad & Tobago

Cocoa Tea

Makes 2 cups hot cocoa mix, enough for 16 (8-ounce) servings

Trinidadian chocolate is considered to be among the finest in the world, and large chocolate manufacturers from Europe buy the crop to flavor more widely produced but inferior chocolates from Africa and South America. Cocoa tea is made from “cocoa sticks,” which are 100 percent Trinidad cocoa beans ground into a paste with local spices. The sticks are then dried and grated into boiling water to create a “tea” that is then flavored with condensed milk. Because pure Trinidad chocolate is not readily available outside of the country, I have adapted this recipe to use cocoa powder from producers that use a high percentage of Trinidad chocolate in their product.

Chocolate Mix

2 cups dark unsweetened Valrhona chocolate powder, or 2 (4-ounce) Valrhona Gran Couva,  E. Guittard Chuchuri, or Richart Saint Domingue 82% bars, finely chopped

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon ground bay leaf

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

For each serving:

2 tablespoons cocoa mix

1 cup boiling water

2 tablespoons hot cocoa mix

Sweetened condensed milk to taste, or regular milk and heavy cream to taste

1 drop vanilla extract

1. To make the chocolate mix: Combine all the ingredients. Store in a glass jar with a tight lid.

2. To make individual servings of cocoa tea: Mix 2 tablespoons of the cocoa mix into the boiling water. Stir well and return to a boil. Remove the pot from the heat. Add condensed milk to taste and the vanilla extract. (Use the regular milk and heavy cream to taste if the mix is made with chopped chocolate bars.)

8 servings

Prasad is enormously popular in Trinidad during Diwali and when I was a child visiting the island with my dad at other times of the year, the only way he could persuade me to go to the many Hindu prayer meetings to which he was invited was with the promise of prasad, a sweet dessert that is given to guests at the end of a Hindu religious ceremony. The basic “pudding” is garnished with coconut, raisins, and nuts, which are collectively called panjaree. It’s generally accepted that panjaree is only for actual religious functions although plain prasad—called mohan bohg—can be served any time.

For some amazing photos of this year’s (multicultural!) Diwali in Trinidad please check out Sarina’s wonderful site Trini Gourmet

2 cups ghee

1/2 cup raisins

2 cups farina or Cream of Wheat

2 cups whole milk

3 (12-ounce) cans evaporated milk

4 cups sugar

1 teaspoon peeled and grated fresh ginger

1 teaspoon ground cardamom

Raisins, grated fresh coconut, coarsely chopped almonds, and a few cooked chickpeas, for garnish

1. Heat all but 2 teaspoons of the ghee in a large, deep frying pan. Add the raisins and fry over medium-low heat until they plump. Add the farina 1/4 cup at a time, stirring constantly, until it becomes light brown. Remove from heat.

2. In a separate pan, combine the whole milk, evaporated milk, sugar, ginger, and cardamom. Bring just to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and add the milk mixture to the farina mixture over medium-low heat, 1/4 cup at a time, until the prasad forms semi-moist clumps. Remove from the heat. Garnish with grated coconut, almonds, and raisins. Place a few chickpeas on top.