I hate you, Jhumpa Lahiri.

So you won't think I'm straight speaking in tongue, here's a quick lesson in Odiya before we continue. You should know by now that "Bou" means Mother. Here are some new ones for you though: "Nana" means Father. "Mausi" means maternal aunt.

"Mansa" means meat and more specifically ground meat in the context I will use it. "Macha" means fish. I will be sharing both mansa and macha chop recipes with you in my next post. There are variations to this recipe from family to family. Some people may use ground lamb or goat meat or increasingly in the States, people use ground pork, chicken, or beef. Different types of fish can be used, too. People may also opt to make vegetable chops. The recipes I will share are those of my Bou and Mausi's.

Please note, that in the passage below, what Jhumpa refers to as "croquettes", we refer to as chops, though others still may also refer to this dish as cutlets. All three are correct but I will say "chops" throughout my post because that's how I was raised and this is my blog.

Class dismissed. Sit back and read, Lovelies!

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The truth is I love Jhumpa (Yeah, we're on a first name basis. In my head.). But I will say,
she did ruin me. In fact, I think she annihilated a large group of Indian wannabe writers. After reading her books, I think many Desis with half the mind to write thought we, too, could give form to our hyphenated identities. She lead us to believe that we had an abundance of "exotic" fodder at our fingertips in virtue of straddling both Indian and American cultures and that the written word could serve as a vehicle of expression for that hyphenation.

Oh Jhumpa. She can take the collective NRI (non-resident Indian) experience and morph it, even in all its sometimes confusing glory, into something poetic, dare I say even enviable as I'm often told by my non-Indian friends. Jhumpa makes us wannabe Indian writers believe that our vernacular, too, drips with all things marigolds and incense, that our experiences make Holi envy for color, and that our Indianness affords us an innate mastery over sense memory and the ability to capture it in mouth watering vignettes.

So every Indian, myself included, thought we, too, could win a friggin' Pulitzer. Way to go, Jhumpa.

In reality though writing and capturing what she does is hard shit! She's just talented, end of story! And the rest of us, well, sure we have food and familial memories out the yin-yang, but where I'm concerned anyway, I can't seem to capture them in that Jhumpaesque way. 

I remember the first time I read Jhumpa's The Namesake. Rather, I remember how it was first read to me. Geeta, my eldest sister and literary companion, had pestered me for ages to pick up the book so we would read it at the same time and I'd been slow in following suit.

So, to lure me in, I remember her calling me one day and she read me this passage:

Asima Ganguli sits at her kitchen table, making mincemeat croquettes for a party she is throwing that evening. They are one of her specialties, something her guests have come to expect, handed to them on small plates within minutes of their arrival. Alone, she manages an assembly line of preparation. First she forces warm boiled potatoes through a ricer. Carefully she shapes a bit of potato around a spoonful of cooked ground lamb, as uniformly as the white of a hard-boiled egg encases its yolk. She dips each of the croquettes, about the size and shape of a billiard ball, into a bowl of beaten eggs, then coats them on a plate of bread crumbs, shaking off the excess in her cupped palms. Finally she stacks the croquettes on a large circular tray, a sheet of wax paper between each layer. She stops to count how many she's made so far. She estimates three for each adult, one or two for each of the children. Counting the lines on the backs of her fingers, she reviews, once more, the exact number of her guests. Another dozen to be safe, she decides (p. 174).

My sister squealed with excitement. "Soni, she's talking about mansa chops! Doesn't she describe the process perfectly! I actually feel like I'm watching Bou or Mausi do it!" 

I had to admit, Jhumpa had described it eloquently. Though I could very much imagine that that's how its suppose to look, I will tell you in our house the scene was not so neat nor with such quiet reserve. 

Now, if it was my Bou or my Mausi (Bou's older sister) making chops, the process would, I suppose, be as lucid as what Jhumpa describes. But you see, in our Odiya community chops weren't always made by one person. Allow me to tell you how WE do. And trust, it ain't as poetic as Jhumpa's rendition!

HOW WE DO

Typically there were a band of Aunties that would make chops in large quantities and dear lord, both the unspoken and spoken fanfare that comes into play is what I remember fondly. Well, now I remember it fondly. As a teenager I remember feeling annoyed at the high level of noise pollution brought on by a throng of cackling Aunties in the kitchen. They had the ability to make a flock of squawking seagulls appear more melodious in comparison.

Now about the fanfare. Picture this: robust Odiya Aunties making sure their buns were coiled tightly on the tops of their heads. Then they'd tuck their saris in their siyas (petticoats) extra tight and then scoot their bangles further up their fleshy arms as if they were women ready for battle, the "battle" being making dozens and dozens AND dozens of chops. It's not as if each Auntie couldn't make kabazillion chops by herself. Chop making was a way of bonding for them though. And, let's be real, more hands to help meant the process could move along quicker and they could feed their already over-stuffed husbands, who were typically in the next room over, doing nothing but playing tas (poker) and drinking bottomless cups of chai. God forbid the Uncles would go 10 minutes without freshly fried goods.

Anyway, the assembly line would go something like this: you'd have a coupla Aunties forming the oval-like balls, another Auntie would dip each one delicately in the egg and coat it with breadcrumbs, and yet another Auntie would fry them. And then there were a couple of those Aunties lingering around solely for the gossip.

You see, the dialogue that accompanied the assembly line was something else altogether. It could satiate even the hungriest of gossip mongers. You'd learn who hadn't given money to the mandhira (misers!), who's daughter was said to be a dating a white boy (gasp!) or HEY BHAGWAN a Muslim (maybe her parents should have given more $ to the mandhira, and THAT wouldn't have happened, they'd say), which couple allowed their son to eat beef (heathens!), who used boxed mixes for her gulab jamun at the last gathering (lazy wench), and so forth and so on.

Ah, memories of such sweet women. <Sideways glance.>

DON'T BE THE USELESS

Now on the occasion that Bou was without her partners in crime, it was somehow I who always got roped into the chop making process. Geeta, skinny ole thang, was notorious amidst her slight frame to be able to pack away six to seven chops without batting an eyelash. Eating chops was her forte. Making them? Not so much. I don't know where she would be during the cooking process. She could never be found. Yet, somehow, she would know to pop up at the exact moment the first batch of chops would come out, golden-crisp and ready for the taking. And my other sister Riya would be, I reckon, hiding out somewhere on the phone talking to her latest boyfriend or having a fashion show in her room and thus always too busy to help.

And then there was me.

On most occasions Nana would be calling me "the dumpy" or "the clown" and lecturing me on talking and laughing too much (a no-no for a GOOD Indian girl!) and, he'd say, since I didn't have "the decency" to bring home good grades like my older sisters, I might as well help Bou roll chops to not be "the useless". Ah, more warm and fuzzies.

Now I tell you, Loves, its only as an adult that I appreciate that process and the time I was able to spend with Bou while making chops. First of all, being "the dumpy" (and thus the chosen one) granted me the know-how to throw down when it comes to making chops. But aside from inheriting a culinary tradition, I got so much more. 

Cue up the violins.

You see, it was always during these times, amidst her annoyance with me for clumsily rolling the chops (as a teenager, I would always manage to get clumps of breadcrumbs in the eggs) that Bou would share her stories of yester years, her tales of the mischief her and her own sisters would get into, movies they would sneak off to, street foods they'd save up to consume. I loved these stories! And as we would get into our rhythm of me dipping, coating, and rolling and Bou frying, she would recount tale after tale. On days she was in a particularly good mood, she would begin her singing of old Bollywood songs with me humming along. And trust, my Bou could soulfully belt out some jams, filling up the kitchen in a way that appeals to ALL the senses.

As each chop would come out of the kadai, so would people from the nooks and crannies of our house. Nana would come out of his office, Riya would get off the phone, and Geeta would magically appear, with at least two chops already in her possession. Nana would cut the kancha piyaja (raw onion) and bust out the Sriracha sauce (this is not an Odiya thing as much as a Nana and Soni thing) and make a plate for me in peace with my temporary non-uselessness. God, how I miss those times now!

And so Dear Readers, chops hold such positive memories for me. It's not only that they taste delicious (how can anything fried and with potatoes not?), but they remind me of community and family and of togetherness and storytelling, even if sometimes laced with the inherent quirkiness that comes with parents hailing from another time and place.

And maybe, just maybe, Jhumpa, you don't have a monopoly on chops or any experience for that matter. Maybe one day some punk ass will affectionately say she hates me, too, for my ability to write. Sigh. Maybe? A gal can dream. And until dreams come true, a gal can keep writing and keep fryin' up some chops!

No one should be without a trusty chop recipe. So, check back in tomorrow (and this time I'll actually have recipes posted the next day!) for Mausi's mansa chop recipe and Bou's macha chop recipes.

What are some of your fondest food memories? Email me at recipeconsultant@gmail.com if you feel like sharing!

DREAM BIG, EAT WELL. Live the spicy life, Loves!

p.s. I love you, Jhumpa Lahiri.