Feeding Musicians: Middle-of-the-Night Mulligatawny Soup

The retreat center where I once lived and worked occupied the last of a 19th-century estate, with three buildings, including the main house, that hadn't been modernized. This was a good thing, because it meant the buildings remained pretty accurate historically. It also meant that plugging in a coffeepot on a night when visiting musicians had brought their sound systems had the potential to create an immediate blackout. This did happen.

While the estate was old, the retreat center was new. The staff was skeletal (not skinny -- I was the cook -- but rather few; three women worked 83 acres). Indian musicians of very high caliber, on tour in the U.S., discovered us, and offered concerts. But we had never done anything like this before, and there were lots of details to be worked out. The shrine held thirty, and so, while appropriate, was impractical. We converted the classroom. Volunteers built a movable stage (which eventually came to rest in place, of course) and we covered it with rugs from the bookstore and sheets from the linen closet. The sound system was borrowed; the seating was ad hoc. Fifty new folding chairs showed up. Volunteers directed traffic and took donations.

But what to feed the musicians? I had to come up with something that could be made ahead of time (the kitchen could be heard from the performance space); that would be ready to serve right away after the performance; that was simple and fresh.

I found a recipe for mulligatawny soup in an old Fannie Farmer cookbook, part of the estate’s collection of vintage cookbooks. I had never had mulligatawny soup, but it sounded like an appropriate blend of East and West, a recipe from the Raj. The Fannie Farmer recipe called for chicken, though, so I looked online for vegetarian versions. Among the results I Googled was a vegetarian mulligatawny with Southeast Asian overtones, using coconut milk, cilantro and lemon juice, which I replaced with lime juice. With printouts of both recipes on the counter as I cooked, I combined at whim and came up with the following recipe. Luckily, someone asked me to write it down right away, so here it is. All measurements are approximate; feel free to adjust.

We fed the musicians after the concert, late at night. The mulligatawny soup was a hit, and when the company finally dispersed, at two in the morning, everyone was satisfied: those (musicians) who went on to sing and talk elsewhere into the night, and those (retreatants) who went to sleep for an hour before rising to meditate.

Middle-of-the-Night Mulligatawny Soup

In a deep, heavy pot, heat

¼ cup butter or oil

and add

½ cup diced onion
½ cup diced carrot
½ cup diced celery
2 bell peppers, chopped fine
2 apples, peeled, cored and chopped

Saute slowly until brown, stirring frequently. Stir in

1/3 cup flour

and saute briefly. Add:

2 tsp. West Indian curry (at least)
½ tsp. nutmeg
¼ tsp. ground cloves
1 (15-oz.) can diced tomatoes
bay leaf
8 cups vegetable stock

Simmer ½ hour. Add:

1 (19-oz.) can chickpeas (optional)
1 (15-oz.) can coconut milk (unsweetened)
½ cup dried coconut

Cook 10 minutes or so. Puree some or all of the soup. Return to pot. Add:

2 Tbsp. lime juice (or more)
2 tsp. fresh cilantro, finely chopped (or more)

The balance of coconut milk and lime juice is crucial. Salt and pepper to taste.

Since the recipe calls for letting the soup sit for several hours to let the flavors come out, it's perfect for an after-event meal. A vegetarian entree with a coconut curry/lime juice base, it doesn't resemble anyone's idea of actual mulligatawny soup, but the name remains.

Chai II: Events and Notes

I have made chai for one of the woman saints from India that tour North America every summer. The chai was for her crew, actually. This was the Ma's first visit to Woodstock, and the organizers wanted everything to be perfect. So, out of some personal delusion regarding perfection, I decided to make Woodstock tea. This I took to be caffeine-free, mellow, gently but interestingly spiced. I thought the chai came out pretty well; it was rich, creamy -- probably I used a milk substitute -- and soothing. Local volunteers drank it and thanked me.

At the end of the day, one of the crew came up to me, smiling but holding some great distress in his eyes. "Thank you for your tea," he began. "But --" he surged ahead -- "but we're on the road all the time. We really need the caffeine and sugar. I hate to impose, but could you make regular chai for tomorrow?"

I assured him I could. I have stuck to regular chai ever since.



When Celestial Seasonings first came out in the 1970s, the tea was loose. I remember trying to stir up red zinger from the bottom, where all the rosehips had settled. But inevitably, the tea I made grew increasingly astringent as the box emptied.

Tea bags became the standard. Flavor mixes began to change. Mandarin Orange Spice, which sustained me, disappeared completely. I wrote Celestial Seasonings an outraged, desperate letter. They responded with coupons. Mandarin Orange Spice has since returned, less tart. Bengal Spice is sweeter, with added dates. Not all changes are for the worse.

Chai Black is Yogi Tea's souped-up version of their first yogi tea, which sprang from Yogi Bhajan's original five-spice recipe: cardamom seed, cinnamon bark, clove bud, ginger root and black pepper with black tea. The original version, as I recall, was meant to be steeped for some time, and was too peppery for me. The company's new Chai Black, bitter to some, has a different mix of spices and extra added flavor oils. I picked up a packet recently and found it to be perfectly spiced, if the teabag is brewed only briefly and the tea is drunk with milk and honey. Not too peppery. A soupcon too long in brewing and that peppery overbite comes back, and perhaps the bitterness others lament.
Tell us your favorite readymade chai combo! Please post in the comments below.



“I provide two or three 40-gallon batches for Ecstatic Chant,” says Alison Lopez of her chai. Ali, who is the executive chef at the Omega Institute, stopped by at our table at Omega during lunch recently. The dining hall was very busy, and she was very busy, but I managed, through repeated questions and succinct responses, to get her recipe.

Ali boils the water with the spices. Remembering how long it used to take me to bring 12 quarts to a boil on top of a conventional stove, I asked her the timing on 40 gallons.

“Oh, it takes no time at all. We use a steam ring. It’s very fast -- and costs thousands of dollars.” So there you go, chai wallahs: don’t necessarily try this at home.

Add the tea, let it steep. Pour the tea out and add milk. As I recall from under the tent at Ecstatic Chant’s all-night kirtan, it’s served in stadium-sized vacuum urns, such as you might rent at a party store.

Last question. Spices, Ali?

“Cinnamon for sure -- I use sticks. Cardamom -- yes, I throw in the pods. That’s it -- no, and ginger.” And off she strode, briskly.

Ali's Ecstatic Chai: black tea, milk, evaporated cane juice, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger and love

Here's My Chai Recipe. What's Yours?

There are as many kinds of chai as there are people who make it. I learned to make chai from Ma Chetan Jyoti, a North American swami who lived in India and supported and promoted kirtan both in India and the U.S. I have made chai for years, and the recipe I use has changed to become my own. Usually, I make chai for 50 people, or multiples of fifty. I can give you those proportions later in this post; let's tackle the simple basic recipe first.

Ten cups of chai:
Okay, you can half this recipe, but only reduce the dry ingredients to two-thirds. Chai is for company; four cups is the least I would attempt.

7 cups of water
3 1/2 cups whole milk
4 teaspoons Brooke Bond red label tea (or equivalent)
one thumb of ginger root, sliced
about 12 cardamom seeds
1/3 cup sugar (or to taste)
pinch of dried rose petals

Put the water into a pot that is big enough to allow the milk and water, combined, to foam up as it boils. Add ginger and cardamom. Bring to a boil.

Brooke Bond Red Label tea is a well-known brand of mamri tea -- tea rolled into pellets -- and is often found in Indian groceries. Other brands can be available; I even found Lipton's version in Albany once.

Add tea: the general proportion is half a teaspoon per cup, plus half a teaspoon for the pot. Boil for the amount of time it takes to chant one round of japa on a mala. Obviously, if your mantra is Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare, your tea is likely to be stronger than if your mantra is Om. I have no input to offer on this disparity.

Add milk. Watch carefully. When it boils, it will suddenly foam up -- and overflow the pot, unless you break the surface by adding a little cold milk. Stir and reduce heat so the milk is only simmering.

After a minute or so, bring the milk up to a boil again. Turn it down again. An American woman who was married to a Rajasthani temple musician once showed me her version of chai; from what I recall she brought the milk to a boil three times. The longer the milk cooks, the sweeter and richer the chai.

Add the sugar. Let someone else taste it and tell you when it's sweet enough. I follow the Indian practice of never tasting what I cook; it's interesting.

Add a pinch of dried rose petals. That's a recent addition that makes the tea more tri-doshic, according to my dried rose petal source and friend, Leslee. The rose petals are thus optional; but since I've started using them, I prefer the chai with them.

Let the chai sit for a minute or two. To serve, pour through a sieve into a cup. Try for a foamy surface: The greater the height you can pour from, the more foam you'll have on the surface of the cup.

Never yet having been to India, I can only say this is a very successful recipe by the response. I have made chai for pujas, concerts, kirtans and visiting swamis. At a recent yantra-painting workshop I attended and provided chai for, a group of Indian natives lined up for the chai early. Friends who knew my chai knew to get in early as well. By the break, I was preparing a second batch. The second batch usually disappears more slowly.

I perfected massive chai at a retreat center where, during the years I lived there, I did a lot of cooking and serving. We had enormous stainless pots that, when filled, took half an hour to come to a small boil, then another half an hour to boil the milk. So chai was made ahead and put in vacuum or plug-in coffee urns. Make sure there is NO coffee residue or smell. Eventually I noticed measurement lines stamped into the sides of the pots. That's how I developed my two-to-one ratio: eight quarts of water to four quarts of milk. One-half cup of tea. As much ginger as you have. Scant eighth cup of cardamom seeds, or five pods. Much sugar: Be attentive, as the tasting usually goes not sweet enough, not sweet enough, not sweet enough, oh, a little too sweet.

Chai is comfort, stimulation, fragrance, desire and conviviality all at once; it is also rich, and the first cup is always the best. BTW, always offer the teacher the first cup.

PLEASE TELL US YOUR CHAI RECIPE AND WHERE AND FROM WHOM YOU LEARNED IT. POST IN COMMENTS BELOW.

My First Recipe: French Peasant Soup

The first recipe I learned to make came from the Dutch au pair next door, who was an exotic addition to our brand-new and homogenized Long Island suburb. This was the '60s, and the au pair was everything I was not: petite, curvy, sexy, and blonde. She was also seven years older than me, and I developed one of those undying crushes that only teenaged girls can have.

The relationship expanded when she married a friend of the family who lived in the Hamptons. I was her underage maid of honor. After that, I began to visit the young couple lots during the summers. I was her little sister for a long time, and she taught me to cook.

She was a classic teacher. She didn't measure; she didn't use recipes; she just knew how to be a good Dutch housewife. I call this recipe French peasant soup, because I once found a recipe much like it in a cookbook somewhere. But it's hers, and it has comforted me all my life.

GET A BIG POT

A big pot, with a heavy bottom. Dice an onion, or two (if they're small). Scrape the chopped onion off the cutting board into the pot, which has been heated and filled with enough oil to cover the bottom. At this point, I use olive oil for everything; I'm sure in the beginning I used "vegetable oil."

As the onions are gently sauteeing -- stir them occasionally -- peel or scrub three to five carrots and slice them. (Why peel an organic carrot?) Take a bunch of celery, trim off the browned cut ends of the stalks, remove any discolored leaves, and chop the whole bunch all at once, moving down the stalks till you have gone about halfway. Take all the pieces, dump them in a bowl of cold water to clean them; then pour the contents of the bowl through a strainer or colander.

By now, the onions may be beginning to brown; add the carrots and celery and stir, to slow down the cooking process. A little water at this point will also keep the onions from getting browner.

Peel five potatoes, more or less. I started with generic white potatoes, and I have never found a better substitute. (Yukon Gold are good; russets are bad.) Cut them into bigger pieces than dicing would accomplish; this provides substance to the soup. Throw them in the pot. And while you don't have to peel organic potatoes, white chunks look better.

Add one large (28-oz.) can of peeled plum tomatoes in juice. Then scoop up each tomato, one by one, with a big spoon, cut it in half the long way, and drop it back into the pot. This is part of the ritual for me, and I have no interest in accomplishing this more efficiently. As my blonde and groovy married friend explained, this helps the tomatoes to fall apart during the cooking process.

Fill the tomato can with cold water and add to the pot. Make sure the water level covers the vegetables at all times; as the soup simmers, you are going to be adding more water now and then. Turn up the heat until the soup begins to boil; then turn it down so it is bubbling, but barely.

Canned tomatoes often have added basil, a warming herb that is good for this recipe. The key, though, is thyme, so warm it's hot. Three good-sized pinches of dried thyme, ground between your fingers before it's dropped into the pot, gives a nice flavor to the tomato base. Fresh parsley. If you have an herb garden, basil, thyme, oregano, and marjoram are all great; and beyond that is your call. And add a bay leaf.

Simmer for two hours. What? Yes. It takes vegetables longer to soften in a broth made with canned tomatoes. Also, the longer you cook the tomatoes, the sweeter and richer they get.

I am typing up this new post as my soup cooks. I am checking the water level, stirring, amazed at how crisp the vegetables remain, but confident that gradually, but inevitably, the soup will soften into the tenderhearted fragrance of memory.

DISHING IT UP

This is a beautiful soup, red, green, white, gold. It's simple, clean and vegetal. To make it heftier, add chunks of jack or cheddar cheese, or slices of Swiss, to each individual serving. Or add a can of chickpeas to the pot, shortly before serving. I like to keep the original palette intact. I have been known to add sweet corn kernels, paired with sultry broccoli florets, in the last half hour of cooking. Salt and pepper to taste.

Feeding Musicians: Roasted Root Vegetables

This first post is for Dennis, who stopped by with Satya and Bill last night, after a kirtan that marked the end of their six-day tour that took them from Pawtucket to New York City, and finally brought them to Woodstock, New York. Dennis, I'm glad you liked the roasted root vegetables, and yes, it did take me a lot of time to cut them up.

Not as much time as it could have. I learned how to cut vegetables when I worked as kitchen prep at Omega Institute one summer. The trick is to keep the point down and lever the cleaver up and down while proceeding down the carrot. Other vegetables require other motions. But mindful is not slow.

The great thing about roasting vegetables is that you get to play with them from start to finish. First, you can collect all the ones you are going to use in separate piles on the counter. This time of year, I stick to starchy winter root vegetables. Soft summer vegetables off the vine, like zucchini, will cook a lot faster and turn soft, and should not be thrown into the mix with the sturdier roots, which keep their shape.

So, what do you like? Potatoes are great. Rutabagas are similar, and sweeten up with roasting, as do parsnips, carrots, and, to some degree, turnips. Onions and garlic are de rigueur, giving off fragrance as they caramelize. Fennel also falls into this category of heavenly aromas. For extra color, beets are wonderful, though they need to be cut up into smaller pieces, as they take the longest to bake.

And that brings us to the preparation phase, which is also artistic and playful. Most recipes instruct the cook to cut the vegetables into similarly sized pieces, so that they bake evenly. But there's a lot more potential here for fun. If you cut the onions into chunks, they are going to fall apart anyway. So I cut them into thin pie slices off the center, all the way around. The strips will caramelize and darken quite a bit, and that's the enticing undertone for your medley.

Garlic cloves can be thrown in whole, peeled, of course. Potatoes are good as wedges; thinner fry forms may crumble. After I slice the ends off the rutabaga and carve away its heavy, waxed peel, I quarter it. Then I make a row of fairly thin slices along each quarter, producing little fan shapes that turn a lovely golden color and can be eaten like chips.

Be creative with the fennel bulb. Peel the beets and dice them into one-inch squares. Their intense color may call sweet potatoes to mind; but the latter cook in half the time of everything else, stay moist and turn soft. You might throw thick circles of sweet potatoes in halfway through the baking. I've given up on them for this recipe.

Now, coat everything lightly with oil. Then add herbs and spices and mix again.
I've experimented with seasoning each vegetable separately, thinking potatoes need a lot of salt, carrots, which sweeten, none at all. A good all-round seasoning is a little salt and pepper and a good sprinkling of dried rosemary. That's a good savory mix. Lately I've added a pinch of fennel seeds, which produces a sweeter incense and flavor. Sage is another classic for this recipe. So much can be tried.

And now you're ready to cook! How long did it take you to get to this point? Find a teacher, and learn to chop.

You have preheated the oven to 400 degrees. You've hauled out your thickest baking sheets. The oil on the vegetables will mostly keep them from sticking. You can oil the pan, but it's easy to over-oil, and the vegetables will get soggy. And you do want some charring.

Mix all the pieces together, if you haven't already, and spread them on the cookie sheets. You can have two oven racks of vegetables going; I switch their positions halfway through, as the ones on the bottom darken faster.

Pay attention. As they cook, these pieces of vegetables will need to be stirred and, as they get closer to being done, flipped over more than once. You are the creator; watch your pans, watch the onions soften, be careful about the potatoes sticking, and, as everything begins to crisp, decide when enough is enough.

The root vegetables will shrink to half their volume when roasted, but this will not mean that people will eat twice as much. This is dense, comforting, cold-weather food. A little goes a long way; yet it will be hard to stop picking up pieces.

You can make this ahead, as I did, and then reheat it briefly in a 350-degree oven, after the kirtan is over. (If you make this in the summer, try serving the dish cold, in a salad, with vinaigrette dressing.)

Oh, yes. Baking time is approximately one hour. That's a lot of time all told, for one dish. Mindful is not slow, but it's patient.