Mini Homestyle Indian Cooking by Sanmugam [epub, ISBN: B00I7J1EEW]


  • Full Title : Mini Homestyle Indian Cooking (Periplus Mini Cookbook Series)
  • Autor: Sanmugam
  • Print Length: 
  • Publisher: Periplus Editions
  • Publication Date: June 15, 2003
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: B00I7J1EEW
  • ISBN-13: 
  • Download File Format: epub

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Indian cooking is known worldwide for its use of diverse and distinctive spices, creating colorful and flavorful dishes. Indian food is praised for its health benefits and wonderful flavors. This cookbook allows you to bring the authentic flavors of Delhi, Mumbai, and more to the comfort of your own kitchen. Homestyle Indian Cooking features 40 easy to make recipes and over 30 detailed photos. Inside are recipes for chutney, seafood, meat, poultry, rice, bread, and vegetables. Recipes include:

  • Fragrant eggplant curry
  • Tamarind crab soup
  • Fiery chicken vindaloo
  • Spicy mango chutney
  • Mutton or lamb masala
  • Chili pork fry
  • Prawn curry
  • Vegetables in spicy coconut milk
  • And many more!

Also included in this book are unit conversion tables, dual unit measurements, an overview of the most essential Indian ingredients, and over 30 large clear photos. Each recipe includes cook time, prep time, and serving sizes. Enjoy!

 

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ewn by Cipe herself. Each diner had a different pattern on his or her napkin, and visitors who were staying for more than one meal knew which place was theirs by the pattern they’d been given for the duration of their stay. The food Cipe served her guests wasn’t fancy—she kept things simple—but it was always plentiful, and her taste was evident in each dish. “If there was dessert, it was some kind of babka or if it was ice cream, only vanilla,” Carol remembers. “I wondered if she felt that way about white bread, if early on when she’d tasted white bread in France en route to the U.S. it was an eye-opening experience. We didn’t have other flavors in the house. My father would take me to Dairy Queen and we’d have our hot fudge sundae.”

The Jewish recipes, Carol said, weren’t things Cipe made at home, but were eaten with family on holidays. “We would go, usually not on the actual day—and for us Yom Kippur was not a day of fasting, it was a day of feasting—we’d go to Regine’s house [Cipe’s sister] in Brooklyn, and Regine turned out the chopped chicken liver and the entire meal. They did that really for their older brother, who had preceded them to the U.S. and who took Jewish holidays very seriously. For Passover, the foods were served in the proper order and there was the reading and he did that. Regine’s son would sit at an angle so he could roll his eyes. For everyone else, it was a family event but not a religious event. After both of her brothers died, we got together and the chopped liver continued, but there wasn’t any ceremony to it.”

By the time we left, it was clear we all held a deep interest in sharing Cipe’s life and legacy with the wider world. Carol gave us permission to reproduce the paintings we’d purchased in a published book, and promised to help us however she could as we pieced together the stories behind them.

Wendy and I headed back to the West Coast energized by our encounter with so many physical remnants of Cipe’s life and the world she inhabited. We told friends and colleagues about her, finding time and again that even those deeply involved in the art and design worlds had never heard of her. We discovered an excellent biography, written by Martha Scotford, on which we relied greatly for our early learning about Cipe. And upon a visit to the Rochester Institute of Technology, we found a wealth of her life’s work sitting in the archives, waiting to be catalogued. One day her name finally rang a bell in a conversation Wendy had with New York Times art director Alexandra Zsigmond. Alexandra told Wendy she’d learned of Cipe while studying at Parsons (where Cipe had taught for twenty-five years), when an undergraduate classmate was researching her, but Alexandra remembered little of the resulting report. Upon looking up Cipe anew, Alexandra discovered, as Wendy had, that her own work as an art director had incredible commonalities with Cipe’s. At the New York Times, Alexandra makes a great effort to hire fine artists for illustration assignments. This echoes Cipe’s efforts to work with fine artists when publishing fiction pieces in Seventeen magazine. Alexandra hadn’t realized she was treading a path that Cipe had forged in editorial design, but when she looked at Cipe’s work, there was no question of her influence. She remarked to Wendy, “Maybe Cipe is my spirit animal.”

And that is the feeling we all seem to be left with—that this woman, whose work we’d never seen, whose name we’d never heard, nevertheless shaped how we draw, design and even exist as women. This is the history of so many women, people of color, and underrepresented groups who have been left out of the narrative, forgotten with time, but who impacted the trajectory of their fields so substantially that we wouldn’t be who we are without them. Cipe’s story adds a branch to our creative family tree. She is the artistic great-grandmother we never knew we had.

Cipe Pineles was the first independent female graphic designer in America, the first female member of the prestigious Art Directors Club, and the first woman inducted into the Art Directors Club Hall of Fame. A quarter century would pass before another woman was inducted, months before Pineles’s death. Pineles was posthumously awarded the lifetime achievement medal from the American Institute of Graphic Arts, the Nobel Prize of design. And yet through all of her acclaim, Pineles was animated not by ego but by a tremendous generosity of spirit. She saw her success as belonging not to her alone but to all the women whom she was pulling up the ranks along with her, to the young designers whose lives and worlds she shaped as an educator and mentor, and to the American public, whose taste she subtly and systematically refined through the unfaltering vision that defined her life’s work.

When I first heard of Cipe Pineles, I thought of her counterpart Maria Mitchell—a pioneer no less trailblazing in opening up an entire world of possibility to women, yet no less lamentably forgotten.

One sweltering July afternoon, I found myself stunned before one particular object at the birthplace of Maria Mitchell—America’s first woman astronomer—on the small island of Nantucket. In the nineteenth century, Mitchell paved the way for women in science and became the first woman employed by the United States Federal Government for a nonspecialized domestic skill—she was hired as “computer of Venus” for the United States Nautical Almanac, performing complex mathematical computations to guide sailors around the world. She was also the first woman elected into the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. It would be another ninety years until the second woman—legendary anthropologist Margaret Mead—was admitted. The item that stopped my stride, hanging humbly in the hallway of Mitchell’s small Quaker home, was her certificate of admission into the Academy. On it, the salutation “Sir” was crossed out in pencil and “honorary member” was handwritten over the printed “Fellow.” This yellowing piece of paper was the fossil of a quiet, monumental revolution—the record of an opening hand-etched into a glass ceiling centuries thick.

Cipe and her sisters, Regine and Debora, circa 1915

Like Mitchell’s, Pineles’s path to success was neither straight nor free of obstacles.

Born to Orthodox Jewish parents in Vienna at the end of Europe’s last untroubled decade before the horrors of the World Wars forever scarred the face of the Old World, young Ciporah—who soon became Cipe and never looked back—grew up as the second youngest child in a family of five, with two sisters and two older brothers. In search of relief for her father’s diabetes more than a decade before the first insulin injection saved a human life, Cipe and her family migrated across Europe’s most venerated spas and sanatoria before settling in Poland, right outside Warsaw. (How tempting to imagine young Cipe crossing paths, without ever knowing it, with some of Europe’s intellectual titans who frequented the continent’s spas around the same time, seeking cures for their own bodily bedevilments—Rainer Maria Rilke, Hermann Hesse, Franz Kafka.)

From a young age, flavor and color were married for Cipe. One of her earliest memories was of walking in the woods with her siblings, gathering strawberries—“red caps through the green grass”—and sitting down by the river to savor them. In childhood, as in her professional life decades later, she was also unafraid of a difficult and even dangerous climb to the top. She recounted one particularly memorable hike in the mountains on the border between Poland and the area then known as Bohemia, on which she and her siblings had chosen one of the highest and most formidable peaks to climb. “With great difficulties after falling a few times we reached at last the top,” she wrote—a sentence of inadvertent prescience as an existential allegory for her later life in the creative world.

But the adventurous idyll was violently interrupted by the outbreak of World War I. Shortly after Russia’s Red Army invaded Poland in 1920, twelve-year-old Cipe and her family returned to Vienna. Years later, as a high school senior in America, she won a national essay contest by the Atlantic for her vivid eyewitness account of the Bolshevik-inflicted tumult in Europe, which she described as a time of “suspense, excitement, and uncertainty.”

Back in Vienna, the Pineles sisters had set about learning English by memorizing Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol—a strategy with a serendipitous payoff when they finally arrived in America in mid-October of 1923 (“a very beautiful day,” Cipe recalled of the morning she first glimpsed the Statue of Liberty) and entered school just before the holidays, impressing classmates with their season-appropriate vocabulary. “From the beginning we have hard work,” she wrote shortly after arriving, “but I think that in a few months, when we will speak and understand more English it will be much easier.”

So began Pineles’s life in America as a prototypical immigrant, marked by the peculiar, if lonely-making, privilege of being in a culture but not of it. “There accrue to the outsider great benefits,” wrote the trailblazing biochemist Erwin Chargaff—a compatriot and contemporary of Pineles’s, who immigrated to America around the same time and for similar reasons. The European sensibility she had unconsciously absorbed in her formative years would later bring to her design work a level of originality and sophistication that rose above her American peers.

At the end of her senior year of high school, classmates wrote alongside her yearbook portrait: “She knows she draws well. A little Polish girl who won our hearts.” She was voted “best natured member” of her graduating class—a title that reflected the core values of kindness and generosity that never left her, even as she ascended the rungs of the corporate world in the golden age of unfeeling self-actualization.

“Boys, it’s too late: Cipe is wedded to her art—and they’re both happy.”

During her final year of high school, Cipe received a fifty-dollar art scholarship—a non-negligible sum that covered more than a third of the annual art school tuition at Pratt, where she enrolled in the fall of 1926. Her graduation portfolio at Pratt was strewn with food paintings, from a loaf of bread to a chocolate cake. It was also an ode to her first big love, watercolor. Once again, a sort of character summary by her classmates appeared next to her senior portrait: “The most remarkable water colorist in our class. Boys, it’s too late: Cipe is wedded to her art—and they’re both happy.”

Beneath the tongue-in-cheek remark lay a deeper truth about Cipe’s attitude toward art and marriage—one nurtured by her older brother Sam, who was instrumental in encouraging her vocational autonomy. Before Pratt, she had voiced to him her reservation that attending college would keep her from finding a husband to support her. Sam reportedly replied: “Marriage is not a full-time occupation. Did you ever hear of a doctor or a lawyer giving up his profession because he was getting married?” (That her youngest sister became a doctor in an era when the field was almost entirely male is probably not coincidental.) In another conversation, Sam reiterated the sentiment: “Marriage is not a substitute for having something to do in life.” Pineles did eventually get married—twice—but although she was a classic Jewish mother in some ways, including in the kitchen, she never let her family life contract her expansive devotion to her art.

Pineles’s name worked both for and against her. To the American ear, Cipe Pineles bears a peculiar ambiguity. An ambiguous foreign name functions like the screen behind which orchestra auditions are performed—the applicant’s gender, ethnicity, age, and other potential points of bias are obscured to let the music speak for itself. But unlike orchestras, which employ this strategy deliberately to avoid bias, the magazine world of mid-century America had no such noble commitment to impartiality. The screen of Cipe Pineles’s name was accidental and as soon as her gendered identity was revealed, the opportunities dwindled or disappeared altogether. She would later recount: “I would drop my portfolio off at various advertising agencies. But the people who liked my work and were interested enough to ask me in for an interview had assumed by my name that I was a man! When they finally met me, they were disappointed, and I left the interview without a chance for the job.” Some prospective employers explained that if she were hired, she’d have to work in the bullpen—an enormous corporate hangar of men—where a woman’s presence would be ill-advised and downright unwelcome.

“Eating is more than food . . . it is visual impact, contrast, style, scale, mood, fragrance, color.”

Still, she pressed on. Reluctantly, she took a job as a watercolor teacher at New Jersey’s Newark Public School of Fine and Industrial Art in the fall of 1929, at a salary of ten dollars a week, but she continued to search for work in the commercial world. Compounding the persistent gender obstacle was the inopportune timing of cultural catastrophe: Pineles had graduated from Pratt just before the devastating stock market crash of 1929 and was attempting to enter the workforce at the dawn of the Great Depression.

Determined to succeed, she scoured the New York Public Library for a list of advertising agencies working with food accounts, purposefully pursuing her passion for the intersection of food and graphic art.

She was eventually hired by Contempora—the experimental consortium of designers, artists, and architects including Lucian Bernhard, Paul Poiret, Rockwell Kent, and others—where she designed fabric and dimensional displays. But her real breakthrough came obliquely to her direct efforts. The magazine magnate Condé Nast saw her pattern design and window fabric displays for Contempora. They were unlike anything Nast had seen. He immediately hired Pineles as an editorial designer for Vogue and Vanity Fair, both of which she imprinted with her singular vision. She continued to move up in the magazine world. By the mid-1940s, she was shaping the visual voice of Glamour and earning the magazine every prestigious accolade of design.

It was in this period that she began illustrating Leave Me Alone with the Recipes, perhaps because she was contending for the first time with negotiating the competing roles of traditional womanhood and a thriving corporate career, which she followed to the very top over the next half-century, eventually pouring the confluence of her accomplished expertise and her generosity of spirit into teaching as well. She became a passionate and beloved educator at Parsons, where she taught editorial design for nearly two decades.

Exactly thirty years after she wrote and illustrated her family cookbook, Pineles had a chance to resurrect her love of the intersection of the culinary and graphic arts. In 1975—a tumultuous year for her, marked by her induction into the Art Directors Club Hall of Fame and the sudden death of her lover—she spearheaded the Parsons yearbook project, themed “cheap eats”: a collection of illustrated recipes for delicious but affordable meals by students, faculty, and celebrated artists such as Maurice Sendak, Larry Rivers, and Elaine de Kooning. Alongside an original painting, Pineles herself contributed a recipe for kasha served with meatballs, a version of which appears in Leave Me Alone with the Recipes.

The students’ introduction to the yearbook encapsulated Pineles’s influence as an educator, artist, and cross-pollinator of food and design, and it captured the spirit and sensibility of her unpublished 1945 family cookbook with uncanny precision. They wrote: “The style is in the color, the scale, the original and unusual use of common items and of art materials. The recipes and ideas in this cookbook are made with the same ingredients any student on a budget would buy; but it is the resourcefulness and inventiveness as well as the artists’ love for cooking which make for good design and especially creative meals. Eating is more than food . . . it is visual impact, contrast, style, scale, mood, fragrance, color.”

Visual impact, indeed, was the raw material of Pineles’s work. But from it radiated a larger legacy of cultural impact. A century earlier, to her first class of female astronomers at Vassar, Maria Mitchell had remarked, “No woman should say, ‘I am but a woman!’ But a woman! What more can you ask to be?” Pineles’s life and legacy were one quiet but continuous incarnation of this incantation, the reverberations of which live on as the palpable pulse animating the corpus of possibility for every contemporary woman in publishing and graphic design.

In the early 1960s, Cipe decided to more formally and fully incorporate her love of food into her magazine work by launching a new publication entitled Food & Drink. At the time, Gourmet magazine had been in print for twenty years, but it, along with the few other titles in the same category, targeted female homemakers. In contrast, Food & Drink would be for both men and women; it would not only be instructional but investigative and intellectual, looking at gastronomy through the eyes of some of the greatest writers of that era. The list of planned contributors included Marianne Moore, Eudora Welty, Pierre Salinger, Clifton Fadiman, and Erich Fromm in addition to food greats like M.F.K. Fisher, Elizabeth David, and Craig Claiborne. The editorial team was to be led by James Beard, along with Helen McCully, who had been the food editor at McCall’s and House Beautiful; Tracy Samuels, a Better Living magazine editor and playwright; and Cipe, whose credits at that point included Seventeen, Charm, Mademoiselle, Vogue, and others.

The team had the support of Richard V. Benson, a wealthy direct-mail advertising magnate who had founded American Heritage magazine and helped start Smithsonian. His introductory letter to Food & Drink began, “Dear Bon Vivants . . . From our ancestors’ primitive foraging for nuts and berries and wild boar, gastronomy has become one of man’s most fascinating and complex occupations. Yet, until now, there has never been a magazine which examined this field regularly, comprehensively, engagingly.”

The editorial team made an extra effort to emphasize men’s potential interest in the magazine, since it could be taken for granted that women would gravitate toward it. Another teaser for the publication, written by Beard, began, “We men like to read about food and drink as much as women do. Maybe more. But we haven’t exactly been encouraged to take a good romp through fine eating territory on the printed page. Most of the material published in magazines seems to be aimed exclusively at women. And only at certain kinds of women, at that. It’s coy and cute. Or frilly. Or dull. Or long-winded. Or meandering, with recipes as leaven for otherwise flighty essays. High time all that was changed, in our opinion. And changed it is, with the first issue of Food & Drink, the new magazine for the inner man.”

Cipe’s archives, housed at the Rochester Institute of Technology, include typed and hand-sketched pages for the first few issues of the magazine. Volume 1 was set to include a piece from mystery writer Rex Stout entitled “Nero Wolfe Cooks an Orchid” (Wolfe being the fictional protagonist of Stout’s many detective novels). Another essay asked, “Is Speed Killing Our Cuisine?” and was to be assigned to M.F.K. Fisher. “Dinner Party at our Embassy in Gabon,” would be written by Mrs. Charles Darlington, the wife of a diplomat stationed in central Africa in the 1960s. To keep things culinary, Julia Child would contribute “The Endless Possibilities of a Properly Poached Chicken,” and Cra

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