Stir It Up!
A Novel
RAMIN GANESHRAM
For Sophie Lollie,
my best sous chef
and my shining beacon:
May you realize your dreams
in magnificent ways.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
A Note to Readers
PART ONE: BE WHO YOU ARE
CHAPTER ONE: Hustle
CHAPTER TWO: Pow
CHAPTER THREE: Bustle
CHAPTER FOUR: Possibilities
CHAPTER FIVE: Decisions
PART TWO: AMBITION
CHAPTER SIX: Ambition
CHAPTER SEVEN: Competition
CHAPTER EIGHT: Challenge
CHAPTER NINE: Furious
CHAPTER TEN: Hope
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Disappointment
PART THREE: REDEMPTION
CHAPTER TWELVE: Sweet
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
A Note to Readers
When preparing any kind of recipe, make sure to thoroughly wash your hands before and after handling food. Clean all surfaces and utensils that have come into contact with uncooked poultry, fish, or meats. Consumption of undercooked poultry, fish, or meats can result in serious illness requiring medical attention. When defrosting poultry, fish, or meats, place in a refrigerator overnight rather than leaving out at room temperature. Only prepare recipes with the help and supervision of an adult. Never handle knives or other sharp utensils without adult supervision.
PART
ONE
BE WHO YOU ARE
Be Who You Are Bread
2 cups sharing
1 cup love
1 tablespoon essence of warmth, divided
3/4 cup comfort, for seasoning
1 cup confidence, plus extra for kneading
1. In a large bowl, sift together sharing and love.
2. Add 1 tablespoon of the essence of warmth and mix well. Stir in the comfort until combined.
3. Stir in the confidence slowly, mixing well until the mixture forms a stiff dough.
4. Turn the dough onto a clean work surface, dusted with a little extra confidence, and knead until the dough is smooth and elastic, without any holes. The dough should be firm and unbreakable.
5. Put the dough back in the bowl and place in a warm, dry location to rise until double its size.
6. Remove from the bowl, knead again gently, and bake until golden brown, firm, and delicious. Be Who You Are Bread can last indefinitely in the right environment.
CHAPTER ONE
Hustle
My heart pounds as I race around the kitchen with Deema, filling orders, trying not to get behind. It’s a race that only we can win.
“Start the pholouries!” my father yells.
We are a jumble of bees — buzzing, bumping into each other, building something sweet and solid. Our tiny kitchen is our hive, and I feel like the busiest bee of all, working every bit of my wings to stay with the other workers — Deema and my dad. The air is thick with the smell of the different curries simmering on the stove. These spices are Deema’s perfume. Her clothing and hair and even her skin are always rich with the sweet aroma. On me, the curries take on a thick mix of sweat and baby lotion and my favorite mango shampoo. It doesn’t matter that Deema bleaches our aprons and my T-shirts in the laundry. I give my collar a sniff. Sure enough, I’m a walking curry cabinet.
The steam in our kitchen brings heat and wet to my face. There’s a sheen on my forehead and cheeks and arms. My throat is like sandpaper, but who has time for even a gulp of water with my dad at the cash register, yelling back, “Hurry, Anjali! Customers not wanting to wait!”
Deema’s hot, too, but she keeps moving. With the tail of her apron she pats the moisture from her neck each time she approaches the stove. I run my knuckles over my forehead.
I drop the pholouries into the fryer basket, jumping back when oil splashes and burns me with its hot droplets. The balls of dough bubble in the oil, and I pull them out as they turn light golden brown.
“Pholouries ready!” I yell.
I manage to gulp a sip of water. Even though it’s tepid, the wet meets my throat and brings the promise of relief to my insides. My stomach is grateful for the water, but it calls to me with a sharp grrruuurrrahhhh. I’m reminded that cooks don’t stop to eat while preparing, even though I’m hungry enough to down every bit of dough in the middle of this busy hive. But if I stop, even for a moment, I won’t be able to keep up.
“Quick, Anjali!” calls Deema. “Get more pholourie dough from the refrigerator.”
The water in my belly sloshes and mixes with the grrruuurrrahhhh as I reach into the fridge to pull out a tray of ground lentils and spices with both my arms. The push of cold coming from the fridge is a relief as it quick-dries my sweaty face.
Deema is holding a knife, thumb securely on its handle — chop-chopping so fast, in a blur. She considers me for a moment. “Don’t just stand there — get those pholouries in the oil, girl, and while they are frying get another knife.”
I follow and start in on an onion, slow at first. It doesn’t take long for the onion sting to meet my eyes and force tears. I wipe my eyes with the bottom of the apron and focus. I chop steadily until I am moving almost as fast as Deema, who taught me how to use a knife back when I was eight by embracing me from the back to help me chop-chop. I smile as I remember being enfolded in her arms, hard muscle from years of work within soft skin, hugging me, taming back the onion sting. Together, we chop, and the smell of her curry perfume mixes with my own curry and shampoo. The knives and our hands move like twins, working fast to turn the onion into a mound of tiny white spicy pieces. “Good work,” Deema encourages.
I take up a new knife, a smaller one. “I have an idea,” I tell Deema. “One that doesn’t involve onions.”
Deema nods. “Okay, but easy does it.”
I dash over to a tray of freshly fried bakes sitting by the stove, waiting to be wrapped up with an order of salted spiced codfish or mashed pumpkin. I slit the side of each small savory bread open, working as fast as I can so the steam that puffs out of them doesn’t burn my fingers. I smooth pink guava jam over the bottom of each one, then close up the sandwich. To finish, I sprinkle superfine sugar and cinnamon on top of each. The bakes are still hot as I work. I lick my fingers to coax back the steam burns. The sugar and cinnamon melt nicely when they hit each fritter’s surface. I smile at the warm smell of the cinnamon, though my stomach is still making its noise.
I put one of my creations on a small plate and bring it over to Deema, who looks at it, then at me, and smiles. She holds a metal bowl under the table and uses her hand to scoop the chopped onions inside. She sets aside the bowl and wipes her hand, picking up my creation with two fingers so it doesn’t get oniony. Finally, Deema takes a bite of my invention. She closes her eyes as she chews and considers the flavors.
“Anjali, this is lovely!”
Deema knows good cooking when she tastes it. But we have little time to enjoy my creativity.
Up front in the restaurant, my father is taking more orders. The place is getting packed. “Anjali, come!” he calls. “I need help wrapping the rotis.”
I untie my oil-splattered apron, grab a new one from the cubby near the register, and put it on. Customers don’t want to see me dirty while I wrap up their food.
This is a typical sort of evening for my family. Me, Dad, Deema, sometimes my mom, and usually never my brother, Anand, take turns working in our roti shop, Island Spice, in Richmond Hill, Queens, where we live along with a million other Trinidadians and Guyanese families. On a busy night like this, it feels like
every one of them comes through our shop.
It’s hard work, but I love it better than anything because I get to try out my own culinary experiments whenever I want. I guess you could say that cooking is my hobby. Well, at least that’s what my parents and teachers call it. But hobby is a lame word. For me, food is my soul’s work. My dream is to be the youngest Food Network chef by the time I’m fifteen. That means I have two years to make it happen. I want to have my own show about Caribbean food. No one has done that yet. I’ll be the first. There’s a lot more to Caribbean cooking than jerk chicken. In Trinidad, we’ve got more kinds of food than anyone could imagine. Our main specialty is curry, and I’m ready to show that to all my viewers once I get the TV spotlight.
I’ve even got the name of my show all worked out: Cooking with Anjali Krishnan, or The Curry Kitchen with Anjali Krishnan.
But for now my only show is showing up for my family in this beehive of a shop.
I’m deep in the dream of my own TV show when someone calls, “Hey, Anjali, darlin’, how you goin’?”
I look up and smile at Mr. Farrell, an old Trinidadian man who has come to the restaurant nearly every night for his supper since his wife died a few years back.
“Hello, Mr. Farrell,” I say, smiling. “What can I get you tonight?”
“Ah … let me see.” He glances around at the trays behind the counter. “What’s good?”
“The dumplings and cassava are real nice tonight, and there’s some stew chicken,” I answer.
“Yes, that will be fine. Plenty pepper, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “Staying with us this evening?” I really don’t have to ask. Mr. Farrell almost never does takeout. Mr. Farrell eats at one of the tables and watches people come and go, sometimes staying for a long time after he’s finished eating. Mr. Farrell likes our shop because we don’t play our music too loud and, instead of all the usual soca concert posters, our walls are covered with photos of Trinidad that my dad took himself. Our customers look at the pictures for a long time while they wait for their orders. Dad’s pictures remind them of home.
Outside, my father has the red, black, and white flag of Trinidad on one side of the door, the American flag on the other. Dad has hung the American flag just slightly higher up — about two inches. This is part of what he calls, “Doin’ right, walkin’ good, speakin’ true,” which means doing the right thing. As far as flags go, a country’s flag is always highest in its own land. My father is very particular about things like that.
I grab a plate for Mr. Farrell and pile it high with chicken, dumplings, and cassava cooked in a light curry. I spoon some of Deema’s special homemade pepper sauce — reserved for the best customers, everyone else gets bottled — and sprinkle it over the food. It’s yellow and thick, and the sharp bite of the Scotch bonnet peppers is so strong I feel a catch and tickle in my throat just from the vapors alone.
I reach into one of the foil-covered trays that holds another one of my creations — a salad I’ve made from shredded jicama, arugula, sliced avocado, and mango that I’ve dressed with seasoned rice vinegar, toasted sesame oil, and sesame seeds. The salad isn’t truly Trinidadian, but Dad lets me give out my “specials” to our best customers, or those who know us well and are willing to be tasters. Mr. Farrell definitely qualifies as a taster. Besides, I feel sorry for Mr. Farrell. He seems so lonely. When I make up his plate, I add something extra — usually one of my experiments. I put together a small plate of the salad for Mr. Farrell. The toasted sesame is savory and smoky, and makes the mango taste brighter and sweeter.
I bring out the tray to Mr. Farrell, who is already sitting. He smiles.
“Thank you, darlin’,” he says, squinting at the salad. “What’s this?”
“A salad I’m experimenting with. I thought you might give me your opinion.”
“Happy to!” Mr. Farrell says, scooting his chair close to his plate. “Anjali, child, those stuffed callaloo leaves you gave me the other day were just delicious!”
I smile. “Thanks,” I say, knowing he’s telling the truth. Most of my experiments are delicious. I quickly return to the back of the counter, to help Dad steadily fill orders. Our place is still packed with hungry people.
An hour passes with customers coming in nonstop. When it finally quiets down, Dad tells me, “Anjie, I goin’ fuh me supper.” In the back, Deema has our own dinner already set up. She’s been waiting for my father to join her.
Mr. Farrell’s plate is empty. He’s eaten every morsel. I go over to clear his table.
“Enjoy your meal?” I ask politely.
“As always,” Mr. Farrell says happily. “Delicious salad, Anjali. I must steal your recipe.” He chuckles, then he leans over and points his finger at me. “You, my girl, is a born cook!”
CHAPTER TWO
Pow
The next day I stare into the case at Fat Moon, the Chinese bakery down the street from my school. I’ve been meaning to check out this place since school started last month. I figure I deserve a little treat after all the activity last night at our roti shop.
“What’s in those?” I ask the lady behind the counter.
“They’re bean cakes filled with a paste made of beans,” she answers in a heavy New York accent.
“Hmmm.” I walk the length of the counter, staring at these cakes, each about the size of a hockey puck. There are also little tarts filled with what looks like vanilla pudding, and round buns, golden brown, about the size of a softball.
“What about these?” I say, pointing at the buns.
“They got roast pork in them,” she answers.
Over by the door my best friend, Lincoln Courtnay, sighs. “Come on, Anjali,” he calls impatiently. “We’re going to be late.” He hikes his knapsack farther up his shoulder, rumpling his school blazer.
“Okay, okay,” I say, and quickly give my order. “I’ll take one of the pork buns and one of those bean cakes.”
The woman behind the counter puts them in a brown paper bag and rings me up.
“Three dollars,” she says, holding her hand out while I dig into the front pocket of my knapsack to find a five-dollar bill. I grab my change and run out to the sidewalk where Lincoln is waiting.
“Check these out, Linc!” I say, reaching into the bag. “It’s pow and Chinese cake!” That’s what we call cakes like this in Richmond Hill.
“Yeah, so?” he says, walking quickly down Queens Boulevard, away from Fat Moon Bakery and toward Forest Hills School on Union Turnpike, three blocks away.
I run next to Linc, trying to match his stride. He can’t seem to remember that we aren’t the same size anymore, and it’s hard for me to keep up. Linc is already nearly five feet nine, when just last year, in seventh grade, we were still close to the same height. I’m only five feet tall, and now I feel like a little kid when I stand next to Linc.
I pull the pork bun out of the bag. “Don’t you think it’s funny that China is on the other side of the world from Trinidad and they have the same kinds of food we do?” I shove the pork bun at him. “Here, eat this one.”
Linc says, “I’m not hungry now. I just ate lunch.”
“I know, but I need to know what a pork roll tastes like, and you know I can’t eat pork,” I say. “They didn’t have the chicken or vegetable ones like we do.”
Linc sighs and stops walking. He’s used to being my personal taster, but just to bug me he likes to pretend tasting bothers him. Deep down, Linc likes to try out new foods.
Linc’s my taster a lot, especially when I want to find out about some new food that I’m not allowed to eat. My family is Hindu, so stuff with beef and pork is totally off-limits for me. When I’m a famous TV chef I’ll have a staff of tasters, but for now Linc’s the one with the taste buds.
He takes the bun from me and carefully peels back the square of white parchment paper at its bottom. He gently breaks the bun in half. Slices of roasted pork covered in dark red sauce drip out. Linc quickly nibbles a piece.
“Yeah, it’s pow,” he says.
I slap him a high five. “Cool! Let me try this bean cake — you want some?” Linc shakes his head. He looks annoyed, like he’s eager to get going already. But I’m all about the cakes right now.
When I bite into the bean cake, it tastes just the same as the Chinese bean cakes we have in the bakeries in my neighborhood. “I have to ask my grandmother about this when I get home,” I say.
Linc’s only half listening.
“We better get going,” he says. When we hear the buzzer sound in the yard of our school, Linc stuffs the rest of the pork bun into his mouth as we run to our school’s front door.
“Hey, I thought you weren’t hungry,” I say, laughing.
“Well, yuh can’t let good food, especially a pork bun, go tuh waste!” he says, imitating our parents’ West Indian accent. Linc’s father is one of the most prominent physicians in the city, and even he sometimes speaks in the Trini patois that is just regular speech for my parents and grandmother.
“Meet on the steps after school!” Linc calls out, heading toward his music class.
“Yep!” I race to Social Studies at the opposite end of the building.
By the time I get to class, Mr. Yan has already started his lesson on the California gold rush. He pauses when I come in. I mouth, “I’m sorry” and head to my desk. To get to my seat I have to walk by Nirmala Singh and Sunita Kumar, who roll their eyes at each other and giggle as I ease into my seat. Nirmala and Sunita are the leaders of a pack of “cool” kids, mostly Indian, some Chinese and Korean. Nirmala, who is small, dark, and not so pretty, is in charge. Sunita, who is tall and slender with light skin and big eyes, is always trailing behind Nirmala like a lapdog. When Nirmala isn’t around, Sunita can be nice, but that doesn’t happen often. Usually, they’re together and always have something nasty to say to me about not being “real Indian,” or they like to rag on me because I’m a partial-scholarship student since my parents don’t have a lot of money.
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