Oats and peas Pattie/Cutlet

This is ideal if you don't like the  feeling of heaviness in your belly after eating just one or two patties. On the contrary you can stuff about 3 or 4 of these oats patties and still get away without guilt. I had seen this somewhere, maybe on TV or on youtube, I don't remember, but I made it today. So here goes. I'm writing this recipe just as I made it. One can make it more spicy or stick with the basic patties routine.

Ingredients:

A handful of peas, soaked and cooked.
Oats- about a cup or so.
Garam masala - 1 tsp
Corriander leaves- a small  bunch
Lemon juice -1 tsp
Half an onion chopped to small pieces.
Ginger garlic paste- half tsp.
Rava two tsps
Wheat flour- two tsps
Salt to taste.
Half a cup of bread crumbs or rice flour
Method:

Make a course paste out of the cooked peas. Add all  other ingredients except bread crumbs or rice flour and mix with very little plain water or the water in which you cooked the peas. Add water little by little because the oats take a few minutes to become soft. You may require just about 2 table spoons of water. The mixture will turn into dough consistency. Knead it lightly and make small patties. Roll the patties in rice flour or bread crumbs whichever suits you best. Heat oil in a pan and shallow fry the patties till they turn golden brown. Serve with ketchup or chutney or any sauce or dip of your liking. Eat guilt free.

My Daughter Was Born And I Was Reborn.

I had a difficult pregnancy and on the day my child was to be born the doctors said that I have placental abruption, a condition where the placenta is separated from the uterus. This could be fatal to the baby and to the mother, since the baby depends on the placenta for supply of oxygen and nutrients. After a difficult labor the doctors decided on a caesarian section and I was rolled into the operation theatre. After anesthesia was administered I went blank. Immediately I realized that I was dead. The very first thing that struck me was that there was no "Time" in that other dimension. The feeling was so exhilarating. I wish to tell you here that “time” as we feel it here is such a burden. The feeling of absence of “time” was a relief. I knew then that ‘time’ was an illusion. After that I found myself in a dark place. Though it was dark, it was peaceful and I didn’t know what to do. I knew that something had to happen after I died. That there is somewhere we have to go to. I wondered and then decided to call upon my Idol. I began uttering the name of  Swami Vivekananda, the great patriot saint of India. And even before I could finish uttering the name, He was there, in front of me. I then reflected that what I had heard when I was alive was true, that God knows when you call him. My sceptic self said “Ah, that could be the trick of the mind”. Anyway, I was happy that everything can be created by the thought, and I started floating upward. It was still dark. There was nothing I could actually see. It was a kind of ‘knowing’. When I use the word ‘see’ here it must be understood as “know”. I was drifting in and out of consciousness and I don’t remember the actual sequence. But I did hear my baby crying, and the doctors declaring the baby as a ‘female baby’. Throughout my pregnancy we thought I would deliver a boy and so I now thought, “How can that be?” But, in the deepest of my hearts I had always wanted a baby girl. Then I saw a kind of border which separates life and death. I ‘knew’ that if I crossed that border I would never come back to this world that I would be really, irreversibly, dead. The voice told me in a warning voice, as if it knew that I’d be back in the physical world, “If you look back at your body you’ll never be able to get back into it”. Maybe I wasn’t fully ready to cross over, as I reflect upon it today. Maybe that’s why I didn’t take the chance of giving my dead body one look before embarking on my journey towards the ‘border’. I made an attempt to move towards the border, when I found myself hearing a voice. When I say ‘hearing’ it means not in the actual sense of hearing, but a kind of intuitive voice talking to me. It said, “Are you going to leave your child behind and let your husband fend for himself with the baby?” Now that was the question. Was I prepared for it? I justified my willingness to die by saying, “All relationships are illusions. This world is not true. My place is here. And I want to go”. The voice said nothing more. But as hard as I tried to go to the border it eluded me. The next thing I knew, was, sounds of pigeons near a window through which bright light was streaming in. I thought, “At last, I’m dead; here I am in front of the Light”. But it took me a full ten minutes or so to figure out that it was the post- operative ward on the first floor of the hospital, and I had been wheeled out of the operation theatre, very alive. At this moment, the feeling I had was of being let down. It was as if I had been cheated.  I was very much back in this world. And with closed eyes I wondered, “Why did I come back here? Why am I not dead?”  To this day I wonder. I’m writing this on 14-04-2011, and this happened on 08-01-2004. My daughter was born, and I was born again. This is an amazing experience and there is not a single day I do not think about it. When I think about this experience it brings me peace no matter how disturbed I may be at that moment. So it is the real thing. Only I know. I’ll be back there. I know not when. 

Mrs. Harrison.

Mrs. Harrison was a childless World War II widow. I didn't know her first name. When we became neighbours in a small town called Hexham she was already a grand old lady well into her seventies. Her face was wrinkled and she had a canopy of silver grey hair. She mostly wore a tweed dress, a hat and held a vanity bag when she ventured out of the house just like all other ladies at that time. Her hands were bony and the veins stood out under the pale dry skin. She never once did mind when I played with her strangely behaving skin on her hands pulling it up and making it stand in place or stretching it to examine the veins more closely. I never got tired of this curious activity. I guess she was as amused by me as I was by her wrinkled hands.

She lived all by herself in a dainty house and she tended to her garden all by herself despite her stiff joints. Her garden was simple, pretty and neat with a patch of verdant lawn edged by rows of colourful flowers; roses, tulips daffodils, poppies and magnolias. She grew all that in her neat little garden.

With no siblings at that time I had to amuse myself with whatever I had at my disposal, like Mrs. Harrison’s garden, besides the dolls and toys.  I was only six years old then and wasn't even aware that someone lived next door and that the garden belonged to them.  For a week cartwheeling, stumbling, rolling and skipping on the lawn continued unhindered whilst unbeknownst to me Mrs. Harrison watched from her upstairs window, as she told me later on. Perhaps it would have taken longer for her to enter on the scene if not for the skipping rope handle which I accidentally hurled on her window pane almost shattering it to pieces. That was when I saw her for the first time.  

We became gardener buddies. She showed me how to mow the lawn and trim the edges of the lawn. She mowed the lawn while trimming the edges became my ritual.  I watched in awe as she ran the lawn mower in overlapping lines over the lawn and took in the aroma of the freshly cut lawn.  Then both of us would search for weeds and pull them out.

One day we were both in the garden shed retrieving our gardening tools for another gardening session and I happened to knock her down accidentally. She caught her leg in a bucket and went down on all fours. Being the child I was I didn’t realize the impact it had on her, given her age, till she showed my mother the bruises the next day. I was horrified and felt a good measure of shame too for not apologizing immediately. I was excused anyway since she held no grudge on her little friend and gardening partner. The lesson was well learnt but poor Mrs. Harrison “took the fall”.

During holidays most times would be spent sitting by the front window watching traffic as it would either be too cold to venture out or my parents would be busy with extra duties. Mrs.  Harrison would occasionally take me out to the playground. Those trips were exhilarating and lifted my spirits from the tedium. Though the wind blew cold over my face till I could feel my nose no more it was the best time I could have. She would pack sandwiches and we would walk to the local pastry shop where she would buy raisin bread and butter. On our way back we would stop near a park and eat our sandwiches on a park bench. On one such trip I munched on my delicious cucumber and lettuce sandwich and curiously watched a couple of teenagers fooling around on the lawn and tried to make sense out of it.

She also baked biscuits and called them rock biscuits perhaps because they had no regular shape but tasted heavenly. The exclusivity lied in the fact that she baked them for me. She told me stories of birds and fairies and kept an eye on me till my parents returned late from work. I grew so fond of her that I would seldom miss the opportunity to sneak out of the house after supper to be with her. She happily let me in and I would watch her intently go about doing her regular chores.

She had bought me a double string of exquisite pearls as a parting gift. The day of departure neared and she took my mother aside one day and asked if she could adopt me. She assured my mother that I would be looked after well and she would even mention me in her Will. This took my mother by surprise and she politely declined. Many years later I learnt about this exchange and wished that my mother had left me behind then.

Wherever she is now I know the sweet soul is happy. I wish that someday I could lay a flower on her grave and thank her in silence for some of the best memories of my childhood.

Dear old Mrs. Harrison.