Located in the heart of Boston is Haymarket, an outdoor farmer’s market which dates back to around 1830. Between historic pubs and restaurants, stalls line the cobbled streets of Haymarket, boasting a wide assortment of various fruits, vegetables, and other fresh produce. Haymarket opens every Friday and Saturday, from dawn to dusk, enticing passers-by with the vibrant and bustling atmosphere surrounding the outdoor market. Produce is sold for some of the best deals in Boston, and further encouragement is provided as after around 3pm on Saturday afternoon, all remaining produce is further marked down. In addition to the fresh fruits and vegetables of Haymarket, specialty grocers located along Blackstone street offer a variety of cheeses, eggs, fish, Halal meats, and more.
The concept of flavor and preservation reached Europe around the time of the Roman Empire. By the first century AD, Rome had a thriving trade in spices, and pepper was one of its most prized possessions. It had become such a valuable good that, during the fifth century when the empire was in decline and almost invaded by the barbaric Visigoths, the Romans offered 3,000 pounds of pepper to buy back their city.
Like the Romans many centuries before me, I felt as if I introduced flavor into my palette for the first time on a recent trip to France. In Paris’s eleventh arrondissement, I ate a famous dish of boeuf au poivre in the small, yet renowned, Bistrot Paul Bert.
When I asked the waitress what was in the sauce, she looked at me dumbfounded and slowly enunciated the terms au poivre with her finger on the menu, as if she were teaching a child how to read. When the waitress dashed off, I turned my eyes to the middle of the table and stared confusingly at the wooden pepper grinder: that’s it?
For years, I thought of pepper as the last resort for bad food when salt was not doing the trick. But after Bistrot Paul Bert, not only did I crave to taste the peppercorn sauce again, I wanted to make my own boeuf au poivre.
After an early trip to the nearest market, I began preparing the recipe by setting two tablets of boeuf bouillon into boiling water. With tear-filled eyes, I chopped one onion and one shallot, threw them into the broth, and stirred while adding some fresh herbs and three cow bone fragments. Then, I let the broth stew and began grinding the peppercorns. When I released the peppercorns from the épicier’s brown bag, I admired their appearance; they were the color of tall grass in an untamed field. In a silver bowl, I carried the peppercorns from the countertop to the stove while they swayed side to side, as if dancing—but their waltz ended as soon as they were crushed into dust.
Afterwards, I poured 200 microliters of the stewed broth into the skillet and mixed it with 150 microliters of butter and 150 microliters of heavy cream. Finally, when the sauce began to get thicker, I added the last ingredient: a handful of pressed green peppercorns. I took a deep breath and gave myself a little pat on the back before picking up the wooden spoon to taste my creation.
Closing my eyes and touching the spoon with my tongue, I expected to be transported to the bistrot. Instead, 3,000 pounds of pepper punched, kicked, and tore off my tastebuds. My nose began to run, and I started panting like a dog. The words, hot, hot, hot, were all I could utter.
Just when I was about to give up, I looked at the raw morceaux des boeuf and decided to season them with salt, three tablespoons of olive oil, and 10 microliters of butter. Turning the steaks on the stove four to six times, I wanted to leave them as tender as possible but not too bloody. Once the meat was finished, it was pink and moist like the one at Bistrot Paul Bert.
I looked at the meat satisfied but understood that I had not done the pepper sauce justice. I thought of her, the French waiter pointing at the menu, and started anew. I poured the broth, sobbed over the onions and shallots, measured the cream and butter, put a dash of cognac and wine for luck, and added 50 microliters of green pepper instead of a handful. The new sauce simmered and thickened as cold sweat ran down my back and my stomach growled.
After giving the wooden spoon a final turn, I pulled it up to my lips, hesitated, and, finally, had a taste. I suddenly felt the weight of 3,000 pounds of peppers off my shoulders, and heard the deep, rowdy screams of the Romans and all the waiters at Bistrot Paul Bert cheering triumphantly. We had won back our city.
I work 5 days a week as a Shift Manager at Starbucks. Over the past three years, I’ve tried almost every type of coffee Starbucks offers, invented recipes using anything and everything behind the bar, and have hosted coffee tastings for district managers and customers alike. It’s safe to say coffee is a passion of mine, so one January morning I went to every coffee shop on Newbury Street on a search to find the best, most affordable cup of Joe.
My plan was unstructured at best: while Newbury Street has a good variety of coffee shops, things like caramel swirls or cinnamon powder can get in the way of natural flavor. I decided to ask each shop only for a black cup of coffee, but by the time I got to the register of shop number one, The Thinking Cup, I diverged from that idea. Instead, I asked the incredibly sweet barista what she thought their best coffee without added flavor was. She recommended their cappuccino and said it was the “perfect blend of milk, foam, and coffee.” As I sat outside in the crisp thirty degree air, the warmth of the drink worked miracles. At $4 for a 8-12 oz cup, I was expecting an incredible cappuccino. While the espresso was delicious (nothing burned, too bitter or too acidic), the drink itself seemed more like a latte than a cappuccino. There wasn’t a lot of foam; instead, I got a velvety smooth milk with that strong espresso flavor coming through.
Now a man on a mission, I hopped back in my car and drove slowly up the street until I spotted the next coffee shop up the road: Blue Bottle Coffee.Walking up the steps to the shop, I thought they might just sell coffee products. Their windows were lined with boxes of pour-overs, coffee kits, and teas. It wasn’t until I got inside that I noticed the coffee bar toward the back of the shop. The man on register said his favorite coffee was a single-origin Ethiopian roast that they prepared using a pour-over. This specific roast highlighted fruity undertones—an especially exciting flavor for coffee, since most blends highlight some form of cocoa, nuts, or spices. This 12 oz. cup of coffee set me back $5.35, although I think for a coffee connoisseur it was well worth trying. Most coffee houses prepare larger batches of hot coffee, so it’s a unique approach to rely on a single serve pour-over for every non-espresso transaction.
Only a block or two down the street, DeLuca’s Market caught my eye. However, after discovering that they no longer had fresh coffee that day, I instead stopped in Amorino: a gelato shop just next door. Just past the long glass counter of gold-brushed macaroons and seemingly plastic gelato, I spotted a shiny Italian espresso machine by the checkout counter. Again, I asked for whatever the cashier’s favorite coffee beverage was. Amorino did not offer brewed coffee, so she made me a latte. I spent $3.69 for a single shot latte with perfectly frothed milk and creamy espresso. The latte also came with a chocolate filled Italian wafer that perfectly highlighted the semi-sweet undertones of the espresso.
My last two stops were practically next door to one another, and they were both places I was familiar with. Trident Booksellers & Cafe is one of my favorite places in Boston. Pre-pandemic, I would get brunch there with my roommates, friends from Emerson and Tufts, and literally anyone that came into town to visit. It occurred to me that while I could swim in their French Onion Soup, I had never tried coffee there (and any good cafe should sell at least a decent cup of coffee). Although their cafe was only open for pickup, the cashier rang me up for a small black cup of coffee that came out to only $2.50. It was everything you would hope a cafe coffee would be: decently priced, piping hot, and delicious. I would have been content just sipping that cup for the rest of the night, but my journey would not be complete without hitting the Starbucks two doors over.
Though I walked in with confidence, it was almost 5 p.m., and I knew they would only be serving the medium Pikes’ Place roast- my least favorite Starbucks blend. I leveled with them and told them this was my sixth coffee shop of the day. I didn’t like Pike’s Place, but since I couldn’t add flavor, I asked the barista to get as creative as he could with a regular latte. He gave me a tall latte with blonde espresso and ristretto shots instead of regular; switching to blonde or ristretto shots does not change the price of a latte, so this drink’s total was $3.45. The blonde espresso resulted in a much lighter flavor than I’d had in my other lattes, and since ristretto shots are pulled using less water, they’re more concentrated, resulting in a slightly sweeter flavor.
By the end of the day, my choice was clear. Although slightly more expensive than a Starbucks latte, I was blown away by the quality of the latte at Amorino. The espresso was the perfect balance of sweet and tart, and only a truly skilled barista with great equipment could produce the creamy foam that spilled over the top of my cup. If you’re looking for an experience, this is it. However if you’re out and about shopping on Newbury and really just need a cup of coffee, the cup I got at Trident was amazing and is my top choice for a house brew. I am partially biased because Trident has never let me down when looking for good books or good food, but the flavor profile of Trident’s coffee far surpassed that of its competitor up the street that charges over $5 for a cup of equal size.
There is an ancient Celtic belief that the souls of things lost and forgotten are not bygones. Rather, they are among us, concealed and hiding within objects, animals, plants. Here, they wait, quiet and patient. They wait for recognition. Often this never happens at all, and we forget them as things past. Yet, sometimes, these souls come back to us from hidden places.
It is thought each of the different senses are associated with various functions of time and memory. Hearing, for example, is associated with the passing of time. Hearing is a purely linear experience. Sound begins at one point and ends at another. Sight allows us perception of movement—color and image, spatial understanding. But the sense of smell? Memory.
Food is a hidden place. According to French author, Marcel Proust, it has two identities. One physical and one spiritual. Food has a spirit that hides within food’s physical shape.
My grandfather loves lamb. He cooks roasted rosemary lamb when we visit him. The subtle scent of smoky herbs fills the living room as he pulls the sizzling chops from the oven. He first encouraged me to try lamb. I remember the initial bite I took, the earthy taste that lingered after. Years later, I cannot help but think of him when out to dinner and lamb is on the menu; he is there on the shelf beside the rosemary in my spice cabinet. Traceries of him spread out from that first time, that first bite, out from the past and into the future.
When referring to taste, the majority of our sensory enjoyment is evoked through sense of smell. While taste is not smell, and while tastes can be agreeably good or bad, smells are more subjective. This is because scents are steeped in memory. A scent can be recognized as familiar only when it has previously been encountered, stored away until the subsequent rendezvous.
Proust wrote a now-famous scene about a time he took a bite of a madeline, a small shell-shaped cookie, and how, suddenly, something immense and profound stirred within his soul. The taste of the cookie, the tendrils of smell which encircled him as he sat in sensory contemplation, removed him from his actual reality and transported him into a memory. The soul of this memory, it turned out, lay buried within the madeline.
Does food, then, become a memory? A metaphor harkening back to a past, only accessed through the golden ticket of sense?
Proust’s childhood memories are hidden inside madeleines.
It goes beyond cookies, though. Food as it is presented within cultures is the incarnation of memory itself. This plate of lamb and potatoes, this glass of nice red wine accompanying it, the chocolate ganache dessert to come followed by a decaffeinated cup of coffee, is memory. The paring of meat and starch is memory. The wine is memory. The chocolate and coffee are memories. I know this because we do not cook meals without deciding to, and we make what we like to eat, and we like to eat what we have eaten for years: we eat our memories.
Amy Hempel writes: No metaphors! No one is like anyone else.
Lamb is a castle.
I bite into lamb, and the spirit within is released. I am with my grandpa, no longer at dinner alone in my apartment but with him at his house. A sheen of sweat hovers over his eyebrows after standing and cooking all afternoon. The cutlets lie on a bed of rosemary.
Scents of foods have mastered the practice of embalming. I eat lamb at 21 and am suddenly seven; I am as I was the first time. The rosemary cutlet, the deep, smoky aroma as it is pulled from the licking flames of a deglazed pan, the golden brown center outlined by a thin yet dark char, the green sprigs falling off to the side like stones or breadcrumbs leading to the center of the plate where the lamb now rests. I eat lamb and my grandfather’s beard is no longer grey but brown. I eat lamb and the arthritic swell of my grandfather’s knuckles retracts.
Memories are strange because they are not things of the past. How can they be when I feel them here and now? How can they be as I even now impose them on experiences I wish to have in the future?
To some, Proust is actually revealing that food, rather than separating, transcends the difference between a thing and its essence. In this way, food serves as the treasure chest within which the past lies dormant until it becomes again unlocked through sensual experiences.
When I tasted my first petit madeleine, I closed my eyes for the initial bite. I had imagined the taste would take me to Combray, Proust’s childhood village. This is, after all, where the taste took him. I had imagined that I would see the pavilion and garden, the parish church. When I took that first bite, I closed my eyes and I saw nothing.
Lamb is my memory palace.
Cover Photo Courtesy of Pinch and Swirl.
Many of us are familiar with the five love languages: words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, acts of service, and receiving gifts. However, I would argue that a few others should be added to the list, notably food. Love can be demonstrated both by gifting food and cooking food together. In an interview with the Huffington Post, Matthew Riccio, a Graduate Fellow with the National Science Foundation said “[Cooking for others] can help to encourage a sense of trust, community, meaning, purpose, belonging, closeness, and intimacy.” In fact, human evolution, literature, psychology, and the science of memory all provide evidence that cooking together should be a central part of any relationship.
While cooking and eating food are now essential parts of daily life, humanity was not always centered around cooking. A study on cooking and the ecology of human origins found that “sexual alliances emerged from the adoption of cooking, particularly of plant foods.” They concluded that “cooking, whenever it evolved, led rapidly to the evolution of males’ scrounging from females and thence to sexual alliances.” Although relationships are far more than mere sexual alliances, the argument that cooking was a formational part of the creation of such partnerships suggests that cooking should be an integral part of any relationship.
It is unsurprising, given the interconnectedness of cooking and relationships throughout history, that many believe the way a couple works together in the kitchen reflects their relationship as a whole. In The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, one of the characters, Lillian, “wonder[s] why psychologists focused so much on a couple’s life in their bedroom. You could learn everything about a couple just watching their kitchen choreography as they prepared dinner.” Cooking is a very personal act because it is centered around the chef’s preferences. The way in which those preferences are shared between two people can be very telling of their relationship.
The link between cooking and relationships is strengthened by the connection between cooking and memory. John Allen writes that the hippocampus, a part of the brain central in creating and maintaining memories, relies upon the parts of the brain focused on emotion and odor, both of which are strongly related to food. Whether it’s the smell of brownies wafting from the oven or lemon zest lingering on fingertips, scent becomes more potent when a couple takes the time to cook together. The odor is not merely delivered on a plate and sent away, but it invades their bodies, their kitchen, and perhaps their whole house. Emotion too has the potential to be strengthened when a couple cooks together. The memory is no longer only sharing a meal together, but includes the walk to Trader Joe’s for ingredients, dancing in the kitchen while cooking, and the pride resulting from working together to create a product of beauty.
We have all been immediately transported by the whiff of a scent; even if we cannot place the memory attached to it, we feel the scent’s familiarity. In Space and Place, geographer Yi Fu Tuan reflects upon the various senses that lead to the creation of an experiential sense of place. “Odors lend character to objects and places, making them distinctive, easier to identify and remember,” Tuan notes. A sense of place is so much more than an understanding of one’s surroundings; it is created by the people, the experiences, the scents, and more that give rise to emotion within us. Cooking together allows one to create a sense of place— a knowledge of who they are in their relationship. By prioritizing cooking together, a couple creates a place to build their relationship because, just as Bauermeister noted in her novel, a couple’s interactions in the kitchen are a reflection of their relationship.
French author Marcel Proust beautifully articulates the emotional impact of food, a feeling common to many of us. He writes in Remembrance of Things Past of the memory that springs to his mind when he tastes a tea-dipped madeleine. Immediately after indulging in the madeline, he experiences an emotion much greater than the mere sensation biting into a madeline could have evoked. Although he is unsure at first of the specific memory that connects to this feeling, he describes the pleasure that invades his body as “having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal.” The taste of food can transform one’s entire emotional state and when shared, links that feeling of joy described by Proust with the other person. When a couple takes the time to cook together, they create more opportunities to share tastes, for example when they lick the batter off of the spatula. Furthermore, cooking together allows couples to personalize the taste of the food they will be sharing. Making memories is an integral part of building a relationship and sharing meals; food that has been cooked together especially allows for the formation of more vibrant memories.
Harry Connick Junior’s song “Recipe for Love” breaks love down into ingredients just as a traditional recipe would. The title of his song points to the importance of cooking in relationships. By taking the time to cook together, couples can improve their relationships and create beautiful memories together. Thus, cooking should not only be added to this list of love languages, but should also be included in every relationship as part of the recipe for love—even if there is no true formula for it.
Cover image courtesy of goodhousekeeping.com
As a little child, setting the Altar de Muertos felt almost like putting up the Christmas tree. In Mexican culture, el Dia de Muertos, or Day of the Dead, reflects a fascinating and not-so-colloquial view on death. It portrays death as perfect and marvelous, as a spiritual transmutation worthy of celebration. It emphasizes that death is not only the ending of a person’s life, but also the ending of cycles, estates, and a rite of passage.
October sets the scene for the Day of the Dead in November. All the houses horridly decorated, the visceral legends told, and the choosing of hair-rising costumes for Halloween appeal to the morbidity of life. Halloween is all about fearing death, but that narrative seems to be terminated when the Day of the Dead starts. Combining the Christian tradition of All Saints’ Day and the indigenous custom to celebrate death, it is believed that during the Day of the Dead the doors of heaven open for the souls of the deceased to visit their loved ones for twenty-four hours. The streets are full of lights and laughs. Families congregate at night in cemeteries and surround the tombs to tell stories. This time however, the stories are not about vampires avidly searching for your carotid, but of the time Uncle Alonso decided to bring two huge stuffed animals on the plane just to give them to my sister and I, or the time he let us eat guacamole without silverware to anger my mom. These 24 hours are not about torment and pain, but ironically about vivacity portrayed in singing, dancing, and feasting.
According to the tradition, the dead endure an arduous journey back from the Land of the Dead to the Land of the Living. In order to welcome, honor, and refresh our loved ones, altars are beautifully set. This is no easy task, as it requires immense talents from cooking to decorating and painting. Every year, as the first of November approaches, the organized planning of the Altar de Muertos is crucial. In my family, each of us is assigned a specific job. For my little cousins, the path of the cempasuchil flower entertains them. With its bright color, the cempasuchil serves as a guide to the spirits. My grandma spreads salt all around the altar to protect our loved spirits from corruption in their passage through the realm of souls. My aunt, an amateur photographer, searches for the pictures of our dead. The process is meticulous as the pictures’ main purpose is to revive certain memories. Aunt Martha, the family artist, is in charge of the papel picado and the calaveras de azúcar (sugar skulls). These beautiful and festive decorations promote the celebratory nature and beauty of death. My mother, as a life-giver, places a cup of water on the altar, which symbolizes the origin of life.
The final step is my favorite as my sister Roberta and I have to find the favorite foods of the family that passed away and prepare them. Attention to detail is key, as the character of our loved ones can be easily reflected in their favorite foods. Strong-willed but kind, my grandpa’s favorite food was mole. While mildly spicy and fierce, mole has a sweetness to it which accurately depicts my grandpa’s character.
The food’s purpose goes beyond the characterization of the dead; it is also a tangible form of deep love. It feels like whoever is preparing your favorite food does so because she has taken the time to really get to know you. It is a sign of “I thought of you and wanted you to feel happiness.”Almost like when you come back to your college dorm after a failed midterm and your roommate, who paid enough attention to your favorite type of chocolate, bought you Ferrero Rocher to overpower the negative feelings with some endorphins. Similarly, just as my mom cooked my favorite chicken noodle soup whenever I had a stomach ache, on el Dia de Muertos, she cooks her sister’s favorite tortilla soup to commemorate her life. The message of food on the altar is strengthened by the idea that leaving the meals out throughout the night, will give the souls the opportunity to refuel and fill themselves with some delicious food that was cooked especially for them. Meanwhile, the family congregates around the altar awaiting their arrival with one cup of Mexican hot chocolate on one hand and a Pan de Muerto (sweet bread) on the other.
Showing our love and care, and in honor of those who died, the Day of the Dead brings my family together. We sing, we dance, we feast. We commemorate. Because no one is really dead until someone stops uttering their names.
Cover photo courtesy of The Spruce Eats
This is the twenty-seventh installment in Mucho Gusto, a recipe initiative by and for students to help connect us through food in times of isolation. If you’ve got a recipe you think would make a great addition, reach out to us!
Make if you have: bananas, chocolate chips, and rolled oats
Serves 12 muffins
Muffins are one of the best desserts to make when you want your kitchen to smell amazing. What better combination for muffins than bananas and chocolate chips? For this recipe, you can substitute the flour with an alternative such as oat flour or almond flour to make them gluten-free.
1/3 cup coconut oil
1/2 cup maple syrup
1/4 cup milk (or water)
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 3/4 cup flour (I used oat flour to make it gluten free)
1/3 cup rolled oats
3 bananas mashed (about 1 cup)
1/2 cup chocolate chips
To start, preheat the oven to 325 degrees fahrenheit. Use your choice of oil or butter to grease your muffin tins. Combine the flour, rolled oats, salt, cinnamon, and baking soda in a bowl.
In a separate bowl, mix the coconut oil, maple syrup, vanilla extract, milk, and eggs. Use a fork to mash a banana and then incorporate it into the mixture.
Combine the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients, slowly whisking to form a batter. Then fold in the chocolate chips and any other add ins you’d like!
Fill each muffin tin with batter about ⅔ of the way. Top them off with some more chocolate chips and a small sprinkle of oats.
Bake the muffins for about 23-25 minutes. You can test if they’re ready by inserting a toothpick into a muffin and making sure it comes out clean.
Remove the muffins from the oven and let them cool. Enjoy!
This is the twenty-fifth installment in Mucho Gusto, a recipe initiative by and for students to help connect us through food in times of isolation. If you’ve got a recipe you think would make a great addition, reach out to us!
Make if you have: jicama, avocado, hummus
Quarantining has led some of us to some pretty extreme fad diets, one of them being the raw vegan diet. My friend Sophie and I tried this challenging diet for about a week, and I was pleasantly surprised at the number of recipes I was able to find and create in my own kitchen! One of my favorites ended up being these raw jicama tacos which are refreshing and decadent, and only take about 10 minutes to make!
1 can of black beans
1 can of corn
Tomatoes (or pico de gallo)
Hummus (preferably the taco flavored hummus)
For optional cashew “sour cream”:
1/2 cup of cashews
1/2 cup of cold water
Juice of 1/4 a lemon
⅛ teaspoon of cumin
⅛ teaspoon of garlic powder
⅛ teaspoon of onion powder
A pinch of salt
To create a flat “tortilla,” slice your jicama using a mandolin or attempt to thinly cut it yourself. I opted for the easy route and bought premade jicama wraps from Trader Joe’s. Next, I prepped all my ingredients: drained the can of black beans and can of corn, sliced the avocado, and diced up the tomato. The foundation of raw vegan diets is to not cook any of your ingredients, so that’s all you have to do to create most of your taco. Squeeze a little bit of lime juice and a pinch of salt on the jicama wraps for more flavor. Top with the hummus, beans, corn, tomato, and avocado.
I took the extra step of making a cashew “sour cream” for the tacos. To do so, I soaked half a cup of raw cashews in water for two hours. After those two hours, I drained the cashews and transferred them to a blender. Next, I added the water, lemon juice, cumin, garlic powder, onion powder, and salt and blended on high for about a minute. Then serve on top of your tacos.
This is the twenty-second installment in Mucho Gusto, a recipe initiative by and for students to help connect us through food in times of isolation. If you’ve got a recipe you think would make a great addition, reach out to us!
Make if you have: Tofu, maple syrup, and soy sauce
Stir fry is always a delicious and satisfying meal; perhaps even more so when its homemade. This recipe uses tofu, and its versatility means you can turn to nearly any fridge/pantry components for pairing… vegetables, sauces, grains, etc.! Take this opportunity to explore your kitchen, and look for ingredients to enjoy with crispy and flavorful bites of baked tofu.
- 1 container extra firm tofu
- 1 tbsp sesame oil
- 1 tsp tamari/soy sauce
- ¼ tsp garlic powder
- ¼ tsp maple syrup
- ¼ tsp rice wine vinegar
- 2 tsp arrowroot powder
Start by preheating your oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together the sesame oil, tamari, garlic powder, maple syrup, and vinegar.
Next, press the tofu for at least 15 minutes and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Place them in the oil mixture and stir until each piece is completely coated. Sprinkle 1 teaspoon of the arrowroot powder into the bowl, and mix until all of the pieces are coated in it. Then sprinkle on the remaining teaspoon of arrowroot powder and gently mix just until the white powder is fully incorporated and no longer visible.
Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper or a non-stick mat before placing the tofu on top. Bake the tofu for about 25-30 minutes, or until golden and crispy. Make sure to keep an eye on it and stir 2-3 times during the baking process so that none of the pieces burn.
Serve with your choice of rice, vegetables, and other toppings. Enjoy!
This is the twentieth installment in Mucho Gusto, a recipe initiative by and for students to help connect us through food in times of isolation. If you’ve got a recipe you think would make a great addition, reach out to us!
Make if you have: shredded carrots, ghee (clarified butter), milk, and sugar
Carrot halwa is a popular Indian dessert that combines shredded carrots with a variety of ingredients to create a warm, pudding-like treat. This recipe is a delicious way to turn your carrots into a sweet dessert!
4 cups shredded carrots
½ cup shredded khoya (reduced milk)
1 ½ cups milk
2 tbsp ghee
½ cup milk
¾ – 1 cup sugar
1 ½ tbsp ghee
¼ tsp cardamom powder
Handful of nuts (almonds, cashews)
Handful of golden raisins
To make the khoya, boil 1 ½ cups of milk for 5-10 minutes and then stir in 2 tbsp of ghee. Continuously stir while reducing the mixture for around 45 minutes. Then set the khoya aside to let it solidify. Use a fork (or your hands) to gently crumble the khoya. This recipe creates around ¾-1 cup of khoya- set apart ½ cup of the crumbled khoya to use for the carrot halwa. You can save the rest for later!
Coarsely chop the almonds and cashews and dry roast them in the oven for a few minutes. Once they’re ready and cool enough to handle, finely chop the nuts and set them aside to use as garnish later on.
Saute the raisins in ½ tbsp of ghee for a few minutes- the raisins should absorb the ghee and look plump.
Add the 4 cups of shredded carrots to a large pan on medium heat for 5 minutes. Make sure to continuously stir the carrots so they don’t burn. Then add ¾ cup of sugar to the carrots. The sugar should draw out the liquid from the carrots and make the mixture moist. Feel free to add an additional ¼ cup of sugar to make the halwa sweeter. Continue to stir the mixture as it reduces.
Add 1 tbsp of ghee and ¼ tsp of cardamom powder to the mixture. Continue to stir and let the mixture reduce for 5 minutes. Then add ½ cup of milk and let the mixture reduce for 2-3 minutes before removing it from the heat and letting it cool. Incorporate ½ cup of crumbled khoya into the mixture and combine until it is no longer visible.
Add the finely chopped nuts as a garnish when ready to serve. Enjoy!