Growing up in a huge joint family has taught me, among other things, the ability to accept everyone as they are, without questions.
We lived together, in Dadu's house. With its orchards, ponds, four main gates and three smaller ones too. And a big open space where stood a magnificent mango tree that was uprooted by one of the cyclonic storms that was so common during my childhood.
And a big patch of garden that bore seasonal vegetables, lovingly tended by the gardener.
And, with uncles and aunts and house helps and cousins.
Yes, it was both a picnic as well as mayhem ... our family was.
And naturally, we always had a lot of relatives around. Every Kakima's paternal side of the family was our family too.
I still remember our excitement when any particular relative was to visit.
That Mama, who was popular with us because he would actually enact out whatever story he was narrating.
Or that Dida who did not know any language besides Bengali .... and who we loved to grill with new words, asking her the Bengali equivalent. She naturally came up with wrong words and how we would dissolve into peals of laughter.
Or that Didi, who sang like an angel, and we looked forward to learning a few new songs, whenever she visited, especially Adhunik / modern songs. And a few more gems of Tagore.
Or that Mashi, who we stayed clear of, because of her quizzes on maths and chemistry.
I can go on and on.
The best part of these visits was we got to eat food from outside, .... sometimes .... that was otherwise prohibited for us.
On any day, during the evening tea, someone would want some ' gorom gorom tele bhaja' / deep fried street food. And as hosts, one of the Kakus would comply.Or we would get one of our favourite Didas to ask for them .... and she would happily oblige.
Knowing very well that she would not eat any, at all.
And we children would get to eat the small sized, crisp singaras, filled with a dry, spicy potato and peas masala that was so hot it burned our mouths when bitten into.
Those were different from the regular samosas that we get in North India.
But then, the samosa is such a common street food that its filling varies in texture and taste in almost every state of the country.
Making it create a different memory for every different person growing up eating their local samosa.
I still remember the samosas we ate during our trip to Ranthambore, Rajasthan. Standing in the middle of the vast highway, in a small shed, stood a man frying hot samosas on a make shift kitchen with the barest of things. We waited till he got them out of the hot oil ..... smoking hot.
And standing there on the empty highway side, biting into those crisp, spicy, hot little triangles of pure bliss, sipping on cardamom tea and watching the sun go down slowly in the horizon, I felt that was one of the best moments of my life.
A few days back, once the rains started in earnest here, I was reminiscing about the monsoons back home and how the ponds overflowed and the fishes came up right to our doorsteps,
how we would sit near the bay windows and look out at the big droplets create beautiful patterns on the pond,
how Dadu or Jethu would ask us, one by one , to sing their favourite Rabindra sangeet on the rains,
how we hurried to shut the wooden windows when sudden gusts of water laden breeze came in .... but would leave just a little gap to be still able to smell the wet air .
And that was when I remembered this beautiful singara from my hometown.
I wanted to make it. B was game.
He enjoys these stories and what better than crisp, hot singaras to go with them.
To his credit and because he is from the kachori and namkeen city of Rajasthan, B is an expert when it comes to actually handling the singara. So I did the cooking and B did the maneuvering part.
And we made some really good samosas that evening.
They were so good and the cover was so perfectly crisp that I thought I will document it and share here.
So here is my recipe for the perfect Khasta Shingara / Khasta Samosa .
Need :
For the dough :
Maida / Apf - 2 cups
Cooking oil - ½ cup or more, if needed
Baking soda - one small pinch
Kalonji / nigella seeds - ½ tsp
Chilled water - enough to knead with
Salt - to taste
For the filling :
Potatoes - 2, medium, chopped very small
Green peas - ½ cup
Turmeric powder
Red chilli powder
Amchur / dry mango powder
Chilli flakes
Black pepper powder
Salt - to taste
Cooking oil - 1 tsp
Cooking oil - enough to deep fry
How to :
To make the dough, knead the maida with the rest of the ingredients, except water for some time.
When the oil has mixed in well, it should form a lump when held in the fist.
Now add the chilled water, very little at a time, and knead into a tight dough.
Do not over knead it.
For the masala, heat oil in a kadahi and let in the chopped potatoes and peas.
Add the rest of the ingredients and cover and cook till done.
Remove cover and dry it up completely.
Remove to an open plate and cool.
cut out medium sized balls of the dough.
Roll each one out . Do not roll it too thin.
Cut in half.
Pick one half, make a twist and seal the edges with water.
Scoop in a spoonful of the stuffing mix and seal the ends.
Set aside.
Take a heavy kadahi or deep pan .... preferably an iron one.
Fill it with oil.
Set it on to heat. When the oil turns lukewarm, let in the samosas.
Never heat the oil too much ... it will cause blisters on the samosa cover and will remain raw too.
Do not over crowd the kadahi.
The samosas will slowly float up to the top as they cook.
Cook them on low heat.
The perfect khasta samosas are always light in colour and yet perfectly cooked and the cases crisp.
Dark coloured samosas mean over cooking or ... in the case of shops ... re frying.
When done, remove with a slotted spoon and place on a paper towel.
When I tapped the cover, it was perfectly crisp and tough.
And when I broke it open, it showed the layers of the casing too!
Just have a look. 😊
The rain sang on outside and it was cold and dark.
But our kitchen was warm.
And fragrant.
With memories; and the hot samosas.
Stay home everyone!
And stay safe!
Ps: photos clicked in the dark and low light.
