A Peine For Your Thoughts

Don’t Make This: Baked Samosas & Carrot Ginger Soup

May 8, 2009 at 8:27 am | Posted in Recipe | 6 Comments
Tags: baking, Bartlesville, cooking, food, Houston, kitchen, Oklahoma, Texas

In my opinion, there are a lot of tremendous things about small town living. When it comes right down to it, I prefer living in a smaller town, as long as I can have the internet. Even in my most heel-stomping, demanding that Drew quit his job and buy us some acreage in a small town where people speak English moments, I have to admit that small towns can’t compete with larger towns when it comes to international food. Growing up in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, we had one very popular Mexican food restaurant, and one very popular Hispanic student. Both were named Alfredo.

That kind of existence would be hard to fathom here in Houston, where I can choose from Mexican, Tex-Mex, Taqueria, or Taco Truck when I feel like eating a meal that will probably come with tortillas. Since I’ve lived here, I’ve discovered Thai, Spanish, French, Japanese, Chinese and Indian food, all of which I’ve absolutely loved. One bit of Indian food that I loved in particular was the samosa. It was fried and accompanied by a tremendously delicious dipping sauce. The outside was crispy and the inside was warm and almost like American comfort food but with a kick. The moment I saw the same dish in my favorite Moosewood Cookbook, I knew I had to make it.

I love the Moosewood Cookbook. It’s all hand-written, with precious little drawings sprinkled throughout.

 

I’ve had a lot of success with the dishes in Moosewood. One of my favorites is a salad my friend Carrie made here. Tremendous! It’s a vegetarian cookbook, and even though I’m not a vegetarian, I heard that if I can cram just one meatless meal into the week, it will increase our life expectancy. I’ll do anything to keep Drew here forever. He’s already three years older than I am, and I’ll be danged if he is leaving me here alone with this cockapoo. We’re in this together.

The samosas recipe recommends the carrot ginger soup as a delightful accompaniment, and I love carrots. I love ginger. What wouldn’t there be to love about carrot ginger soup?

One obvious, preliminary thing not to love about carrot ginger soup is the mere act of peeling 14 carrots. I’ve got to get an assistant.

I made the soup first, because I could dump it back into a pot to simmer while I made the samosas. I used the blender to puree the whole concoction, and my mom would be happy to note that I have learned my lesson about taking the little knob out of the top of the blender when blending hot soup. I told her that wasn’t necessary once, moments after covering myself and her brand new kitchen in scalding roasted tomato soup. Common sense isn’t necessarily my thing, but I have a memory like an elephant.

The cookbook cautions that the samosas will take an hour and a half to prepare. Hogwash, I thought. Not in my state-of-the-art kitchen.

Two hours later, I was gulping white wine and trying not to cry as the clock turned 7:30 and I was still rolling my handmade dough for the samosas. “What can I do to help?” Drew asked nicely as he wandered through the kitchen. I just grunted and kept on rolling, wiping flour on my face. I leaned over to stir the mashed potato and pea filling for the samosas, and in doing so, slung a whole spoonful onto the wood floor. Normally when something spills, we rush to clean it up, so worried are we about our dog’s digestive system and keeping him away from the evils of human food. But I was feeling generous. If I was going to spend three hours of my life on this dinner, we should all enjoy it, right? I called for Truman and he trotted into the kitchen, took a sniff of the filling that was on the floor, and trotted away. Bad sign. But, Truman is from Arkansas. He can’t be expected to appreciate the intricacies of authentic Indian cuisine.

An hour later, we were finally seated at the dining room table. Three hours of work can sometimes lead to an entire Thanksgiving feast, or it can lead to a cup of orange soup and two pastries.

As we dug in, we began our familiar dance around a dinner I have prepared that tastes like crap. Drew will die before he tells me a meal tastes like crap, but he forgets that I have taste buds too. The entire dance is performed in an effort to get him to admit how bad the meal is. He refuses to participate because he knows if he admits this, I’ll pout. The secret to the whole scene is I’m going to pout regardless.

I watched Drew take a bite of the soup, which he did with a carefully neutral face.

“What does it taste like?” I asked, completely avoiding my own orange-filled bowl.

“It kind of tastes like dessert,” Drew said, keeping his tone positive. I took a bite and immediately thought the dish needed raisins. And walnuts. And buttercream icing. I’d pureed carrot cake.

The samosa wasn’t bad, it just didn’t taste like three hours of blood, sweat and tears. I pushed my plate away, and Drew shook his head.

“OK, here we go. Self-deprecating T-dawg. I know how this is about to go. You’re about to say, ‘Tell me how bad this meal is. On a scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst meal you’ve ever tasted in your life, it’s an 11, right? Just tell me it’s an 11.’ Am I close?”

I hate that I’ve already become this predictable.

The best part of the whole meal was that the minute we were done eating (or not eating, in my case), I got to walk back into my favorite room in the house. My beloved kitchen.

Moral of the story? If you drop part of your dinner on the floor mid-way through cooking, and your dog takes a moment away from licking his nether-regions to investigate, then decides he’d rather continue what he was doing rather than eat your dinner, it’s time to stop. Order take-out.