A cup of tea, all nice and buttery

Somehow salty tea always reminds me of that saccharine sweet, a-tad-too-sentimental (and definitely not my kind :P) SMS forward: A guy takes a pretty girl on a date and he is so nervous he asks the waiter for salt in his coffee. She asks why, he says it reminds him of the saltiness in the sea he grew up nearby. The girl, obviously, (insert eye-roll here) is quite touched. They fall in love, get married, and he never musters the courage to tell her that he really doesn’t like salt in his coffee. And then one day, he dies, and she finds a letter from him:  (copied verbatim from just about everywhere on the internet)

“My dearest, please forgive me, forgive my whole life’s lie. This was the only lie I said to you — the salty coffee. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous at that time, actually I wanted some sugar, but I said salt. I never thought that could be the start of our communication!”

Long story short, he drank that horrible, horrible coffee for forty years out of his undying love for her. And whenever someone asked her how salty coffee tasted, she would say, “It tastes sweet.” (Aww…) Okay! If you’re still around, and haven’t sworn to never come back here again, salty tea isn’t as uncommon  as salty coffee. No one has (yet) written a sugary-sweet love story about it though, which is kind of sad. Drinking butter tea is a much-loved ritual among Tibetans and Kashmiris (who prefer to call it nun chai) . In monasteries dotting the Himalayas, Buddhist lamas down several cups a day through the winters. I remember having a delightful cup of the beverage on a chilly morning years ago, at a monastery in Gangtok, Sikkim. While I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone (it’s a bit of an acquired taste); the warm buttery flavour melting on your tongue, coupled with the startling realisation that tea doesn’t have to be sweet, makes it worth a try.

So today morning (er, do not ask when my mornings begin… ) I had milk and tea leaves boiling away to high glory when I realised I was clean out of sugar. Hmm, why not try some butter tea? My recipe (makes one cup): ¾ cup water, ¼ cup milk, 1 tsp tea leaves,  ¼ tsp salt, a few shavings of butter, and a small chunk of Toblerone. (The last item because I thought the tea would need a bit of sweetener, and besides, doesn’t chocolate tea sound awesome?) Boil tea like you usually do, and when it’s the right shade of golden brown, add the butter, salt and chocolate. (Traditional recipes call for churning the tea with yak butter in a churner/blender.) Give it a swirl, take out your fancy cups, and there you have it, delicious butter tea!


Tales of an Insomniac

I could fill almanacs with the things I do when I cannot sleep.

Take the other day, for instance, when one sleep-deprived night led to me crashing early the next. Surprise of surprises, I was wide awake in a few hours. A most vicious cycle it is.

So with nothing to do, and because I had fallen asleep with my laptop beside me, snug as a pillow; I opened the browser and began surfing aimlessly. And for some reason I started on cookery blogs.

Who in their right minds reads cookery blogs at 2 in the night? People like me. Sugar-starved chocolate-crazed people like me. So there I was, reading how to make crepes and crème brulee (and religiously saving pages for a better day), when I came across the five-minute cake. A cake in FIVE MINUTES. A fluffy, yummy, chocolaty cake; ready before you could say Jack Sparrow. Oh, the beauty of the idea!

Why not make one right now, I thought. As if on cue, my tummy let out a small growl. But a cake, at this time of the night? Eggs and flour and butter and the whole schmazel? What if mom thought a thief broke in? Cake wouldn’t taste so good with a saucepan-shaped bulge on my forehead.

(I occasionally make midnight chocolate mousse, a super-easy recipe learnt from a friend in college when our only available equipment was a 17th century electric stove. The name arose because the call-of-the-mousse always comes at twelve in the night. Even then, a cake is a whole new ball game.)

Anyway, I crept downstairs, trying my best not to step on those tiny lizards that pop up in the summer.

I opened the fridge and counted the eggs and butter.

And my eyes fell on a can of tuna.

I knew what I had to do.

Out came knives, tomatoes, onions and a generous helping of mayonnaise.

Two stuffed tuna sandwiches later, I was happily asleep in bed.