CLIMBING THE MANGO TREES(I***N=9781400078202) 英文原版 pdf 免费 地址 txt lrf 下载 kindle umd

　　Whether acclaimed food writer Madhur Jaffrey was climbing the

mango trees in her grandparents' orchard in Delhi or picnicking in

the Himalayan foothills on meatballs stuffed with raisins and mint,

tucked into freshly baked spiced pooris, today these childhood

pleasures evoke for her the tastes and textures of growing

up.

This memoir is both an enormously appealing account of an unusual

childhood and a testament to the power of food to prompt memory,

vividly bringing to life a lost time and place. Included here are

recipes for more than thirty delicious dishes that are recovered

from Jaffrey’s childhood.

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　　Regarded by many as the world authority on Indian food,

Madhur Jaffrey is an award-winning actress and best-selling

cookbook author. Her classic first book, An Invitation to Indian

Cooking, was published by Knopf in 1973, and she has been the

host of a series, "Madhur Jaffrey's Indian Cookery," for BBC

television. She has appeared in more than 20 films, including

Merchant Ivory's Heat and Dust, and written more than 15

books. She won James Beard Awards in 1982, 1994, 2000, 2002, and

2004. She lives in New York City.

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　　Ground Lamb with Peas (Keema Matar)

　　Serves 4–6

　　I cannot imagine our picnics or train rides in India without this

dish. For my grandchildren, growing up in America, it is an

all-time favorite. Sometimes we eat it with pooris, the deep-fried

puffed breads, as we did so often in India, and sometimes with

rice. When cooking for the children, I leave out all the chilies,

whether the powdered red kind or the fresh green variety. My

parents did the same for us when we were growing up.

　　I use low-fat yogurt, but you may use w***-milk yogurt if you

prefer.

　　1 cup plain yogurt

　　1/2 te***oon ground turmeric

　　1 te***oon ground cumin

　　1 tablespoon ground coriander

　　1 1/4 te***o*** salt

　　One 2-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and grated to a pulp

　　3 good-sized cloves garlic, peeled and crushed to a pulp

　　2 pounds ground lamb

　　4 tablespo*** peanut or olive oil

　　2 sticks cinnamon, about 2 inches each in length

　　4 w*** cardamom pods

　　2 bay leaves

　　1 medium onion, peeled and finely chopped

　　1/2 cup puréed tomatoes (also labeled strained tomatoes or

passata)

　　1 1/2 cups fresh (or frozen and defrosted) peas

　　3 tablespo*** finely chopped fresh cilantro

　　1–2 finely chopped fresh bird's eye or cayenne-type green

chiles

　　1 te***oon garam masala (see recipe below)

　　Put the yogurt in a bowl and whisk lightly until smooth and

creamy. Add the turmeric, cayenne, cumin, coriander, salt, ginger,

and garlic. Mix until well blended.

　　Put the lamb into a large bowl. Pour the yogurt mixture over the

top and mix (I use my hands) until thoroughly blended. There should

not be any pools of yogurt left.

　　Pour the oil into a large (preferably n***tick) sauté pan and set

over medium-high heat. When it is ***, put in the cinnamon,

cardamom, and bay leaves. Stir once or twice, and then add the

onion. Stir and fry about 5 minutes, or until the onion pieces are

reddish brown.

　　Add all the meat. Stir and cook, breaking up the meat until no

lumps and no pinkness are left, about 5 minutes.

　　Add the tomato purée and stir it in. Bring to a simmer. Cover,

turn the heat to medium-low, and cook for 30 minutes, stirring

every 6–7 minutes and *** sure there is enough liquid so the

lamb does not stick to the bottom. Uncover. Most of the liquid

should have evaporated by this time. Stir and fry the meat for the

next 5 minutes, removing and discarding the cinnamon sticks,

cardamom pods, and bay leaves. After 5 minutes, spoon out as much

of the fat as you can and discard it. Now put in the peas,

cilantro, green chilies (if desired), garam masala, and 6

tablespo*** water. Mix, cover and cook on low heat another 6–7

minutes, or until tender.

　　Garam Masala

　　Makes about 3 tablespo***

　　An aromatic spice mixture made with the more expensive "warming"

spices, this is generally, though not always, used towards the end

of a cooking period to add a rich but still delicate whiff of

elegance. It may be bought, already prepared, in spice stores, but

generally has too many filler spices such as cumin and coriander

and not enough of the more expensive cardamom and cinnamon. Indian

grocers sell cardamom seeds already removed from their pods.

Nutmegs are soft and may be broken by tapping with a hammer. Here

is a family recipe.

　　1 tablespoon cardamom seeds

　　1 te***oon w*** black peppercorns

　　1 te***oon w*** black cumin seeds

　　1 te***oon w*** cloves

　　About 2/3 of a nutmeg

　　One 2-inch stick of cinnnamon, broken up into small pieces

　　Put all the spices into the container of a spice grinder or clean

coffee grinder and grind as finely as possible. Store in a tightly

lidded jar, away from sunlight. It will keep for several

months.

　　ONE

　　The orchard site had housed our family homestead only since the

early decades of the twentieth century. My family actually came

from the walled city, often called Old Delhi, just to the south,

built by the Moghul Emperor Shah Jahan in the seventeenth century.

My family referred to it simply as Shahar, or the City.

　　There are many Delhis, as we were to study in school, all built

either alongside each other o***holly or partly on top of each

other, often reusing building materials knocked down in bloody

efforts at domination. Our own original family home was in

Chailpuri, in the narrow lanes of the Old City. It had as its

carefully chosen foundation sturdy stones “borrowed” from the walls

of Ferozshah Kotla, the fourteenth-century fortress and palace of a

fourteenth- century emperor in a fourteenth-century Delhi.

　　Starting with the ancient Vedic city of Indraprastha, which

flourished in the fifteenth century B.C., a succession of Delhis

was built, first by generati*** of Hindu rajas, only to be followed

in A.D. 1193 by a roll call of Muslim dynasties: Ghori, Ghaznavi,

Qutubshahi, Khilji, Tughlak, Lodhi, and Moghul. They seemed to

trust the dubious comfort of walled cities, and their leaders chose

to name Delhi, again and again, after themselves. This ended, at

least from the point of view of my childhood, with the British

version, sans walls, New Delhi, designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens and

built in the ruin- filled wilderness south of the Old City

walls.

　　The Moghul capital, Shahjahanabad, or the Old City or the City,

or Shahar, was where the written history of my family began. We

were only blessed with our paternal side of it. My mother’s side

either kept few records or humbly kept its accomplishments under

wraps. This written history, bound in red, was kept in my

grandfather’s home office.

　　When my grandfather—Babaji, as we called him—decided to move out

of the City to the orchard estate, he was already a very successful

barrister. His new house, the one in which I was born, was a brick-

and-plaster version of a multi-roomed, grand Moghul tent with bits

of British fortress and Greco-Roman classicism thrown in to hint

vaguely at grandeur. The road it was built on was named after my

grandfather, Raj Narain Road (with the patriotic Hindification of

names that followed Independence, it is now Raj Narain Marg), and

had the number 7 on its front gate. From the time I can remember,

we always referred to that house as Number 7, as in “I’m going to

Number 7,” or “You know that big tamarind tree in Number 7. . .

.”

　　Not wishing to waste money, and full of the brio of someone

recently “England-returned” (he had been studying law in London),

he designed it all himself. As the family story goes, it was at

this time that the British had decided to move their capital from

Calcutta to Delhi, and Lutyens was in the process of building the

new capital, to be named New Delhi. Lutyens asked my grandfather to

pick any piece of land in New Delhi and build on it—Lutyens might

have designed the house himself had my grandfather asked—but my

grandfather dismissed the w*** idea, saying, “Who wants to live in

that jungle?” Properties in “that jungle” are now worth as much as

those in central London and midtown Manhattan.

　　Years later, having proceeded beyond my three score and ten

years, I was awarded an honorary CBE (Commander of the British

Empire) by Queen Elizabeth II in Washington, D.C., another city

designed by Lutyens, in a house also designed by Lutyens, the

British ambassador’s residence. As I stared at my reflection there

in a pair of dark Lutyens mirrors, dotted with glass rosettes, I

couldn’t help thinking that my life might have come full-circle. I

could have been born in a Lutyens house and received a grand

recognition of my life in a Lutyens house. But I was not destined

for such easy symmetry, for easy anything.

　　Babaji’s whitewashed house c***isted of a central “gallery”—a

hall, really—leading to five very large rooms with fireplaces. One

of these was the drawing room, and the others served as bedrooms,

one to a family. Running along the front and back of the house were

two long verandas lined with semi-classical, semi–Greco-Roman

pillars. The back, east-facing veranda looked out on the Yamuna

River, or, as we called it with great familiarity, the Jumna River.

It was here that so many of us, as infants, were rubbed with oil

and left to absorb the morning sun. Because the land must have

sloped down to the water, this veranda was one floor up, built over

a very large, partially underground, damp, always cool cellar or

taikhana. My grandfather used to make wine here from g***s he

imported from Afghanistan, but that must have been before I was

born.

　　The front, west veranda faced the gardens, which had incorporated

the remnants of the old orchard and now included a winding drive to

the front gate. The front and back verandas ended in rooms at each

corner of the house, the front ones being shaped somewhat like

turrets. The functi*** of these corner rooms changed over the

years, but one of them at the back, facing east and south, always

remained my grandmother’s—and the family’s—chapel-like, Pooja ka

Kamra or Prayer Room. On top of the house were two levels of flat

roofs, the one in the center being higher, and both edged with a

battlement-like balustrade.

　　But the main house was not large enough to fit the only army

Babji was to see, a growing army of spirited grandchildren produced

by his eight children. Some of these progeny lived at Number 7 all

the time, and some came and went. Babaji firmly believed in the

joint-family system, with himself presiding as the head of his

brood, a system that...

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媒体评论

　　“Wistful, funny and tremendously satisfying. . . . Jaffrey's

taste memories sparkle with enthusiasm, and her talent for

conveying them makes the book relentlessly appetizing.”

　　—

The New York Times Book Review

　　“Do not attempt to read [this] mouth-wateringly evocative memoir

on an empty stomach. . . . A delicious tribute to a deeply rooted,

multicultural upbringing.”

　　—

Newsday

　　“A sharp observe***ith a pleasing eye for sensual detail, Jaffrey

weaves a richly textured story in which she effortlessly mingles

quotidian drams with historic events.”

　　—

People Magazine

　　"Her story reads like a novel and evokes images worthy of a

Merchant-Ivoryproduction. You can practically taste sun warmed

mangoes plucked from the tree, the barley-sugar candy that holds a

hallowed place in the author's memory."

　　—

The Seattle Times