On the 13th day of the dark half of the month of Ashwin, over a billion people around the world light candles and bring out their best new clothes, to celebrate Diwali, the festival of lights.  For some, it is a day of celebrating the harvest, the move into shorter days, the ancient triumph of good over evil and Rama’s defeat of Ravana to win the return of his wife.  For others, it is more, the final day of the lunar year and the start of the new. Regardless of reason, all celebrations mark a turning point and a remembrance, and the beginning of something new.

Of course, no Indian festival is complete without decadent sweets and tablesfulof food.  Among these, ras malai stands out as my clear favorite, a milky fatty dessert that dominates the other more sugary items available.  It is typically Indian, curd-based and spice-kissed, evoking sensory comaraderie with paneer and chai. For that matter, it is quite similar, made with the same soft cheese and spices as its two famous cousins.

Traditions abound with the biggest festival day of the year in India.  Presided over by the goddess Laxmi, purveyor of wealth and prosperity, believers adorn themselves with new fancy clothing and glittering jewelry.  Home furnishings are updated, gifts are given and received, and blessings are counted during this transition into a new year.

Among those gifts exchanged are the aforementioned sweets, ras malai among them.  In India, gift-giving of sweets is an art.  Beautifully made, artfully decorated, and wrapped in glittery boxes replete with tulle and ribbon, the packaging is almost as exciting as the gift inside.  Upon opening the box, each piece of ras malai has its own little space, neatly divided and perfectly nestled in a bed of sweet milky syrup spiced with nutmeg and cardamom.

The making of ras malai is time-consuming, but a wonderful way to ring in the new year.  It starts with farmers’ cheese, also the same process to make paneer.  Milk is curdled and then drained in a cheese cloth, until only the curds remain.  They are then kneaded and turned until they are silky smooth, with a light creamy finish.  The curds are formed into small round balls, and lightly pressed into thick discs with the hint of an indentation.   A brief 5-10 minute dip in a warm sugar syrup bath follows, cooking the discs to form a chewy yet melty texture.

The ras malai is then soaked and stored in a thick milk cream, made by reducing milk sweetened with sugar and sprinkled with whole cardamom pods and flecked with grated nutmeg.  The milky sauce provides a second creamy texture that plays off the ras malai discs perfectly.

The sweetness of the dish evokes sweetness of character, so tradition says. Diwali celebrates the return of Rama, after his 14-year exile, with his dedicated wife and brother in tow.  Rama and Sita represent the perfect couple, her devotion matched by his courage, and the sweetness of perfect love.

Flatbreads are made the world over, a particularly useful item when utensils are not available.  They are grilled, roasted, fried, baked, and sauteed, leading to a myriad flavors.  Despite great similarity in preparation and cooking, they are often very different depending on the culture which produces.

Sometimes the difference is due to the presence of yeast or baking soda, olive oil or ghee, milk or yogurt, honey or sugar.  Sometimes the difference is in the milling – coarse grains vs fine, corn vs millet vs spelt vs wheat.  And sometimes the difference is barely discernible, giving the consumer a fleeting glimpse of the lifespan of grains and the unique climate, water, and soil conditions of growth and production.

Pita is a common flatbread, best known for its presence in the Mediterranean and Middle East.   But even such a localized area can produce a vastly different type of pita – from thick chewy khoubz found in the Levant to the thinner, crisper pide made in North Africa.  It is slightly leavened, owing its chewiness and puffiness to yeast and high temperatures.  It is often cooked in a brick oven or a flat piece of iron, heated to high enough temperatures that placing the dough produces a “sizzle” and a very short cooking-time.

Pita’s uses are thousandfold.  The characteristic pocket that forms in the baking process is used to hold fillings from falafel to hummus to roasted meat to vegetables.  It can also be used as a roll or wrap, surrounding many of the same fillings.  When sweetened, pita can also serve as the layers of a dessert.

Both ancient and versatile, it is also simple to make, hearkening back to days when nomads cooked over fires and carried the bare minimum.  Any flat heated surface would suffice to bake the bread, and as humans settled more permanently and began to grow and harvest wheat more fully, pita and other flatbreads became even more prevalent. Today, we use commercial preparations of yeast, but prior to its availability, yeast was often maintained as part of a “starter”, a method still commonly used and also common to other types of breads.  Nowadays, we also purchase flour, declining to mill our own grains.

Preparation requires time management and a little elbow grease, but is straightforward.  Flour, sugar, and salt are combined with yeast, drizzled with oil (usually olive oil) and then moistened to form dough.  The dough is then kneaded over and over, breaking the gluten bonds and thoroughly mixing all the ingredients.   Then, the yeast takes over, and the dough is left in a warm place to rise, often doubling and tripling its size.

The risen dough is punched down, kneaded a little more, and then separated and formed into small round balls, which are given a chance to rest again.  Then they are rolled out, rested again, and placed on an extremely hot surface.  The baking is delightful to watch – tiny bubbles emerge instantly all over, growing and merging into larger and larger bubbles until the entire surface becomes one single dome, a round puffy concoction of only a few simple ingredients and celebrated the world over.

Mongolia is a country of high meat consumption, particularly compared to much of the rest of Asia.  Mantuu, while a popular item with hearty soups, is also eaten with a meat filling.  These mantuu buuz (named so because they are a variation on the buuz, steamed dumplings made without yeast) are highly popular and very reminiscent of Chinese bao.

Mongolia is undergoing a significant cultural transition right now, following its abrupt political and economic transition after the collapse of the Soviet Union.  A transitional economy with a profound historical legacy coupled with proud nationalistic independence, Mongolia is in the process of redefining its cultural identity.   After half a century of strong Soviet repression, and centuries of Chinese interdependence, it isn’t too much of a surprise that Mongolia is still carving out its place in the modern world.

But history can’t be ignored, and in food, that is especially evident.  Mongolia bears marks from China, despite its recent distancing.  And while Mongolian cuisine has its definite uniqueness, its impossible to deny 500 years of influence.

Mantou is popular in China, and also in Mongolia.  Whether it originated in one country or another, it has become known as a Chinese dish.  And though the name bears different origins in both languages, it is difficult to deny that both countries use the same word to describe the same dish.  So Mongolia is going its own now, but its complex interaction with neighboring countries is still evident.

Unlike regular buuz, mantuu buuz uses yeast in the dough to create a bread that is soft and springy.  The filling is the same, minced meat (usually mutton), and often some diced onions and carrots.  The meat is fatty and dark, resulting in a oozing oily mass within a light, yeasty, bread.

Called mantou in China, these steamed buns are also found all along the silk road, from Turkey to Mongolia.  The name doesn’t change much either, called manti in Turkey (though usually filled) and mantuu in Mongolia (still unfilled, but slightly differently shaped).

While traveling in the countryside in Mongolia, we tried our hand at mantuu.  We were about a week into our trip, and in the mood for simple, hearty fare.  Mantuu in Mongolia is eaten with meat or vegetable soup, mostly as a way to provide extra bulk.  With its straightforward ingredients, mantuu and vegetable soup is a heartwarming meal in chilly rainy conditions.

The recipe is simple – flour, water, and leavening or yeast.  Mix the dough, let it sit to rise.  Then break off pieces, roll out, then roll up and twist.  And then the steaming – not too long, which makes the dough tough, but not too short, which leaves a less pleasant chewy center.

The end result is white and light, fluffy and slight sweet.  It is deceptively filling, and most delicious dipped in the broth, which in Mongolia, often contains a little more fat or oil than usual.   Seated in the ger, next to the fire roaring in the stove, it is the perfect countryside meal.

More accurately, though, it is the reheated whey leftover from making cheese.  Separation of the curds and whey yields a liquid that still contains protein, which can be curdled again, if the whey is allowed to acidify for a day.  Additional acid is added in the cooking, allowing for the second separation, and the second batch of whey is drained.

Of course, this requires making cheese, which in Mongolia, is not a common occurrence.  Cheese technically requires rennet, only obtained from baby animals. In Mongolia, it is exceedingly rare to slaughter a young animal (it makes little economic sense), and so rennet is never produced.  Instead, Mongolian cheese (much like in most of Asia) is a “false” cheese, and more of an acidified curd product.  Still, a multitude of items can be made from curds, and Asians have had a long time to experiment.

But back to ricotta, or false ricotta, as it were. Take full-fat milk and heat to a certain temperature, then add acid to separate.  It is of course best that the milk is raw or at least fresh, but despite what the cooking blogs say, ultrapasteurized milk will curdle.  As for the acid – buttermilk (already acidified) can be added, or just vinegar or lemon juice themselves.  Or, in a pinch, yogurt, which is the mother of buttermilk.  Remove the curds, and allow to drain to the desired dryness. Salt, herb, sweeten, or whatever you choose.  The result is a ricotta-like product.

But it doesn’t stop here.  Continue to drain the curds and then press out the remaining liquid and paneer results.  Further addition of salt leads to queso blanco (queso fresco if you mix cow and sheep’s milk).

And here in Mongolia, the herder’s wife will slice the block into pieces, cover with a fine white cloth and place atop her ger to dry into aruul.

I tried my hand at making this farmer’s cheese, using store-bought milk (not fresh, but not UHT) and yogurt. Mixed the two and heated until that magical point of separation.

Dipping a slotted spoon into the curds and gently placing them into the cheesecloth for draining, I was struck by the pungent, almost maternal smell. We are the only animals to continue to drink milk beyond infancy, and even more unnaturally, we make so many different products from this one single lactal emanation. We even seek out new and different varieties of milk, not just cow, but sheep, goat, buffalo, reindeer, yak, and camel. But never, I think, do we stop to consider just what it is we are consuming.

My ricotta drained for an hour or so, resulting in a crumbly cream-colored product that was perfect as an addition to baked pasta.  While not a true ricotta, it acted and tasted like the real thing.

Cereal and milk form the ultimate foundation of diet, from providing sustenance in the hunger season to serving as a basis for reduced caloric intake.  This blog will look at how we consume cereals and milk products, how we produce such, and what both mean to us culturally, politically, and maybe even spiritually.