I often wonder about the long road certain recipes have travelled, passing from one generation to another. Through times good and bad, these cherished recipes turn into family heirlooms that embody the essence of cultural celebrations and shared memories. Humans always preserve what’s most important to them. Especially, in a country like ours, where across the ages, through the fall of great kingdoms and the rise of sub-par governments, our interconnectedness with food and the preservation of our gastronomic traditions have remained steadfast. These recipes, more than just a combination of ingredients, are a living testament to resilience and continuity. They carry the whispers of grandmothers, the laughter of family gatherings, and the warmth of shared tables.
The artisanal 12-piece box of Pista Barfi by PistaBarfi Mithai.
One doesn’t have to identify particularly as a “sweet tooth” to appreciate the intimacy of Mithai in the hearts of South Asians. Perhaps, the craving for something sweet before or after a meal could be a shared human experience, however, the English language cannot do justice to the translation of Mithai by using the word Dessert, it’s a bit more than that. Mithai is an irreplaceable part of our diverse palettes across India, which is to say that it is also something that brings us together; in the form of diamond shaped-silver foiled Kaju Katli and Besan ke Laddoo during Diwali or piping hot Gulab Jamuns that are devoured in the long queues huddled over at the buffet table during the wedding season; a hot bowl of Sheer Khurma after the early morning Eid prayers that everyone has been waiting for all Ramadan or the golden sparkling Jalebis on a Sunday morning with the family. In some communities, Mithai is also an important part of grieving; the Bohri Muslims remember the dead by distributing Kheer or Laddoos to neighbours and community members on the third day of mourning and then on every death anniversary, perhaps a small way of associating the memory of their loved ones with something sweet.
As I notice the fog rolling in and staying a little longer these days, the sunlight hitting my face a bit later than the previous day, the misty fragrance of dew from the plants, and the cackle of school kids echoing the quiet neighbourhood take me down on a ride with nostalgia. Winter in all its festive glory, reminds me of the days my mother would make the most delectable sweet dishes known to my little universe. In the city of Nashik - also known as the Wine Capital of India - within the small hill station of Devlali, temperatures dropped below 5°c and bright orange carrots reached their full potential, sharing a hot bowl of Gajar Ka Halwa always enhanced the charm of winters. All of us, across identities and borrowed cultures, have at least one specific memory of a classic winter dish that instantly takes you back to the warm embrace of a home; back to standing in between the chilly breeze seeping through the cracks of your kitchen window and the heat from your stove as you witness the creation of a dish that brings about a glow from within. This was it for me.
Gajar ka Halwa or Gajrela in all its scrumptious glory is one such delicacy that envelopes you in its sweetness and warmth. It never ceases to amaze me how a humble carrot goes through a transformation so beautifully with such ease and simplicity. Each spoonful instantly takes you back to a nostalgic place, for it is always as special as the first time you had it. Now winters may also be known for other favourites like Gondh ke Laddoo, Chikki, Gajak, Panjiri, etc, but nothing comes close to the superiority of Gajar ka Halwa, a poetic ode to the artistry of the kitchen where every ingredient unites to indulge you in its richness.
Portrait of my mother, Insiya Baldiwala on a winter morning in Sharjah, UAE circa 2022.
Across the plethora of dishes that were made in our humble rasoi, my mother had aced the alchemy of milk, carrots, sugar and nuts, slowly cooked until it turned crimson red. I knew it was time for this heaven-sent delicacy when every winter, I spotted those fresh, juicy carrots in the vegetable tokris in the Sunday market. My mother had taught me how to pick the best ones for gajar ka halwa for when it was time to go on the next grocery run, I would know. I would have to pick the freshest, choicest, longest, sweetest, juiciest and most tender-tasting carrots. A huge responsibility for my tiny shoulders. However, for my little brain, it was simple - if the carrot is a vibrant light crimson and half the length of my arm, it’s a good carrot.
Daydreaming on my bicycle to the market, the warm bowl circling like a halo around my head, I’d pedal as fast as I could to the market to hurry the commencement of the halwa making. After a triumphant haul, I’d place my bag full of carrots, chosen with the eye of a connoisseur, on the kitchen platform along with a litre of fresh milk from the local dairy, a kilo of sugar and the special ingredient: a can of Milkmaid - rich & smooth condensed milk. The mother would then audit my grocery bag, scanning through it. I'd hold my breath, looking for her nod of approval. Once it came, I would stick around the kitchen for the next hour or two. I'd watch my mother lay out all the ingredients. Like a craftsman, she'd start with her process of making the best gajar ka halwa I have ever eaten.
With one of those key-winding can openers, she’d slice through the can of ghee - an irreplaceable member of the mithai fraternity - add it to the vessel and let it warm up. While the golden elixir took its time to do that, she would use that window efficiently to wash and peel the carrots thoroughly and would grate them delicately into long thin shreds, each carrot being grated to a rhythm so amusing to a kid’s ear that would always sit on the kitchen platform to watch the creation of this culinary masterpiece unfold. The last bit that would be a little difficult to grate through would always be popped into my mouth, she made sure I got some raw vegetables too, Mother has always maintained the balance like that.
Sun-kissed shredded carrots, moments before their glorious transformation.
Gently, she would add the mountain of shredded carrots into the simmering ghee, the sizzle of it emanating a fragrance through the house that informs everyone - “kuch special ban raha hai aaj “ After giving it a good mix and making sure it’s all wrapped up in ghee, spoonfuls of sugar would enter the scene, this, I have come to learn, serves more than just the purpose of sweetness. Scientifically speaking, sugar retains the water, keeps the glue between the plant cells - that are broken down due to heat - intact and eventually leads to preserving the shape and velvety texture of the halwa that we so eagerly devour. However, for me as a kid, “more sugar, more sweet” is the only scientific conclusion I could be happy about.
When the sugar would start to dissolve, my mother would bring out the last and final ingredient missing from this magical concoction, the milkmaid - Oh! That sweet creamy potion of all things holy and wonderful - it might seem a little odd to you but it always worked like a charm. The milky creamy liquid would caress the mix pulling everything together and adding an extra layer of richness that would just melt in your mouth sending you into a world where nothing bad ever exists. Finally, in the end, the scene would be graced by the maestros – a piece of cardamom, a pinch of Kesar, a handful of cashews and some local Nashik raisins would round the dish into its magnificence. It gave a delightful contrast to the velvety texture of the Halwa.
This potpourri of flavours would be cooked on slow heat as steam would escape the vessel through its simmering and bubbling phases. While this happened, my mother and I would clean up and get the bowls ready for serving. The stove would finally turn off when the vessel would quiet down a bit and the bright orange carrot shreds transformed into a glossy, jewel-toned confection, and the halwa would glisten with the sheen of ghee waiting to be feasted upon.
The beauty of such iconic dishes lies in the fact that they are made in different ways across households. While the core remains the same, the changes in the method of cooking or adding an extra ingredient in the recipe are usually borne out of logistical reasons or availability of ingredients, however in most cases, changes in recipes, I believe, originate out of love. These changes are the highest degree of care one can offer you when someone alters a dish for you, they are not only making something for you, but they’re also going the extra mile, bringing about change in the history of a dish, only because you like it this way.
Mamma & Papa sharing a laugh during Eid meal preparations, circa 2022.
As for my mother, she would add something more to the cooking process and to the memory that I now relive in this homage to Mithai. Stories from her childhood, reminiscing on her days before she was married, stories that could not fully be comprehended by a child, stories that only make sense to you as you start learning how to read between sentences and learn how the world revolves, a lot of life lessons were sprinkled in that Gajar Ka Halwa.
First attempt at remembering my mother’s recipe for this winter delight.
Perhaps this is why a specific dish from a specific time in your life stays with you, in your mind and your heart, for every time you have it again, you are taken back to that kitchen counter, where your mother with hair still black and bones still strong enough to stand through an entire afternoon, would tell you sweet stories while making your favourite sweet dish.
I will always remember the moments of pure silence that ensued as the halwa would be devoured by all of us. Each of us smiling and letting out satisfactory mmmms at regular intervals - the units of measuring the deliciousness of a dish.
The silver-foiled Kaju Katli by Pistabarfi Mithai
In a delightful fusion of tradition and modernity, Harshit and Tanay Agarwal, the visionary founders of Pistabarfi, have reinvigorated the timeless charm of mithai. Stemming from their grandfather's modest mithai shop in 1968, Pistabarfi weaves a narrative that seamlessly blends classic flavours with a contemporary design-forward approach. The limited selection of offerings, including Pista Barfi, Kaju Katli, and Gud Laddu, reflects a commitment to perfecting each recipe. With a focus on storytelling and a commitment to preserving family legacy, Pistabarfi emerges as a culinary journey that transcends taste, celebrating the artistry of mithai and creating a memorable experience for its patrons, which shows how Mithai continues to be an irreplaceable part of our lives. Passing on from one generation to another.
One bar of Pista Barfi or one bowl of Gajar Ka Halwa at a time.
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