Not so long ago, a dear friend of mine began to visit me regularly. This friend, one that you too might be familiar with, would make her spellbinding appearance at the most inconvenient of times. She would pace the length of my back, electrifying my extremities, sending shockwaves of energy to my heart, my brain — a violent disruption, a disturbance, a fiendish adrenaline rush.
Her name was Anxiety and on her good days, she would accent the dollops of mania piled high on me with nervous zeal.
Driving me to neglect the need for proper sustenance, Anxiety would permit me to belly flop into a generous cup of instant noodles sprinkled with food additives that act as flavor enhancers, or swoop down on the greasiest of pizzas to give in to what I like to call “Bloated Whale Syndrome”.
A faithful companion, I could depend on her, Anxiety, to rattle my cage and feed me bad takeout during my pre-cooking years. There was no real way for real food to reach my repeatedly nauseous stomach when I was working all the time.
When Ramadan came, she would quietly refrain from joining me during those few languid hours preceding the breaking of my fast for I was not the one cooking and would not have any need for my friend. This was my time away from her — where I would disappear from work and into a deep slumber until the time came to nourish my soul with delectable dishes that were laid out on the dining table. This was how I defined calm.
Grasping at the achingly nostalgic Ramadan food of my original home, it became evident to me that creating new and exciting dishes was not part of Ramadan, even if I was in Malaysia. Being invited out for traditional Malay Ramadan fare just didn’t cut it and left me longing for what I characterized as comfort — thick and velvety tomato soup, scorching hot crispy samosa and creamy potatoes that went down better than anything else.
Upon leaving this home and making my own, it was I who would now be tackling the seemingly impossible feat of feeding a fasting man along with myself, and my dear old friend Anxiety soon returned to the table, smiling coyly as she heavily plopped herself on my shoulders, swinging her legs happily as she weaved knots into the lining of my stomach. At said particular moment, I’d had enough of her condescending fat-inducing attitude.
Gripping her big feet and violently tilting her off my shoulders, I realized that Calm, a long-forgotten acquaintance, was one that I could summon to replace Anxiety, with the making of an age-old dish and a staple in our home: gratin dauphinois.
Eliminating the world’s more modern additions of cheese, eggs and unnecessary fat, I found both Comfort and Calm waiting for me as I refreshed my soul with potatoes that have been drinking their milk until they melded into one another to become the apogee of comfort food.
Have you actively pursued the calm in your life?
Gratin Dauphinois
(6 side servings)
1 clove of garlic, split in half, lengthwise
1 kilogram of potatoes
2 cups of hot milk
An extra full 1/4 cup of heavy cream
Salt and pepper to taste
Preheat your oven to 160 degrees Celsius. Peel and slice your potatoes to around 3mm in width. Rub down the sides and bottom of your baking dish with the garlic clove. Discard the garlic clove when you’re done. Combine your sliced potatoes, milk and salt and pepper in a saucepan. Simmer for a good 7-8 minutes. You’ll find the milk thickening. Transfer half of the potato-milk mixture to your garlic-rubbed baking dish and pour some cream. Add the second half of the potato mixture on top of the cream you just poured, and pour the final spout of cream all over the top. Pop it into your already preheated oven. Bake for 35-40 minutes. Open the oven door, once, after 20 minutes, and crack the creamy skin. This will give you a better, thicker crust. Let it stand for at least five minutes before serving.
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