Following the 2014 Indian general election, Prime Minister Narendra Modi and his Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) have spearheaded a populist, Hindu nationalist agenda. Their mounting political success in North, Central, and West India has coincided with increased partiality from the national media, just see Arnab Goswami of Republic TV. In this climate, Ravish Kumar and NDTV stood as a rare dissenting voice. A voice which discouraged the us-versus-them narrative of the ruling BJP, a voice which received the Ramon Magsaysay Award in 2019, and a voice which featured in Vinay Shukla’s documentary, While We Watched.

Before I continue, I should explain how political thought in India is not binary like that in America. The two national parties, the BJP and Indian National Congress, do not fit the same right-left spectrum afforded to Republicans and Democrats. Instead, both parties share similar economic policies – rooted in liberalization – but primarily differ with regard to nationalism versus secularism. Moreover, India’s multi-party system lends to distinct politics at the state level, separate from the national discourse. See Andhra Pradesh, where incumbent Chief Minister Jagan Mohan Reddy and his YSR Congress Party rely on Christians and the Reddy caste to form vote banks in a process that focuses on tribal allegiances and handouts over a coherent ideology.

Back on topic. The purpose of While We Watched is to amplify Kumar’s message: when media collectively co-opt a political agenda, governmental malpractice is veiled behind authoritarian propaganda. On one broadcast, Kumar remembers a student, Sumit, who succumbed to depression and later suicide after he waited two years for his appointment as an Income Tax Inspector. Sumit was among 500 selected from 4,000,000 applicants, but not one had been appointed. Yet the public at large was unaware because rival networks such as Zee News dismiss university students as anti-national, and even doctor footage of campus demonstrations to say “Pakistan Zindabad!” When identity politics supersede basic functions (i.e. staffing the tax service), those in power may enjoy unchecked corruption.

Further, as people gravitate towards propaganda, ethical journalism loses its reach, revenue, and thus viability. Such is the plight of Kumar and NDTV. Confronting a nationalist zeitgeist and foul play (e.g. blackouts), reduced ratings handicap their newsroom to a dwindling staff on below-market wages. The resignation of their senior producer is followed with the most poignant shot of the film: Kumar stares at his computer screen, open to WhatsApp, as our protagonist recognizes his other adversary. But the damage is too far gone. Amid financial and litigious turmoil at NDTV, Kumar resigned in 2022 and the network was acquired by Gautam Adani later that year. Who is this crony Adani? Well, to borrow from The Economist, “when Mr. Modi became prime minister, he flew to Delhi in Mr. Adani’s plane. [Over the next ten years], Mr. Adani’s personal fortune mushroomed from around $7bn to $120bn.”

Let us rewind back to WhatsApp and understand its effect through a specific use case. In How to Win an Indian Election, Shivam Shankar Singh, a former consultant for the BJP, chronicles the 2018 Legislative Assembly campaigns in Northeast India. Singh and his team, with a penchant for data analytics, extracted voting records and demographics from several websites, and then conducted ground-level surveys to verify said extractions and compile common concerns. The BJP focused its efforts on the battleground state, Tripura, where then incumbent Chief Minister Manik Sarkar and his Communist Party of India (Marxist), were credited for calming the ethnic violence between tribal and Bengali peoples. Yet the BJP won the narrative and thus the election – increasing their total vote share from 1.54% in 2013 to 43.59% in 2018 – via micro-targeting on curated Facebook pages and WhatsApp groups.

Facebook and WhatsApp allow parties to circulate separate messages in separate channels. For example, the BJP formed an alliance with the Indigenous People’s Front of Tripura (IPFT) to gain tribal support and push a message of unity. However, images of the IPFT and BJP karyakartas together were shared in tribal-dominated spaces but subdued in Bengali-dominated spaces, where some still carry scars of yesteryear. Take another example, voters under 35 years-old – 43.1% of the total share – viewed the decade-long peacetime as status quo and gravitated towards messages on economic development. In return, the BJP faulted the incumbent government for mishaps from a near 20% unemployment rate to the Rose Valley Chit Fund scam. All the while, the party promised to increase wages of government employees and pensioners up to twofold.

These examples of micro-targeting are relatively benign because it demonstrates an effort to appease the nuanced needs of different voting blocs. But this is the exception, not the rule. More often, micro-targeting is used to frame new narratives rather than address those that already exist.  As Singh puts it, “the [BJP] spent over Rs 4,000 crore of our taxpayer money on advertisements and now that will become the trend. Do small works and huge branding.” The emphasis on branding distracts from declining development, but also capitalizes on two things. One, that media controls, to quote Malcolm X, “the minds of the masses.” And two, that televised media and social media operate in a positive feedback loop. So, it follows that the BJP, with respect to media members, censures its critics’ scrutinies and cultivates its supporters’ Hindu-Muslim binaries.

Now, ahead of the 2024 general election, the BJP will use the consecration of the Ram Mandir to reignite their us-versus-them narrative as they did five years prior with the 2019 Balakot airstrike. The onus is on you, the viewer, to decide whether this is propaganda. Please understand that this is not a hit piece on the BJP. Rather, it is a reminder that to be a responsible viewer is to be a responsible voter. What we watch may represent how we vote, but it is also a vote in itself. While We Watched is a plea to join the resistance and vote for the mundane, muckraking journalism worthy of distinction over the performative, partisan ilk that rules our screens today.

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Stove: Masala Chai

Our conception of India is invariably linked to British rule. It houses an eclectic mix of religions and languages that may not have otherwise constituted a singular nation. The same can be said of masala chai, or plainly chai. The mixing of spices (masala) and tea (chai) – a moment of scrumptious serendipity – within a single cup arose as an early act of colonial rebellion. Leena Trivedi-Grenier explains this history on The Splendid Table, but here is the TL;DR…

Pushed out of China, the British forced tea to be grown in India. For linguists out there, the word chá, thought to be the predecessor of chai, was the Portuguese pronunciation of the Cantonese term for tea and spread through India in the 16^th century. Once they satiated the appetite of their empire, the British sold their surplus crop – that of the poorest quality – back to Indians. Although Indians were understandably repulsed by the taste, they leveraged their culinary history and added spices to render the tea palatable. Insulted by this audacity, the British shut down chaiwalas from railroads to street corners that sold the bastardized beverage. But the fixture of chai across the subcontinent and on Starbucks’ menus around the globe reveals who won this fight.

The beauty of chai lies in its heterogeneity. Despite the constancies of its base – tea, milk, and sugar – the varied spices allow each brew to yield a unique character. This can be achieved through differential selection of component spices: ginger, black peppercorn, cardamom, cloves, star anise, cinnamon, and at least half a dozen more. Or it can be achieved through differential quantities of spices. My mother likens my heavily spiced cup of choice to biryani masala, but to each their own. There are no set rules, so just have fun!

Sunny’s Recipe:

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I was no more than ten years old when my father brought home The Ten Commandments (1956) from the library. He had a closed-mouth smile – a subtle yet scarce expression – as he skipped through the film to Moses parting the Red Sea. Though he prefaced the scene as a cinematic marvel from his childhood, my blank stare left both of us underwhelmed this time around. Today, I imagine my father watching this scene some 60 years ago in Kakinada, India, and I liken him to Hugo Cabret watching A Trip to the Moon with a wide-eyed awe of the unfathomable. Most any moviegoer is familiar with this feeling; while few and far between, it is the reason we come back.

I recaptured this feeling with Society of the Snow. The film relives the harrowing survival effort of the passengers aboard Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, which included the tragic demise of some and hollow triumph of others. Set over 50 years ago and in a realm of the Andes beyond my most ambitious Patagonian itinerary, it presents a vicarious thrill for us couchbound Netflix viewers. Critic Ben Kenigsberg prefers perverse to vicarious because cinema is “less effective at capturing hunger, cold, and [the 72 day] duration.” However, I believe the audience can extrapolate these senses from their tangible (though perhaps lesser) experiences, after all cinema’s awe-inducing magic lives in the gap between on-screen realities and the limits of our imagination.

The look of Society of the Snow is admittedly monotone. The scenery is dominated by the cool color palette of the wintertime Andes, but their exotic and extensive nature elicits an immersive quality. In a Behind the Streams spotlight, visual effects supervisors, Laura Pedro and Félix Bergés explain their process to digitally alter the background of scenes shot in the Spanish Sierra Nevada with real footage from the Andean Valley of Tears. This effort honors the crew’s collective conviction to retell the events as realistically as possible, which in turn yields a truer array of emotions for us viewers. On one hand, the Andes’ enormity – in reference to both their uninhabitable altitude and arctic vigor – is terrifying. On the other hand, these snow-capped mountains, where all in sight can appear a tranquil sea of white, invite comparisons to the heavens.

This complexity anthropomorphizes the mountains into a temperamental being with capacity for good and evil. And, without any concrete perpetrator for the on-screen agony, they register as the arbiter of fate. For example, on the 17^th day of their abandonment, Roberto, Nando, and others share a few rhymes to make light of their situation until the final delivery from Numa is met with a ruckus applause. It is a cozy illustration of the camaraderie that unites this rugby team, and it is impossible not to smile here (even if it does not last). Within seconds, an avalanche demolishes the makeshift baggage barrier and floods the fuselage, burying the team in snow. Although noise is an oft-used plot device to prompt an avalanche, this association is untrue. Perhaps, this torment is instead an act against the team’s hubris: like Odysseus escaping the cyclops, the elated verses are met with a divine reminder that the journey is far from over.

To ascribe this omnipotence to nature may seem farfetched in the Christian-dominated West, but it is a common feature to non-Abrahamic religions, including the indigenous beliefs from Pre-Colombian South America. Evilio Echevarría’s Legends of the High Andes shares the myths that Indians, mestizos, and whites retold regarding the mountains, which may help answer the question Numa echoes in his closing monologue, “¿qué sentido tiene?” Consider La Lola, “the personification of snow and of snowstorms,” who the people of central Chile and Argentina depicted as an alluring woman with a murderously frigid touch. Now, consider our rugby team, who jovially concede over beers that their trip to Santiago is less for sport and more for the list of girls they met there… maybe Graciela, Silvia, and Beatriz function as the allure of La Lola.

Echevarría goes on to lament our modern world’s irreverence for these Andean myths. Mountains are now limited to their physical quantity; they are merely something to summit. While I agree with this sentiment, I also accept that changing attitudes is a perduring phenomenon in any society. In the film, a church service before the flight recites Matthew 4:3, in which Satan tempts Christ amidst his fast: “si eres el hijo de Dios, que esas piedras se convierten en panes para comer.” The parable foreshadows the cannibalistic temptations of the survivors. Although they do give in, to deem their actions sinful is ignorant to the dire circumstances… the taboos which guide life in Montevideo are incoherent with life atop the mountains. Thereby, our attitudes are subjective and ever prone to change. What is important is for us to respect these stories, morals, and other constructs within their appropriate context rather than dismiss them as oddities of a different time.

Taken one step further – though Society of the Snow invites us to consider the Andes relative to the 1972 flight disaster – to remain in awe of the mountains’ potency is myopic to their bleak reality. Today, Andean glaciers are retreating at an accelerated rate. For the water-scarce central Andean basins that rely on snowmelt, findings such as a 45% loss in glacier coverage between 1956 and 2015 in the Juncal basin forebode increased risks of drought. Practical repercussions are seen in Argentina’s Mendoza province (location of the crash site) where the increasingly arid foothills have forced laborers such as third-generation goat farmer Antonio Sazo to move to progressively higher altitudes. Human-driven causes from mining pollution to climate change are to blame, so to not at least acknowledge the ongoing perils would be, well, perverse.

To come full circle, my fascination with Society of the Snow echoes my father’s sentiment towards The Ten Commandments. It has less to do with the story itself and more to do with the opportunity to experience a world far removed from my own. Oftentimes this escapism is a respite from a monotonous grind, and sometimes it even spurs an academic intrigue. But once in a while, it recaptures that wide-eyed awe which first drew me into cinema. Sure, I am yet to summit the Andes, but this is the next best thing.

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Stove: Argentinian Malbec

Mendoza province, referenced earlier in the review, is also home to Argentina’s world-renowned wine region. It is roughly the same size as the U.S. state of Georgia and borders the Andes to the West (the mountains also mark the international border with Chile). The acclaimed vineyards are located at the foothills of the Andes, where the conditions are particularly favorable for viticulture. How so?

For one, the soil. Thousands of years ago, the glaciers retreated from the foothills and stripped the soil of its nutrients. Contrary to conventional wisdom, this is a boon for grape growing: vines will yield a lesser quantity of grapes but with more concentrated flavors. For another, the altitude. Although dwarfed by Aconcagua and surrounding summits, the foothills still stand 3,000 to 5,500 feet above sea level. Higher altitude warrants lower temperature and lower atmospheric pressure: herein the cool nighttime breeze preserves the grapes’ acidity while the more potent sunlight develops their aroma, color, and tannins.

Yet, more important than either soil or altitude, is the water. Ernesto Bajda, winemaker for Bodega Catena Zapata, notes that annual rainfall in the region is a mere eight inches. In this arid climate, vineyards and other greenery owe their existence to irrigation channels originally constructed by the Incas and later improved by the Huarpe Indians. Though irrigation affords regional winemakers near-total control over their grapes’ water supply, these channels rely on a depleting reservoir – the Mendoza River and snowmelt.  On an optimistic note, researchers have proposed high resolution cartography as a means for more efficient water-use: surface mapping and monitoring vine health should better identify when and where to irrigate.

With all this talk of terroir, what about the grapes themselves? Which varietal is Mendoza known for? In a word, Malbec. In 1868, French agronomist Miguel Pouget curated several old-world vines and introduced them to Argentina. Previously sensitive to disease in the damper conditions of its native France, Malbec has thrived in its time in the sun. Whereas French Malbec was sometimes relegated to a purple-coloring agent in blends, the Argentinian variety is widely celebrated for its own flavors – violets, dark fruits, and plums.

Here are my two cents. I am not a sommelier, and Bianca Bosker’s Cork Dork intimidated me from ever trying to be. But for occasional drinkers like me, I find Malbec to be a safe choice. The fruit-forward flavor balances the bitterness of the tannins and burn of the alcohol, even if I do grimace after my first sip. And thanks to the cheaper Argentinian peso, you can find Malbecs of similar quality to Bordeaux blends for a fraction of the cost. Cheers!

Ingredients

·       1 bottle of Argentinian Malbec

Directions

1.     Open the bottle and pour.

2.     Or, how about some more pizzazz? To abbreviate the sommelier mechanics: cut the foil just below the lower lip of the bottle. Plant the corkscrew and lever it. Pull out the cork and serve.

Considerations

It is certainly possible to open a bottle of wine with a shoe and re-cork it, but my attempts have resulted in a wine-stained ceiling and some overpriced vinegar. Instead, I recommend investing $30 or so in a waiter’s corkscrew and Vacu Vin saver pump. These will allow you to open a bottle with ease and keep the wine inside potable for a good 4-5 days.

Next, how should you select a bottle? After grape (Malbec) and region (Mendoza), what distinguishes different winemakers or grape-harvesting years? Frankly, I do not know. I rely on websites like Wine.com for their vast catalog and aggregated ratings from everyday consumers as well as panels like Decanter. My strategy is to shortlist bottles with higher user ratings and read through the panels’ tasting notes. Then, I select one which best matches my palate (e.g. rich blackberry jam) and fits within my budget (there are fantastic bottles for under $30). Enjoy!

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A refreshingly low stakes tale, The Holdovers is perhaps my favorite film of 2023. Emphasis on the low stakes here because that has seemingly become a rarity in Hollywood. Even as the industry moves away from franchise-saturated production lineups, many of the current films feel excessively weighty. For example, the summer smash hit duopoly “Barbenheimer” reconciled our existential ambiguity (Barbie) and grappled with ever-impending Armageddon (Oppenheimer).  Do not get me wrong, I enjoyed both films and the memes that preluded them, but the high stakes made for an emotionally exhausting experience.

In contrast, The Holdovers is rather restrained in its tone and theme. Set at a Massachusetts boarding school in December 1970, the film explores the day-to-day trials of three broken people: the snarky Barton student, Angus Tully (Dominic Sessa), the curmudgeonly civics teacher, Paul Hunham (Paul Giamatti), and the heartsick school cook, Mary Lamb (Da’Vine Joy Randolph). The three form a makeshift family and even manage to overlook their individual struggles as they muster up a modicum of holiday spirit. It makes for a heartfelt tale, but the emotions never fall out of hand thanks to director Alexander Payne, who routinely reels in the screenplay’s more evocative notes.

Payne understands subtlety, specifically that small gestures can be more affecting than loud actions. One striking example occurs between Mr. Hunham and Ms. Crane, his Barton colleague. The night of the Christmas party, hosted by Ms. Crane, seemingly affirms Angus’ earlier claim that the two have chemistry… the conversation starts with a peck under the mistletoe and continues with mutual complements over Mr. Hunham ‘s integrity and Ms. Crane’s sweetness. When Ms. Crane excuses herself to greet another guest, Mr. Hunham stares into the distance, unable to mask a coy smile peeking through his perpetually dreary face. Clearly, this is the first romantic spark, maybe human connection, that he has experienced in some time. No matter, a brief look-over-the-shoulder dissolves the misjudged chemistry when Ms. Crane is seen locking lips with that other guest. Mr. Hunham again stares into the distance but now without a smile nor even a frown, his one chance to feel something, anything, ended before it ever started.

Payne understands sincerity too, in that his characters are painted as the sum of their whole rather than tinted by their more polarizing traits. The Boston excursion yields a fair share of revealing moments be it Mr. Hunham’s expulsion from Harvard or the elder Mr. Tully’s whereabouts in a mental asylum. Yet the moment I found most affecting occurs at the hotel room when Mr. Hunham learns that Angus takes Librium, the same depression medication which he is prescribed. Upon the realization that a bleaker existence belies the smirking, shit-talking Angus, Mr. Hunham lets out a dejected sigh. Maybe Angus is destined to follow the melancholic footsteps of the recluse, but Payne does not let us sit with this feeling… instead, he transitions to the two at the bowling alley. Angus, with his customarily sardonic persona, jabs at Mr. Hunham’s lazy eye as he asks, “when we’re talking, which one should I look at?” This playful exchange reminds us that Angus’ identity is not wholly tethered to his medical diagnosis; besides, when we assess a person, depression (or any other ailment) is but one piece of the puzzle, not a framework to reorient all the other pieces.

And so, a through-line for The Holdovers is this notion that less is more. The film trusts us, the audience, to fill in the gaps with our own life experiences rather than fret over fully fleshing out each idea itself. Praising Payne’s deft touch is an indirect credit to the rest of his team. To use a culinary analogy, he is akin to Alice Waters serving figs on a plate (sorry, David Chang): the ingredients are so damn good themselves that they merely require a platform with minimal intervention to shine. To credit writer David Hemingson, for instance, Angus’ aforementioned jab at the bowling alley is inconspicuously sharp. Following the Librium finding, Angus recognizes that his vulnerability is exposed, so in a teenage tit for tat, his satiric quip over Mr. Hunham’s lazy eye is an attempt to get a similarly unobstructed view of him, or put simply, see eye to eye. Lest I forget to credit the actor performances too, especially given the extensive talk of Angus and Mr. Hunham, though I am yet to touch on the most impactful one.

Mary Lamb grounds a story otherwise exclusive to the privileged. Preparatory schools such as Barton Academy offer an exceptional education and a gateway to the country’s finest colleges, but, perhaps more importantly, also offer a haven adorned with Ivy-aesthetics, where the like-minded upper-class may share their formative years. None of this is lost on Mary, who jeeringly dubs the Barton students “little assholes.” She may be the help, but she is afforded more agency than the depictions of black caretakers before her (i.e. Mammy from Gone with the Wind). As she watches The Newlywed Game with Mr. Hunham, Mary reminisces over the combined effort between herself and her son, Curtis, to escape the “henhouse ladder” life of most those outside the Barton bubble. It starts with Mary accepting the job as the school cook and ends with Curtis completing his college education through the GI bill. Although Barton men can sympathize with the Lambs’ actual misfortune, they remain oblivious to its oppressive consequences.

Perhaps that is a presumptuous judgment, but one which is consistent with my own prep school experience. A fellow classmate, call him Zed, endured similar hardship to the Lambs: when most other students were chauffeured in a luxury car by one of their two parents, Zed rode three different busses on his commute between school and his single-mother-household (who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis). However, our student community seldom cared for those details – often decrying his “attempt to play the poor card” – and instead reminded Zed of his fortuitous opportunity. A foolish notion considering family background is more indicative of future success than public versus private schooling, but a sufficient notion for the stubborn. So, I am pleasantly surprised to see Mary’s struggle commemorated on the big screen, after an adjacent story before my own eyes had gone largely neglected.

Yes, some of the details in this review are somber, but nonetheless tangible and authentic too. These low notes enliven the more cheerful moments from the candy cane debauchery on ancient pottery to the noisemaker celebrations on New Year’s. Wrapped in a blanket, mug in hand, and hopefully surrounded by family, I will return to this film for many Decembers to come. Amidst the grandeur of holiday cheer, The Holdovers is a gentle hug. For me, it will serve as a reminder that more gratitude and hope can still be found in my immediate vicinity.

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Stove: Hot Chocolate

Critics and audiences alike have dubbed The Holdovers a holiday classic. In this spirit, I will pair one holiday classic with another, hot chocolate. Just writing the words “hot chocolate” elicits a cozy memory. As the evening winds down, I look out at the winter snow painting the backyard white – from the emptied deck to the barren vegetable garden to the neighbor’s already-white fence (second coating gratis). I lie on the family room couch, shielded from the elements but not from my parents’ frugal thermostat, as I sip on this sweet, sleep-inducing tonic to warm me up.

Now, the recipe for hot chocolate is more contentious. America’s favorite wintertime drink fittingly comes with a number of niche preferences. At the entry level, there is the Swiss Miss instant mix (Swiss Miss Instant Piss, as some internet users deride), and at the other end, there is the sophisticated Parisian classic: chocolat chaud à l’ancienne. However, Gustavo Arellano, author of Taco USA, notes that chocolate (and vanilla, for that matter), originated from Mexico only to be bastardized into its contemporary candied form by the Europeans (e.g. pralines). For fellow Americans who want to try an authentic cup, be on the lookout next time you are in SoCal. Arellano references Los Angeles-based Xokolatl Café, operated by Semillas Community Schools, which served to improve school funds and promote its students’ Mexican heritage. While this café has since closed, there are no shortage of Mexican restaurants to satiate your craving (e.g. CaCao Mexicatessen), hell, give the champurrado from the local tamale guys a try too.

For me, these cultural reference points are second to your personal one: so long as you enjoy the drink and the process to make it, little else matters. When I drink hot chocolate, I like a soft symphony of bitter, sweet, and salty notes on the palate followed by a slight burn with each successive swallow. And not to worry, my cooking process is relatively smooth. Once you gather the ingredients, you will be running downhill en route to a delicious cup in T-30 seconds minutes (seconds is still possible should you settle for some Swiss Piss). Here we go!

Ingredients

·       1 cup (8 oz.) water

·       25 g. dark chocolate (70%)

·       2” cinnamon (cassia) stick

·       ½ star anise whorl (4 carpels)

·       ½ tsp. vanilla extract

·       1 generous pinch of salt

·       1 cup (8 oz.) whole milk

·       4 tsp. jaggery

Directions

1.     Place the saucepan over low heat. Break the cinnamon and anise into quarters and toss them directly into the pan (~5 minutes). Note: stainless steel is preferable; do not use non-stick because the coating will fry.

2.     Add the water, dark chocolate, vanilla, and salt. Cover the pan and bring liquid to a boil. Remove cover and stir occasionally until liquid reduces by ¼ (~8 minutes). Caution: liquid will boil over if unattended.

3.     Add whole milk and jaggery. Again, cover the pan and bring liquid to a boil. Remove cover and stir occasionally until liquid reduces by ¼ (~12 minutes). Tip: adjust heat accordingly so liquid boils without rising.

4.     Remove the pan from heat and spoon out the cinnamon and star anise. Let liquid cool (~5 minutes) and serve. Drink as is, or top it off with a candy cane, toasted marshmallow, or perhaps a shot of bourbon.

Considerations

For the cinnamon and star anise, do not crush them with a mortar and pestle otherwise you will have to strain everything. Trust me, this is a pain should the chocolate fail to fully emulsify. Just break them by hand and toast them in the pan (the heat will activate their flavors all the same). For chocolate, bars are preferable to powders due to their cocoa butter. Moreover, 70% is the sweet spot: it retains the trademark bitterness and fully emulsifies with water. For me, the Ghiradelli at my local grocery works great, but feel free to give more artisan varieties a try!

For whole milk and jaggery, I understand some have dairy restrictions and jaggery is only found at South Asian groceries. My substitution suggestions are coconut milk and brown sugar, respectively. Amongst the non-dairy alternatives, coconut milk most closely resembles dairy milk with its creamy mouthfeel and higher fat content. For sweetener, although brown sugar is considerably sweeter than jaggery – 90% sucrose content versus 70% – it shares a similar caramel-like flavor (just subtract one teaspoon). Again, feel free to mix it up further – I have used oat milk and white sugar too.

Finally, a word on time and scale. The total time to prepare this hot chocolate is ~30 minutes. Because it only requires passive attention, I recommend preparing the drink in the background to other kitchen activities (e.g. cooking another dish or washing dirty dishes). The current recipe yields 1 large (12-oz.) or 2 small (6-oz.) servings, and it is easy to scale up – just increase each ingredient proportionally.  Enjoy!

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