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The Art of Beer and Cheese Pairing: An Indian Flavour Harmony

The Art of Beer and Cheese Pairing: An Indian Flavour Harmony

News1804-06-2025
Last Updated:
Beer and cheese or cheese snack pairing in India is a celebration of flavour, texture, and camaraderie
With today being National Cheese Day, it's time to raise a glass and celebrate the delightful union of beer and cheese: a pairing that's gaining traction in India for its unique flavors and cultural resonance. Picture this: the clinking of glasses, the enticing aroma of freshly made paneer tikka, and the lively banter of friends. These elements create the perfect backdrop for enjoying this unlikely duo, united by their shared roots in the ancient art of fermentation.
Both beer and cheese are products of this transformative process, resulting in complex flavor profiles that beautifully intertwine and elevate each other. With India's diverse range of beer styles—from crisp lagers to hoppy Indian Pale Ales (IPAs)—the possibilities for pairing are endless. This National Cheese Day, embark on your own flavour adventure with these expert pairing suggestions:
IPA & Spicy Paneer Tikka: The assertive bitterness of an IPA acts as a counterpoint to the richness and spice of the paneer tikka. The hops—often with citrusy, floral, or tropical fruit notes—complement the complex flavors of the marinade, typically made with ginger, garlic, chilies, and aromatic spices. The IPA's carbonation also helps cleanse the palate between bites, cutting through the paneer's creaminess.
Stout & Smoked Cheddar: The robust, roasted malt flavors of a stout form a perfect alliance with the smoky intensity of smoked cheddar. The stout's rich notes of coffee, chocolate, or dark fruits add a layered complexity that complements the cheese's bold character. Choose a dry Irish stout for contrast or a sweeter milk stout for a creamy companion.
Wheat Beer & Kalakand: The light, refreshing nature of wheat beer—often brewed with spices like coriander and orange peel—pairs delicately with the dense, milky sweetness of kalakand. The beer's subtle fruitiness enhances the dessert without overpowering it, while its carbonation offers a refreshing contrast to the smooth, melt-in-your-mouth texture. Try a Belgian witbier or a German hefeweizen.
Pilsner & Vegetable Pakoda: The light, crisp, and subtly bitter character of a pilsner provides a refreshing counterpoint to the fried, savory, and often spicy vegetable pakoda. Its clean finish washes away the oiliness, preparing your palate for the next bite. The pilsner's slight bitterness also pairs nicely with the spices in the batter.
Beer and cheese or cheese snack pairing in India is a celebration of flavour, texture, and camaraderie. So, gather your friends, pick your cheeses and snacks, and pour your beers. With a little experimentation and a spirit of mindful enjoyment, you'll discover a world of delicious possibilities. Cheers to the art of pairing: Indian style!
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Ireland's chamber of horrors: 800 babies buried in old septic tank; house was run by nuns
Ireland's chamber of horrors: 800 babies buried in old septic tank; house was run by nuns

Time of India

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Ireland's chamber of horrors: 800 babies buried in old septic tank; house was run by nuns

This is a representative AI image In a grim reminder of Ireland's haunting past, a mass grave containing the remains of up to 800 infants and young children is now being excavated at the site of a former mother and baby home, where today, only a single stone wall remains. Once run by Catholic nuns in a quiet Irish town, the institution's buried secrets are forcing the nation to reckon with decades of mistreatment and neglect of unmarried mothers and their children, many of whom were reportedly laid to rest in a disused septic tank, the New York Post reported. The burial site is located on the grounds of a former institution run by the Bon Secours Sisters, a Catholic order of nuns, and has become a powerful symbol of Ireland's dark history of institutional abuse. For decades, unmarried mothers were hidden away in such homes, their children taken from them and left vulnerable to neglect and mistreatment. The existence of the grave first came to light over 50 years ago when two boys stumbled across skeletal remains. But the full scale of the tragedy didn't emerge until 2014, when local historian Catherine Corless uncovered disturbing records showing that 796 children who died at the home were never properly accounted for. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Profit Trick - Read More vividtrendlab Click Here Undo Her research revealed that the remains were likely buried beneath the grounds, specifically inside a defunct sewage tank. Corless's revelations made global headlines and shocked the nation. Test excavations later confirmed the presence of numerous tiny skeletons inside the tank. Then-Prime Minister Enda Kenny described the site as a 'chamber of horrors,' sparking national outrage. Earlier, Pope Francis had publicly apologised for the Catholic Church's role in the abuse, including the forced separation of mothers and children. The Bon Secours nuns also issued a rare apology, admitting they had failed to uphold Christian values in their care of vulnerable women and children. The mother and baby homes weren't unique to Ireland—they were part of a wider Victorian-era practice of institutionalizing the poor, unmarried mothers, and vulnerable children. The Tuam home, in particular, was harsh, overcrowded, and deadly. Women were forced to work there for up to a year before being sent away—usually without their children. Accordin to the New York Post, Historian Catherine Corless' research into Tuam led to a major government investigation, which revealed that 9,000 children about 15% died in such homes across Ireland during the 20th century. Tuam, which operated from 1925 to 1961, recorded the highest death rate. Corless said her determination to uncover the truth grew stronger as she learned more. 'The more I realized how those poor, unfortunate, vulnerable kids, through no fault of their own, had to go through this life,' she added. Her research united survivors with relatives who discovered their mothers had given birth to siblings who died in these institutions. Annette McKay noted persistent denial regarding sexual abuse, rape, and incest that led women to these homes, whilst fathers avoided accountability. "They say things like the women were incarcerated and enslaved for being pregnant," McKay told the Post. "Well, how did they get pregnant? Was it like an immaculate conception?" Her mother entered the home after experiencing sexual assault as a teenager by an industrial school caretaker, where she had been placed for "delinquency" following her mother's death and father's abandonment. Margaret "Maggie" O'Connor had earlier revealed this secret only in her seventies, breaking down whilst sharing her story. In 1942, six months post-childbirth at Tuam, whilst at another facility, a nun informed O'Connor, "the child of your sin is dead." She maintained silence afterwards. Two decades later, McKay spotted a newspaper headline about a "shock discovery" in Tuam. The list included her sister, Mary Margaret O'Connor, deceased in 1943. Barbara Buckley, born at Tuam in 1957, was adopted by a Cork family at 19 months. She learned of her adoption in adulthood through a cousin and later located her birth mother via an agency. Her mother visited from London in 2000, coincidentally during Buckley's birthday, unaware of the date's significance. "I found it very hard to understand, how did she not know it was my birthday?" Buckley said. "Delving deep into the thoughts of the mothers, you know, they put it so far back. They weren't dealing with it anymore." Her mother worked in the laundry for a year before being dismissed, despite requesting to stay. She remembered only glimpses of sky above high walls. Upon departing, her mother announced she wouldn't return, citing secrecy concerns. "She said, 'I don't want anyone finding out about this,'" Buckley said, the New York Post reported. "Going back to 1957 — and it was still a dark secret," Buckley added. Pete Cochran considers himself fortunate, having been adopted at 16 months by an American family, avoiding the stigma associated with illegitimacy in Ireland. "I hope they don't find 796 bodies," he said. "That all these children were adopted and had a good life like I did."

'Just a jumble of bones.' How a baby grave discovery has grown to haunt Ireland
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'Just a jumble of bones.' How a baby grave discovery has grown to haunt Ireland

This story begins with a forbidden fruit. It was the 1970s in this small town in the west of Ireland when an orchard owner chased off two boys stealing his apples. The youngsters avoided being caught by clambering over the stone wall of the derelict Bon Secours Mother and Baby Home. When they landed, they discovered a dark secret that has grown to haunt Ireland. Explore courses from Top Institutes in Please select course: Select a Course Category Others Technology Data Science Artificial Intelligence Project Management Management MBA Design Thinking PGDM Operations Management Public Policy others Finance MCA CXO Degree Leadership Product Management Data Analytics healthcare Data Science Digital Marketing Healthcare Cybersecurity Skills you'll gain: Duration: 28 Weeks MICA CERT-MICA SBMPR Async India Starts on undefined Get Details Skills you'll gain: Duration: 9 months IIM Lucknow SEPO - IIML CHRO India Starts on undefined Get Details Skills you'll gain: Duration: 7 Months S P Jain Institute of Management and Research CERT-SPJIMR Exec Cert Prog in AI for Biz India Starts on undefined Get Details One of the boys, Franny Hopkins , remembers the hollow sound as his feet hit the ground. He and Barry Sweeney pushed back some briars to reveal a concrete slab they pried open. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Play War Thunder now for free War Thunder Play Now Undo "There was just a jumble of bones," Hopkins said. "We didn't know if we'd found a treasure or a nightmare." Hopkins didn't realize they'd found a mass unmarked baby grave in a former septic tank - in a town whose name is derived from the Irish word meaning burial place. Live Events It took four decades and a persistent local historian to unearth a more troubling truth that led this month to the start of an excavation that could exhume the remains of almost 800 infants and young children. The Tuam grave has compelled a broader reckoning that extends to the highest levels of government in Dublin and the Vatican. Ireland and the Catholic Church, once central to its identity, are grappling with the legacy of ostracizing unmarried women who they believed committed a mortal sin and separating them from children left at the mercy of a cruel system. An unlikely investigator Word of Hopkins' discovery may never have traveled beyond what is left of the home's walls if not for the work of Catherine Corless , a homemaker with an interest in history. Corless, who grew up in town and vividly remembers children from the home being shunned at school, set out to write an article about the site for the local historical society. But she soon found herself chasing ghosts of lost children. "I thought I was doing a nice story about orphans and all that, and the more I dug, the worse it was getting," she said. Mother and baby homes were not unique to Ireland, but the church's influence on social values magnified the stigma on women and girls who became pregnant outside marriage. The homes were opened in the 1920s after Ireland won its independence from Britain. Most were run by Catholic nuns. In Tuam's case, the mother and baby home opened in a former workhouse built in the 1840s for poor Irish where many famine victims died. It had been taken over by British troops during the Irish Civil War of 1922-23. Six members of an Irish Republican Army faction that opposed the treaty ending the war were executed there in 1923. Two years later, the imposing three-story gray buildings on the outskirts of town reopened as a home for expectant and young mothers and orphans. It was run for County Galway by the Bon Secours Sisters, a Catholic order of nuns. The buildings were primitive, poorly heated with running water only in the kitchen and maternity ward. Large dormitories housed upward of 200 children and 100 mothers at a time. Corless found a dearth of information in her local library but was horrified to learn that women banished by their families were essentially incarcerated there. They worked for up to a year before being cast out - most of them forever separated from their children. So deep was the shame of being pregnant outside marriage that women were often brought there surreptitiously. Peter Mulryan , who grew up in the home, learned decades later that his mother was six months pregnant when she was taken by bicycle from her home under the cover of darkness. The local priest arranged it after telling her father she was "causing a scandal in the parish." Mothers and their children carried that stigma most of their lives. But there was no accountability for the men who got them pregnant, whether by romantic encounter, rape or incest. More shocking, though, was the high number of deaths Corless found. When she searched the local cemetery for a plot for the home's babies, she found nothing. Long-lost brothers Around the time Corless was unearthing the sad history, Anna Corrigan was in Dublin discovering a secret of her own. Corrigan, raised as an only child, vaguely remembered a time as a girl when her uncle was angry at her mother and blurted out that she had given birth to two sons. To this day, she's unsure if it's a memory or dream. While researching her late father's traumatic childhood confined in an industrial school for abandoned, orphaned or troubled children, she asked a woman helping her for any records about her deceased mom. Corrigan was devastated when she got the news: before she was born, her mother had two boys in the Tuam home. "I cried for brothers I didn't know, because now I had siblings, but I never knew them," she said. Her mother never spoke a word about it. A 1947 inspection record provided insights to a crowded and deadly environment. Twelve of 31 infants in a nursery were emaciated. Other children were described as "delicate," "wasted," or with "wizened limbs." Corrigan's brother, John Dolan, weighed almost 9 pounds when he was born but was described as "a miserable, emaciated child with voracious appetite and no control over his bodily functions, probably mental defective." He died two months later in a measles outbreak. Despite a high death rate, the report said infants were well cared for and diets were excellent. Corrigan's brother, William, was born in May 1950 and listed as dying about eight months later. There was no death certificate, though, and his date of birth was altered on the ledger, which was sometimes done to mask adoptions, Corrigan said. Ireland was very poor at the time and infant mortality rates were high. Some 9,000 babies - or 15% - died in 18 mother and baby homes that were open as late as 1998, a government commission found. In the 1930s and 1940s, more than 40% of children died some years in the homes before their first birthday. Tuam recorded the highest death percentage before closing in 1961. Nearly a third of the children died there. In a hunt for graves, the cemetery caretaker led Corless across the street to the neighborhood and playground where the home once stood. A well-tended garden with flowers, a grotto and Virgin Mary statue was walled off in the corner. It was created by a couple living next door to memorialize the place Hopkins found the bones. Some were thought to be famine remains. But that was before Corless discovered the garden sat atop the septic tank installed after the famine. She wondered if the nuns had used the tank as a convenient burial place after it went out of service in 1937, hidden behind the home's 10-foot-high walls. "It saved them admitting that so, so many babies were dying," she said. "Nobody knew what they were doing." A sensational story When she published her article in the Journal of the Old Tuam Society in 2012, she braced for outrage. Instead, she heard almost nothing. That changed, though, after Corrigan, who had been busy pursuing records and contacting officials from the prime minister to the police, found Corless. Corrigan connected her with journalist Alison O'Reilly and the international media took notice after her May 25, 2014, article on the Sunday front page of the Irish Mail with the headline: "A Mass Grave of 800 Babies." The article caused a firestorm, followed by some blowback. Some news outlets, including The Associated Press, highlighted sensational reporting and questioned whether a septic tank could have been used as a grave. The Bon Secours sisters hired public relations consultant Terry Prone, who tried to steer journalists away. "If you come here you'll find no mass grave," she said in an email to a French TV company. "No evidence that children were ever so buried and a local police force casting their eyes to heaven and saying, 'Yeah a few bones were found - but this was an area where famine victims were buried. So?'" Despite the doubters, there was widespread outrage. Corless was inundated by people looking for relatives on the list of 796 deaths she compiled. Those reared with the stain of being "illegitimate" found their voice. Mulryan, who lived in the home until he was 4½, spoke about being abused as a foster child working on a farm, shoeless for much of the year, barely schooled, underfed and starved for kindness. "We were afraid to open our mouths, you know, we were told to mind our own business," Mulryan said. "It's a disgrace. This church and the state had so much power, they could do what they liked and there was nobody to question them." Then-Prime Minister Enda Kenny said the children were treated as an "inferior subspecies" as he announced an investigation into mother and baby homes. When a test excavation confirmed in 2017 that skeletons of babies and toddlers were in the old septic tank, Kenny dubbed it a "chamber of horrors." Pope Francis acknowledged the scandal during his 2018 visit to Ireland when he apologized for church "crimes" that included child abuse and forcing unmarried mothers to give up their children. It took five years before the government probe primarily blamed the children's fathers and women's families in its expansive 2021 report. The state and churches played a supporting role in the harsh treatment, but it noted the institutions, despite their failings, provided a refuge when families would not. Some survivors saw the report as a damning vindication while others branded it a whitewash. Prime Minister Micheal Martin apologized, saying mothers and children paid a terrible price for the nation's "perverse religious morality." "The shame was not theirs - it was ours," Martin said. The Bon Secours sisters offered a profound apology and acknowledged children were disrespectfully buried. "We failed to respect the inherent dignity of the women and children," Sister Eileen O'Connor said. "We failed to offer them the compassion that they so badly needed." The dig When a crew including forensic scientists and archaeologists began digging at the site two weeks ago, Corless was "on a different planet," amazed the work was underway after so many years. It is expected to take two years to collect bones, many of which are commingled, sort them and use DNA to try to identify them with relatives like Corrigan. Dig director Daniel MacSweeney , who previously worked for the International Committee of Red Cross to identify missing persons in conflict zones in Afghanistan and Lebanon, said it is a uniquely difficult undertaking. "We cannot underestimate the complexity of the task before us, the challenging nature of the site as you will see, the age of the remains, the location of the burials, the dearth of information about these children and their lives," MacSweeney said. Nearly 100 people, some from the U.S., Britain, Australia, and Canada, have either provided DNA or contacted them about doing so. Some people in town believe the remains should be left undisturbed. Patrick McDonagh, who grew up in the neighborhood, said a priest had blessed the ground after Hopkins' discovery and Masses were held there regularly. "It should be left as it is," McDonagh said. "It was always a graveyard." A week before ground was broken, a bus delivered a group of the home's aging survivors and relatives of mothers who toiled there to the neighborhood of rowhouses that ring the playground and memorial garden. A passageway between two homes led them through a gate in metal fencing erected to hide the site that has taken on an industrial look. Beyond grass where children once played - and beneath which children may be buried - were storage containers, a dumpster and an excavator poised for digging. It would be their last chance to see it before it's torn up and - maybe - the bones of their kin recovered so they can be properly buried. Corrigan, who likes to say that justice delayed Irish-style is "delay, deny 'til we all go home and die," hopes each child is found. "They were denied dignity in life, and they were denied dignity and respect in death," she said. "So we're hoping that today maybe will be the start of hearing them because I think they've been crying for an awful long time to be heard."

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