I’m sure most South Indian households have this tradition: feeding infants with a morsel of ‘uppu nei annam’ (in Telugu it translates to salt-ghee-rice) every meal. This is a precursor to lunch or dinner.
As I child I remember distinct memories of eating this simple morsel, and wondering why this couldn’t have been a full meal in itself. You grow out of it of course, but not the taste.
My paternal grandma would insist that I eat a morsel of this everyday when I was pregnant; she said, this way the baby would have a perfect, round mouth. Didn’t make sense to me, but eat it, I definitely did!
My son will turn two soon, but I ensure he eats this everyday. At lunch with white rice, and dinner with boiled red rice! He enjoys it completely….
I know this has nothing by way of signature ingredients, and nothing gourmet, but the taste begs to differ.
All you have to do is: Once your rice for dinner pressure cooks, take a spoonful of it on to a plate, mix in some salt while it is hot (you have to play with the rice and dodge the heat while mixing), and finally add a generous dollop of homemade (I insist, homemade) ghee to it. Eat this hot. Just three basic, simple ingredients, but the flavors burst in your mouth.
It is true homecoming…..
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Kumbalappam with tea
Halasinna Hannu Kadubu is a Mangalore-origin dish. It is basically jackfruit pulp, jaggery and rice flour mixed into an idli-like batter and steamed in banana leaves. Refreshingly different taste, if you love the distinct flavor of the jackfruit.
I ate this for the first time in Halli Mane, Malleswaram, Bangalore, (though I was aware it was not the best place for an authentic version of the dish) and thought it was an extremely creative version of the idli. Jackfruits are aplenty in Mangalore and they must have found an innovative way to use it.
Recently, my mother-in-law in Cochin introduced me to Kumbalappam. I fell in love with not only the taste of this little dumpling, but the way it is made as well. This dish also establishes that cuisine has thread of continuity across cultures: here coastal Karnataka, Kerala and Sri Lanka. The Kumbalappam is a smart way to use up the plenty jackfruits that grow in almost every backyard in Kerala.
I love the taste of this steamed sweet, the only disappointment is the fibre in the fruit which persists after cooking, and probably prevents the Kumbalappam from becoming a melt-in-the-mouth dessert.
The details
Chop jackfruit into bite-sized chunks, place them into a huge vessel, and keep this on the stove.
Toss the pieces continuously and ensure the base doesn’t burn
Scrape an equal measure of jaggery into the vessel, and keep stirring so they mix well and the molten jaggery coats the fruit.
Add a good measure of powdered elaichi, for a nice flavor and aroma
As the jackfruit and jaggery cooks, it thickens, reduces in quantity and assumes a sticky texture.
When the mixture is reduced to about half, switch off the heat and allow this to cool to room temperature.
Store in airtight jars…
For Kumbalappam, take a bowl of this jackfruit mixture, and add an almost equal measure of rice flour, you have to fold the rice flour little by little into the jackfruit mixture, till it becomes a soft dough. Add crushed jeera and a little more powdered jaggery if you think the sweetness has reduced. And grated fresh coconut…
Take plenty of kumbala (bay) leaves from the garden (you get these leaves in the market). Fold the leaf to form a cone hollow, and spoon the mix into the hollow, secure with the stalk of the leaf, or use a toothpick. Make all the dumplings like this and keep ready.
Steam for 15 minutes.
Serve hot. My colleague Johnson Chacko tells me that eating this a day old, makes it taste even better. So don’t forget to keep some for the next day!
I ate this for the first time in Halli Mane, Malleswaram, Bangalore, (though I was aware it was not the best place for an authentic version of the dish) and thought it was an extremely creative version of the idli. Jackfruits are aplenty in Mangalore and they must have found an innovative way to use it.
Recently, my mother-in-law in Cochin introduced me to Kumbalappam. I fell in love with not only the taste of this little dumpling, but the way it is made as well. This dish also establishes that cuisine has thread of continuity across cultures: here coastal Karnataka, Kerala and Sri Lanka. The Kumbalappam is a smart way to use up the plenty jackfruits that grow in almost every backyard in Kerala.
I love the taste of this steamed sweet, the only disappointment is the fibre in the fruit which persists after cooking, and probably prevents the Kumbalappam from becoming a melt-in-the-mouth dessert.
The details
Chop jackfruit into bite-sized chunks, place them into a huge vessel, and keep this on the stove.
Toss the pieces continuously and ensure the base doesn’t burn
Scrape an equal measure of jaggery into the vessel, and keep stirring so they mix well and the molten jaggery coats the fruit.
Add a good measure of powdered elaichi, for a nice flavor and aroma
As the jackfruit and jaggery cooks, it thickens, reduces in quantity and assumes a sticky texture.
When the mixture is reduced to about half, switch off the heat and allow this to cool to room temperature.
Store in airtight jars…
For Kumbalappam, take a bowl of this jackfruit mixture, and add an almost equal measure of rice flour, you have to fold the rice flour little by little into the jackfruit mixture, till it becomes a soft dough. Add crushed jeera and a little more powdered jaggery if you think the sweetness has reduced. And grated fresh coconut…
Take plenty of kumbala (bay) leaves from the garden (you get these leaves in the market). Fold the leaf to form a cone hollow, and spoon the mix into the hollow, secure with the stalk of the leaf, or use a toothpick. Make all the dumplings like this and keep ready.
Steam for 15 minutes.
Serve hot. My colleague Johnson Chacko tells me that eating this a day old, makes it taste even better. So don’t forget to keep some for the next day!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Maanga jam in the Kerala monsoons
The onset of the monsoon in Kerala is magical. Perpetual rains lash across the region making the entire place lush green and beautiful....you feel closer to nature, almost like nature has firmly embraced you.
The monsoons also bring to an end the mango (maanga) and jackfruit (chakka) harvest. So before the mangos are spoiled on the tree and the jackfruit soaks up rain water and loses its sweetness, its time to preserve the fruit.
My father-in-law treats ripe mangoes really well. They deserve to be, unlike when in the city; I spot a bruise on one and immediately think of discarding it. He first cleans them well- because birds would have tried to have their share of the fruit on the tree. Then the skin and stone is separated from the flesh gently and any juice from this severance is collected in a bowl below, so none of it goes waste. Once all the pulp is collected (I am talking 50-60 mangoes, at least), it is blended well in a mixer. Blending serves two purposes—the pulp becomes of a uniform consistency, so does the flavour.
After this process,
The blended pulp is strained to separate the fibre
The blend after removing the fibre is mixed with sugar-use your discretion here as we don’t want the jam to be extremely sweet, killing the mango flavour.
Put this blended pulp and sugar on the stove on a low flame and continuously stir it.
It must bubble gently and form a skin on the surface, which can be discarded
Keep stirring until the mixture gets thicker and reduces in quantity- the mango is losing is moisture.
Once it reaches a pasty consistency, switch off the flame.
Allow this mixture to cool and store it in airtight jars-in the refrigerator.
My in-laws use this as jam on their bread, but I can think of a dozen and more things we could do with it: ice cream topping, cheese cake filling, as a blend in fruit salads…..why even some tangy vegetable salads as well. The golden yellow, gooey jam is beautiful and damn easy to make.
Try it…
Thursday, May 29, 2008
In search of set dosas
Here is an old article (more than a year-old) of mine that was published in the Deccan Herald as a middle.
It is well known how most women
crave for particular foods during
pregnancy. I too went through
immense dislike towards certain
foods and a desperate craving for
some foods (I hardly thought about
before) during my pregnancy. Set
dosas with coconut chutney and luscious
fruit salad had me in completely.
I imagined savoring morsels
of a spongy set dosa and tucking
into spoonfuls of delectable fruits
smothered with ice cream that
would taste exactly the way I wanted
it to.
I spent those nine months in
quest of this perfect meal. I tried set
dosas at almost every eatery in
town, but they just didn’t tingle my
taste buds the way I wanted them to.
And no hotel’s fruit salad made me
sigh with contention so I could stop
with my search.
Chewy dosas, the-too-thick ones,
the ones with a rancid taste, and
some that had a yucky yeasty flavor
— I discovered what a set dosa must
not taste like at all. The chutneys
spoke another tale: too watery, too
timid for the tongue, and shame-tocall-
it-a-chutney types were what I
encountered at most places. I finally
found my perfect fruit salad in a popular
dessert hangout in town and ordered
it almost everyday till I started
resembling a full-ripe pear myself.
But, no such luck with my
dosas, not yet.
Time ticked away and it was two
weeks for my delivery date. I could
no longer move about as freely with
my large belly, but I was determined
to savour merawallah dosa before
my baby came out. I decided to cook
them myself and turned to the website
for the perfect recipe and stumbled
upon a hundred variants. After
much research and running recipes
in my mind, I zeroed-in on the one
recipe I knew would yield me desired
results. I was thrilled. I prepared
the batter myself and checked
and re-checked the consistency. Satisfied,
I set it to ferment on the
kitchen counter and retired to bed. I
was just eight hours away from indulging
my cravings.
But by midnight, my baby decided
it was pointless to wait, and I was
rushed to the hospital for delivery. I
woke up from anesthetic slumber to
discover I had a baby boy and overheard
my mother and sister-in-law
discussing their enjoyable breakfast
that morning.
Sometimes, it's impossible
to wait for the favourite
food to taste perfect.
A Gastronomic Pause
The dusty winding roads, and the sweltering heat dissuades you from the three-hour journey to ‘my village’, but the pleasure of spending a weekend away from the city’s cacophony surpasses the dread of traveling.
The journey isn’t bad after all. And the familiar dilapidated school at the main road crossing brings a smile to my heart-we’d arrived. Lunch that day was cooked early morning in Bangalore and packed – fiery red mango chutney, a spicy brinjal koora, sambar comprising spinach and lentils, rice and curd. The chutney my aunt made had tiny chunks of mango that was mixed well with chilli powder, salt, jaggery and asafetida, thrown into hot oil with mustard, and simmered till they blended into a thick mass that can be spooned on to your plate. It was awesome.
The brinjal koora is as fiery. Big chunks of brinjal are cooked in hot oil with dry, grated coconut, spices, salt, and lemon juice. There is no electricity, and we’re sweating buckets as we eat. The people in the village believe this is a good way to eat – an overdose of spice and the heat makes you sweat profusely cooling the body. Interesting!
A weekend in ‘my village’ is all about food and sleep, probably with a walk that is strictly practiced during the evenings. A summer trip here warrants feasting of the local delicacies my maternal grandma would lovingly cook while we’re here: chinta chiguru pulusu, peanut chutney podi, kajjaya, and sajja rotti with onion chutney. It’s been long since grandma died, but we try to keep up the culinary tradition she set off and was so fiercely proud of.
The Sunday lunch is a bomb—rice, chinta chiguru pulusu, peanut chutney podi and curd all served generously with ghee. Rice is served with a lashing of ghee or clarified butter that is made from buffalo’s milk – delicious and distinct; you can’t wipe the taste off your mind for a long, long time. In spring or early summer, the tamarind tree blossoms with new leaves: yellow-green baby leaves that are just slightly sour to taste. These sprigs are picked and cooked with lentils, a paste of fresh coconut, shallots and jeera, salt, jaggery and spices till they form a pulpy mash— chinta chiguru pulusu— that mixes really well with the rice. This sambar also complements the local staple food: sangati (roughly translated into ragi balls). Well, this is a must-try.
The peanut chutney podi is ubiquitous in the village home. No mixers here. Just the stone hollow into which the ingredients are thrown in and pounded using a long wooden stump with the edge enameled with metal. Roasted peanuts, coarse salt, pungent tamarind, roasted red chillies, plenty of garlic, asafetida and a hint of jaggery are pounded together till they blend together beautifully into a coarse powder. This is a splendid accompaniment to lunch. Even the simple curd here has a creamy, satiny texture—made of buffalo milk. Extremely fattening…
In the evenings we walk to the village well-a massive, deep, one- nestled amidst what seems like an ancient mango grove. The sturdy branches of the grove serve well as seating for children, while the elders sit under its shade. The heavy lunch doesn’t deter us from eating more. We tear open the newspaper used to wrap the kajjayas—basically a sweet dish made out of jaggery, rice powder and til seeds in mixture patted into discs and deep fried. Hmm… beautiful.
The village hasn’t changed much; the people, the mindset, the innocence; it persists. Only a dish antenna is new, two have mobile phones, and a couple of bicycles have paved way for motorbikes. But there is an undercurrent of a pressing need to change: to adopt civilization. But till that happens, ‘my village’, is a perfect gastronomic pause, in the movie called ‘Life’.
The journey isn’t bad after all. And the familiar dilapidated school at the main road crossing brings a smile to my heart-we’d arrived. Lunch that day was cooked early morning in Bangalore and packed – fiery red mango chutney, a spicy brinjal koora, sambar comprising spinach and lentils, rice and curd. The chutney my aunt made had tiny chunks of mango that was mixed well with chilli powder, salt, jaggery and asafetida, thrown into hot oil with mustard, and simmered till they blended into a thick mass that can be spooned on to your plate. It was awesome.
The brinjal koora is as fiery. Big chunks of brinjal are cooked in hot oil with dry, grated coconut, spices, salt, and lemon juice. There is no electricity, and we’re sweating buckets as we eat. The people in the village believe this is a good way to eat – an overdose of spice and the heat makes you sweat profusely cooling the body. Interesting!
A weekend in ‘my village’ is all about food and sleep, probably with a walk that is strictly practiced during the evenings. A summer trip here warrants feasting of the local delicacies my maternal grandma would lovingly cook while we’re here: chinta chiguru pulusu, peanut chutney podi, kajjaya, and sajja rotti with onion chutney. It’s been long since grandma died, but we try to keep up the culinary tradition she set off and was so fiercely proud of.
The Sunday lunch is a bomb—rice, chinta chiguru pulusu, peanut chutney podi and curd all served generously with ghee. Rice is served with a lashing of ghee or clarified butter that is made from buffalo’s milk – delicious and distinct; you can’t wipe the taste off your mind for a long, long time. In spring or early summer, the tamarind tree blossoms with new leaves: yellow-green baby leaves that are just slightly sour to taste. These sprigs are picked and cooked with lentils, a paste of fresh coconut, shallots and jeera, salt, jaggery and spices till they form a pulpy mash— chinta chiguru pulusu— that mixes really well with the rice. This sambar also complements the local staple food: sangati (roughly translated into ragi balls). Well, this is a must-try.
The peanut chutney podi is ubiquitous in the village home. No mixers here. Just the stone hollow into which the ingredients are thrown in and pounded using a long wooden stump with the edge enameled with metal. Roasted peanuts, coarse salt, pungent tamarind, roasted red chillies, plenty of garlic, asafetida and a hint of jaggery are pounded together till they blend together beautifully into a coarse powder. This is a splendid accompaniment to lunch. Even the simple curd here has a creamy, satiny texture—made of buffalo milk. Extremely fattening…
In the evenings we walk to the village well-a massive, deep, one- nestled amidst what seems like an ancient mango grove. The sturdy branches of the grove serve well as seating for children, while the elders sit under its shade. The heavy lunch doesn’t deter us from eating more. We tear open the newspaper used to wrap the kajjayas—basically a sweet dish made out of jaggery, rice powder and til seeds in mixture patted into discs and deep fried. Hmm… beautiful.
The village hasn’t changed much; the people, the mindset, the innocence; it persists. Only a dish antenna is new, two have mobile phones, and a couple of bicycles have paved way for motorbikes. But there is an undercurrent of a pressing need to change: to adopt civilization. But till that happens, ‘my village’, is a perfect gastronomic pause, in the movie called ‘Life’.
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