Jack Of All Fruits

‘The Jackfruit Company’ said the label and ‘Pulled Pork,’ the product. Our humble chakka and pork? That is interesting, I thought and checked the ingredients. ‘Young Jackfruit, Water, Expeller Pressed Canola Oil, Pea Protein, Sea Salt, Yeast, Smoked Sugar, Onion Powder, Garlic Powder, Black Pepper.’ But where did the pork go? That is when realization dawned. The links that were flooding my timeline which as usual were skipped for meatier contents. The new age miracle food that is apparently creating storms across chef’s tables in western world. ‘The perfect whole food plant-based meat alternative,’ said the experts. Is it all a dream, I wondered. And as is my usual wont, closed my eyes and set out on a trip of more than a few thousand miles, back to that sleepy village by the river Pamba.

The trees stood like an afterthought. One here, one there, minding its own business and demanding nothing but some space in the yard. I am not sure whether anyone even seriously planted a seed or sapling. Maybe it just grew by itself from a nut that was discarded carelessly. Its childhood would have been slightly tough if there were goats around, the leaves were their favorite food. Growing up without much ado, the fruits would start sprouting after three to four years.

The outer layer looks like the face of a teenager with an acute case of pimple break outs. The heart though is another story altogether. It takes one form when raw and a totally different one when ripe. Just like that teenager. I have seen only two types of chakka, the firm and strong varikka and the coy and mellow koozha. And may be one more, the much-coveted sub species, the thenvarikka, so called for its honey like sweetness. The fruits would usually be left undisturbed to languish by itself until they reached the stage of just before turning ripe.

Cutting the fruit and separating the chula is not for the mild hearted. A large knife sharpened to perfection, one or two strong strokes across the middle, it would open its heart wide and lay bare in front of you, ready to be torn apart. Woe betide you if you forgot to coat your hands in ample amounts of coconut oil, for this can be a sticky affair. The sap gets attached to you quite easily and getting it off your hands can be quite a task.

The raw ones were taken down occasionally to make the mouth watering puzhukku. The petals are cut into small pieces and boiled in water until it turns soft. Meanwhile a concoction of grated coconut, shallots, green chillies, a few pinches of cumin and turmeric powder gets ground on stone. This is then dumped on top of the now soft chakka pieces, covered and cooked for a few minutes. Once the raw smell goes off, everything is mixed well, a teaspoon or so of coconut oil and few sprigs of curry leaves added and the puzhukku is ready. Paired with kaanthaari chutney or fiery red fish curry, this is one of the tastiest breakfast or evening dishes you could ever think of. The plethora of raw jackfruit preparations that we see marketed across the world today singing paeans to its nutritious value tells us how wise our ancestors were. Another much coveted raw jack fruit preparation is the fried version, the chakka varuthathu. Split open just at the right stage, somewhere between raw and ripe, the flowers are expertly cut into long pieces, smeared with turmeric, fried crisp until golden in coconut oil and sprinkled with salt. The thinner the strips, the higher your expertise in making this. As for devouring it one after another, anyone could lay claim to be a master.

The fun starts as the fruit ripens. You don’t have to keep a tab; your nose will tell you when it is ready. I have heard people say it stinks, but then what do those amateurs know of golden ambrosia? The thenvarikka takes precedence everywhere. The easiest of all is the chakka puttu. Replace the grated coconut with sliced chakka chula and voila, a meal by itself is ready. No sides required, for this one.

The ingredients in almost all the sweet dishes are more or less the same. Jaggery, grated coconut, powdered cardamom, dried ginger and some flour. The mix, what you wrap it in, and the strength of your forearms makes all the difference. The first version has a wrapped and non-wrapped version. Melt the jaggery, add grated coconut, cardamom powder and a pinch of salt. Slowly sauté until everything is mixed well, the chakka pieces should retain its identity and not lose itself in the mix. This is used as a filling, also eaten as such when the spirits of gluttony gets out of control. The outer covering is of rice flour made into a dough with salt and water. This is gently spread into a thin oblong on banana leaves. The filling is spread on one side, and the leaf gently folded to close it. Steamed in a traditional appa chembu , this is the famous ada. The banana leaves impart its own flavor into the ada as it sweats itself out and droops in the steam. Another version is to fill the chakka mix inside a ball of the same dough and steaming it. The chakka kozhukkatta.

The kumbil was made from the koozha species. The chulas would be a gooey mess and you just have to press it neatly through a sturdy sieve. The standard ingredients along with a few pinches of cumin seeds, the jackfruit paste mixed into it and rice flour added little by little, the consistency have to be neither too thick nor too loose. Next comes the tricky part. Leaves of cinnamon tree have to be deftly shaped into cones, filled with the chakka mix and covered with one end of the leaf. Sometimes the leaves are also kept in place with sticks of coconut leaves. Steaming it is, again. Another one for the evening snacks.

The next version test your patience and strength. The ingredients are pretty much the same again. A fairly large uruli would be hoisted on a triangle of stones, jaggery melted in it and sliced pieces of jackfruit added. It would be stirred relentlessly; the intent is not to allow it to stick to the vessel. The mixture boils and hisses in anger at first, and then slowly hardens itself into reality. At this stage ghee is added little by little to make it pliant. Dried ginger powder added a little later and after a couple of hours, the whole thing gathers into a mass and gets detached from the vessel. This is now transferred into a flat vessel smeared with ghee and shaped into balls or cut into flat pieces. The chakka varattiyathu is ready. Somewhere along the process if wheat flour, more ghee and fried cashew nuts are added, this turns into halwa. There are differing opinions, some say varattiyathu and halwa are the same. Cousins and friends couldn’t shed light on this dilemma, but an aunt confirmed it. My taste buds seldom lie or forget, I knew. I remember the distinct tastes of each, ammachi’s chakka halwa was my favorite. The varattaiyathu will always remain the poor cousin.

Talking about chakka, how can one forget its kuru,? Never discarded, these were dried in the sun and added to a list of curries. By itself with some shallots , chilli powder and turmeric, it transforms itself into the tastiest mezhukku puratti, added to pieces of mango and ground coconut gravy it turns itself into the lip smacking chakka kuru maanga curry, prawns and mango pieces in coconut milk converts this into a non veg curry, how much more versatile can a fruit be?

The daughter comes in to ask something and I am jolted out of my reverie. I am pulled back to the label with its promises of meat like texture. Yes, or no? There can never be a substitute for certain things in life, I realize. It was the taste of the land that added flavor to those dishes of yore, further sweetened by the banter of my grandmother and her helpers, the gossip, tears and a few drops of sweat they added, and the most important ingredient of all, the abundance of love that was poured into it that made it special. No promises of meat like taste can replace it. Ever.

chakka – jackfruit

varikka, koozha, thenvarikka – varieties of jackfruit

chula – individual fruits inside the jackfruit

puzhukku – steamed version of raw jackfruit with some spices

kaanthaari – bird’s eye chilli

appa chembu – vessel used for steaming food

varuthathu – fried

uruli – large heavy bottomed vessel made of bell metal

varattiyathu – a sweet sautéed dish

kuru – seed

ammachi – grandmother

mezhukku puratti – savoury sautéed dish

maanga – mango

’Maambazhakkalam,’ (The Season of Mangoes )

In another time and in a long-forgotten reality, it would have been summer holidays now and a young girl in a white petticoat would have been sitting dreamily under a mango tree. A book in one hand, a half-eaten mango in the other, yellow juice dripping down her chin, she would be glancing up now and then, waiting for the next perfect one to fall.

We were a blessed lot; summer was a time to be lazy. Even more blessed were we to spend those months between two villages in Kuttanad— Kavalam and Pulincunnu. Two grandmothers as different as chalk and cheese, or should I say cake and halwa? The paternal one was a rowdy and the maternal one prim and proper, the epitome of grace. Maybe the only factor that was common between the two were the trees of mangoes that adorned their yards. But then, even those trees were different in their own way.

The yard was Kavalathammachi’s kingdom. And come summer, mangoes were the queens. Last I remember, there were seventeen of them, not one the same as the other. All of them planted, watered and lovingly nurtured by her. On the right side in the front of the house was the slightly plump Moovandan, just behind the house was the lanky Neelam, strutting in the wind like a model cat walking on a ramp. There was the huge rounded Suvarnarekha, a perennial favorite of the worms. Getting a completely unblemished one was a miracle. The rest of them were like us kids, urchins. The uppu maanga mangoes knew their purpose in life and they gave birth to symmetrically rounded ones. There was another longish one that did not have any name in particular but continued to give us the sweetest of fruits without any complaint. It was the chakiri maanga that won our hearts hands down though. The ripe ones still maintained its green colour towards the tip. It was the root that showed its true colours. Light purple on the verge of turning yellow was the perfect state. The tree waited for breezy afternoons and us. Thud, thud, thud, the mangoes would drop. And we would dart here and there searching for the perfect ones. Wiping it on the petticoat was cleaning enough. An expert nip at the tip, a perfect hole would form and then the feast would commence. You had to suck the juices out just so, that the skin doesn’t break till the end. Then you rip the skin off, turn it inside out, pass it through your teeth, polish it clean and throw it away. Next you turn your attention to the seed. You pass it in and out of your mouth in sweet abandon, all that is left would be a squeaky-clean remnant that was finally tossed away casually. Eating a mango like that is an art by itself, you see. Only for connoisseurs. Peeling the skin off with a knife, cutting it delicately and eating it daintily is for amateurs.

A ripe mango, fallen off the tree, lies hidden in the undergrowth

If half of them were collected after having voluntarily fallen from the trees, the special ones were carefully plucked, dropped into nets below gently. They were brought home in separate groups. Washed and patted dry, one set would go into huge earthen pots, the quintessential Kerala bharanis filled with saltwater, to lay supine for months until their perkiness had mellowed enough. Have you ever breathed in the fragrance when those bharanis were opened? That was just the prelude. Red chillies roasted in a bit of coconut oil and crushed using a pestle and mortar along with a few green chillies dropped on top of the soaked mangoes, a little more coconut oil added to it and then everything crushed together by hand. Steaming hot kanji in a bowl and this concoction on top of it, slowly mixed with your fingers. The aroma that wafts up your nose would turn into a showerof euphoria in the mouth and that Nivin Pauly-esque dialogue would escape your lips, “ente saare..”

Few others would be cut into perfect squares and rectangles, ready to be pickled, red and yellow. The turn of the nameless came last. Abandoned in non-decrepit aluminum buckets, they would wait patiently for ammachi.  After her morning duties got over, she would take her seat in the veranda, stretch her legs wide, place a wide container between and a muram in her hand. One by one the mangoes would be peeled and the juices sieved through. The skins were carefully set aside. The yearly ritual would start. Mats made from kaitha (screw pine) would be ready in the hot sun. The thick juice would be spread evenly and left in the hot sun until evening. A new layer would be added each day. After 3-4 days, some roasted rice powder would be added along with some sugar for adjusting the taste. A few layers over the next few days with some change in proportions of the ingredients and a final coating of 2-3 layers of just the juice again. Dried in the sun during day time and rolled up in the evenings, the process would continue until almost the end of the holidays. We would wait in excitement for the final unravelling. The juice and rice powder dried into a thick mat would be gently detached, the mat would have left its trademark criss-cross pattern on it. The maanga thera was ready for storing. Cut into smaller rolls, these would go into yet another set of bharanis, to be relished after the season was over. Ammachiwould reluctantly give us a few tiny pieces, for her everything had to be had in its own time. Meanwhile, the skins would have started another life, salted, dried and pickled. Finger licking delicious.

Have you ever wondered whether the place you inhabit imbibe its character from you? I don’t wonder, I know. If Kavalam house was as wild and free as the grandmother there, Pulincunnu house was all about grace and perfection. Not for Pulincunnilammachi the nameless mangoes and afternoons spent in abandon. The trees had a purpose and they fulfilled it without fail, year after year. Only the classy ones were allowed to grow. Plucked with utmost care just before they turned ripe they would be laid on beds of hay, each type in its own group. As with everything else, eating mangoes were also a ceremony by itself. After lunch was over, grandfather would slowly get up from the head of the table, walk over to the mango room, pick a few ripe ones discerningly, hand it over to one of us and make his way back to the table. The others would be waiting patiently for his return. The ritual would start, first cut at the root, then perfect slices one after another that were circulated around the table. Meanwhile, a mount of skins would pile up in front of him. A true lover of mangoes, he was. And poor diabetic ammachi would be left with a few small slices.

We grew up and apart. The ammachi of lush green fingers passed away one rainy June in Kavalam. December came first and then January and even February. The much-awaited flowers refused to show their faces, not one of them bore fruit that year. They were grieving their mother. Whoever said plants and trees do not have feelings never knew my ammachi and her mango trees.

Years passed by, our visits home grew few and far in between. The chakiri maanga tree dried away, maybe it had lost its purpose in life. Mummy followed ammachi and the house was locked up. The yard grew even wilder. My sister, our kids and I went back a few years ago, in another May. I wandered around aimlessly, longing for a bite of my favorite mango, to have a drop of that fall on my dress, knowing it was an empty hope, a dream that was never to be. All of a sudden, my eyes caught a patch of green under the grass. Gold! Breathless, I looked around. Away from where the old one stood, another one was swaying its branches in the breeze, laden with green tipped, purple-turning-yellow-at-the-roots ambrosia. A seed thrown away casually years ago, maybe. No, surely.

ammachi – grandmother

Kavalathammachi – grandmother in Kavalam

Pulincunnilammachi – grandmother in Pulincunnu

uppu manga – mangoes marinated in brine for a few months

chakiri maanga – mangoes with fibers as thick as the husk of a coconut

Published here – https://www.kochipost.com/2020/05/10/the-delirious-ritual-of-mango-eating/?fbclid=IwAR3Zg-OdPcJhazHYrcarKq9E-VJY9MDAN634DmyEizPNJEnE0vNA2AKolRo

 

An Ode to Duck Roast

The room and the table. Whether the room was built for the table or the other way round would be a chicken and egg story. The truth was they were a perfect pair, made for each other. Just enough space for people to walk around it in comfort, the table lorded over the room. On a normal day, ten people could easily sit around it. And on special days another four could be squeezed in without much ado.

A bottle or two of pickle made from home grown mangoes or lemon, a jar of rock salt and a few glasses were permanent residents there. Others would come and go depending on the time of the day and who was sitting around it. Puttu that felt like fluffy pieces of cloud was an infidel. Her partner would change according to the fancies of the queen of the kitchen. If it was egg roast one day,  it would be the turn of kadala the next day. Ripe palayamkodan or njaali poovan pazhams mashed to an almost liquid state at times, honey or paani at others, sometimes even treasured pieces of meat or fish pickle from the store room, boredom was never associated with this beauty. Appams that were as soft as the skin on my ammachi’s face and stew was a Sunday staple. For ordinary minions like us, it would be chicken.

Fish was a staple for lunch. River fish was the choice of flavor, anything else would be blasphemy for a race surrounded by water. The usual concoction would be red in colour and the inhabitants a kaari or a manja koori. These species are apparently extinct now. Anyway, coming back to the table, the king of all, karimeen used to make its appearance quite frequently. The normal avatar was either a fried version or a mappas.

The whole table would change its form with the appearance of guests. The stature of the guest would decide who the new actors would be in place of the usual ones. Puttu would make its way for appam irrespective of which day of the week it was. Duck would replace chicken in the stew and metamorphoses itself into the tastiest of roasts. Potatoes dunked in just the right amount of salt , fried into perfect rounds would form the border in the serving dish. And additional course of bread and fish molee would be added to lunch. The karimeen fry would retain its royal space at the center of the table along with crisp and spicy beef cutlets. Thinly sliced onions and green chilies vigorously rubbed with pure kallu vinegar gave them company. The dessert, inevitably the delicate pineapple pudding, turned upside down with a perfect deft of hand and swaying coyly in an equally delicate serving dish. In fact, turning this into the dish without even a tiny crack was a test every newly wed bride that came into the family had to pass, to be accepted as a worthy member of the brood.

And then there was the legend. Once, at the most twice a year. Specially made with love, care and uninhibited pride. A favorite brother in law, a pair of newly weds that had to  be impressed, the revered priest in the family, you had to be a certain level above the cut to be honored with this. Hatched at home, brought up on the best of feed, an ugly duckling that turned into a prince with its shining green head and white, black and gray plumage, its day had arrived. Catching it was child’s play. Unlike the chickens that roamed around, the ducks were always cordoned off except in the evenings when they were led to their customary frolic in the canal.

The duck would sense its destiny, for there would be a trail of shit on the way it was carried. One of the house helps would place its head on a stone on which the knife was sharpened a few minutes ago. A nick, and off the head would go. The next step was to dunk into boiling water and then pluck the feathers. These were stubborn ones, and unless you were quick and thorough, new ones would come up. Yes, they had a life of their own. Cleaned to perfection, it would now be handed over into ammachi’s expert hands. I have no clue what happened there, and no one in the family seem to have, either. Maybe she guarded the secret with her life. Some chilies, ginger, garlic would be crushed, the hero’s body would glisten with home made butter. Potatoes cooked, mashed and mixed with some concoction would be stuffed into its belly, the open hole at the rear stitched together with a twain, and the legs would be tied together in a submissive pose. The poor thing would look as though praying with for mercy with folded legs.

The Racold oven with its teal coloured door would be hot and ready by then. In would go the duck, placed on a large tray. And the wait would be begin. After half an hour so, the noses would start tickling, even the most insensitive ones couldn’t have missed the heavenly aroma. The door would be opened in between, the duck turned around, some more butter splashed on top and the baking would continue.

The oblong porcelain dish, decorated with artistically arranged chopped tomatoes and fried potatoes would be ready by the time the pièce de ré·sis·tance was brought out of the oven. The dish would be placed ceremonially at the center of the table, only after the guests of honor were seated around it. And it was only ammachi that had the right to that royal procession  from the oven to the table. All the karimeens and cutlets of the world would be forgotten for the next few hours. Yes, meals those days were ceremonies that lasted for hours.

Ammachi’s whole duck roast was the stuff of legend our childhood was made of. As we grew up and she grew old, its appearances were few and far in between, until it finally stopped. By then, ducks had also become a commodity that was bought instead of being reared at home. None of her progeny even dared to make an attempt at it, but then, even an attempt at replicating perfection would have been a poor form of imitation in this case. The legendary stories went on and we continued reminiscing about it. The taste, the prefect shade of brown every single time, how the potatoes inside came out without even a small lump in it, how the juices would ooze out thick, never flowing like water. We almost lusted after it, trying to rebuild the taste on our tongues and in our minds. Until the last vacation.

As always, the bedroom was the place we congregated. The whole family would lie criss cross on two beds, like packed sardines. Uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, children, grandchildren, there was no hierarchy there. Those who couldn’t find a place on the bed would be spread on the floor, no pose was uncomfortable. Inevitably, the conversation would wind its way to food. How the fishes of old days had disappeared, how the readymade spices couldn’t hold a light to the ones grown, dried and powdered at home, how the ducks no more tasted the same. And then the whole duck roast. As we eulogized it for the umpteenth time, one of my cousins dropped the bomb, “Chechi, do you remember ever having a piece of it?” Looks of confusion, consternation and utter despair passed on from one face to another. None in our generation, not even the eldest grandchild that I was could remember having it. We had devoured it with our eyes, inhaled it in like the headiest of perfumes, salivated after it until our mouths turned into an ocean, but a piece of it passing our lips and stimulating our taste buds for real? Never.

The revered guests wouldn’t leave even a crumb of it. Ever.

 

My mother is coming out of me 😳

 

You look up to her in your childhood, hate her in your teens, promise yourself never to bring up your kids like she did hers, slowly start understanding her in your youth, start loving her again after you get married, look at her with awe when you start bringing up your own kids and ultimately turn out to be her. Whether you like it or not 😉

Cutlets are a staple on Syrian Christian dining tables. And for a young mother who had to pack five lunch boxes every morning, it was a life saver. The accompanying concoction of sliced onions, tomatoes and green chilies mixed with vigor in the ‘naadan kallu’ vinegar was to die for. The very memory of that rice that had been blessed with the essence of this combo can still make my mouth filled with water that is enough to launch at least one of those proverbial ships. No wonder, Beef cutlets are a staple on all our tables too. And if that was not enough, she had made my son eat enough of her kickass combo of ‘kanji,’ ‘payar’ and cutlet to make him a slave to these for life. My mother, who must be chuckling away to glory in her heavenly abode. Blessed be her soul as were the cutlets that she fed us all her life long.

Believe it or not, for the first time in my life, I’ve started packing lunch boxes. May the soul of their old school be blessed, them that served nutritious lunch to scores of children over the years. And may the unearthly amount that we had to dish out as fees may lay forgotten. Anyway, coming back to the point of lunch, for the first two days I was all excited like a kid on the first day of her school enjoying the rains, grilling chicken and making steaks out of Beef. Then started the longing, for those maid-en days. When kitchen was a place I visited, maybe to get a glass of water, once in a long while. By the time it is Sunday noon, realization hits. No amount of sweet nostalgia is going stop me from being hit by bouts of reality. Better earlier than at five o’clock on a Monday morning.

So I turn into my mother. Churning out cutlet after cutlet on a Sunday afternoon. And I know this is the beginning of a weekly ritual.

p.s. Now, I am worried. What if my daughter turns out into me ? 🤔🤔🤔

The Last Letter

Our family was never ‘photographic.’ Search high and low, far and wide, it is next to impossible to find pictures of us from childhood. Now that I think about it, we have seen more pictures of our mother as a kid than  those of the five of us put together. Did my parents have an aversion to studios, I wonder. Or maybe they just didn’t have the time, in between bringing up the brood.

There were letters galore, though. Staying in the small town of Alleppey, a grandmother in the nearby village of Kavalam and a set of grandparents in neighbouring village of Pulincunnu, the letters were mostly triangular. I do remember my father’s strong, slanted handwriting, those were official writings in blue black Chelpark ink, though. The blue inland letters were always feminine. The neat and tidy, tiny words from Kavalam and the large, rounded words, as perfect as her fluffy palappams, from Pulincunnu. Telephones were rare and letters were the only form of communication, unless someone visited. Yes, I was reared in pre historic times 🙂

We were forced into this habit as we grew up. As the eldest in both sides of the family, the onus of keeping this tripartite communication alive slowly fell on me. And it would be a lie if I told you I didn’t enjoy it. We were masters of space management, the two grandmothers and me. We would first take up all the space in the three ‘pages’ of the inland, then write on the margins , sometimes even in the space provided for the return address. Born story tellers, we were. My paternal grandmother would even add some sentences in English and would remind us from time to time with a twinkle in her eyes, “I was taught by European nuns, unlike the less fortunate you.”

Count of coconuts, accounts of activities in the yard, the state of mangoes that year, the feasts in the church, maids come and gone, family news of old retainers, births, weddings and deaths, visits from relatives – letters from the paternal side was more in the nature of a statement of account – what came in and what went out. The maternal ones were, well, more maternal in nature. Rounds of how each member of the family was faring, each of us kids asked for by name, news of cows giving birth along the women in the family who followed suit, chickens and ducklings hatched and snatched by eagles and crows, the letters were more about what grew and did not. As holidays neared, we would wait eagerly to know who would be coming when to take us home. For, home was never the house we stayed in ten months round the year. Home was always where the heart was – split between two villages.

When did we as siblings start writing to each other? The first ones would definitely have been from me, the first one to leave the pack to far away Ernakulam. Who did what in the hostel, which audit I was on, which clients provided the best food for free, there was nothing that the family did not know of. And in return, I continued to get news of what was happening back in the two villages, the parents had shifted back to Kavalam by then. The triangle turned into a square as another corner was added. One of the sisters got married off to the till then uncharetered territory of northern Kerala.

It was three years after her marriage that we lost one of us. There were hardly any pictures to remember her by, not that any of us needed it. Bonds of heart are far stronger than the most beautiful of pictures, we have realised since then, as we lost our mother a few years later. There are moments though, when we long for a touch, a word or two in their voices, something, anything, that was tangible. Not to remember them,   just to feel their presence, even if it was for a few ephemeral moments.

There are some books that are my favourites. They have a strange habit of disappearing at frequent and infrequent intervals. And they reappear months , sometimes years later, right in time when I need them. Only when I need them. It was a prayer book this time, an unusual one. The one that was my solace in my years of questioning God, those years of searching for the meaning of everything. Had it gone missing, or was it that I’d forgotten about it? I don’t remember. But it was definitely one of those days, when the yearning was too strong, the longing too difficult to get over, that it resurfaced. Surprising me. With a letter, the last one she’d written to me. Maybe the last one she’d written to anyone.

It’s 21 years today, since the then 21 year old wrote it.

What would we remember each other by, I wonder. Facebook posts, Instagram pictures, long forgotten Tweets? And I shudder.