There are many family stories that revolve around my maternal grandmother’s gastronomical talents. How every Sunday she’d rush to Russell Market in Bangalore to get the best cuts of meat. And make a big pot of fragrant and rich mutton curry, redolent with freshly ground spices. This was a woman who didn’t eat meat but cooked it for her family and, more importantly, her gardener. My grandmother loves her garden, and god forbid, if the man who tended to it left. So she showed him her appreciation by serving him hot curry on heaps of white rice. I am happy to report it worked and he stayed with them until they eventually moved.
Her cakes are another source of legend — moist carrot cakes, warm banana bread, vanilla sponge cake slathered with jam — teatime always featured a cake. And for her kids’ birthdays, she’d bake massive, decadent creations. When my mother was working at The Taj in the early 80s, my grandmother baked a three-tier chocolate cake for her birthday that she took to work. Within minutes, it was polished off by her colleagues and even the hotel’s chefs were singing its praise.
But, for all this talk of cakes and curries, the one dish I always go back to is grandmother’s humble idli.
Growing up, my younger siblings and I were packed off to our grandparents’ in Bangalore to spend our summer holidays. Seemingly endless days stretched ahead of us; we’d play with our friends, swim, devour copious amounts of books borrowed from the local library (this was the 90s folks, before smartphones and tablets), and eat the wonderful things my grandmother would whip up.
Hearty holidays
We always stopped what we were doing for meal times. For lunch, one day, there might be tart and sweet vathakuzhambu, rice, keerai masiyal and fried baby potatoes; that very night, we’d probably have creamy vegetable casserole and hot potato and leek soup for dinner. Oh! How could I forget teatime! There would usually be a cake and buttery sandwiches, washed down with mugs of Horlicks. It’s no wonder we went back home at the end of our holidays a few kilos heavier.
But what we looked forward to was breakfast! We’d never have to be woken up in the mornings. We’d race to the table to tuck into puris and jhunka (a Maharashtrian dish made out of besan), or crepes filled with a mix of bananas, honey and cream; some mornings there’d be sooji porridge or semiya upma or even dhoklas with green chutney. But, the days we had idlis for breakfast were my favourite.
Soft, melt-in-your-mouth, hot idlis. Fluffy little pillows — not too big, not too small and steamed to perfection — smothered in idli podi and drenched in nallennai (gingelly oil). There’d be garlicky coconut-coriander chutney on the side or a bowl of spicy sambar. My siblings and I have spent many delicious summer mornings at my grandparents’ dining table competing over which of us could eat the most number of idlis. My brother always won.
My grandmother says she isn’t fond of cooking, but she certainly has the knack for it. She has always worked, first as a teacher, then for a newspaper, and now as a counsellor. And years of heavy medication for her asthma have left her hands trembling and shaky. But none of that’s got in the way of her preparing elaborate meals for her family. Her tattered recipe book with the faded red cover and spotted with food stains still sits in the bookshelf near her kitchen. It’s filled with handwritten recipes, collected from friends and magazines, for everything from meringues to meatloaf. Ironically, the only dish she had trouble with for the longest time were my beloved idlis. ‘I could never get them right,’ she tells me. ‘They were like rocks when we were growing up,’ adds my mum.
Scoop from the top
Luckily, by the time we came along, she had perfected it. She met a caterer who supplied idlis to the railways and jotted down his recipe. She asked my paternal grandmother for her idli recipe. A house-help once told her to add poha to the batter. A friend told her to make sure the urad dal was ground very finely. Someone else instructed her to never stir the batter once it had risen, but to gently scoop it up from the top. It seems I have an army of people to thank for her idlis.
I’ve seen her measure and soak the rice and dal. I’ve heard the loud grinding of rice in the hefty stone grinder, while I’ve been reading at the dining table. I’ve wandered into the kitchen to watch the resulting batter being poured into large steel dishes to rise overnight. But it all seems a sort of alchemy to someone like me who can’t even make a decent cup of tea.
Recently, we shifted to Bangalore. We are staying a stone’s throw away from my grandparents. There were many reasons we made the move; a better job, family support, good schools. But, access to my grandmother’s cooking also had something to do with it. Few of us get to relive our childhood. Now, I watch my daughter eat idlis made by my grandmother. She is relishing them at the very same dining table I’ve spent so many happy hours eating at. And I am eternally grateful.
Recipe
Coconut-Coriander Chutney
1. In a spoonful of ghee, fry 2 tbsp channa dal, couple of pieces of garlic, a red chilli, few curry leaves, 1 cup coriander leaves and ½ cup grated coconut.
2. Once cooled, blend it with a little tamarind. Add salt to taste.
3. Make a tadka (tempering) of mustard, urad dal and curry leaves in gingelly oil and add to the ground chutney. It’s now ready to serve.
The writer obsesses about books, her child, social media and cake, not necessarily in that order.
