In my heart of hearts, this post should be in Tamil. But I cannot write or read the language. Bitter is the taste of losing a link to my own mother-tongue and yet it is a flavour I have become accustomed to. There is no yearning for a culture from which I am largely alienated. Still, there are days, moments, when I wish the chasm was not so wide. Today is one of those.
Recently, Krish Ashok made a point that I found interesting - our hankering to eat food made by our mothers and grandmothers effectively tied them to the kitchen. Now, while the mothership didn't let the kitchen define her, my Pati kind of did. And, with all due respect to Mr. Krish, I like to think that it was her realm, not her prison. Pati, the sweetest, most kindhearted person I knew, gave short shrift to those who wandered into her domain, wanting to "help". While this meant that what I ate was superlative, it also ensured that none of us could pay close attention to how she cooked. The end result is (what I consider) a tragedy - the loss of the distinctive taste of the food as defined by the women who brought me up. Essentially, childhood flavours are lost to me, nothing more than fading aromas.
I am not quite sure what Pati (or mom) would have made of my interest in cooking today. They were progressive as heck in many ways so let's say they'd have muttered a quiet "About time", smiled warmly and eagerly revealed their culinary secrets. Or, more likely, they'd have roasted me over the coals, blaming bachelorhood for my current state of affairs until they discovered that I like to cook. Of course, I consider myself an amateur if anything, fortunate to know a gentleman who is a true chef, by which I mean that he largely knows the fundamentals inside out and can now get creative without breaking a sweat, metaphorically speaking. In any case, it was when I was to engage in that great South Indian pastime - further studies in the U.S - that I cornered Pati and got her to reveal a few of her recipes. Even then, I was forced to make her hold the measures of almost everything in her hand, discovering that cooking is as much about instinct as it is about ingredients. 15 years have passed since that exercise and I too have developed my own vague measures and personal flavours for everything. I probably didn't even bother to try and get anywhere close to how she cooked because I know what an impossible task that is. In all this time, though, I have never made pickle.
When I was a child, pickle-making was part of every year's summer calendar, along with applam and vadaam. While lemon was available all year round, mangoes were not. So, avakkai, thundu, thokku, vadu manga and murabba had to be planned for with the exactitude of a military campaign. Kal uppu (pebble salt) and Nalla Ennai (til oil) would be bought, red chillies would be dried and powdered, and the barani jars would be dusted out, washed and wiped carefully. Then came the process of cutting or grating the raw mangoes, depending on the pickle, followed by the tempering of the heated oil with mustard seeds and assorted stuff (varying from home to home), adding of chilli power and perungayam (asafoetida), mixing in mangoes and salt and letting the entire thing cool down. Then it was carefully ladled into the barani jars and a cloth was tied around the opening and the lid, leaving the mangoes to marinade in this heavenly combination until they'd achieved culinary nirvana, which took a week or so. The marinade was so precious, I will never forget an occasion where almost all of it spilt on the kitchen floor. Pati and I were the only ones at home at the time. We looked at each other and just knew what had to be done and was - we carefully gathered whatever was spilt in our hands and put it back into the jar. For a whole day after, my hands looked like someone had applied a particularly violent shade of henna on them. The avakkai (cubed mango) was saved though.
In any case, with the easy availability of bottled varieties and the difficulty of working up the enthusiasm to make it, Pati, and by extension, we all settled for branded pickles. Except for avakkai and manga thokku, (grated mangoes steeped in chilli, salt and oil) which Pati made every year until she passed away, right on the verge of summer, 4 years ago.
Today, our help brought home some raw mangoes. And, seeing them, the moorings of my heart gave way. I found and cleaned the grater and gathered all the other ingredients (though I couldn't be bothered to buy pebble salt and just used the regular stuff). Then, murmuring a quick request for luck from the concerned ancestors, I put it all together.
The family, reluctant pickle consumers bar moi, absolutely love it. However, even I know it's not a patch on what Pati used to make. She wouldn't say that of course. I know she'd try it with that familiar twinkle in her eye, humour her grandson and say it's turned out nicely. If I kept my mouth shut and stayed humble, 30 seconds later, Pati would have gently told me what was missing. But I already know the answer to that one. It's her.
Song for the moment: Remembrance Day - God is an Astronaut
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