known to herself. Amina was a tiny, pigtailed girl whom I regularly beat in class and at sports, but during the lunch hour she was the queen and could dictate the rules. From time to time she would declare a “no-sharing” day, leaving our hearts broken and our mouths watering.
I would beg Annie for her vegetable stew. “Nothing else, just a spoonful of your stew,” I would plead.
Sometimes Annie feared Amina’s wrath and refused to share as well. Other times she relented and hurriedly handed me a secret spoonful. I would swirl it around my mouth as if it was a rare wine, fully savoring the rich coconut milk, soft vegetables, and the bite of chiles. I would close my eyes and swallow, trying to etch the stew into memory. After such scrumptious lunches, it was all we could do to keep awake during the afternoon classes before the school bell mercifully rang at four o’clock, loosening us home.
VEGETABLE STEW
The best stew I ate was on a houseboat (called
kettu-vellam
) in Kerala. At dawn the church bells clanged and woke me up. Mist hung low over Vembanad Lake. It felt like we were floating on a cloud. My parents were still sleeping. I stumbled to the back of the boat, drawn by the smell of piquant spices. A woman was sitting by the stove stirring some stew. She had slick, oily hair and wore a starched white
mundu
(skirt). When she saw me, she wordlessly ladled out some stew into a coconut shell and handed it to me with a smile and an
appam.
I went to the front of the boat, tore off pieces of
appam,
dipped it into the stew, and chewed. The water gurgled all around. The coconut trees swayed, stirring a gentle morning breeze. After finishing my breakfast, I returned to the back of the boat to hand my empty plate back to the woman. She had disappeared. Was she a mermaid, an angel perhaps? I don’t know.
Making stew in India used to be difficult because the coconut milk was made fresh by grating the coconuts, then blending it, then extracting the coconut milk by hand, that is, squeezing the grated coconut. The first milk, second milk, and third milk had to be separately squeezed out. As a result, my mother made this recipe only rarely, as a Sunday treat perhaps. It went well with almost anything—rice, Indian breads such as
puris
and chapatis and with
appams.
Nowadays, of course, coconut milk is widely available in cans, removing all the drudgery and preserving the taste.
SERVES 4
2 teaspoons olive or canola oil
1 small onion, thinly sliced
2 green chiles, Thai or serrano, slit in half lengthwise
4 1/4-inch slices ginger
4 garlic cloves, diced
2 medium potatoes, cubed
1 small carrot, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
10 green beans, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups coconut milk (available in cans in Asian markets)
10 curry leaves
Heat the oil in a medium-sized stainless steel vessel and sauté the onion, chiles, ginger, and garlic until the onions turn golden. Add the chopped vegetables, salt, and 1 cup water. Cover and cook over a low flame until the vegetables are soft. Stir in the coconut milk and heat until it just starts boiling. Remove from the heat. Garnish with curry leaves.
FIVE
Idlis and Coffee
“HERE,” SAID MY MOTHER, pressing a slab of asafetida into my hands. “Smell this.”
I was nine. I obeyed.
“It smells like a fart,” I blurted, wrinkling my nose as I turned over the hard, pockmarked resin in my palm.
My mother smiled approvingly, as if I had understood some fundamental cooking concept. “It is asafetida and it actually prevents farts,” she said. “You sprinkle it on gas-producing foods like beans and lentils so that they won’t give you gas. Unless you use onions, which serve the same purpose.”
We were standing in our kitchen, the mosaic-tiled floor cool against my bare feet, my mother in her starched cotton sari and me in my pig-tails and skirt, ready to flee. My mother was making yet another attempt to reveal to me the mysteries of South Indian
I would beg Annie for her vegetable stew. “Nothing else, just a spoonful of your stew,” I would plead.
Sometimes Annie feared Amina’s wrath and refused to share as well. Other times she relented and hurriedly handed me a secret spoonful. I would swirl it around my mouth as if it was a rare wine, fully savoring the rich coconut milk, soft vegetables, and the bite of chiles. I would close my eyes and swallow, trying to etch the stew into memory. After such scrumptious lunches, it was all we could do to keep awake during the afternoon classes before the school bell mercifully rang at four o’clock, loosening us home.
VEGETABLE STEW
The best stew I ate was on a houseboat (called
kettu-vellam
) in Kerala. At dawn the church bells clanged and woke me up. Mist hung low over Vembanad Lake. It felt like we were floating on a cloud. My parents were still sleeping. I stumbled to the back of the boat, drawn by the smell of piquant spices. A woman was sitting by the stove stirring some stew. She had slick, oily hair and wore a starched white
mundu
(skirt). When she saw me, she wordlessly ladled out some stew into a coconut shell and handed it to me with a smile and an
appam.
I went to the front of the boat, tore off pieces of
appam,
dipped it into the stew, and chewed. The water gurgled all around. The coconut trees swayed, stirring a gentle morning breeze. After finishing my breakfast, I returned to the back of the boat to hand my empty plate back to the woman. She had disappeared. Was she a mermaid, an angel perhaps? I don’t know.
Making stew in India used to be difficult because the coconut milk was made fresh by grating the coconuts, then blending it, then extracting the coconut milk by hand, that is, squeezing the grated coconut. The first milk, second milk, and third milk had to be separately squeezed out. As a result, my mother made this recipe only rarely, as a Sunday treat perhaps. It went well with almost anything—rice, Indian breads such as
puris
and chapatis and with
appams.
Nowadays, of course, coconut milk is widely available in cans, removing all the drudgery and preserving the taste.
SERVES 4
2 teaspoons olive or canola oil
1 small onion, thinly sliced
2 green chiles, Thai or serrano, slit in half lengthwise
4 1/4-inch slices ginger
4 garlic cloves, diced
2 medium potatoes, cubed
1 small carrot, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
10 green beans, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups coconut milk (available in cans in Asian markets)
10 curry leaves
Heat the oil in a medium-sized stainless steel vessel and sauté the onion, chiles, ginger, and garlic until the onions turn golden. Add the chopped vegetables, salt, and 1 cup water. Cover and cook over a low flame until the vegetables are soft. Stir in the coconut milk and heat until it just starts boiling. Remove from the heat. Garnish with curry leaves.
FIVE
Idlis and Coffee
“HERE,” SAID MY MOTHER, pressing a slab of asafetida into my hands. “Smell this.”
I was nine. I obeyed.
“It smells like a fart,” I blurted, wrinkling my nose as I turned over the hard, pockmarked resin in my palm.
My mother smiled approvingly, as if I had understood some fundamental cooking concept. “It is asafetida and it actually prevents farts,” she said. “You sprinkle it on gas-producing foods like beans and lentils so that they won’t give you gas. Unless you use onions, which serve the same purpose.”
We were standing in our kitchen, the mosaic-tiled floor cool against my bare feet, my mother in her starched cotton sari and me in my pig-tails and skirt, ready to flee. My mother was making yet another attempt to reveal to me the mysteries of South Indian
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