Zester Daily

Indian food lovers in the United States often have a vague concept of what biryanis are — a perception that stems from Indian restaurants that spike basmati rice with spices and dot it with either pieces of meat or vegetables. From the Persian biriyan (to fry before cooking), true biryanis were introduced and made popular by several invaders; the Moghuls were a prime influence, having gathered their knowledge from the Persians. The Nawabs of Lucknow and the Nizams of Hyderabad also popularized these layered meat-rice-nut dishes all across India, where there are more than 35 varieties.

The fancier the occasion, the more elaborate the biryani — some even included pounded silver leaves. I consider such biryanis to be meals in themselves; the only accompaniments they need are a simple yogurt-based raita (even a bowl of plain yogurt will suffice), pickles (either homemade or store-bought), and flame-toasted lentil wafers (papads).

The constitution of a biryani is rather simple. First, meat is often marinated and braised, spiced and simmered in various sauces. To prepare the rice layer, clarified butter is perfumed with whole spices, and sometimes with nuts and raisins. Then basmati rice is steeped in the butter (with water) to partially cook it.  Finally, alternating layers of the meat curry and rice pulao are spread in a casserole and baked until the flavors mingle and the rice grains are tender. Although many of the biryanis are meat-based, vegetarians have adapted these dishes to include legumes and vegetables.

Kichidi, a savory and soothing porridge

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love biryanis, but the dish that gets no respect is one that is a close sibling, albeit a dowdy one in some Indians’ minds. Kichidis are soothing and simple porridges usually eaten when convalescing from an illness. The easily digestible grains, when eaten with plain yogurt, make for a comforting meal.  Often, the trilogy of pickles, papads and yogurt accompanies kichidis to complement the porridge’s softness with pungency and crunch.

Of all the stories I heard in my childhood days, the one that always made me sit up and listen was this one about kichidis. To set the stage, it’s helpful to know about Akbar, the third and highly revered emperor of the Moghul empire, who ascended the throne at the tender age of 13, around 1556. Over the course of his rule, he developed a deep bond and friendship with his trusted inner circle adviser, Birbal, whose wit, impartiality, compassion and intelligence were legendary. Stories were penned over the years that regaled many a child at bedtime. This one particularly stuck with me, appealing to my culinary sensibilities.

Kichidi parable

Birbal listened patiently to the poor Brahmin’s predicament. The Brahmin, with teeth still chattering from the previous night’s bone-chilling experience in the frigid waters of the lake, recounted how he was promised 100 rupees for spending the night in its icy bed.  He had managed to survive the frigidity by cozy thoughts that his children’s bellies would soon be filled with the help of this small fortune. He called upon Rama for strength, hands folded in pious servitude, looking toward a lighted oil lamp 200 feet away for the only flicker in an otherwise charcoal-black night. His prayers helped him make it to the crack of dawn, when he emerged from the lake with frozen, shriveled skin but a warmed heart filled with the hope of a hot meal for his hungry babies.

The court ministers marveled at the Brahmin’s fortitude and quizzed him at length on his successful survival. But once they heard that he had made it through with the “warmth” from the flickering light 200 feet away, they refused him his meager prize.”You cheated us you insolent man,” they fumed. “You heated yourself with the oil lamp 200 feet away.” The Brahmin’s earnest pleadings fell on deaf ears even when he insisted on presenting his case to the usually fair-minded emperor, Akbar.

Birbal stroked his beard as he listened to the Brahmin’s misery. It was time to teach the cruel ministers and Akbar a lesson. He invited them to a simple dinner of kichidi in his palatial courtyard. With help from the Brahmin, he lit a small fire from dried twigs. He fashioned a supporting structure 50 feet high from which dangled a large earthenware pot filled with rice, lentils and gold-yellow turmeric. The crowds gathered and waited with growing impatience for the humble, delicately spiced porridge.

Akbar’s anger rose along with the wisps of smoke from the pitiful twig fire as he demanded explanation for Birbal’s obvious stupidity in trying to cook a pot of kichidi 50 feet away from such a weak flame. “Jahanpana,” he said with respect, addressing him as King of the World, “if a flickering light 200 feet away could warm a Brahmin standing in waist-high icy-cold water, why can’t I cook this kichidi only fifty feet away.” Akbar realized his folly, duly reprimanded his ministers, and ordered them to pay the Brahmin five times what was promised to him. Birbal once again prevailed!

Rice-Lentil Porridge with Caramelized Onion (Pyaaz kichidi)

Makes 6 servings (about ½ cup each)

Ingredients

1 cup uncooked white basmati or long-grain rice

½ cup split and skinned green lentils (mung/moong dal — yellow in this form)

4 cups cold tap water

½ teaspoon ground turmeric

2 tablespoons ghee or melted butter

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

1 medium-size red onion, cut in half lengthwise and thinly sliced

2 to 4 fresh green Thai, cayenne or serrano chilies, stems removed, slit in half lengthwise (do not remove seeds)

1 medium-size tomato, cored and finely chopped

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro leaves and tender stems

1 teaspoon coarse kosher or sea salt

¼ teaspoon black peppercorns, coarsely cracked

Directions

1. Plunk the rice and dal into a medium-size saucepan and add enough water to cover the grains.  With your fingertips gently rub and swish the grains, at which point the water will get cloudy. Pour the water out and repeat three to four times, until the water remains relatively clear; drain.

2. Add 4 cups cold water to the pan and bring it to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring once or twice to separate the grains.  Skim off any suds that may float to the top.  Stir in the turmeric, lower the heat to medium, and simmer, partially covered, until most of the water evaporates.  Cover the pan and continue to simmer about 5 minutes.

3. Turn off the burner and allow the pan to sit undisturbed an additional 5 to 10 minutes.

4. Meanwhile, heat the ghee in a medium-size skillet over medium-high heat. Sprinkle in the cumin and let it sizzle, turn reddish brown, and smell nutty, about 10 to 15 seconds. Immediately add the onion and chilies and stir-fry 4 to 6 minutes, until the onion turns purple-brown, 5 to 7 minutes. This is a good time to make sure your stove fan is on because of the pungent fumes from the roasting chilies.

5. Add the remaining ingredients and stew the mélange, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the tomato softens, 2 to 4 minutes.

6. Scrape the skillet’s contents into the now-cooked rice-lentil mixture and mix well; serve.

Tip: If onions, chilies and tomatoes bother your stomach, leave them out.  The humble cumin seeds and ghee are equally satisfying on their own. 

Top photo: Indian kichidi. Credit: Raghavan Iyer

Gopala, Shyam, Mohan, Govinda … the charmer with several names, is best known as Krishna, the blue-blooded reincarnation of Vishnu, the Preserver.  Krishna was born into royalty; his parents, Devaki and Vasudeva, were imprisoned by the evil Kamsa, a demon who usurped their thrones in Mathura, a town along the banks of  India’s river Yamuna.

Kamsa was warned that the eighth son born to Vasudeva would be the cause of his demise. So the first six times Devaki, who was his sister, gave birth to a son, Kamsa made a visit and quickly destroyed the child. The seventh son was transferred magically into the womb of another of Vasudeva’s wives, Rohini.

Escape from death

When Vasudeva’s  eighth son was born, it was during the still of midnight as the shimmering light of a full moon filtered through the bars of the humble prison. Vasudeva placed the baby, who was destined to bring order back to Mathura, in a wicker basket and perched it on his head. As he had been promised by Lord Vishnu, who was aware of Kamsa’s vengeful campaign, Vasudeva found the door to his cell miraculously unlocked, the guards drugged. When he and the child reached the banks of the Yamuna, Vasudeva’s qualms about crossing the river dissipated: it magically parted, making his task of delivering the boy to safety an easy one. A cowherd in the town of Gokhul found the beautiful baby and he and his wife, thrilled to have a son, raised him as their own. They named him Krishna.

Word of Krishna’s antics spread quickly through the tightly-knit community. A series of signs and miraculous events foretold  of the boy’s pre-destined celestial purpose: to kill Kamsa and bring happiness, beauty and order, which were nonexistent under the demon’s regime, back to the people. Krishna’s handsome good looks, lightheartedness and mischievous demeanor gave every mother in town a joyous heartbreak.

Krishna, Dairy Thief

His penchant for milk, cream and butter became well known. No dairy products could be left within reach for fear of their being devoured within seconds. Whenever cream was collected to make butter, it was amassed in clay pots and strung up high, between the loftiest treetops. Krishna coaxed his fellow cowherds to form a human pyramid and he would soon be found at its apex, gulping his prize with great satisfaction.

It could be said that his love of dairy was instrumental in compelling Krishna to develop the ingenuity and physical strength that eventually led to his defeat of Kamsa in a wrestling match years later. Krishna fulfilled his purpose and restored all that was just and human to Mathura, his native land.

Cream to butter to ghee

The process of churning fresh cream into butter is still widely practiced in homes all across India. But this is just an intermediary step. Classic Indian cooking always calls for ghee, or clarified butter. Once the milk solids have been removed from butter, its shelf life is extended exponentially and there is no need for refrigeration. Ghee also has a much higher smoke point than non-clarified butter, making it ideal for deep frying.

In my home when I was growing up, each morning Amma skimmed cream from a saucepan filled with hot milk. Once enough was at hand, she squatted on the floor with her deep pot and long-handled wooden beater. Within minutes white, silky-smooth butter separated and floated to the top, weaning itself from the thin whey or buttermilk below. Amma scooped handfuls of the butter and placed it in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. I always happened to be there just in the nick of time to steal a few scoops, Krishna-like, its sweetness coated my tongue, the name maakhan chor (butter thief) rang in my ears. 

Stainless steel tumblers collected the buttermilk, to be drunk in thirst-quenching gulps while the freshly churned butter melted on low heat and milk solids were skimmed and discarded. The clear fat, now turned into ghee, rested in a chipped orange porcelain jar, nutty and pure, waiting to bless every dish it would touch with its heavenly aroma and flavor. The taste is truly sublime.

Ghee is widely available in stores. It is not easy on the pocketbook, so be prepared to plunk down your hard-earned money for the convenience, should you not have 15 to 20 minutes of free time to spend in the kitchen. I often splurge and buy ghee imported from India, only because the cows (or water buffaloes, depending on where the milk came from) graze on a different diet and the ghee has a unique flavor not found in America’s dairy land. But making your own is well worth the time and patience.

Ghee

Ingredient

1 pound unsalted butter

Directions

1. Line a fine-mesh tea strainer with a piece of cheesecloth, set it over a clean, dry glass measuring cup or pint-size canning jar, and set aside.

2. Melt the butter in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan over low heat, stirring occasionally to ensure an even melt (otherwise, the bottom of the block melts and starts to bubble while the top half remains firm). Once the butter melts, you will notice that a lot of foam is gathering on the surface. Scoop the foam out with a spoon or just let it be; the melted butter will eventually stop foaming and start to subside. Now you can start to carefully skim off the foam. Some of the milk solids will settle at the bottom and start to brown lightly. This light browning is what gives Indian ghee its characteristic nutty flavor. This process will take 15 to 20 minutes.

3. Once the liquid appears quite clear (like oil) with a light amber hue, pour it through the cheesecloth-lined strainer, leaving the browned milk solids behind, and set it aside to cool.

4. When the ghee is cool, pour it into a storage jar and seal it. Keep it at room temperature, right next to your other bottled oils; it will solidify, even at room temperature. (I don’t find it necessary to refrigerate ghee, but if you wish, by all means do so. I have kept mine at room temperature for many months, without any concern for rancidity or spoilage. Because ghee has no milk solids in it, and that’s what can turn butter rancid, I do as millions in India do, and leave it out.

It was that time of the week. The servant had swept and mopped the floors around the house and then headed for the bathroom where she soaked the soiled clothes in a red bucket filled with soapy water. Then she grabbed the baseball bat-like stick and thrashed the fabrics with a rhythmic beat. Soon they made their way into a white plastic bucket filled with clean water for rinsing. Each piece of clothing was twisted dry, except for the cotton saris that lay, beaten clean, in a twisted pile on the bathroom’s white-tiled floor.

Meanwhile my mother, Amma, was in the kitchen heating up a large, stainless steel pot of water on a kerosene-fueled stove. She threw in a bowl of long-grain rice from a newer crop sold by the rice vendor who came to our door once a week with a large gunnysack trailing heavily over her left shoulder. The fresher the crop, the starchier the rice, I later found out, and this was important for my mother’s impending chore.

The water came to a second boil and the rice kernels rose to the top with each rising bubble, puffing up with heated pride. The cooked grains clouded the water sticky-white. With a slotted spoon, Amma scooped out a few grains, squishing one between her thumb and forefinger to test its doneness. Pleased to see it give in with no residual hardness, she placed a tight-fitting lid on the pot, lifted it off the stove and turned it on its side. With the lid slightly held back, she poured the starchy liquid into a large bowl in the sink. She didn’t have a colander.

Rice, starch and saris

My mother grabbed the starch-filled bowl and shuffled to the bathroom. She dunked the saris, one at a time, in the rice water, coating each with the starch and letting it soak through. After 15 minutes, each was lightly rinsed and wrung dry by hand. Akka, my grandmother, awoke from her nap and grabbed the saris that now lay in a bucket, waiting to be dried. She hung them out under the hot sun on a clothesline pulled taut between two hooks nailed on each end of the balcony’s wooden ledge.

Once dry, the saris were picked up by the ironing vendor. They came back into our home the same day, all starched and neatly pressed, smelling like hot, steamed, nutty rice.

There are many ways to cook rice, especially one as refined as basmati. The absorption/steeping method and the open-pot pasta method are ideal. Some people use rice cookers and even pressure cookers to cook this delicate grain, and I find that they generate too intense a heat, resulting in a mushy, overcooked texture.

To salt or not to salt the rice is the Shakespearean query. In my recipes for curries, stir-fries and chutneys, I use just enough salt to bring out the flavors, so I do recommend salting the rice you’ll be serving with them. If you don’t salt the rice, you may want to add a bit more salt to the dish you are serving with the rice.

Cooking Rice With the Absorption/Steeping Method

Makes 3 cups

Ingredients

1 cup Indian or Pakistani white basmati rice

1½ teaspoons coarse kosher or sea salt

Directions

1. Place the rice in a medium-size saucepan. Fill the pan halfway with water, to cover the rice. Gently rub the slender grains through your fingers, without breaking them, to wash off any dust or light foreign objects, like loose husks, which will float to the surface. The water will become cloudy. Drain this water. Repeat three or four times, until the water remains relatively clear; drain. Now add 1½ cups cold water and let it sit at room temperature until the kernels soften, 20 to 30 minutes.

2. Stir in the salt, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Cook until the water has evaporated from the surface and craters are starting to appear in the rice, 5 to 8 minutes. Then, and only then, stir once to bring the partially cooked layer from the bottom of the pan to the surface. Cover the pan with a tight-fitting lid, reduce the heat to the lowest possible setting, and cook for 8 to 10 minutes (8 minutes for an electric burner, 10 minutes for a gas burner). Then turn off the heat and let the pan stand on that burner, undisturbed, for 10 minutes.

3. Remove the lid, fluff the rice with a fork, and serve.

Cooking Rice With the Open-Pot Pasta Method

Makes 3 cups 

Ingredients

1 cup Indian or Pakistani white basmati rice

1½ teaspoons coarse kosher or sea salt

Directions

1. Fill a large saucepan halfway with water, and bring it to a rolling boil over medium-high heat.

2. While the water is heating, place the rice in a medium-size saucepan. Fill the pan halfway with water, to cover the rice. Gently rub the slender grains through your fingers, without breaking them, to wash off any dust or light foreign objects, like loose husks, which will float to the surface. The water will become cloudy. Drain this water. Repeat three or four times, until the water remains relatively clear; drain.

3. Add the rice to the boiling water, and stir once or twice. Bring the water to a boil again and continue to boil the rice vigorously, uncovered, stirring very rarely and only to test the kernels, until they are tender, 5 to 8 minutes. Immediately drain the rice into a colander and run cold water through it to stop the rice from continuing to cook. (The problem with his method is that the grain will go from just-right to overcooked in mere seconds if you are not attentive.)

4. Transfer the rice to a microwave-safe dish and stir in the salt. Just before you serve it, rewarm it at full power, covered, for 2 to 4 minutes.

Photo: Closeup of basmati rice. Courtesy of iStockphoto

The richest contribution the British made to India, in my mind, was the introduction of the railway in 1851. Their legacy continues to chug along the millions of tracks even in the 21st century, providing billions of travelers a life of convenience, reunification, separation, joy and even pain.

A recent journey was excruciatingly long even before it really began. We piled into our cushioned first-class sleeper compartment in the Chennai (formerly Madras) Express, which would be our home for the next 18 hours. Lunchtime was fast approaching, the rumblings in my stomach provided unnecessary reminders every five minutes. I looked out the barred window as the boxcar rocked us in cradle-like comfort, and the train’s wheels rattled on the tracks over a bridge. The muddy water below shimmered under the sun’s rays as three water buffalo wallowed with siesta-like laziness in its dirty coolness. Close to the town of Guntakal, fields of sunflowers appeared magically, standing in subservience to Surya, the sun God. “They are being harvested for their seeds which will be turned into cooking oil,” my sister remarked. A pang of hunger washed over me one more time when I heard “cooking.”

Omelets at the station

As the electric engine chugged onto the platform of Renigunta Junction, I saw throngs of people waiting to greet loved ones at the station. A little boy with tattered clothes held a baby monkey in his arms as he glided under the windows, one hand outstretched for money. A taxidermist with coarse hair carried a sleeping baby on her back as she hawked stuffed squirrels. A vendor with muscular thighs, his dhoti folded in half along his charcoal-black, pushed a wooden cart filled with eggs and onions surrounding a gas-lit portable stove. A flat, round griddle rested atop the stove, with beaten eggs sizzling in oil. He served the prepared omelets folded with cilantro-flavored onions accompanied by slices of white bread and long, curvaceous, green cayenne chilies.

Another vendor dunked thick slices of plantains in garbanzo bean flour batter and fried them golden brown, offering them for sale on rectangular pieces of grease-stained newspaper. My eyes were drawn to a woman helping her husband as he prepared, with the grace of a bharatanatyam dancer, lacy-thin, golden-crisp crêpes stuffed with lime-kissed, chile-smothered potatoes. This was what I needed to appease the cavernous hole in my belly — and seconds later his wife, a ring through her nose and her face creased, handed me a masala dosa rolled in a large square of banana leaf. She grabbed the two rupees from my right hand and scurried back to her husband.

I was amazed at the briskness of the transactions that occurred on that platform within the 15 minutes that we waited for the train to switch to diesel. Shortly after we pulled away, another train pulled in, and its passengers witnessed and engaged in the ongoing performance.

Masala Dosai

Rice-lentil crêpes with spiced potato filling

Makes 10 dosas

Ingredients

For the batter:

For the filling:

Directions

For the batter:

1. Place the two varieties of rice in a medium-size bowl and add enough water to cover. Gently, with fingertips, rub and swish the grains, at which point the water will get cloudy. Pour the water out and repeat three to four times, until the water remains relatively clear; do not drain the water this last time. Add the fenugreek seeds to the bowl. Cover and store at room temperature for at least 4 to 5 hours, or overnight; drain.
2. Plunk the lentils into a small bowl and add enough water to cover. Gently, with fingertips, rub and swish the grains, at which point the water will get cloudy. Pour the water out and repeat three to four times, until the water remains relatively clear; do not drain the water this last time. Cover the bowl and store at room temperature for at least 4 to 5 hours, or overnight. Drain.
3. To liquefy the rice, pour ½ cup warm water into a blender jar and half of the soaked rice. Puree, scraping the insides of the jar as needed, until the batter is smooth. It may feel slightly grainy and that’s all right. If the blades don’t function as the batter thickens, pour in a little more water, just enough to get the batter to cooperate. Pour this into a large bowl. Repeat with the remaining rice. Now pour ¼ cup warm water into the same blender jar and add soaked lentils. Puree, scraping the insides of the jar as needed, until the batter is smooth. (You don’t grind the rice and lentils together because rice takes longer to break down.) Add the lentil batter to the rice batter and stir in the salt. Beat in an additional 1¼ cups of water, using a whisk to end up with a batter the consistency of slightly watered down pancake batter.
4. Cover the bowl and place it in a warm spot in your kitchen. (I usually place it in an unused oven and turn the oven light on. The warmth generated by the light is enough to allow the batter to ferment and lighten up overnight.) The batter should have a sourdough-like aroma with bubbles, thanks to the natural formation of carbon dioxide as a result of fermentation.

For the filling:

1. Combine the potatoes, cilantro, salt, turmeric, curry leaves, chiles and lime juice.
2. Heat the oil in a small skillet over medium-high heat. Add the mustard seeds, cover the skillet, and cook until the seeds have stopped popping (much like popcorn), about 30 seconds. Add the lentils and stir-fry until they turn golden brown, 15 to 20 seconds. Scrape this nutty oily mixture into the bowl with the potatoes and stir well. Divide this addictive filling into 10 equal portions (it’s OK to snitch a taste.)

For the crêpes:

1. Coat and heat a medium-size nonstick skillet with a teaspoon of oil over medium heat; ladle ½ cup batter and with the back of the ladle, quickly and evenly with a clockwise motion, spread the batter to form a paper-thin, unbroken circle roughly 8 inches in diameter. Cook until the top of crêpe is opaque and the bottom side is golden brown and starts to curl up around the edges. Flip the crêpe and brown the other side, about 1 minute.
2. Transfer the crêpe to a serving platter. Place one portion of the filling in its center and fold it over to cover the filling; serve immediately.
3. Repeat with the remaining batter and filling.

Tips

1. If the pan gets too hot between crêpes, the batter will clump up as soon as its poured, preventing an even spread. Lower the heat or wipe the skillet with a clean paper towel moistened with cold water before continuing to make additional crêpes.
2. Dosais are traditionally served with a pigeon pea stew called sambhar and a fresh coconut chutney. You can even serve them in its unaccompanied form as a substantial main-course offering.
3. Leftover batter can be refrigerated for up to two weeks but when frozen, it can bring you joy even two months later!

Zester Daily contributor Raghavan Iyer is a cookbook author, culinary educator, spokesperson and consultant to numerous national and international clients, including General Mills, Bon Appetit Management Company, Target and Canola. He co-founded the Asian Culinary Arts Institutes, Ltd. and has written three cookbooks, most recently the award-winning ”660 Curries.” His articles have appeared in Eating Well, Fine Cooking, Saveur and Gastronomica, and he has been a guest on TV and radio shows throughout the U.S. and Canada. Iyer sells spices at turmerictrail.com.

Photos from top:

Crepe being prepared on griddle

Masala dosa, folded.

Credits: Raghavan Iyer

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Before I try to define the word “curry,” let me create an image for you from my college laboratory days in India where I pursued a degree in chemistry over 20 years ago. As I busied myself measuring crystals of potassium permanganate, stirring chemical solutions, analyzing compounds, and spilling picric acid on my lab coat, staining it yellow, a shade very similar to turmeric, I happened to knock a mercury thermometer onto the bare terrazzo floor. As microscopic pieces of glass and droplets of the mercury dispersed, I tried to pick up the pieces. The glass was easy but not the mercury. The elusive (not to mention dangerous) shining, silvery liquid defied containment and form (we had no mercury spill kits back then). It moved freely with even with the slightest nudge and affected everything it touched. Which brings me back to the task at hand: Defining curry is like trying to grasp liquid mercury and gather it into a neat pile.

It should come as no surprise (but maybe it does) that the word curry itself is unknown in the Indian vocabulary, not included in any of the country’s 23 officially recognized languages or its more than 1,600 “mother tongues” — dialects from the subcontinent’s 23 states and nine union territories. Words such “kari” and “kadhi” refer to dishes that existed in India well before the Aryans got there, and considering that the nation’s civilization spans 6,000 years, you can well imagine the words’– and the dishes’ — longevity. James Trager, in his 1970 book with a moutful of a title: “The Enriched, Fortified, Concentrated, Country-Fresh, Lip-Smacking, Finger-Licking, International, Unexpurgated Foodbook“ mentions the seasoning habits of the fifth-century B.C. civilization known as the Mohenjo-Daro. They used mortars and pestles to pound the sun-dried “seeds of mustard, fennel and most especially cumin and the rinds of tamarind pods” to create the “earliest curry powder.” (Keep in mind his use of the term curry powder stems from a need to apply a modern terminology to an ancient spice blend.)

From kadhi to curry?

Kari, a word from the southern Indian language of Tamil, was widely in use by 1500 B.C., if not earlier, according to renowned Indian food historian K.T. Achaya, who researched numerous ancient Sanskrit literary works. Kari described animal meat in particular, stewed with “wet dressings” and spiced with black (or karuppu, in Tamil) pepper. I see the transformation of “kari” to “curry” as a result of mispronounced happenstance.

Another school of thought suggests that kadhi, a yogurt-based dish from India’s northwestern region, is the precursor to what came to be known as “curry.” The British were exposed to this saucy dish much earlier than to the foods of the south (they had entered India in the early 1600s through the northwestern city of Surat), making kadhi quite possibly the original “curry.”

A Dutch traveler’s account from an early 16th century visit to India alludes to a sour-tasting brothy fish served with rice. It was called carriel. In spite of all these debates about the origin of the word “curry,” there is an agreement that its saucy, spice-laden concept has been India’s legacy for thousands of years, dating to its indigenous civilization.

Reay Tannahill, in his hefty 1973 volume “Food in History,” alludes to a recipe for curry from the Code of Manu, an ancient Indian legal text, which was to accompany rice: “27 ounces each of meat and spices, which are to be mixed with insignificant quantities of fat, salt and sugar, and a mere 10½ ounces of curds.” The first English-printed recipe for a “currey” the “Indian way” is traced back to Hannah Glasse’s 1747 masterpiece, “The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy” (published exactly 200 years before India got its independence from the British, I might add). She stews rabbits or fowl with a little rice (as thickener) and a lot of spices, primarily coriander and pepper. Glasse’s version is quite different from a feast described in the Hindu epic “The Ramayana,” penned around 100 B.C., that describes a sophisticated complex-tasting fish in a sauce redolent with cardamom, cumin, cloves, black pepper and salt, served over rice.

Currying favor in the palace

Some believe that King Richard II’s palace cooks invented curry in Britain around 1390, more than two centuries before the British East India Company was established in India. His cooks built layers of flavors and textures with sophisticated spicing techniques that involved cloves, cinnamon, ginger, coriander, cumin and cardamom, among others. Some of these recipes are well documented in the1390 book “The Forme of Cury.” Since kari, or even kadhi were nowhere on the radar screen, how did the English know to bastardize those terms to their version of “curry”?

A convincing argument indeed, for which I grant the English ownership of the anglicized word “curry,” if not the concept of the dish. After all, they were the ones who came up with curry powder, trying to capture the flavors of a true curry with a generic blend of ground spices. However, one would be hard-pressed to ignore the establishment of a vibrant spice trade, whose pulse was the Indian subcontinent, but that was controlled by the Arabs and then the Romans thousands of years back.

Spices are the backbone of these saucy dishes, and with India’s 6,000-year tradition using them, I consider this subcontinent to be their master. They toasted, roasted, pounded and mixed their spices to layer the sauces that bathed, swathed, steeped, stewed and simmered meats, vegetables and legumes well before the Europeans. So, the English got the word, but the Indian subcontinent still gets credit for the concept. In a similar vein,  the Arabs remained the source of spices even after the Romans usurped their route.

In England and the rest of the world, curry is the catchall word for anything Indian that is mottled with hot notes, with or without a sauce, while curry powder is the blend that delivers it. In keeping with my culture’s saucy heritage, I define a curry as any dish that consists of either meats, fish, poultry, legumes, vegetables or fruits, simmered or covered with a sauce, gravy (or tari in Hindi), or any liquid that is redolent with spices and or herbs. In my India, curry is never added – it just is!

Spiced Yogurt with Okra

Bhindi kadhi

Serves 6

Recipe from 660 Curries by Raghavan Iyer (Workman, 2008)

One school of thought has it that the word “curry” is an anglicized pronunciation of the yogurt- or buttermilk-based dish called Kadhis, yogurt or buttermilk-based dishes, have been in existence all around the Indian subcontinent for eons, and they have a reputation as a cure for digestive ailments: a scoop of delicately spiced kadhi over a mound of hot white rice will do the trick. This version, from the northwestern state of Gujarat, uses thick slices of okra fried in clarified butter and simmered until tender in spiced, herbed buttermilk, thickened with chickpea flour. One eloquent word describes this combination: Yum!

Ingredients

Directions

1. Trim the caps off the okra without cutting into the pods, and then cut the pods into 1-inch lengths.
2. Whisk the buttermilk, chickpea flour, sugar, salt, cayenne, and turmeric together in a medium-size bowl, making sure the flour is completely incorporated, with no lumps. Then stir in the cilantro and curry leaves.
3. Heat the ghee in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Sprinkle the cumin and fenugreek seeds into the pan and cook until they sizzle, turn reddish brown, and are fragrant, about 10 seconds.
4. Immediately add the okra and stir-fry until the slices blister in spots and acquire a light brown coloration on their ridged skin, 8 to 10 minutes.
5. Pour in the spiced buttermilk mixture and stir once or twice to deglaze the pan, releasing any browned bits of spices and okra. Lower the heat to medium and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the okra is fork-tender and the curry has thickened slightly, 10 to 12 minutes. The transformation from a pale, cream-colored curry to a robust, sun-yellow one is beautiful to watch. Serve.

Zester Daily contributor Raghavan Iyer is a cookbook author, culinary educator, spokesperson and consultant to numerous national and international clients, including General Mills, Bon Appetit Management Company, Target and Canola. He co-founded the Asian Culinary Arts Institutes, Ltd. and has written three cookbooks, most recently the award-winning ”660 Curries.” His articles have appeared in Eating Well, Fine Cooking, Saveur and Gastronomica, and he has been a guest on TV and radio shows throughout the U.S. and Canada. Iyer sells spices at turmerictrail.com.

Photo: Indian spices (originally published in 660 Curries). Credit: Ben Fink

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Among the southern Indian Tamilian Brahmins, as among Hindus, death is the culmination of the present life cycle; rebirth and reincarnation are the next phases. Many hope to break free from this cycle and attain moksha — a release from the pain of birth and death, and a liberation of all the sufferings that relate to those phases. The journey of the soul as it leaves one body and reaches its next destination is an important one, and ritual foods nourish that lonesome path. The Parsees, decendants of Zoroastrians, wet the lips of the dead with the same haoma, or pomegranate juice, that welcomes the newborn. They leave the body at the Tower of Silence for the vultures to consume, as they believe in not polluting the five elements — earth, air, water, fire and ether — created by God. Brahmins invoke the God of Fire, the same God that ushered them into the human world at birth, one last time to cleanse the body from years of sin.

The 13-day journey began when my father’s soul was released from his diseased body. His eldest son, my brother, placed grains of rice and black sesame seeds in his mouth and poured clarified butter over the body, laying on a pyre, as he lit fire to the chest area close to the heart.

Ashes and a bereft mother

The ashes from the cremation were collected the next morning in an earthen pot and dispersed in the Arabian Sea. My father’s mother sat on the terrazzo floor in the room where he had slept, her body rocking to and fro in childless sorrow. The shadow cast from the flame of an oil lamp was pitifully warped; her frail 82-year-old being shook with uncontrollable grief. It was unfair of him to have died when he was the one who should have been around to light her funeral pyre. She grieved for a son who bore harsh abuse from his father, a son who protected her from her husband and provided her a safe haven all his life, a son who loved her unconditionally, a son whom she could not save from cancerous harm.

My father’s soul wandered for nine days, looking for every excuse to stay in this world. The only guidance we could provide was a small cotton wick dipped in oil and kept lit in the corner of the room where he died. The oil was never allowed to dissipate, which kept the flame alive. Merely two rice balls were kept out on the veranda for its sustenance for the next nine days.

Sending a soul on its way

The vadiyaars, Brahmin priests, came on the 10th day and offered the soul an elaborate meal without salt, placing it on the veranda. The soul, no doubt angry at the tasteless food, hungry from the nine days of near starvation, was nudged to consider joining its ancestors as the rituals, held in a square area defined by bricks and fueled with dung cakes, rice husks and clarified butter, and the Sanskrit verses filled the soul and our lives with purpose. On the 11th day, a single priest arrived and cooked his own meal, a simple one fashioned from rice, lentils and plantains we furnished him, nurturing his body and the restless soul for one last satisfying meal.

The 12th day is the most important for the soul as it prepares to join the ancestors. Our kitchen fires were lit, and the women busied themselves with roasting and grinding spice blends — black sesame seeds, rice and black peppercorns — never used in everyday cooking. Legumes used for festive celebrations, like yellow split peas and split and skinned black lentils, were put away, while split and skinned green lentils took their place. Soon the air was filled with the sweetness of sesame seeds toasted golden brown, pungent peppercorns, nutty roasted uncooked rice and fresh curry leaves. Turmeric, an everyday occurrence in our Tamilian kitchen, a symbol of my mother’s marriage to my father, was markedly absent. Arid rice husks; sweet-smelling, sun-dried dung cakes; ghee and sprigs of tulsi (the aromatic sharp-edged leaves of holy basil) stoked the flames of Agni, the god of fire.

Three priests sat around the fire, one representing my father’s soul, the second his father’s and the third his grandfather’s. The priest representing my father’s soul was handed an umbrella, slippers, a hand fan, a bell to symbolize a cow, a water urn, pepper-spiked buttermilk and cloyingly sweet jaggery, essential gear and sustenance for the spirit’s one-way passage to the afterlife.

A widow succumbs

At this juncture my mother was brought into the ceremonial circle. Her wailing erupted from the pit of her soul and oozed from her sobbing throat. My aunt raised her palm to wipe off my mother’s sun-like bindi, her third eye, deep red and husband-blessed, now disappearing into the horizon in companionship with my father’s soul. Her mangalsutra, a 24-carat gold amulet that hung around her wheat-colored neck at the end of a turmeric-stained thread, tied by her husband during their marriage ceremony, was yanked and handed to the priest. Her bangles were removed, one at a time, stripping her of her marital dignity. She stood her ground, short and defeated, simply dressed in a plain-colored sari, all alone, disrobed of her wifely role.

On the 13th day, my father, who had been born a Brahmin and lived a good life, reached his destination, a soul completely free from earthly desires, prepared for a fresh beginning. He had attained moksha, spiritual release from the cycle of reincarnation.

Ritual foods served on a banana leaf

Dressed in new clothes, we welcomed friends and family who stopped by with a feast that is also served during weddings and joyous occasions. I sat cross-legged where the priest representing my father had been positioned two days ago. The chilled floor offered no comfort for the sorrow, but the scent of a banana leaf in front of me and a sprinkle of holy water to wipe it shiny green caused a rumble in my belly. A drizzle of clarified butter on one corner of the leaf ritually purified it. An array of snacks and condiments dotted the top half: fresh fried plantain chips candied with jaggery; minced fresh turmeric pickled with ground red pepper and roasted mustard seeds; pigeon pea fritters studded with yellow split peas, fresh curry leaves and dried red chiles, and a small mound of coarse sea salt.

The offering of coconut-smothered stir-fries and saucy curries ensued, delectable combinations that prove Indians are masters of teasing vibrant flavors from plantains, potatoes, summer squash and spinach. A dollop of yogurt swirled with chile-stewed tomatoes placed on the right-hand corner, just above the leaf’s rib, completed that section’s palette of flavors, colors and textures. The lower half of the leaf was yet to be addressed. Within seconds, a heap of perfectly cooked, steaming grains of white rice took center stage. A volcano-like cavern on the top of the mound became an ideal home for stewed pigeon peas yellowed with turmeric and a liberal drizzle of clarified butter. A spoonful of dessert, creamy rice blanketed with homemade condensed milk, was placed on the lower right corner of the leaf, a prelude to the feast’s final course and a promise of a comforting finish. A delectable tamarind-based stew of seasonal root vegetables; sambhar, redolent with roasted red chiles, legumes, coconut and coriander, poured over the same pigeon pea-smothered rice, completed the mélange as my eager fingers and mouth momentarily silenced the ache in my heart.

Reprinted with permission from “Creating a Meal You’ll Love,” published by Sellers Publishing, Inc.

Zester Daily contributor Raghavan Iyer is a cookbook author, culinary educator, spokesperson and consultant to numerous national and international clients, including General Mills, Bon Appetit Management Company, Target and Canola. He co-founded the Asian Culinary Arts Institutes, Ltd. and has written three cookbooks, most recently the award-winning ”660 Curries.” His articles have appeared in Eating Well, Fine Cooking, Saveur and Gastronomica, and he has been a guest on TV and radio shows throughout the U.S. and Canada. Iyer sells spices at turmerictrail.com.

Photos from top:

Brahmin funeral foods.

Brahmin priests.

Ritual foods on banana leaf.

Credits: Raghavan Iyer

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