Chennai
On one hot afternoon, as I sat patiently in Guruvayur, waiting for a deadly virus to stop controlling the world, my mind turned to the wonderful days of childhood and all the memories attached to it.
For us four siblings studying in Mumbai, the big old rambling house with a verandah and a ‘Romeo-Juliet’ balcony in Chennai’s Mylapore was our summer destination.
A blissful two months of climbing trees of all kinds. A huge garden in the front, where my late grandfather Kunchidapada Iyer had built his fantasies of fountains with cherubic angels all around, shaded with aged trees and bracketed by two fountains.
The air all around was full of teasing aromas — the flowering jasmines and kanakambaram shrubs — perfumed it. One found enough time to watch the slow march of ants, listen to the frogs render an evening raga, and spot the moon clearing the dark tree line and the house being quiet and peaceful.
Being a leading lawyer during the British times, the huge mansion-like house, with its two storeys had an interesting mix of architecture — of the western with the traditional.
It stood as a monumental contrast to the other houses on the small bylane. No 5, Brindavan Street, simply meant lazy, crazy action-packed days of summer vacation.
My doting grandmother would mix rice and curds, make us all sit down in a circle and place one bite each of the curd rice in our palms. This was a regular feature each afternoon at 3 pm.
The entire ground floor was granny’s domain — from the pillared hall to the open-to-the-sky mittam, the dark passages, tiny rooms redolent of stored grains, herbs and spices, and the huge kitchen beyond.
No cooking gas, no electric stove or any fancy appliances. Yet this was the heart of the house — the wood-burning stove forever simmering with delicious food, served generously to a continuous stream of visitors.
The food was unbelievable. My paati and maami were mostly in the kitchen, which had only two wooden stools on either side. The two ladies along with some helpers were always busy making appalams or vadams, pickles or sweets, snacks or podis.
The perpetual smell of great food would titillate the senses. Being young and active, we were always hungry, running into the kitchen hoping for some tit-bits and walking away totally satisfied.
Kumbakonam filter coffee and murukku was a must for thatha’s guests from distant shores — they would sit on old wooden armchairs in the upper balcony, discussing India.
Vegetables, coconut and perhaps even tamarind, came from our gardens to the kitchen. Milk was from the cows in our backyard. Paati was adept at managing it all.
The highlight used to be our favourite dish therattipal. There was a delicious aroma of pure cow’s milk being cooked over a woodfire for more than five hours till it reduced into a delicious texture of therattipal, which is popular across south India during festivals and special occasions. It used to be made at my paati’s home on a huge scale, as many mouths waited to be fed.
The huge bronze cauldron or uruli would be cleaned, air-dried and prayed upon. My paati would then pour in a teaspoon of pure ghee before adding the milk, after which my maami would take over.
Milk would be poured and stirring would continue, with everyone in the kitchen having a go at it. We children would peep in often to check if the dish was done.
During times like these, cooking and memories make fine companions. Here’s hoping that all of you get to recreate and taste this therattipal at home.
Therattipal Recipe
Preparation time: 5 minutes
Cooking time: Around 4 hours
Serves: 4
Calories: 410 cal per serve
Ingredients:
Full cream milk: 3 litres
Jaggery powder: 1 cup
Cardamom powder: ¼ tsp
Saffron: a few strands soaked in milk
Pure ghee: 1 tsp
Method:
Kitchen Tips
— Chef Ramaa Shanker is the author of ‘Festive Offerings to the Gods: Divine Soul Recipes’
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