"Long before the time of Christ , the lure of spices took traders and seafarers to the verdant coast of Kerala on the Southern tip of India. The port of Cranganore was bustling with Greeks, Arabs, Syrians, Jews and Chinese merchants who lived in harmony with the people of the region."
I was merely following the century-old footsteps of a million or more travellers from across the world who had come to the Malabar Coast in search of its rich spices, in search of trade routes and in search of new lands. Vasco da Gama arrived here in 1498 carrying with him a new history for the land and opening up the hidden heart of Kerala for the world to see.
It was a humbling thought to arrive into this context. I was not even a punctuation mark for a footnote in the pages of history. Yet there I was watching the different shades of green materialize under me, as the aircraft bounced its way through patches of rain clouds with all the wonder of an old sailor spotting a new continent after months at sea. There I was to write my personal history, to stock my personal larder with spices and to eat my way through the land.
I had all the trepidations of a first-time solo traveller in an alien land, yet Kerala opened herself to me and enveloped me in her musky, spice-laden bosom. The lush wetness of the land, the smell of freshly ground coconut and the frenzied beats of a Kathakali drummer followed me as each day faded into a still evening pregnant with her devilish brood of thunder, lightening and rain.
from The Suriani Kitchen by Lathika George
I was merely following the century-old footsteps of a million or more travellers from across the world who had come to the Malabar Coast in search of its rich spices, in search of trade routes and in search of new lands. Vasco da Gama arrived here in 1498 carrying with him a new history for the land and opening up the hidden heart of Kerala for the world to see.
It was a humbling thought to arrive into this context. I was not even a punctuation mark for a footnote in the pages of history. Yet there I was watching the different shades of green materialize under me, as the aircraft bounced its way through patches of rain clouds with all the wonder of an old sailor spotting a new continent after months at sea. There I was to write my personal history, to stock my personal larder with spices and to eat my way through the land.
I had all the trepidations of a first-time solo traveller in an alien land, yet Kerala opened herself to me and enveloped me in her musky, spice-laden bosom. The lush wetness of the land, the smell of freshly ground coconut and the frenzied beats of a Kathakali drummer followed me as each day faded into a still evening pregnant with her devilish brood of thunder, lightening and rain.
The days meandered through museums, churches or rides in a vallom (country boat), yet, all the history and diverse culture of the place with its Dutch, Portuguese, Hindu, Muslim and Syrian Christian influences came together like perfectly joined jigsaw pieces. At meal times. Every meal was a discovery. Every bite was like flipping through pages of history and charting the journey of the myriad settlers from their countries of origin to the Kerala backwaters. The little oasis they would build in a new land comprised a handful of traditions, a few articles of clothing and the food. They would eat their way back home through channels of memory and dust.
Meanwhile I attempted to travel to the same countries through the self same food. The food I ate was a far cry from my own initiation into Kerala cuisine which was at a hole in the wall called 'mallu dhaba' tucked away in a dirty refugee colony in Delhi's North Campus. The Sunday biryanis and the spicy beef fry used to be a much-awaited Sunday treat, adding regional flavour to our drab Indian aka generic north Indian meals.
However, the real thing was another story altogether. Upon entering the Kerala kitchen, I was like a child unwrapping the surprise of a gift within a gift or opening up a Russian nesting doll in wondrous joy.
Meanwhile I attempted to travel to the same countries through the self same food. The food I ate was a far cry from my own initiation into Kerala cuisine which was at a hole in the wall called 'mallu dhaba' tucked away in a dirty refugee colony in Delhi's North Campus. The Sunday biryanis and the spicy beef fry used to be a much-awaited Sunday treat, adding regional flavour to our drab Indian aka generic north Indian meals.
However, the real thing was another story altogether. Upon entering the Kerala kitchen, I was like a child unwrapping the surprise of a gift within a gift or opening up a Russian nesting doll in wondrous joy.
People believe travelling alone opens up some window into your soul and lets you poke around and examine the weather in there. My soul searching yielded a primeval bond with my dinner plate. I created grand culinary rituals for myself. I wrote my grand culinary masterpiece with an imaginary quill as I walked through the quaint cobblestoned paths of Jew Town in Fort Kochi or wandered through a spice market in Mattancherry or examined a nutmeg fruit up close in a farm in the backwaters.
My earliest foray into the kitchens of Kerala was through Lathika George's gem of a book, The Suriani Kitchen: Recipes and Recollections from the Syrian Christians of Kerala. My own creations drawn from this book were crafted with supermarket produce - packaged low-cholesterol coconut milk, dessicated-beyond-recognition coconut powder and frozen steroid-injected chicken and beef. The dishes that I served in my clear Borosil dishes and fancy china were a pale shadow, much like a disappointing adaptation of a favourite novel.
How could I, a city bred cook even begin to attempt the Fish Moilee with beautiful fresh fish caught that very morning from the surrounding lake and delivered by the local fisherman himself? How could my fat chicken legs gleaming dully with a sprinkle of olive oil compare to the leaner and infinitely flavourful country chicken cooked in the milk from tender coconuts picked from trees growing in the backyard of every traditional Kerala household?
Cooking lessons and female camaraderie went hand in hand around these parts. Diana Jerry from Noah's Ark Homestay and Aniamma and Anu Mathew from Phillip Kutty's Farm were my wonderful hosts who welcomed me into their kitchens and their lovely homes. They shared recipes handed down through generations of mothers and grandmothers in the great oral tradition of all epics.
As I stood in their kitchens where everything was freshly plucked, freshly ground, freshly creamed using old fashioned methods and with old fashioned tools, I felt like a paltry pretender surrounded by my robotic gadgets measuring everything down to last precise pinch of salt. Truly, they belong to the generation where 'andaaz' is almost a genetic gift and me with my imperial and metric scales felt like a flawed creature.
I discovered the delights of Kerala in these cavernous kitchens where the women of the household often cook up a storm indoors, which is in perfect harmony with the thunder and lightening outside. Their cauldrons or urulis (the fantastically spacious aluminum cooking vessel) yielded meals fit for the gods themselves...at least the Gods of Small Things who live around these parts.
How could I, a city bred cook even begin to attempt the Fish Moilee with beautiful fresh fish caught that very morning from the surrounding lake and delivered by the local fisherman himself? How could my fat chicken legs gleaming dully with a sprinkle of olive oil compare to the leaner and infinitely flavourful country chicken cooked in the milk from tender coconuts picked from trees growing in the backyard of every traditional Kerala household?
I discovered the delights of Kerala in these cavernous kitchens where the women of the household often cook up a storm indoors, which is in perfect harmony with the thunder and lightening outside. Their cauldrons or urulis (the fantastically spacious aluminum cooking vessel) yielded meals fit for the gods themselves...at least the Gods of Small Things who live around these parts.
