In God's Own Kitchen (Part II)

Bananas

"Too thin for jelly and too thick for jam. An ambiguous, unclassifiable consistency, they said."

Arundhati Roy, God of Small Things (1997)

The classification of jam-jelly was not a dilemma to be pondered over on a holiday. Yet, as the dark red banana jam-jelly spread itself over my toast like luxuriant silk and exploded in a thousand microscopic shrapnels of  honeyed sweetness inside my mouth, I wondered about the often autocratic nature of classifications.

Surrounded by the swaying fronds of young banana tree and lulled into catlike contentment after gorging on  flaky and tender banana fritters and uncountable cups of fragrant filter coffee, I thought what better place or time to ponder than a holiday, and what better subject than the one nearest at hand, namely the banana.

Before I came to Kerala, I used to think Bengalis were the only race who had perfected culinary experimentation with the banana.  Not only did the average non-intrepid Bengali eat everything from the stem to the flower, he also ate his meal on the ample, freshly washed leaves of the selfsame plant.
Food and religion mingle imperceptibly in our country and this ubiquitous culinary staple is swathed in a nine-and-a-half yard yellow cotton sari and transformed into a blushing young bride, the kola bou. She carries the spirit that is to infuse the Goddess Durga with life on the dawn of Maha Saptami and is also Ganesha's wife.

The intrepid Bengali cooks his fish coated with mustard in a banana leaf packet. He makes his creamy cottage cheese confections in little banana leaf moulds. He minces the raw banana and combines it with spices and chillies to simulate a dish of spicy meatballs redolent with all the aromas and textures of a rich gourmet meat. The banana is Bengal’s edible gold. It is the dream of every Bengali domestic goddess to perfect the mochar ghonto (a spicy vegetable preparation with the banana flower and pieces of coconut) or the crisp and tantalizing mochar chop (spiced cutlet made with banana flowers) to complete the rite of passage necessary for kitchen queendom.

I thought this love for the banana plant was singularly unmatched. That was before I came to Kerala.
Here, the fruit is is the stuff of lore. Grown in every backyard, big or small, eaten in nearly every form sweet or savoury, the banana is an omniscient presence.
The wide leaves of the banana plant seem to enfold the whole land in a protective swathe offering solace from any storm.
Right through its lifespan from a firm green youth to an overripe yellow maturity, the banana grows from food staple to cultural icon. it provides economic and emotional succour.

The banana fruit carries memories...of grandmothers in warm kitchens peeling piles of sweet, ripe bananas to make delicious puttu (a combination of rice flour, coconut and steamed bananas) for breakfast. It carries with it the smell of woodfire that permeates the narrow backwaters where rural country boats laden high with freshly plucked bananas, make their way to the local markets. It is a harbinger of good fortune and a good crop, a familiar green stain along the whole coastline.

There are chips and chops, jams and jellies, cakes and candies. Violently chopped, cruelly minced, brutally beaten and mercilessly whipped, the banana fruit is tortured till it yields new culinary fantasies.

In Kerala, God cooks with a long ladle. The banana steeped in the smells and juices of the indigenous spices is simmered and stirred into delightful bite-size pieces of heavenly manna.

Gluttony is one of the deadly seven and needless to say I am a sinner.
I stole one banana from a perfect pile of the tiny golden-yellow fruits.
I licked my fingers clean after nearly inhaling an exceptionally crisp and succulent pazham pori (fried bananas in a sweet batter) in a single bite.
I swallowed the tenth slice of toast slathered in banana jam lost in Arundhati Roy's exquisite metaphors on the selfsame jam.

"Come, Mister tally man, tally me banana
Daylight come and me wan' go home."

While the sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes heart warming and always foot tapping Banana Boat Song was not quite my theme, I did sing the song sometimes. As I travelled around Kerala, sometimes I tired of my own romantic notions. Sometimes I tired of the picture perfect landscape. Sometimes, I longed for the searing heat rather than the mellow rain. Sometimes I wanted a rotten banana to fall in a wet sploosh at my feet as an indication that even Gods could have feet of clay.
And almost on cue I would collide with the most beautiful stretch of backwater, eat the most perfect karimeen polichathu (fried spicy pearlspot) or chance upon the friendliest local full of stories. Like a chastised child I would hang my head in shame, for I had attempted to hunt for imperfection in God's own country.
More importantly, I realized that this land was stacked with the sights, smells and tastes redolent of my own hometown. All I had to do was scratch beneath the firm fibrous skin...
And the sweet hint of banana formed the perfect bookend for these discoveries.