Fusion
It always seems to start with khichdi. I freely admit to a slight obsession with this simple yet delicious blend of rice, a lentil and the most basic spices, usually turmeric and salt. It is the first cooked food I fed my babies and though they now turn up their noses at it, it is still the go-to comfort food from their childhood. As with all classic foods, khichdi too has no single or definitive recipe. Every family, every community that cooks it, cooks it in a slightly different way, almost imperceptibly so.
In my childhood home, khichdi was cooked using long grained rice and masoor dal in the proportion of 2:1, just until the rice and dal had fluffed up and slightly amalgamated. When served, it was still distinctly rice and dal – together yet separate. This airy khichdi was the perfect accompaniment to a variety of companion dishes: a spicy, sour kadhi (a thin buttermilk gravy) served with a roasted papad and sliced onions, or a sweet sour, dark brown mincemeat or the ultimate: saas ni machi. This is just a roux of onions and flour, cumin and garlic, used to create a white sauce, in which large slices of fish are gently simmered with green chillies and cherry tomatoes. The finishing touch is a blend of egg, sugar, malt vinegar and chopped coriander. This is slowly added into the warm sauce, and the egg cooks in the warmth. The result is a sweet, sour, spicy sauce. Poured over the hot khichdi, a slice of the perfectly cooked pomfret or halwa or rawas on the side. (Bombay purists may turn up their beaks at the idea of the humble khichdi accompanying the ambrosial saas. They are used to being served the saas as the fish course in a wedding feast along with wheat flour chapatis. Well, to each their own.) If I fussed to eat the spicy accompaniment, my aunt would quietly entice me with a bowl of khichdi, over which a dollop of ghee and a lump of dark jaggery sat melting. The ghee cut through the sweetness, the khichdi absorbed the flavours and the result was a treat I still salivate over: sweet rice.
In these present days of fasting and feasting, the khichdi I make has flipped its proportions. Two parts moong dal to one part rice, a splash more water, a little more cooking time and a glutinous porridge like khichdi is the result. I like to eat it with a slice of lime pickle and a spoonful of ghee drizzled over the top. The meat based accompaniments don’t suit this texture. It is much denser, the dal is the dominant flavour and it demands respect – no other strong contenders are entertained at this meal.
From khichdi to khichda. Or haleem or daleem as variations are known. This must be the most complete protein and carbohydrate recipe ever. A combination of rice, broken wheat, barley and lentils are soaked overnight and cooked the next morning with marinated mutton in a generous amount of ghee. The mixture slowly cooks down, the starches released by the grains create the sticky porridge into which the mutton literally melts. A sprinkling of dark brown fried onion and chopped coriander leaves create a crunchy layer on top and a squeeze of lime finishes the dish. Khichda is soul food. It is a meat and lentil porridge, quite possibly unique in the world. Not spicy at all, it is still the most flavourful of rice dishes, in my mind a top contender in the competition between biryanis and pulaos.
Dhansaak. Not quite in the same category as the above, the rice being cooked separately from the dal. But what a dal! Endowed with super powers, it is really a combination of three dals and seven vegetables, and one magic ingredient – the dhansaak masala or dhana-jeeru in some recipes. (Again, what passes for dhansaak dal in Mumbai is actually only a masala dal, made with one type of dal and no real vegetables at all, relying overmuch on the ubiquitous and soul less commercially bought Parsi ‘dhansaak sambhar’ masala – neither dhansaak nor sambhar in my book but again, personal preference is a sacred thing.) My family’s recipe for dhana-jeeru (coriander-cumin) powder is deceptively named. It is actually a blend of fourteen different spices, which are separately roasted to different degrees, then cooled down and powdered together. The roll call of ingredients is a paean to the Spice Gods: black peppercorns, bay leaf, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, Kashmiri chillies, Indian cinnamon, green cardamom, cloves, star anise, fenugreek seeds, mustard seeds, poppy seeds, nutmeg and mace. This masala is reserved in my kitchen for only three recipes – dhansaak, french beans cooked with mutton and sali chicken.
The family recipe of dhansaak results in a greenish brown dal, thick with pumpkins and greens, tomatoes and brinjal. It is blended to a smooth consistency, no trace of the cooked vegetables left behind. The rich colour is further enhanced by the roux of onions, chilli powder, minced garlic and sugar that is cooked down to a dark brown jammy consistency before the blend of dal and vegetables is added to it. Finally, the cooked mutton or chicken or pork and the rich stock are added. A beautiful brown rice, heavy with caramelised onion and whole spices is cooked separately. Perhaps a slice or two of fried fish, crisp and succulent. Or a heap of juicy kebabs, little golf ball sized morsels of muttony goodness. A squeeze of lime. A kachumber (salad) of finely chopped onion and tomato, cucumber and green chilli, raw mango and coriander with a vinaigrette of salt, pepper, sugar and malt vinegar.
This is not an easy meal to digest. Best eaten for Sunday lunch before a nap.
Magic happens in these dishes – khichdi, khichda, dhansaak. What ought to be separate dishes, from disparate food groups, carbohydrates and proteins, give up their identities, surrender their defences and allow the heat, spices and the cook to create another entity – neither one nor another, a whole new experience for unsuspecting taste buds.