Agra ka Petha [Ash Gourd Candy]

Alright, alright, so what if I’ve never been to Agra or never seen the Taj Mahal? (Have you been to Glacier Bay? Gasped at a rosy early morning view of Kanchenjunga in the wind-chilled winter? Stood in silent awe at the wonder that is Borobudur–or the painted caves at Ajanta? Well, okay then). Romance comes in all forms, and Agra has no monopoly on it. Not so, however, for the famed, almost mythic candy made from ash gourds, known as Agra ka Petha [पेठा or ˈpeːʈʰaː]). The fact that this wondrous translucent candy has borne the city’s name from times well-before GI-tags staked pseudo-legal claims to ownership just says it all, doesn’t it?

With a deep bow in the direction of those geniuses of ore who understood the ash gourd enough to candy it–I mean, really, what an idea; who’da thunk it?–I’m not daunted by specters of authenticity either.

Instead, I’m utterly in awe of the mastery of texture and form that the Agra ka Petha represents. This candy is a minimalist’s holy grail: nothing in it but sugar, the fruit, and perhaps some light flavoring. No specialized candy-making equipment either. Even more remarkable is the process of what I’ve taken to call flash-candying, which preserves the gourd’s outer crisp-crunch and juicy-center all in a go. For all that, it’s a slow food–doesn’t by itself take long to make, as candies go it’s really simple, but the preparation happens in a few different steps, and takes a bit of concentration especially towards the end.

Our story starts with a freshly delivered manure pile, and a vine that spontaneously appeared atop. We watched, and wondered, and let it be. We knew it was a gourd of some sort, but which one?

Soon, some intricate buds presented themselves–the first tell-tale signs:

And then there were baby gourds–at which point we knew for sure this was the “poosanikai” (பூசணிக்காய்) or ash gourd. Young, immature gourds are fuzzy and cute, oddly very much like baby chicks. As the gourds mature and swell, the fuzz disappears and an ash-like coating takes its place. Hence the name, ash-gourd.

We harvested male flowers from time-to-time, to stuff with cheese and make fritters. We could have eaten the young leaves, too, but garden bugs seemed to favor them and get to them faster than we did, You can tell the difference between male and female flowers both from their stamens, as well as from the little baby bump which forms at the female flower’s base.

In this image, the flower in the foreground is male, and the one less visible behind is female. (Typical, eh? Oy vey!)

Aside: here are our fritters.. stuffed with cheese and herbs:

… and frittered (away)…

A couple of months later, we harvested four gourds (but consumed one before this here photo shoot).

Thus commenced the petha-making.

Cutting & Peeling

Make your first cuts on the gourd any way you want. It’s hard enough already, so no instructions here except to use force and not cut yourself.

Using a sharp knife, peel away the ashen skin. Look, how there are whole geographies drawn out on the ash gourd’s surface. Leave no green or greenish bits on the surface (as those complicate the candying later).

And just spend a moment admiring the arrangements of the ash gourd’s spongy interior.

Then cut the flesh into large-ish chunks: about 1.5″-2″ on each side, with whatever thickness you have. Traditionally, petha pieces are largeish squares or rectangles. I allowed myself some triangles, too. Size matters as the pieces will shrink in the cooking process, but you want a size that can get crunchy and sweet on the outside while remaining juicy-centered. Too small or too large means not having the right balance.

You want about 1kg of ash gourd, so measure with kitchen scales. Save the remainder of your gourd for some other use–or give away to friends. You can half the recipe if you wish, but don’t double it — make 2 batches instead.

Slaked lime soaking

Next comes the soaking with edible or slaked lime (Calcium Hydroxide), which we know in India as “chunnambu” (சுன்னாம்பு) or chuna (चूना).

Chunnambu really deserves a post all its own; its uses in cookery range from pickling to treating corn kernels to produce masa (and masa harina–the key ingredient in corn tortillas), to paan-making in India and south-east asia. Our use follows the logic of pickling: chunnambu helps to improve the firmness of pickles by introducing calcium that reinforces the pectin in the gourd, apparently then improving its crispness. 

Using a knife or a fork, prick holes in all sides of your ash gourd pieces. Put them in a large bowl filled with cool, fresh water. Add about 1 tablespoon of edible lime and mix well. Leave this for about 8 hours or overnight, mixing in between here and there (the lime tends to settle).

Cleaning, Boiling, Sugar-Resting

About an hour ahead of the cooking process, drain out the lime-water, and rinse the ash gourd pieces a few times, rubbing with your fingers so that no traces of lime remain. This is an important step. Remember that lime is alkaline, and creating a low-oxygen, high-alkaline environment can be conducive to a bacterial growth that is a known cause of botulism — so cleaning the soaked ash gourd well and the high-heat cooking process that follows are both vital to decontamination.

Bring a large vessel filled with water to a boil. Add the cleaned, drained ash gourd pieces, and cook on a high, rolling boil for about 10 minutes, or just until the ash gourd is starting to soften, and looks translucent. You can test with a knife or a toothpick–when the skin-side flesh seems tender, stop. Drain the ash gourd. Do not overcook.

To the same pan, for every 500g/half kg of ash gourd, add 1 1/2 cups (300g) of sugar. Mix well, and allow this to rest for about an hour. The resting will draw out a lot of liquid from the gourd, forming a sugar solution for the next steps, which involve flash cooking.

A round of flash-cooking (or two)

Return the pan to a high-flame, and allow the sugar solution below to boil. Watch this, mix it when needed. Once the sugar solution thickens, you’ll need to turn the ash gourd pieces carefully and regularly to keep them from burning–and to allow the pieces at the top to receive the same heat as those at the bottom.

Continue this process until the sugar solution and the pieces are drying out. This takes about 15 minutes. When this happens — stop. Turn off the flame, and allow the pieces to cool slightly.

Now I taste a semi-dry piece–if it is still too veggie-like, add a bit more sugar (up to 1/4 cup at a time for 1 kg of ash gourd please, no more), and repeat with a short resting process and re-cooking. I’ve done this up to twice, but after that or with too much sugar, you risk losing the little juiciness at the center. Sugar induces osmosis — it pulls out the moisture. You want enough sugar to pull moisture from the sides, but not every last bit from the insides. So you really risk killing the petha’s inimitable texture if you add too much. (But that’s ok, too: it’s just a different sort of candy!)

If, on the other hand, your petha is crunchy-super sweet on the outside and just a touch soft on the inside but-not-too-veggie-like, then stop with one round of flash cooking.

Return your pan to the heat for a minute, add a few drops of kewra water–which is the essence of the pandanus flower. If you don’t have this, you can use crushed cardamom instead. Mix well. 

I refuse to use artificial colorings to food, so I leave my pethas as they come — a light yellow. But it is a shame to lose the delicate green of the cooked ash gourd. I hear the folks in Agra make their pethas green with food coloring–and flavor them a whole bunch of different ways, too. 

Drying

Now spread the petha pieces out on a baking tray, and allow to dry. Depending on local humidity levels, this can be instantaneous, or run overnight. I’ve left my petha in the oven with a light and/or fan on, or sometimes just set them uncovered in the fridge. Cold or warm, these are each dehydrating environments–and ice-cold petha is a delight unto itself. You’re going to refrigerate as a final step anyway.

If your petha seems a little moist still, toss the pieces in a small quantity of sugar & refrigerate. 

Consume these home-made pethas within a few days. Trust me, you’ll have journeyed from home — to Agra — to heaven — and back.