Kodukapuli Kozhambu & Bucket Rasam

I knew only one thing about kodukapuli when I saw it in the markets this summer: that it reminded me of my childhood. It’s not one of those enduring, central memories, mind; more of an incidental thing that these would appear in markets as the summer got hot, and some uncle or parent would buy bagful, usually impulsively, while we were on foot from somewhere to somewhere else, and we’d commence snacking. They were weird fruits, cottony in texture almost, and with a sort of sweet-sourness that you could enjoy, but enough astringency to leave your mouth feeling a touch chap-chap, like when you bite an unripe banana, like it had a coating all over you needed to scrape off. But, because snacking is addictive, and these leguminous fruits are easy to peel and pop, we’d keep at them.

One of those nibble-your-way-through-the-world enjoyments. Just that and nothing more.

I didn’t know then that kodukapuli, which just felt like such a quintessentially Indian fruit, so much of it around all over the place, and a rustic, thattu-vandi [push-cart] treat, was not indigenous to India at all. Heavens, it is also called “jungli jalebi” as its twisted form resembles our beloved jalebis sweetmeats. Then again, it’s also called “bilayati imli” (northern dialects) and cheema chintakayalu (Telugu)–foreign tamarind, so I might have guessed. But I didn’t.

Turns out, I wasn’t the only one to make such a mistake.

“Pithecellobium dulce was described in 1795 from the Coast of Coromandel in India,” writes Daniel Austin in his book on ethnobotany, “and for decades people thought it was native to the Old World.” India, specifically, and that it traveled from there to other parts of Asia. [Source: Daniel F. Austin, Florida ethnobotany. Boca Raton: CRC Press, 2006]

But no, kodukapuli had just made itself at home on the Coromandel coast by then. Its journey there hadn’t been straightforward, like it was with chinchona saplings, which were smuggled out of Amazonian forests as a prime source of quinine via Europe (or European intervention anyway) to plantations in the Nilgiris and Indonesia to assuage the malarial woes of the colonies. Much before those trans-atlantic routes became primary, the Spaniards had introduced “camachile” to Guam and then the Philippines, taken from Mexico. How it got to India from there, I don’t know, but now we do know why it’s commonly called the “Manila tamarind” out here.

There are two ways to touch your nose, my mother used to say. The straightforward hand-to-nose approach, or the hand-around-the-head-to-nose route. Camachile took the latter. I’m quoting here at length from a work by Paul C. Standley on the Trees and Shrubs of Mexico [1920], which shows how much more of a presence kodukapuli had had in the new world, from much earlier on:

Pithecollobium dulce (Roxb.) … Baja California to Chihuahua, Tamaulipas, and Chiapas; often cultivated. Central America and Colombia; naturalized in the East Indies and elsewhere in the tropics of the Old World; type from Coromandel. Tree. 4.5 to 20 meters high or larger, very spiny; trunk often 60 to 80 cm. in diameter, the bark grayish ; pinnae one pair, the leaflets one pair, 2.5 to 5 cm. long or larger, obtuse, pale green, glabrate; flowers yellowish or greenish white; fruit long and narrow, reddish, pubescent, much coiled and twisted; seeds black, surrounded by a white or reddish aril; wood moderately heavy, flexible, strong, reddish brown. ” Huamfichil,” “euamuchil,” or ” guamuchil” (used widely in Mexico; from the Nahuatl names, which are given variously as cuaumochtli, quauhmochitl. coacamachalli, or quamochitl) ; “guamuchitl,” “guamuche,” “humo ” (Tamaulipas); “guaymachile” (Guerrero, Palmer); “guamachi “(Guerrero); ” pinzan” (Guerrero, Oaxaca, Veracruz); “euamuchil,” “huamuchil costeno,” “guamuche,” ” huamuche,” “muchite” (Oaxaca); “yaga-bixihui,” “yaga-biguichi” (Oaxaca, Zapotec, Reko); “giiamuchil” (Durango. Patoni); “buamuchil” (Alcocer); “espino de playa” (Nicaragua); “mochigiiiste” (Costa Rica); ” guachimole,” ” mongollano ” (El Salvador); “jaguay” (Guatemala); “inga” (Cuba); “camachile” (Guam, Philippines). It is of interest to note that the Nahuatl name was introduced, along with the plant itself, into Guam and the Philippines by the Spaniards. The word has been modified there into such forms as “camanchil,” “camonsil,” “kamachiles,” and “camachile.” From the Philippines the tree was carried to India, where it is now much planted. The pods are known in India as “Manila tamarinds.”

The tree is very resistant to drought. It is nearly evergreen, but loses its old leaves as the new ones appear. The wood is widely employed for general construction purposes, for fence posts, and for fuel. The bark yields a yellow dye, and is much used for tanning skins; it is used in domestic medicine, also, because of its astringent properties. The gum exuding from the trunk is trans- parent and deep reddish brown; dissolved in water it makes good mucilage. The flowers are much frequented by bees and yield a good quality of honey. The fruit is highly esteemed in Mexico and is a common article in the markets. The acidulous aril surrounding the seeds is eaten and is used in the preparation of a beverage similar to lemonade. Stock of all kinds are fond of the pods, and in India monkeys are said to eat them greedily.

The tree is treated by Hernandez in a chapter entitled ” De Coaca machalli, seu Maxilla Colubri.” This name (“snake-jaws”), he states, is given because the pair of leaflets somewhat resemble the jaws of a snake. ” The leaves,” he says, “applied as plasters, allay pain, even those of venereal sores, and relieve convulsions. In flavor they are astringent, sweet, and somewhat glutinous, and in temper to a certain extent cold, or moderately warm.” The tree is treated on page 94 of the same work, in a chapter headed ” De Quamochitl, seu arbore fructus crepitantis.” In this account he states that the root bark is good for dysentery; the leaves, with salt, cure indigestion, and also produce abortion; the juice of the seeds, sniffed into the nose, draws off humors from the head; and the pulverized seeds (especially if mixed with rue) cleanse internal ulcers. [Source: Paul C. Standley, Trees and Shrubs of Mexico. Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1920: 393-4]

Puli Kozhambu

The only other thing I knew about kodukapuli when I saw it in the markets this summer was that we used to eat it raw–never cooked. Being such an incidental, thattu-vandi thing, neither a specially sought-after ingredient, nor a kitchen staple, my mother never cooked with it.

But when a maid said to me “puli kozhambu seiyyalaam,” all my mental gears clicked and clanked into motion.

The puli kozhambu is a category of tamarind-based sour-spicy-saucy dishes unto itself, sometimes just called kara-kozhambu (in the name is emphasis: tamarind-sourness versus heat/spice). Telugu-speakers might call it a pulusu or gravy, though it tends to be on the thicker side of things, on the other end of a sambar from a rasam. Puli kozhambus usually showcase one vegetable, vathal (usually a lacto-fermented, sun-dried berry, or dried fish), or spice. Classic vatha kozhambu uses manathakkali [black nightshade, Solanum nigrum] vathal or even just plain lentil-based applams [pappad]. Fresh, unripe manathakkali, pearl onions, sundakkai or turkey berries, okra, kurumilagu [green peppercorns] are the happiest of vegetables in a puli kozhambu. Fenugreek and black pepper the happiest of spices.

So why not kodukapuli kozhambu? It rolled easily off my tongue now. This weird fruit naturally married three of six tastes (arusuvai): inippu (sweetness), pulippu (sourness), and thuvarppu (astringence). Its most prominent taste was not sourness, but extending its sour tones and its sweet ones in the company of spice felt perfectly justified. Not a new idea, clearly, but more of an “ahaa!” moment. A koduka-puli kozhambu just had to be made.

“Bucket rasam”

Meantime, Swathi Iyer left a comment on my Instagram post about “dhideer rasam“–the type that’s made in a pinch, when there’s a sudden need and not much time: “dhideer” means “sudden” in Tamil.

“My patti [grandmother],” Swathi wrote, “makes this bucket rasam, it’s usually made from the remaining tamarind pulp from any kind of previous preparation of vatha kozhambu. With minimal tomato. No paruppu/toor dal and tadka would be dried neem flowers… I did ask her why ‘bucket rasam’? She said you can add as much as water you want–bucket alavu/ bucket size, the sourness from tomato[-tamarind] is enough.”

Ingenious and humorous! To make use of even the tamarind that had already been used to extract a thick extract, now for the thin needs of rasam–these days, we applaud such practices for being “zero waste.” Back then, however, it must have been just the stretching of resources that characterized so much of Indian kitchen economics, and gave rise to so much creativity.

And now since I was about to make a kodukapuli kozhambu, I could play this two ways: use leftover tamarind and used leftover puli kozhambu to conjure a rasam. Neem flowers were falling all over: ’tis the season for such snowfall and a sign, I thought. Bucket rasam needed to be made, too.

The two are like the logical flow of a complex argument. The trick is only to make sure that you do have a few ladlefuls of kodukapuli kozhambu actually left over to make the rasam. Because if your house is anything like mine, puli kozhambus are never, ever left over.

This post, as we’d have quipped in Texas is a two-fer: two recipes, two videos, each in turn.

Kodukapuli Kozhambu

A classic Tamil puli kozhambu with kodukapuli or Camachile/Manila Tamarind

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Ingredients

  

For the ground masala:

• 1 tablespoon
• 3-4 red chillies
• 3 teaspoons toor dal
• 1 teaspoon urad dal
• 1 teaspoon black peppercorns
• 1 teaspoon jeera
• ½-1 teaspoon saunf
• 5-7 pearl onions (or the equivalent in shallots)
• 5 cloves of garlic
• 2 ripe tomatoes

For the puli kozhambu

• 3 tablespoons cold pressed sesame oil
• 1 teaspoon Mustard seeds
• 2-3 sprigs curry leaves
• 5-7 pearl onions (or the equivalent in shallots)
• 5 cloves of garlic
• 1 cup tamarind water, from a lemon-sized ball of tamarind
• 2 big handfuls kodukapuli, from about 1/4kg whole fruit, shelled, cleaned, seeds removed
• ½ teaspoon turmeric powder
• 1 tablespoon jaggery or to taste
• 1 teaspoon ghee (optional)
• Salt

Instructions

 

Prepare the spice paste:

• Heat the oil in a heavy pan. Roast the spices in batches: first the red chillies, then the dals, and finally the spices (jeera, black pepper, saunf). Remove each, and transfer to a blender jar to cool.
• In the same pan with no extra oil, add the pearl onions. Once these are translucent, follow with the garlic, and then the tomatoes. Cook till soft. Transfer to the blender jar with the spices.
• Add enough tamarind water to help with the grinding, and blend these to a thick paste. Set aside.

Make the kozhambu:

• In the same heavy saucepan, add the 3 tablespoons of sesame oil. Once it’s hot, drop the mustard seeds in, allow them to splutter, and follow with the curry leaves.
• Add the onions once more, and the whole garlic, frying this time until nicely browned.
• Now add the kodukapuli, stir for a bit, and add the rest of the tamarind water. Thin this with drinking water, if necessary, enough to cover the kodukapuli. Add the turmeric powder, and leave this to simmer until the raw tamarind smell dissipates—a few minutes.
• Now add the blended paste, and more water if the kozhambu is already too thick. Allow to simmer and thicken on a low flame, about 8-10 minutes.
• Add the jaggery, and salt to taste.
• Finish with the dollop of ghee, and serve hot with rice.

Video

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Kodukapuli “Bucket” Rasam

Rasam made from leftover puli kozhambu, and the tamarind left over also from making the puli kozhambu. Such recipes are evidence of the genius of the Indian kitchen in stretching resources and everyday leftovers into entirely new nutritious, and tasty "zero waste" preparations.

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Ingredients

  

• Tamarind left over from making kodukapuli kozhambu
• 4 ladles of left over puli kozhambu
• 1 large ripe tomato, roughly chopped
• 1 teaspoon rasam powder
• A little jaggery and salt to taste, as necessary

Seasoning:

• 1 tablespoon ghee
• ½ teaspoon mustard seeds
• ½ teaspoon jeera
• 1 pinch of hing (optional)
• 1 broken red chilli
• 1-2 sprigs of curry leaves
• 2-3 garlic cloves with skins, lightly crushed
• 1 tablespoon fresh or dried neem flowers if available.

Instructions

 

• Add a few cups of water to the tamarind left over from making kodukapuli kozhambu (or any left over/ used tamarind). Mash well with your fingers to release as much of the pulp as possible. Strain and discard and remaining pulp, fibres, and seeds.
• In an eeya chombu or other cooking vessel, mix the left over puli kozhambu and the extracted tamarind water. If you are using an eeya chombu, ensure it’s at least ¾ full; add more water to the ¾ mark if not. You can go up to a “bucket alavu” (bucket measure) after all!
• Add the tomato, squeezing with fingers to release juices, soften and hasten the cooking process.
• Place the vessel on the stove and turn on the flame (on medium-low if using an eeya chombu). Add the rasam powder. Allow this to simmer until the mixture becomes slightly frothy. The dal quotient in this rasam is low, so expect some frothing, but not too much rising.
• Add a little salt and jaggery—or adjust, to taste, keeping in mind that the kuzhambu would have had these ingredients already.

To season:

• Heat the ghee and add the dry spices. Wait for these to crackle and pop, then follow with the curry leaves, and finally the neem flowers.
• Fry well and pour over the waiting rasam, switch off the flame, and serve hot with a soft rice

Video

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