Pacchai Kurumilagu Rasam

Pacchai kurumilagu from the hills—the green pepper that becomes the black pepper that we know altogether too well and take too much for granted, but it’s still such an astonishing fruit, if you stare long enough to remember just how.

The vines which carry them climb up-up-up the ramrod straight trunks of the tallest jackfruit or mullu murungai/ kalyana murungai [Erythrina Variegata or the Indian coral] trees that tower over shrubby tea carpets on the slopes below. Vertical gardens before vertical gardens became a thing.

Then amidst all those cordate [heart-like] leaves, like precious green stones fixed with mathematical precision on beading threads, these strands that might’ve been pieces of a queen’s necklace, hidden in the woods for safekeeping.

Not for long though. Someone collects and brings them to the plains in early spring, which is after the rains. There they’ve to be used right quick or they shrivel, ripen and turn black, sometimes powdery, more pungent in taste, like they’re not entirely pleased to have been plucked from the forest vines they once adorned. Depending on how long they’re on the vines, where they’re grown, and how large they get, they become Tellicherries or Cambodian Kampots or just nondescript but invaluable “black” peppercorns.

But really they’re all piper nigrum, with deep roots in the Indian subcontinent and the descriptive yardstick for anything that came after–so much so, that green chillies, an ancient import from the new world, are in Tamil பச்சை மிளகாய் [pacchai milagai], which breaks down into பச்சை மிளகு-காய் [pacchai-milagu-kaai]: literally translated, that’s “green pepper fruits.” Possibly also the reason why we call a whole lot of peppers, peppers in the first place, even in English.

For now though, it’s the immature green fruit which preoccupies. These whet your appetite so they’re inherently digestives; they’re vitamin C rich, so they fortify; they were our medicine before we had medicines. To keep their sharp-herbaceous green-ness, you can pickle them in brine or with our common masalas. A puli kuzhambu with these flavor bursts is a seasonal, saucy tamarind-mediated delight.

Or, swap the tamarind for lemon make a zingy rasam that’s already an antidote to every seasonal cold you could encounter.

Making a rasam with these fresh peppercorns is easy, and hardly needs a recipe, provided you understand rasam-making essentials: cook dal, add a prepped “chutney” that contains this rasam’s key taste, add turmeric powder and rasam powder in whatever form (freshly ground, pre-made), when the dal froths–pour over the usual tempering, and add the souring agent last because in this case it’s lemon juice, packing a vitamin C punch, and then finish with plenty of fresh coriander to infuse in the hot rasam.

The “chutney” which contains the rasam’s key taste takes the most effort, but even that is not much. It’s the green peppercorns pounded together with a bit of mild green chilli, some garlic (or use ginger) and that’s it. Don’t use a blender if you can help it here; what you want is a very coarse paste. [This later settles as rasavandi at the bottom of the otherwise thelivu [clear] rasam, and becomes something to enjoy almost apart from the rasam itself, with curd-rice.]

A word about pepper leaves, in closing: they’re edible, too! Here are ideas for use:

• Shred them into salads;
• Use them as garnishes;
• Use them as a base for steamed fish;
• put them into idli moulds before you pour batter on top
• you get the idea!

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