Chulha-wala Chhena Poda Pitha

The first thing to say about the chhena poda, even before you say what it is, is that it’s emphatically and irrevocably Odia. To support this assertion, you cite its inventor, one Sudarshana Sahoo with a sweet shop in Dasapalla, Nayagarh, whose accidental placement of some sweetened chhena wrapped in sal [Shorea robusta] leaves on hot coals overnight resulted in this deliciously smoky, deeply-caramelized-to-almost-burnt desi cheesecake.

This momentous event took place in the earlier part of the 20th century, or the 19th, or the 12th, depending on whom you ask–although Sahoo was clearly a 20th century sweet merchant–but that it occurred in present-day Odisha is beyond dispute. And so it must be, lest it meets the fate of that other famously disputed chhena sweetmeat, the rosogolla. Odisha tied to contest and rectify the “Banglar Rosogolla” GI tag awarded in 2017, not succeeding except to obtain a second GI tag for the Odia rosogolla in 2019, but in the process marshalling a mass of historical and hyperbolic evidence that now preemptively buttresses chhena poda’s claims of origin. Chhe-naw-po-daw: the pronunciation alone roots this dish in Odisha. It’s Lord Jagannath’s favorite sweet [but unclear if it’s formally part of the Chhappan Bhog]. Asit Mohanty’s extensive research finds mention of rosogollas in the Dandi Ramayana, so there must be textual support for chhena poda’s ancient origins, too, because both are, after all, chhena-based sweets offered to the great Lord of Puri. Then just in case these lines of argumentation don’t work, the Orissa Milk Federation (OMFED) took it upon itself to develop techniques extending shelf-life and shippability, carrying forward the legacy of said Sudharshana Sahoo who did much to promote his invention outside Odisha, so it can never be doubted that it was Odisha that both made and brought this delicacy to the world.

For my part, I was sold, mind-body-heart-soul at smoky-caramelized-desi-Odia, in any mixed and matched order you please. My only measure of the true chhena poda pitha and of its value had been the version a childhood schoolmate brought me straight from Bhubaneshwar once, so very carefully packaged and handled, not for a moment left unattended, much to my amusement. And what I tasted then felt a lot like … well, me: a little sweet, a little strung, a bit nutty, definitely hung; charred, yes-yes, even a touch burned; cooked one way and overturned; some deep marks and others light; some peeled off, others held tight. It was an identification of the most intimate sort.

Being Tamil myself and genetically and ancestrally not Odia, however, I was without the requisite provenance–a predicament that could only be addressed by laying hands on a suitably authentic recipe.

Now recipes for chhena poda pitha abound, but I’ve been surprised, for all the magical originary tales of sal-leaf-wrapping and slow cooking on dying embers, at how easily the conventional convection home oven becomes an acceptable substitute for producing an excellent (or excellent enough) chhena poda. No choice, perhaps? For a quick fix, sure, but the no-choice quick-fix appears to have become the urban (blogger) standard, even as chulhas and other wood-fired cookery become nostalgic remnants of less-affluent, rural life or just trendy pizza oven standards.

Backtrack a bit. Chhena is coagulated milk, drained of whey, the “cottage cheese” or “farmer’s cheese” precursor to the more solid, set panneer. The poda pitha has a few important variants, made with rice, urad dal, coconut, nuts and spices alongside or sans chhena [such as that offered at the Mausi Maa temple during the Bahuda yatra or the Lord’s return journey to Puri’s Shree Mandir] but refers generally to a roasted or burned cake. Best as I can tell, pithas are perhaps the Eastern cousins to the Southern adai, which can be anything from a griddle-fried thick dosa or pancake to steamed nonbu-adais offered during Savitri Vratham [Karadaiyan nonbu], though a lot of our steamed rice cakes start to be called kozhakattais, which is a distinct category unto itself.

The roasting of the chhena is critical because that’s where leaf flavors infuse and sugars caramelize to the point of burning–and while you can perhaps engineer these things well enough in a regular convection oven with a little care and attention, the sort of slow caramelization, infusion, and the flavors that emerge from open-fire cooking? Not a crying chance from a 40-minute bake in a tame little household oven.

Being clearly a not-Odia maker of a definitely-Odia sweet dish, and having no other credibility-granting associations–examples: having lived there, speaking Odia, being an ethnographer of Odisha, even having access to sal leaves–I figured my only claim to authenticity would have to be what others even in Odisha were doing less and less: using a traditional chulha or wood-fired stove to roast that chhena into perfect caramelized glory.

Enter my grandmother’s sweet little kummiti aduppu [charcoal stove]. The story of its arrival to our home will have to wait for another post, but it was there, the closest to a traditional chulha as I would get for a while, and the absolute perfect size for a decent-sized chhena poda pitha.

Of course, any close approximation of the kummiti aduppu–mud stoves, charcoal barbecues, even just a few bricks stacked to make a cove for firewood and space for a pot to sit on top–will work, too, but this is the story of how I learned to roast that chhena into a smoky-sweet poda pitha using what leaves I had around and what tools.

As I prepare to give you the steps, I remain aware of the irony of what I’m about to do. The original chhena poda was, as the story goes, simply wrapped in leaves and left overnight on dying embers. Almost forgotten to be charred to perfection. Here we are, however, about to fire a kummiti aduppu to its roaring heights for the same purpose. It’s not the same thing. It’s just as close as we can come to a world in which wood-fired mud-stove cooking is a increasingly only a rural art, for better and worse, and less and less the way we prepare whole meals. So although the original chhena poda sounds like it happened naturally and without much fuss, at the end of some other longer cooking process, returning to that method for us is a process that involves a good deal of attention and some fuss. Consider yourself warned.

Is it all worth it? Well, that depends on what you’re seeking. A quick 40 minute cake this is not. A mastery over an older and more rudimentary cooking technique, and a re-opening of older conversations with edible leaves and “wrapping” techniques–these things it most certainly is. Do those things matter to you? If they do, well, then, this is the path.

1. Prepare the chhena

This is a process known to just about all Indian cooks. Use 2 liters of a good, whole fat milk. Bring it to a boil and add about a cup of buttermilk or the juice of 2-3 limes. Both introduce acidity which, with heat, causes milk coagulation. Buttermilk leaves no perceptible after-taste, while lime can leave distinctly citrus impressions–which I’ve come to rather prefer, but it’s your choice. [I would not recommend vinegar though; just don’t like the after tastes of that.]

Once the coagulation is complete and the whey is an almost clear green-grey, drain (give the whey to pets or use it in other cooking or feed your curry leaf plant!) with a clean cheesecloth for not more than 10 minutes. This is important: you want a moist chhena to slow-roast. Dry it out at this stage, and it’ll be altogether too easy to burn out your poda pitha. So if the chhena feels wet still, that’s just right.

Once the chhena curds are cool enough to handle, add sugar (about 1 cup or to taste). You can use a good quality powdered jaggery, too, but let it be a light jaggery, not the dark stuff which will color the chhena too deeply. Yes, aesthetics matter. You want to see the charring, not camouflage it with color.

Add a tablespoon or two of suji/rava, just enough to absorb any extra wetness. Now you can either mash this well with your fingers and the heel of your palm for about 15 minutes to get a smooth texture, or blend in a mixie or food processor as a shortcut. I rather enjoy the hand mixing, I find it meditative and like giving my hands a massage, so that’s what I do.

Add about ½ teaspoon powdered cardamom and a generous grating of nutmeg. Add a handful of chopped nuts–cashews, almonds, pistachios, a few raisins if you like. Mix well.

2. Prepare the baking pan and layer it with leaves

Prep a small baking pan, pick a size that doesn’t spread the chhena mixture too thin, and gives you a minimum of 3″ depth. For the chhena quantity I got from 2 litres of milk, a small metal pan about 6-7″ in diameter was what worked for me. Keep in mind that this is going to sit directly on hot coals, so do not use non-stick or other precious/fragile pans. A solid commercial grade aluminium or stainless steel is necessary.

Grease the base and sides of the pan well with ghee.

The line the base with leaves–sal, jackfruit, Bauhinia [Hong Kong orchid], banyan, banana, pandan/ thazampoo/ annapurna, Dillenia indica [elephant apple] all work well, though sal is traditional. Lime leaves aren’t large enough, but impart wonderful flavor, especially to chhena coagulated with lime juice. Use a combination of larger and smaller leaves as you’ll need multiple layers to protect the chhena from the rather fierce heat of the coals. Keep stronger flavored lime leaves a bit away from contact with chhena or they’ll impart bitter tastes, too. Bauhinia and banana are the most pliable; jackfruit and banyan are the least pliable but the most protective.

You’re working backwards while lining the base and sides of your pan, so the thicker leaves go in first, followed by the more intensely flavoring ones (like lime), and then the leaves that come in direct contact with the chhena (like bauhinia and banana). Pandan leaves can go on any layer, but their shape works well for the sides of the pan and their flavors are wonderful, of course.

Choose the leaves carefully–you don’t have to use them all, of course. But different combinations will impart different flavor combinations.

And textures. It’s fun to think of the impressions left by these leaves on the final poda pitha–play with that, cutting away at some of the thicker stems and veins if you must to make some leaves more pliable. Banana striations are the most subtle, jack and banyan cut dramatically deep (but their thickness may impede caramelization), and bauhinia can be coaxed to leave some lovely fan-like imprints.

Once the leaf-layering is done, smear the base with a little ghee, and sprinkle a teaspoon of powdered jaggery evenly over the leaves. Pack the sweetened chhena on top, pressing down gently with your fingers. Drizzle a bit of ghee and sprinkle a little more powdered jaggery. Don’t skip this; it’s what keeps your chhena from burning too fast while deepening the caramelization of that outer layer.

Now cover with more leaves working this time in reverse order: bauhinia and banana (the softer more pliable leaves), followed by lime and pandan (the flavoring ones), and finished with the tougher banyan and jackfruit (the protective layer). 3-4 layers on either side of the chhena are necessary. Pack them in so they sit as tightly as possible.

Cover this with a plate that is again metal enough to bear the heat of the coals as you will eventually need to invert this onto the coals.

3. Fire your stove & roast your chhena

Lighting the kummiti aduppu is an art unto itself, but basically you’re loading the top with charcoal (from the last cooking, possibly), and sticking small pieces of firewood into the opening below just as you would with any other makeshift or outdoor stove. You’ll use newspaper, a little kerosene or other lighter fluid, dry leaves or newspaper to get it going, directing the flames and heat inside, so that eventually they burn the coals in the kummiti aduppu’s “bowl.”

And onto that layer of hot coals gets placed the to-be-roasted chhena tightly packed in with all those lovely leaves.

If you’re using a chulha, what we call a man aduppu [மண் அடுப்பு, mud stove] in Tamil, or a makeshift stove with bricks, then you’ll need to place a strong wire rack (an old chapati grill or roti jali works) or some such over the opening for the flame, to place your chhena dish.

Of course, all this needs to be done outside or in a super-well-ventilated area. Get a book or your knitting or your computer, if you really must, and sit. Keep a pan with your tea things ready because after the chhena poda is done, there’s going to be heat enough to make a nice smoky pot of tea to reward you for your efforts.

You’ll need to check on the baking chhena once every 10-15 minutes, especially as the heat intensifies, which it should after the first little while. No easy-peasy dial to turn down if the heat gets high, so you’ll need to flip the pan at that point and generally treat the chhena poda like you would a chapati on a hot tava: keep it moving to keep it from burning, or to burn it evenly. You will also need to add wood to keep temperatures high–or not, if the heat of the coals is intense enough not to need much firing. You’ll know by staying close.

I kept my chhena poda plate-side-up for about 25-30 minutes, and then flipped it. Left it again for about 15 minutes and flipped it again just to check by lifting off the plate and peeking under the leaf layers. The jaggery was liquidy, so I put it back, plate-side-down for another 15 minutes.

I forget now how many flips I did, about 2-3 most likely, but once I saw some evidence of caramelization and started to smell light charring, I stopped–on the logic that if the plate-side is caramelizing, the bottom of the chhena poda will be burned more and probably just right. (If it isn’t, you can just flip the cake back into the leaf-lined pan and return it to the stove for a few minutes).

I love the fact that there’s no standard timing to this process; you’re forced to understand heat and done-ness intuitively, physically, attentively. These things matter to me as much as speed and efficiency in cookery. But overall, the process took about 1.5 hours.

Invert the chhena poda onto a plate, and gently and slowly lift off the baking pan. [Now is when you realise the merits of that first good greasing]. The pan should lift fairly easily off, even if the leaves have burned and stuck a little. Peel off the leaf layers and you should have a nicely roasted, here darker-there lighter chhena poda pitha. [If you’re not satisfied, like I said, don’t peel it all off but just peek– and return the cake to the stove for more browning.]

The chhena poda will swell while cooking and settle while cooling, so give it time to do so. Once it’s cooled significantly, you can cut with a knife and serve.

This will keep a few days, refrigerated, but I’d be surprised if it lasts more than the rest of the afternoon, even for a family of 2.