Aavaarampoo podi kathirikkai

For years and years and years, my parents’ dinners had been just tiffins. Not different-different tiffins every evening, because, God knows, this incredible county of ours has no shortage of light meals that can easily become perfect dinners–easy on the stomach for an evening meal, easy on the woman whose kitchen work would be heavy if the meal was, too, and (especially in the summers) easy on the body for the extreme heat.

But, no, there was never any diversity to my parents’ mealtime choices. In fact, there weren’t really any choices in the plural. Only one, in the singular, and that was idlis.

Batter would be made or bought, it didn’t matter. The idlis would come out softer or harder, it didn’t matter. But the men who helped out in the cooking–in Nigeria, houseboys; in India, Nepali men; somehow this was always the arrangement–were trained in the making of idlis pronto, so that these could be prepared ahead of time and good to go for 7pm in whatever form.

And the accompaniment to these idlis? For the love of sambar and chutney–think of the innumerable variations possible to go with those soft, pillowy steaming hot idlis!

But, again, no. In our house it was always “molagai podi.” Idli podi. I love a good chutney podi as much as the next person, don’t get me wrong. But it was always the same idlis and always the same podi. Painfully, predictably, standard. The only decision that ever needed making was: “Deepa, how many idlis do you want for dinner?”

*G.R.O.A.N*

I made it my policy not to complain–not as an act of selflessness, but as a path of least resistance. I’d pick a random number each time, and eat the idlis without relish because I knew it made things simpler to do so. Simpler for my parents’ routines. Simpler for me to go with the flow with no pretensions about wanting to make things “better” for my parents in the way so many US-returned kids do, filling their natal homes with gadgets and objects that are stored away safely even if they are never used or after they’ve outlived their utility, or compelling parents to expand taste palates when really idli-dosa-coffee does it all. Was it narrowness, I wonder? Or something else? It’s funny, but our parents never craved foreign things the way we craved Indian things, the years we lived abroad. Pickles and podis and the odd Preeti mixer or dosa grinder–those things lived long North American lives. But the cordless phones we brought here wound up very quickly in tech-graveyards, until we gave up and settled for bringing back only nuts and dried fruit, which were always welcomed.

Now, our home-made idli podi had been crafted by my mother to a minimalist fine art. 5 ingredients: urad, sesame, and red chillies in roughly equal proportions, a bit of perungayam (“use only P.K. perungayam!” Amma interjects, and “only brown sesame seeds!”), salt to taste. The houseboys were schooled in these arts, too; they had the podi proportions and grinding textures down. And I made my peace because there was always a good sesame oil to be had with the idli podi, plus a bit of jaggery.

When my father’s health was in decline and my trips to Chennai were becoming frequent and my stays longer, I had idlis and molagai podi every night for supper. Every blessed night. Knowing that this was straining on me, my parents would vary it thus: not idlis, but dosas made from the same batter.

“Deepa, how many dosas do you want for dinner?”

No chutney, no sambar, no masala. No ghee roast, no oothappam. Not even podi dosai. Just dosa + molagai podi.

I’d intervene sometimes, and stick some cheese in the dosa, becoming the child I’d at times wished my own boys weren’t–dosas with cheese and ketchup, really?!?! Or, better, I’d make a coconut chutney which, to my joy, Appa would relish. “She’s a good cook,” he’d say, and nothing in this world made me happier than those four words. But neither he nor my mother seemed particularly bothered that there wasn’t always a chutney around, or really anything to mix up the routine. They were each singularly uninterested in food, and I often would wonder if that was an ideal to which I should rather be aspiring.

Amma made a big batch of molagai podi a week or so before my father passed away. The light in the kitchen was bad and I was in no mood to document, though I had a passing inkling that I really should. I went for a walk instead while the podi was being bottled and safely frozen away for future use. I inherited it, along with so much else that my father didn’t need any more, after October 8, 2021, 8:44am IST. If a mendicant had happened by as they did sometimes in the old stories, I imagine he might have laughed–not relishing, not mocking, but knowing. Here we were planning for months when all that was there was minutes.

Needless to say, we don’t consume molagai podi at home at the rate my parents used to. It took a gushing comment from Ramya Reddy to bring the jars back to life–a friend makes this podi, she said, having seen my posts on Tanner’s cassia flowers, with aavaaram (here and here).

I was on phone with my mother that afternoon. Pent up frustration, anything for a little variation: “what, what, what? We had the same molagai podi with the same idlis for dinners for years. Did you know that aavaaram can be added to it?”

“Aavaaram can be added to many things,” came the placid reply. “Yes, also molagai podi though it may not make much difference to taste. I don’t know. Check on YouTube [her favorite line]. Or just try?”

“I will! Why do you not tell me such things?”

My mother chuckles, characteristically. “Why do you not ask?”

Touché. But we know Amma for her forgetfulness, scolding us pitifully for one thing one week and forgetting it entirely the next, as though she needed to get over something far more than we needed to learn. And so entrenched were we all in evening idli-podi routines, my mother had forgotten one other thing: this wonderful katthirikkai poriyal she used to make with this very molagai podi of hers. There once had been some variation, but she’d forgotten about it. But I remembered, as always–the scoldings, the forgettings, the poriyals, the possibilities.

Uninterested in food, uninterested in the kitchen, this dish is in some ways classic, classic Amma. 1 vegetable, 1 cooking process, 1 seasoning to serve.

You can think of it as a shortcut to that other celebrated Tamil dish, yennai katthirikkai–literally, oil-eggplant, but without the whole spices and multiple ingredients and carefully crafted preparation. Eggplants love oil; this is known the world over. They’ll drink as much of it as you give them. Molagai podis need oil. They’ll take as much of it as you give them. If you think of it, most of the ingredients that make a molagai podi are also used to make yennai katthirikkai, so there’s just a natural affinity between the eggplant and the podi. The eggplant has the oil, the podi soaks what it needs from the eggplant surface, giving you the impression of a lightly spice-tossed podi katthirikkai. Tell me that doesn’t sound wonderful.

The method? Cut eggplants into strips. Deep fry. Drain on paper towels. Toss liberally with molagai podi. Adjust salt.

This was my mother’s formula, repeated I-don’t-know-how-many-times all our growing-up years. Maybe not as many as poriccha kuzhambu–which became something of a family joke because Amma assumed it was a favorite dish, when really we were just uncomplaining children–but often enough.

It’s not a bad formula even though (or maybe because!) it uses a lot of oil. Not being as enamored of formulae, however, and rather loving the kitchen as a scientist loves a lab bench–but having inherited both a family recipe and a family’s stock of molagai podi jars–I decided it was time to introduce at least a little variation into this old humdrum affair.

I added the aavaaram flowers to the house-standard idli podi.

“Did you make this eggplant, Amma?” This time this was my boys, and me their Amma. “It is so good!” Thinking of my father once again but looking at his grandchildren now, nothing in this world made me happier than those four words.

My Amma was right, aavaaram doesn’t add much by way of taste. But the point of Indian additives sometimes isn’t to add taste as much as to facilitate ingestion–get it in you, it’s good for you-types.

Plus I had the satisfaction of knowing that, gosh-darnit, we’d lifted the family podi from dead habit and claimed our inheritances in the best ways possible: with flowers.

Aavaarampoo podi and Fried Eggplants

A twist on the classic idli podi or molagai podi that accompanies idlis-and-dosas in most South Indian homes–this powder has aavaaram or Tanner’s cassia flowers added in, for their nutritive value. The podi can be eaten with dosas and idlis, hot rice, or can be used to spice fried vegetables–in this case eggplants. It would be great on Hasselback potatoes, too!

Print Recipe Pin Recipe

Ingredients

  

For the molagai podi

• 1 part dry red chillies [50g]
• 4 parts urad dal [200g]
• 4 parts brown or black sesame [do not use white] [200g]
• 1 piece katti perungayam or hing [substitute ½ teaspoon powdered hing]
• 1 part dry aavaaram flowers or the equivalent in powder [50g]
• 2 teaspoons sesame oil
• Salt to taste
• Sugar or jaggery [optional]

For the eggplant

• 2 large eggplants/ 10-12 small eggplants/ 6-8 long eggplants [see note]
• Oil to deep fry
• Salt to taste

Instructions

 

For the molagai podi

• Dry roast the urad dal until golden brown. Transfer to a plate and allow to cool.
• Repeat this process with the sesame seeds.
• Then add the oil to the pan and add the red chillies.
• Break the perungayam/hing with a heavy pestle and add the pieces to the roasting chillies. Roast until the hing is fragrant and the chillies are browning slightly. Transfer to the awaiting plate and allow to cool. [If you’re using perungaya podi, add it at the end of grinding, now in this step]
• Add the aavaaram flowers (if using the dry ones) to the same roasting pan but do not turn on the flame. The residual heat is sufficient. Toss for a minute and then transfer to the plate.
• Transfer the molagai podi ingredients to the jar of a blender in this order, pulsing several times before adding the next ingredient: red chillies and perungayam first, then aavaaram, urad dal, and finally sesame seeds. The red chillies+aavaaram and hing should become a fine powder, but the dal and sesame should remain somewhat coarse. Hence the staggered addition.
• Add salt to taste and a little sugar or jaggery if you want a bit of sweetness.
• Bottle and store. The podi keeps well at room temperature for about 2 months. But to keep and use over a longer period, it’s a good idea to refrigerate or even freeze. You can use directly from friedge/freezer if need be.

To make the eggplant poriyal

• Cut the eggplants into thinnish 2” long strips. Try to keep the pieces uniform so they fry evenly and at the same pace.
• Heat oil in a deep frying pan and wait until it is nearly smoking. Add about half the eggplant pieces and fry on high heat until they’re browning. Remove with a slotted spoon and spread on paper towels to absorb excess oil.
• Repeat with the remaining eggplant pieces.
• Toss the fried eggplant in a bowl with 4-5 tablespoons of the aavaarampoo molagai podi. Adjust salt.
• Serve warm.

Notes

Choose eggplants that are less “watery” and more firm in texture, as those will fry faster and absorb less oil. For that, the small eggplants work best (the larger and longer types tend to be a lot more moisture-rich and “juicy”).