Balareddipalle Pithikipappu Chaaru

I haven’t posted a decent chaaru recipe in a while, have I?

The funniest thing is that I’ve been making this one for years without realizing it was, in fact, a chaaru, which is of course as the thicker, more dal-like rasams are known in Telugu-land [that’s Andhra+Telangana for you].

All good chaarus need a good pulse, and the story of this one starts from fresh anapaginjalu, avarekalu, mochai, vaal or as you please to call them in your region, when these would come into season in the winters, November-through-January-ish. Note that the white-flowered surti papdi is a Gujarati cousin, not identical to the somewhat larger, purple-flowered beans that are more common in the Southern states—though culinarily they could well be interchanged without anyone noticing. Note also that they’re also called lablab beans, from the botanical Lablab purpureus, though that can be a purple-skinned bean, which our anapaginjalu most certainly are not. Bengalis call them sheem, though the sheem sold around here is a lot more twisted in form and purple-edged compared to the flatter-by-far and wholly green avarakkai. Then they’re also called field beans, which confuses them with barbati or long beans which have gone to seed and are sold also about now, in the winters.

Now all these beans are relatives, and most all are edible as just whole tender beans off their vines most of the year–with the exception of the mochai or avarekaalu, which are larger and grown for their seeds in this season. Though the pods that go to seed in this season, like the barbatis, themselves become seasonal delicacies. They all have their unique tastes, mind: surti papdi tends to be a touch sweeter than avarekaalu which has its own not-quite-bitter and much-sought-after flavors. Avarekaalu are also never a uniform green, but range in color from paddy green to cream-white.

So anyway I’d make these pulusus based on old recipes learned from all the genius women in my husband’s family, sometimes with tomatoes, and sometimes not. Pulusus are after all thinnish, sourish gravies, usually with some pulupu or sourness from tamarind, tomatoes, or sour curd. The beans I used were sometimes with-skin-on and sometimes they were with-skin-off—ok, more on- than off- because hulling is an extra, laborious step—and I didn’t think really to make a distinction between the curries resulting though I really should have, duh, because by the time the skins are off they are no longer anapaginjalu [seeds] but pithikipappu [pulses] on account of the pithik-pithik [squelch-squelch]-like little sounds that the pulses make when they are pressed forth from their skins. Cute, right? Literally, they’re pressed pulses. It’s laborious work, de-skinning them. Just think of it, every single pulse you see below has been touched by human fingers. Every single one.

But—and here’s where Tamil girl married into Telugu family landed herself in one maha-pulse-u–pulusu confusion—a pulusu made from a pappu is a pulusu no more. Get it? One doesn’t make a pulusu with a pulse-u, basically, because skinning the ginjalu [or seeds] makes them pappulu [or dals] by which time the pulusu [gravy, remember?] has by definition become … can you guess? A chaaru.

And how did I chance on this truth? I asked for chaaru on a recent trip to the village, expecting to be served the brilliant miriyalu rasam that was also on offer, and got this pithikipappu chaaru instead. Things unraveled from there. In this country of a thousand names for each thing and a thousand more botanical, taxonomical, and nomenclatural confusions—by the time I’d figured out the various ~u confusions, I was 27 years into this marriage [yes, 27; yes, it took that long], and reigning [feigning?] #rasamseries queen who’d extolled the virtues of a good rasam on LA radio KCRW’s Good Food with Evan Kleiman just learned she’d been making chaarus a great many more times than she realized.

So, now, with a great sense of relief at having arrived upon a great sense-making aahaaa! truth, I give you the pithikipappu chaaru.

… with thanks to Shobhakka and Hari in Balareddipalli for leading me to the right words and the right ingredients. Same recipe as the pulusu really [ok maybe wee more watery], same hyacinth beans only, same season making only, but skinned and therefore a new texture, new enjoyment, new place on plate, and definitely new name.

Turns out Kannadigas think and name things similarly: pithiki pappu is called hitakubele avarekalu, which means “pressed hyancinth bean,” the use of which in curries results in the preparation of the Hitikida Avarekaalu Saaru.

I’ll have a tomato-based gravy recipe with the whole hyacinth beans up soon–the one you see peeking from a corner in some of these photographs. It’s easier to swap out one kind of skin-on beans with another, so that’s perhaps more versatile recipe—but a chaaru is a chaaru is a chaaru. Special, rustic, warming, seasonal, with all the jingle bells I’ll ever need to bring good cheer to the holidays.

Balareddipalle Pithikipappu Chaaru

A light, subtle and flavorful dish, made with de-skinned avarekaalu or hyacinth bean seeds when these flood the markets each winter—this recipe is one I have learned from the women in my husband’s family and the women in their ancestral village, Balareddipalle, north of Bangalore.

Print Recipe Pin Recipe

Ingredients

  

• 3-4 cups of anapaginjalu or hyacinth bean seeds

To grind:

• 15 sambar onions/kutti vengayam or the equivalent in shallots, chopped
• Garlic cloves from one whole garlic bulb
• 1 ” piece of ginger
• 2-3 green chillies
• ½ cup fresh grated coconut
• Some coriander leaves and stems

To temper and fry:

• 3 tablespoons oil
• A small piece of cinnamon
• 2-3 cloves
• ½ teaspoon jeera or cumin seeds
• ½ teaspoon mustard seeds
• 2-3 sprigs of fresh curry leaves
• 5 sambar onions/kutti vengayam or the equivalent in shallots, sliced
• 1 teaspoon coriander powder
• ½ teaspoon turmeric powder
• Salt to taste

To finish

• 1/2 cup sour curd (optional)
• Chopped fresh coriander leaves, to garnish

Instructions

 

Prepare the beans

• Either soak the hyacinth beans overnight, or immerse them in almost-boiling water for 15-20 minutes. Drain.
• Hold the thin edges of each seed between your fingers and press the pulses out. Seeds will always have greater volume than the pulses, so be prepared for a fairly drastic reduction in volume!

Prepare the masala paste

• Grind together all the ingredients under “to grind.” Set aside.

Prepare the chaaru

• In a kadhai or other wide sauteing pan, heat the cooking oil until almost smoking
• Drop in the cinnamon, cloves, jeera, and mustard seeds (in this order). Once the mustard seeds start popping, add the curry leaves.
• Follow quickly with the sliced onions/shallots and fry until they are softened.
• Now add the coconut/masala paste. Use a little water to wash out the blender/mixie jar and add that, too; it will keep the paste from sticking and burning too easily.
• Reduce the heat and continue to cook slowly for a few minutes.
• Add the dhania and turmeric powders.
• Follow with the pithiki pappu or deskinned pulses. Add a cup or two of water and allow this to cook on low heat until the pulses are cooked, about 15-20 minutes.
• Add salt, to taste.
• If you are using the sour yogurt, beat it well and add it now. It's a little bit of sourness to balance out the other tastes, a nice way to round things off–but also can be left out if you want to go dairy-free.
• Also thin with water if necessary–aim for a thin-ish gravy that a hot rice can soak up readily, not a very thick one.
• Garnish with fresh coriander leaves and serve over a soft, piping hot rice. Arcot kichli samba (raw or parboiled) works very well!