Thoughts prompted by dreams

Aviyal

Nice warm evening in Asheville, North Carolina. Summer 2009. Moon is stunning. I have just finished dinner – out somewhere, and am walking home. Past the Civic Center downtown. It is a long walk home to Woodfin. And Anthony Bourdain is walking me home.

One of my nicer dreams. I was grateful to remember it the next morning - still remember it, quite vividly. I was pretty shattered in 2018.

I absolutely loved Bourdain. Smart, eloquent, curious, and incredibly well-read. Well…at least he was till the Sri Lanka episode of No Reservations in 2009. I watched in utter disbelief as he waxed eloquent to a Sri Lankan chef about the enormous variety of spices used in their cuisine. So different from India, he said. So many different combinations of spices. And you use so many fresh leaves. Like curry leaves.

Et tu, Bourdain? I remember fervently searching through the Travel Channel website to locate an email address for him. I mean. I had to say something. I mean, curry leaves? Only in Sri Lanka? My internet savvy was considerably less in those days than it is now, and even today, it is mediocre. So needless to say, I couldn’t vent my frustrations, my disillusionment, my anger, even, in an electronic epistle.

My disgruntlement of Bourdain didn’t last. I put it down to a temporary lapse.

But a lapse in what? I mean for most of the non-Indian world, Indian food is just what Bourdain thought it was in those days – and people like him fueled the perception, of course. For much of the non-Indian world, Indian food is north Indian food.

 Just like the language spoken in India is – wait, isn’t it Indian? No, I have patiently told many a student. The official language is Hindi. Along with English.  And there are numerous other Indian languages.

Now Hindi’s prominent role in India, I can blame/credit the newly-independent Indian government for, in 1950, when they declared it the official language.  And later, the three-language formula adopted by the government in 1968, which specified that children would be educated in three languages, English, Hindi, and another Indian language. For Hindi-speaking states, this meant kids had to learn another language from another part of India. For non-Hindi speaking states, this meant kids had to learn Hindi. And the only way around that was for kids whose parents lived abroad, and who had spent a good bit of their lives abroad. I was one such kid, and I chose French for a second language. I sorely regret it. Even though I would have woefully failed every Hindi exam if I had taken it.

For people in my dad’s generation, there was a great deal of resentment over the fact that in the Dravidian states, in particular, Hindi was thrust upon them. Even today, though he is a linguist, my dad’s feelings about Hindi run deep, even though he didn’t ever have to study it.  And, shall we say, are not particularly positive. In his generation, I’d wager there are many more South Indians who veered toward English being a link language over Hindi.

My generation is different. Even most South Indians, at least in the urban south, today do speak some Hindi – it is a link, and very useful in a linguistic environment where 22 languages are officially recognized, and literally thousands of dialects exist.

But. Few non-Dravidian Indians speak any of the Dravidian languages.

And today, for the generation below mine, it seems that the three-language formula is interpreted differently… even in South India, in large, urban cities like Bangalore, kids at many schools have the option of studying a foreign language like French as a second, and Hindi as a third language. Kannada? No need. Schools that offer languages like French, German, Japanese cater to the upper rungs of society. Of course. Says a lot.

And food? Well the “Indian food is Punjabi aloo gobi and tadka dhal and garlic naan” narrative is not just a part of the non-Indian world. Again, in a large, urban city like Bangalore, it is easier to find a restaurant serving north Indian food, or Indo-Chinese food than one serving authentic regional fare. Which, in every state, is incredibly varied. Cuisines change every 10km, remember? Even in India, more people, I’d wager, go out to eat aloo gobi, saag paneer, and mutter masala (these do ring a bell, right?) than do aviyal or sambaar or porichakottu (and these don’t?). And that is just the vegetarians. No need to go into another rant against chicken tikka masala, is there? Don’t want to be a broken record.

Now my feelings about North Indian food representing all of Indian cuisine are just as strong as my dad’s feelings about Hindi being the most recognized Indian language. Why? Well, because it is, once again, a movement away from diversity, and one toward homogeneity. Linguistic, cultural, and culinary.

And today, it isn’t just the Bourdains of the world fueling the wider world’s perceptions of India as being much less diverse than it is. We’re doing a great job of that ourselves.

So today I will give you another very south Indian dish, avijal (/ɑʋɪjɑl/). For me, it has always been a Tamilian dish, although Keralites would have a cow at my saying this. Because apparently it originated there, she says grudgingly. It is popular in both states, but the preparations, of course, differ. For Keralites, aviyal has to have cumin in it, and to Tamilians, this is anathema; that makes it a totally different dish.  Don’t laugh, this innocuous little seed makes a huge difference in taste. Irrespective of where it originated, it is most definitely South Indian. And delicious.

Aviyal is a celebratory dish, celebrating numerous vegetables, and a dish that often finds itself on elaborate wedding lunch menus, despite which, it is incredibly simple to make. And there are certain vegetables (no western veg, thank you very much) associated with it: drumsticks, Indian yam, white pumpkin, yellow pumpkin, raw green plantains, and snake gourd, to name just a few. Should a lack of access to these veg prevent you from making it? Nope. I remember eating an aviyal made by a friend in Alabama, my first year in the US. When she invited me over and told me she was making aviyal, I asked where she got her veggies. A bag of frozen corn, carrots, and beans, she said. I grimaced. Corn? Yikes. Carrots? Well maybe…but no. Why shouldn’t we make it with whatever vegetables we have, she tried to reason with me. And succeeded. I ate it, and though I missed my mum’s aviyal with the traditional veg, I relished it. So go ahead, use a bag of frozen, pre-cut veg, if that’s what you have! Or that’s what makes it easy.

(Oh, and in later episodes of No Reservations, and even later, on episodes of Parts Unknown, Bourdain did redeem himself.)

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Aviyal

Ingredients (serves 6; vegetarian)

1.     7 cups of mixed vegetables, cut into bite-sized pieces all about the same size. I used the following:

a.     1 cup of drumsticks – cut into 1 ½ inch pieces

b.     2 cups of white pumpkin

c.     2 cups of Indian yam

d.     1 cup chayote

e.     1 cup eggplant

2.     1 ½ cups of fresh grated coconut or unsweetened desiccated coconut

3.     3-4 green chillies (or more or less as per your taste)

4.     2 cups of plain yoghurt; if you have Greek yoghurt, it makes the aviyal thicker

5.     3 Tbsp coconut oil

6.     3 sprigs of curry leaves

7.     1 tsp mustard seeds

8.     2-3 dried red chillies

9.     2 tsp salt

Method

1.     If you are using drumsticks, give them a headstart, and boil them in 1 cup of water and 1 tsp of the salt. Cook drumsticks for about 10 minutes with a lid on.

2.     Add the rest of the cut veggies to the boiling drumstick, and add ½ tsp salt and 1 Tbsp of the coconut oil. Do not add more water – there should be plenty.

3.     If you are not using drumsticks, boil all the veggies together in 1 cup of water with 1½ tsp salt and 1 Tbsp coconut oil. Cook them with the lid on the pot) till they are tender. Depending on the size of your bite-sized pieces, this should take 10-15 minutes. Do not drain any remaining water - use any that is left to blend the coconut and chillies - below.

4.     Blend the coconut and chillies with about ½ cup of the veggie water. If there is no veggie water left, blend with about ½ cup fresh water. Blend to a coarse paste.

5.     Add the blended coconut and chilli mixture to the boiled veg. Cook together for about 5 minutes.

6.     Whisk the yoghurt so there are no lumps. Add the whisked yoghurt and the remaining ½ tsp salt to the veg-coconut mixture. Allow to come to one quick boil and turn off the stove.

7.     Heat the remaining 2 Tbsp coconut oil for tempering. When the oil is hot, add the mustard seeds and allow them to pop. Turn the heat down when they start popping so they don’t burn. Add the curry leaves and red chillies, fry for about 10 seconds and add this tempering mixture to the aviyal.

8.     Serve hot! The aviyal can be eaten with rice, or plain, or with a bread of your choice. Our favorite way of eating it at home is with a simple mixture of hot rice and plain toor dhal, salt, and a dollop of freshly made ghee.