Sunday morning and Idly

When my sister reached that stage in her education, where parents outdo each other in finding a private tutor, who refuses to come home to teach and lives miles away from your house, my parents outscored all their peers and found her a biology teacher a good ten kilometers away. That may not sound much if you didn’t live in Kolkata in the early nineties. Of course the tutor could fit her only in the 7am Sunday class! Some further unsuccessful tutor hunting later, my parents resigned to their collective fate, so every Sunday morning for two years, my sister was escorted by my parents to dissect frogs, rats and whatever else MBBS aspirants are supposed to do.

Why both parents accompanied her was as much a mystery to the accompanied as her little sister and old grandmother, though they all suspected with varying degrees of hurt that it was to escape them. Since they left home early and weren’t back long after breakfast, Mamai, my grandmother and I avenged the betrayal by refusing home cooked breakfast and sending the cook instead to fetch hot idlis and vadas from the local South Indian eatery. All this was done behind my parents’ back since Mamai was a heart patient and I was looking for Secret Sevenish adventure in my nine year old life. Sitting cross legged on her bed, watching Shammi Kapoor and Asha Parekh shake their ample booties on Rangoli, we would enjoy the feast from an assortment of banana leaf bundles laid out in front of us. Since then, no Sunday has been as exciting or beautiful until few weeks back N decided to give them some competition.

Idly and Kaaram podi

After a hectic week at work I spent a greater part of Saturday being pampered at a Spa with no inkling of all that N was soaking and fermenting in our kitchen. Sunday morning I woke up to a breakfast of piping hot homemade buttery soft idlis served with ghee, fried green plantain, salsa and freshly squeezed orange juice. I devoured and N has been reaping his reward since.

We never make idlis at home though I have an idly maker because N abhors them. We make uttapams or dosas instead. Since I wanted to share N’s culinary skills on this blog, after much coaxing he gave in and shared the recipe, which in fact came right off Indira’s Mahanandi. His advice – “follow the instructions to the tee!”