‘Come summer, I’ll ask for a tall box of sandwiches, to be able to take two more than the usual’
‘Come summer, I’ll ask for a tall box of sandwiches, to be able to take two more than the usual’
One fine day in the early ’70s, my generation of urban kids and their mothers shunned white bread as if it was something that had been missing from their lives for generations. I think it really was.
And when it came, it rejected all other nutritious and home-grown school-tiffin options from many households. The memory of being given poha, upma, sabudana khichdi, chapati rolls to my elder siblings might be dim, but by the time I came along, plastic tiffins were fast replacing metal tiffins. And white bread stole a march on a lot of Indigenous mercenaries.
There we were, strolling the school campus during a 15-minute break, or sitting in cramped little cuddles—we were probably the forerunners, forerunners, to subsequent generations of mean girls—playing out subtle tactics of inclusion and exclusion. . Though all had one thing in common: the tiffin box was placed in a certain way. The lid was always held at right angles to the bottom. I don’t know who taught us – school Tradition maybe. This was probably a take-over from the days when eating in public was a self-conscious and rare thing to do. So you arranged your food in such a way that it is not in direct line of sight of anyone. The lid acts as a shield – from what? hungry eyes? Blind eyes? evil eyes?
Now no one is aware about eating in the open. Which had fallen by the wayside a few decades ago. In ours and other families, eating something on the way home from school or on a walk was considered shameless, shameless, shameless, hogish, tactless, craving—you choose the adjective. Maybe a kinder catch-all word would be ‘inappropriate’. But our mothers were not inclined to use kind words. ‘Dogs also take their food to the shore and eat it, and do not walk together and chat with friends’ cot (while eating),’ we were told. To which, if you were in the mood to start off louder with a bigger one, you could come up with the argument that buffaloes headed to a nearby pond certainly do. cot, To which you can be cleverly placed with ‘Okay, then be a buffalo’.
but I digress. Some of us became decidedly jam-and-breaders. every school day. And so, a great barter system then came into force. In some houses the bread was kept firmly outside. My South Indian friends still have airy idlis and two delicious chutneys, my North Indian classmates brought wheat parathas layered with a dash of pickle, which sent out the fennel and onion-seed aroma even before opening the box ; Luchi-potato carriers were also booming. As they all crave jam-and-bread (always accompanied by that shocking vermilion-coloured ‘mixed fruit’ jam) while we were hallucinating about idlis and parathas before the holiday bell – Bartering worked for all of us.
Come the end of March and April, I’ll ask for a tall box of sandwiches to be able to take in more than the usual two. The jam-and-bread will be pushed aside by a seasonal, more Indian, avatar. Raw Mango and White Onion Chutney Sandwich. At that time white onions used to come in the market in large hanging bunches from Alibaug to our suburb of Chembur, Mumbai. A recent trip to Alibaug saw me coming home laden with them. But they are now available everywhere in season.
delicious sour
My mom used to make this sensational chutney in her recently acquired Ricoh mixer—a little whirlwind of a dry and wet grinder. Last night, she would have taken a week’s worth of top-of-the-milk cream (malai) she had collected in the fridge, and added a dollop of curd (curd), left it out to set overnight, Like you would any homemade yogurt. In the morning, she churned it with cold water (the hand-mixer hadn’t come on yet, she used to use a wooden churn). The snow-white butter will rise to the top, leaving a delicate sour buttermilk at the bottom.
Sounding the narrowest and at the risk of starting a riot, I must add here, that this kind of butter, for me, wins hands over the Coimbatore one, and any other contender. butter thief Area. And, of course, the commercial yellow butter in this particular sandwich just won’t do. (In a word: Meh.)
The sandwich is then assembled as follows: A generous portion of white butter, which has been thoroughly drained of its water content by hand, so that it does not make the bread soggy, is spread over a piece of white bread. Is. Then a nice thick box of Carrie chutney is spread on the second slice. They are both placed together. An open and closed affair.
For a few weeks after school before the summer holidays started, the prospect of eating those sandwiches seriously interfered with our ability to grab 3 bucks before recess. Above all, the presence of raw mangoes hijacks any educational inclinations we may have by pouring out the thought bubble: If Carrie’s here, can mangoes be far behind?
Method
summer has come kari chutney
Component
1 kari (raw mango) cubed
1 medium white onion roughly chopped
Small lemon sized gudi (Jaggery)
1 tsp red chili powder
salt to taste
1/2 tsp any Maharashtrian mango-pickle powder (optional)
1/2 tsp whole mustard
1 tsp oil of your choice
Method
1. Put in the grinder, carry, with the rind, if your grinder is good, there is no rind. Discard the stone or seed part.
2. Add chopped white onion, or add red if white is not available.
3. Add crushed jaggery or jaggery.
4. Add red chili powder.
5. Salt to taste – I prefer to use ‘khade-meet’ crystals – and mango-pickle powder if available.
7. Stir in the mixer by pulsing, and keep it slightly grainy and not completely pasty.
8. Temper mustard seeds in hot oil.
(This chutney is very tasty on top of khari-biscuit, inside roti rolls, with rice, with bread sticks, crisps, cutlets, vegetable wedges… and if you are very healthy in your eating habits, So try it with white bread and white butter. Add some sliced cucumber or lettuce if you insist on a healthy twist.)
The author is a novelist, consultant and music lover.