Passport & Plate - Prawn curry
India | Friday, March 14, 2014 | 5 photos
Ingredients
Shrimp 600 gms, half shelled
Onion, 1 large, thinly sliced
Green chillies, 3, slit
Ginger, 1-inch piece, cut into matchstick-sized strips
Garlic, 5 flakes, pounded to a paste
Curry leaves, 6-7
Tomatoes, 2, pureed (or a 200-ml pack from the supermarket if you’re pressed for time)
Coconut milk, of one coconut (or a 400 ml pack from the store)*
Tamarind, lemon sized ball
Red chilli powder, ½ tsp
Turmeric powder, ½ tsp
Oil 2 tbsp
Salt to taste
How to prepare this recipe• Heat oil in a pan until hot but not smoking. Add onions, green chillies, ginger, garlic, and curry leaves, and sauté on medium flame until onions start to turn brown.
• Add red chilli and turmeric powder to the onions. Saute for two minutes.
• Add tomato puree, mix well, and let it simmer on a low flame for 10 minutes.
• While it’s simmering, place tamarind in a cup of hot water for 5-6 minutes. Strain, pressing the tamarind into the sieve so you get the tamarind pulp. Discard what remains in the strainer. Add the tamarind juice to the tomato-onion mixture. Let it boil 7 minutes on a low flame.
• Separate husk from flesh. Cut the coconut flesh into small pieces. Boil four cups of water. Place half the coconut pieces with one cup of hot water in a blender. Whizz for a minute or two. Strain with a muslin cloth. Set aside the coconut milk. Now, add another cup of hot water, whizz in the blender again, and strain. The second extract will be thinner, and less creamy. Repeat process with the other half of the coconut.
• Slowly add half the coconut milk to the curry, stirring continuously. Then add the other half.
• Add salt to taste. Bring to boil on a low flame. When it starts to boil, turn off the flame.
• Now, add the shrimp to the coconut curry. Cover with a lid and let it rest for 15-20 minutes. It will cook in the residual heat of the pan, retaining its softness.
• Serve with steamed rice.
The story behind this recipeI examine the yellowing pages in front of me, struck by how the handwriting resembles mine. It is my grandmother’s old cooking file, and it’s filled with recipes. Some are neatly entered in convent-cursive handwriting, headings underlined, Ts neatly crossed. Others are hastily transcribed from shows on the radio, on the backs of old wedding invitations and used calendar sheets.
There is a recipe for tender mango pickle that she got from her mother, instructions on how to make meatloaf (with Indian spices) that I imagine she sought out to impress her husband as a newlywed. There is carrot cake to feed my father when he got back from school, and nourishing stews that she prepared for my mother when she was pregnant with me. Something about the careless intimacy of the file makes my heart pine.
That day, for the first time in my life, I ask my grandparents about their life before me, revealing a poignant chapter of my family’s history. I learn that my great grandparents, and their parents before them had run a successful hotel in the Malabar region of Kerala, in the 1800s. Choyi’s Sea Side Hotel was known for its food and stunning views of the Arabian Sea. The story rouses my father’s memory, and my uncle’s as well.
I find parts of myself in all the stories I hear that day. As a food writer, it gives me a sense of affirmation knowing that my family’s relationship with food dates back a century. It validates my choice of career, my obsession with cookbooks, and my weakness for traditional kitchenware: the more worn-out and outdated the equipment, the weaker in the knees I get. The history lesson I get gives me a sense of comfort, but it also unsettles me: Why had I never asked these questions before? If I hadn’t stumbled upon that tattered old file, I might never have known of Choyi’s existence; never known my great-grandparent’s names.
I found a precious family heirloom that summer day, more important to me than any silk saris or gold I may one day inherit.
