The color, a pristine white. The consistency, soft fluff. The quantity, more than anticipated. The result? Perfect malli poo-like idlis. These, accompanied with getti chutney, molaga podi-nalla yennai and fragrant sambar is the equivalent of a symphony orchestra playing upon your taste buds. Add degree kapi to this and gastronomical nirvana is attained. Sorcery of this high order was required in those days by the lady of the house to make sure that her sour gent sang a happy tune at the breakfast table (OK, more like a satisfied grunt) and felt sufficiently charged to leave the comforts of his Bombay Fornicator to go face the world (I'm positive that I got your attention now. Now go Google it).
The perfect idli batter has to be the holy grail of all Tamil households. It is the stuff of legend and closely guarded family secret recipes. It is the reason why many a homemaker is celebrated for her kai pakkuvam and others sidelined as also-rans. It is amazing that something with just two ingredients (rice and urad dal) can reduce many a new cook to tears. Here, I share my journey from making tear-stained, concave discs to the aforementioned delights that are equated to the jasmine flower, a string of which would grace the lustrous single plait of the successful lady who managed perfect idlis every single time. She wore the flowers like a crown to match the smug smile on her face.
Cut to me, a decade or so ago. Wet behind the ears, eager beaver cook raised among culinary greats and married into a family of hall-of-famers. I thought that I had the idli thing in the bag, thank you very much. I mean, how difficult can making idlis be? I've eaten them all my life. Quite simply put, I was dead wrong. After the first few disastrous results, I figured that it was possibly because I had a humble "Oster" grinder and not the sophisticated "Ultra" grinder. So, hubby bought me one. I tried and failed miserably once again. I changed the kind of rice used (turns out that one needs idli rice to make idlis. Duh) The idli Gods started to smile upon me. It was not a fully benign smile, more like a small crack on a stern facade. My idlis started to become convex but were nowhere near perfection. I let go of my ego and started asking everyone for their recipes, even the close-mouthed mistresses of perfect idlis. They tried to dodge my keen questions, but I persisted until I gathered every last secret ingredient and every last secret tip to make my batter rise like a phoenix out of the ashes of my pathetic idli making efforts. I tried every ingredient under the sun including cream of rice, flattened rice flakes, cooked rice and even corn flakes. I kept my batter covered with old blankets and sweaters to keep it warm. I let it rest in a pre-heated oven and sometimes in the furnace room on top of the dryer while it was being used. I used my ingredients in every ratio and proportion possible, skills that would have made my middle school Math teachers proud, yes, even the ones that had given up on me for good. The idlis started resembling what I had eaten many years ago and yet something was missing. They just were not fluffy enough. I thought in desperation that it had to be because I had the misfortune of living between the arctic circle and the Tropic of Cancer. My husband however, categorically said that we could not move and muttered something under his breath about not getting what idlis had to do with latitude.
So, I persisted. I endured long monologs from ladies who claimed that they only had to cast a passing glance in the direction of the batter for it to erupt like Mount Vesuvius out of the vessel and flow out into the plate kept underneath. I sighed in envy at a friend's ease at feeding an army of hungry junta with idlis made from the very last drop of batter, perfect from start to finish. Needless to say, I was never picked to bring idli-sambar for any pot-luck and was relegated instead to bringing dessert while my poor deprived family bore the brunt of my sub-par idli making. One fine day however, my idlis started getting good, then better and finally a day came when my husband grunted at the breakfast table. I thought that I was hallucinating and ignored it. Then, he grunted again. Could it be, I thought. "Idli supera irukku", he said. I fainted with happiness and once recovered, I got ready to buy a fresh jasmine string to adorn my short bob. This would be the happy ending to my story, complete with a rousing ovation and subsequent encores had it not been for the recent healthy revolution. "Did you taste the idlis at Sangeetha's house?", my friend mentioned at the last get-together. "She makes it with quinoa, brown rice and horsegram in the ratio of....." As Vadivelu would aptly say at this point, "Shaba, kanna kattudhe!"
The perfect idli batter has to be the holy grail of all Tamil households. It is the stuff of legend and closely guarded family secret recipes. It is the reason why many a homemaker is celebrated for her kai pakkuvam and others sidelined as also-rans. It is amazing that something with just two ingredients (rice and urad dal) can reduce many a new cook to tears. Here, I share my journey from making tear-stained, concave discs to the aforementioned delights that are equated to the jasmine flower, a string of which would grace the lustrous single plait of the successful lady who managed perfect idlis every single time. She wore the flowers like a crown to match the smug smile on her face.
Cut to me, a decade or so ago. Wet behind the ears, eager beaver cook raised among culinary greats and married into a family of hall-of-famers. I thought that I had the idli thing in the bag, thank you very much. I mean, how difficult can making idlis be? I've eaten them all my life. Quite simply put, I was dead wrong. After the first few disastrous results, I figured that it was possibly because I had a humble "Oster" grinder and not the sophisticated "Ultra" grinder. So, hubby bought me one. I tried and failed miserably once again. I changed the kind of rice used (turns out that one needs idli rice to make idlis. Duh) The idli Gods started to smile upon me. It was not a fully benign smile, more like a small crack on a stern facade. My idlis started to become convex but were nowhere near perfection. I let go of my ego and started asking everyone for their recipes, even the close-mouthed mistresses of perfect idlis. They tried to dodge my keen questions, but I persisted until I gathered every last secret ingredient and every last secret tip to make my batter rise like a phoenix out of the ashes of my pathetic idli making efforts. I tried every ingredient under the sun including cream of rice, flattened rice flakes, cooked rice and even corn flakes. I kept my batter covered with old blankets and sweaters to keep it warm. I let it rest in a pre-heated oven and sometimes in the furnace room on top of the dryer while it was being used. I used my ingredients in every ratio and proportion possible, skills that would have made my middle school Math teachers proud, yes, even the ones that had given up on me for good. The idlis started resembling what I had eaten many years ago and yet something was missing. They just were not fluffy enough. I thought in desperation that it had to be because I had the misfortune of living between the arctic circle and the Tropic of Cancer. My husband however, categorically said that we could not move and muttered something under his breath about not getting what idlis had to do with latitude.
So, I persisted. I endured long monologs from ladies who claimed that they only had to cast a passing glance in the direction of the batter for it to erupt like Mount Vesuvius out of the vessel and flow out into the plate kept underneath. I sighed in envy at a friend's ease at feeding an army of hungry junta with idlis made from the very last drop of batter, perfect from start to finish. Needless to say, I was never picked to bring idli-sambar for any pot-luck and was relegated instead to bringing dessert while my poor deprived family bore the brunt of my sub-par idli making. One fine day however, my idlis started getting good, then better and finally a day came when my husband grunted at the breakfast table. I thought that I was hallucinating and ignored it. Then, he grunted again. Could it be, I thought. "Idli supera irukku", he said. I fainted with happiness and once recovered, I got ready to buy a fresh jasmine string to adorn my short bob. This would be the happy ending to my story, complete with a rousing ovation and subsequent encores had it not been for the recent healthy revolution. "Did you taste the idlis at Sangeetha's house?", my friend mentioned at the last get-together. "She makes it with quinoa, brown rice and horsegram in the ratio of....." As Vadivelu would aptly say at this point, "Shaba, kanna kattudhe!"
