The thing I miss most about my mother is her chutney. Drop to your knees tangy, mouthwatering, with texture that delights the tongue. Truly the condimente of the gods.
I watched her make it many times. Roasting whole cloves of garlic, hunking chunks of onion, tomato on a pan that had already fried mustard & coriander seeds and chana dahl. Then it got tricky. Chilies red & green, hot and mild for depth and heat. A little tamarind, stalks of coriander and methi seeds - or was it dhania? Then shavings of doskai - ridge gourd that she packed in ziplocks in the freezer. At the very end coriander and fresh mint leaves before grinded in a blender into margarita-like consistency. For the faint of stomach she would sometimes add fresh coconut flesh to temper the sting.
I roast low and slow. I toss in seeds and pinch leaves - weighing them in my culinary mind against what she would do. Finally I grind and serve to Dad. He dips his idli into the chutney and eats quietly. My father is a reserved man so I'm not expecting squeals of delight. He finishes and sighs. "Good breakfast."
It's a start.
