No More Masala

Karuna Kasturi, Food Editor

My mom's cooking is one of the most generous acts of love I have known.

My father likes three-fold *chapati.

She makes thousands of them for him.

My sister has cravings during her pregnancies. Her children know their grandmother's meals since the womb.

For me, I need roots. So I desperately hold onto her spices.

There’s earth in my mom’s cooking. From the spices she collects and grinds, to the heat and color that emerge from it. Even her personality carries a certain type of fire you could say. 

The main elements of my mother's cooking come down to three things: 

Her stone mortar and pestle, her complete disregard for measurements and most importantly, her masala.

The mortar and pestle, which in our home we call the danchu-er, isn't like others you often see. It holds onto its natural texture and hasn't been smoothed or finished. It looks like a giant boulder taken from the side of a mountain and roughly carved to resemble a bowl. The imperfection and jagged edges allow for better breakage and pulverization of ingredients. It easily weighs close to 25 lbs but can fit in the palms of your hands. And like a cast iron pan, cleaning it too much is taboo. Instead we build on the previous chilis, oil, garlic and spices that were crushed in it. 

Measurements evoke a very specific type of emotion from my mom: irritation. When asked, “How much exactly?" she replies with a "I don't know, I just throw some in, you have to watch!" And it's in this frustration of hers that I understood a truth that's been difficult for me to accept and her to express. You have to feel your way through the cooking. This beautiful beast of a process, undeniably feminine, requires you to connect and rely on more than specifications on a paper. This truth is submerged so deep into her cooking, it transcends into a flavor. We’ve had numerous arguments in the kitchen, but eventually, I had to succumb to the fact that her cooking can never be exact, nor should it be. We lose something in the process when trying to contain or make it perfect. When we make room for the unknown, we invite curiosity and generosity. It sharpens intuition.

Masala varies greatly from home to home, especially across different regions of India. You can usually count on it including, at the very least, the 5 C's: cardamom, cloves, coriander, cinnamon and cumin. Most of mom's dishes include her own variation of spices along with turmeric, red chili, allum ellipaya and salt. Our spices come from the motherland, India, where they're freshly picked and dried for days under the sun. We receive them from my cousin who builds close community with the local farmers in the village. Whenever a friend or family member travels to India, we coordinate the great spice exchange. Each time my mom grinds the spices, the proportions and variety look a little different than the last but somehow produce the same irresistible flavor when she cooks. I think that's just her intuition turned magic. My mom's masala remains a mystery no matter how many times I've written it down or tried talking to her about it. I think it's because I can't let go of something.

Since her cancer diagnosis in 2017 everything feels vulnerable and urgent. It makes it hard to master her masala because she unknowingly wove the element of letting go into it. She adds flow and improvisation. It's difficult for me to learn that, especially now because I am desperate to hold on to her cooking. On to her. My mom's food has healed our family through difficult times. It's been a cornerstone of many joyful celebrations and nothing comes close to the comfort and nourishment it has provided to my father, my sister and myself all these years. I dread the day when I eat her meals for the last time. I'll wake up to a world where she isn't with us. There's no leftover pappu charu in the fridge. I'll never have her keema again. No more masala left in the steel canisters. It'll be empty. No one will ever be able to fill it. I fear all these anticipated deaths. Her food has taught me about love and devotion to family, culture and community. Even after her chemo appointments, she sometimes musters the strength to make something so we can still feel her presence, despite the weakness we all know she feels. 

My cooking comes close to hers, but it will never be the same. It cannot. I'm slowly learning, maybe that's a gift. It's uniquely hers and no one else's. Maybe in my letting go, I'll invite more of her in. 

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We speak Telugu which is a south indian language, from the states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana

Chapati or roti, is a round, Indian flatbread

Masala is a blend of spices, usually dried and grinded into a powder

Danchu means to break into small pieces, to bruise

Allum Ellipaya is a ginger garlic paste

Pappu charu is a soup-like dish made from dal/lentils

Keema is curry made with ground meat and spices. It’s my favorite.