PuLiyogare Mix

The King of South Indian Spice Mixes

PuLiogre Mix from scratch

This post has been languishing in the drafts for all of summer. I must have opened this post to edit at least two dozen times and closed it each time even before a few sentences trickled down. It just did not happen. A laid back recipe made of a generous handful of summer, a good measure of what is called ‘life’, a cup of lost mojo, a tablespoon of procrastination, a teaspoon of writer’s block beat the better of a pinch of my best intentions this past season. Given my liking for the dish, ideally, this should have been one of my first few posts on this blog. Nevertheless, in spite of a pot full of excuses I did manage to get the post together finally. Hope you’ll like it.

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Pahalakkai Poricha Kootu

Bitter Gourd rings simmered in freshly ground coconut, black pepper, tamarind gravy

Pahalakkai Poricha Kootu

I think about this all the time.

An Apple Pie or a Tiramisu, say a Chocolate pots de crème – people need no introduction on any of these dishes, let alone ask for ingredients. A mention of the dish is pretty much enough to lure anyone to grab and taste. This is true for many of us, isn’t it? How often does someone totally new to a dish from another cuisine get drawn to and motivated to cook it without a clue about its taste, especially when it is a typical traditional dish never seen in any restaurant?

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Tomato Pickle

My Mom-in-law’s recipe

The year has been moving not in days or weeks but in months. I have been occupied with a few projects (non-food and non-blog related) one after the other that kept me away from the blog. For a couple of months, I was less at home and more in my little girl’s Montessori, compiling their yearbook. It is her last year there before she moves to public school later this fall. Last day at school and saying goodbye was more painful for me than for her!

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Haagalkai Gojju ~ Amma’s recipe

Bitter Gourd in a palate clearing sweet and spicy tamarind gravy – mom’s recipe

Haagalkai Gojju and oil

It was end of the 90′s and the beginning of my hostel days. The very first time that I was on my own, in a place far enough from home and certainly with no access to home food. Home sick I was, like hell. Except, once a month when Amma would come to see me. Religiously, I would look forward to the first week of the month, because I could get to see Amma, spend the special day catching up and end the day co-sleeping, sharing the same hostel bed, chatting away into the wee hours until we fell asleep before she left early the next morning.  Continue reading