[Usha Prabakaran’s 20-year-old cookbook,
crammed with recipes from home cooks, is simple and self-published. But it has
become a cult classic in India.]
By Tejal Rao
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Usha Prabakaran, the author of “Usha’s Pickle
Digest” making a pickle of Carissa carandas,
also known as Bengal currants, at home in
Chennai, India.Credit Saumya Khandelwal
for The New York Times
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CHENNAI,
India — Usha Prabakaran was
at home, talking on the phone with a college friend, when she stopped making
sense. Her speech scrambled. Her vision blurred. She dropped the receiver and
fell to the floor.
It was 1998 and Ms. Prabakaran, a former
lawyer living in Chennai, a major city on India’s southeastern coast, had just
slogged through a decade of research and recipe testing for her comprehensive,
single-subject cookbook, “Usha’s Pickle Digest.” A party was scheduled for the
following week.
At the hospital, Ms. Prabarakan learned that
a rare fungus had lodged itself in the front of her brain. She needed surgery
to remove the tumor, and long periods of rest to recover. The book, and the
party, were quickly forgotten.
But over the next two decades, “Usha’s Pickle
Digest,” self-published by an unknown author, with a first print run of just
1,000, became a cult classic in India and its diaspora — praised for its
precision and scope, celebrated on blogs and podcasts and hunted down in shops,
where it sold out.
Hard copies were scarce. For years, the only
way to get one was to email Ms. Prabakaran herself, who might promise to print
another run soon, when she was feeling better.
Some cooks couldn’t wait — they photocopied
pages and passed them around, which was fine by Ms. Prabakaran. She didn’t feel
a sense of ownership over her recipes. The author became known for answering
friendly inquiries with a free PDF, which is how her pickle book hopped around
the world as an email attachment.
Ms. Prabakaran, now 64, became known as India’s
“pickle queen,” but she wasn’t interested in monetizing that title. “I know
nothing about publishing, and I was never interested in selling books,” she
said at her home in Chennai. “My job is to keep the past alive.”
India’s pickle culture goes back thousands of
years to when cucumbers and other vegetables were simply preserved in salt.
Modern Indian pickles are more complex and probably more delicious, too — hot
and tangy, deeply perfumed with aromatics and ground spices.
Chitra Agrawal, a New York cookbook author
and founder of the pickle company Brooklyn Delhi, remembers the ceramic jugs at
her grandmother’s home in Bengaluru in southern India, which held lemons in a
slushy saltwater brine. This Karnataka-style pickle was seasoned with fresh
green chiles and mango ginger, a fruity-tasting rhizome related to turmeric.
But the pickles Ms. Agrawal enjoyed with her
family up north were completely different. For Punjabi-style burvan lal mirch,
long red chiles were individually stuffed with fennel seeds, onion seeds and
fenugreek seeds, then stored in oil, not brine.
Mango and lime pickles are commonly sold in
the United States, but nothing escapes pickling in India: plums and hog plums,
cherries and chokecherries, sprouted fenugreek seeds, bamboo shoots, fat
gooseberries, hibiscus flowers and green walnuts. Cooks work with all kinds of
fruits, vegetables, flowers, roots and seeds, using every edible part of every
possible food.
These pickles trot out at breakfast, lunch
and dinner, expanding the pleasures of every meal, from a plain bowl of rice
and yogurt to a grilled cheese sandwich.
Many foods are preserved through anaerobic
fermentation: The fresh food is first sun-dried to get rid of excess moisture,
then salted. In the warmth of the sun, bacteria digest the sucrose, producing
acids that both preserve the food and prevent the growth of other, less
friendly bacteria.
Other pickles are brined in salt water,
vinegar, citrus juice, tamarind juice and even yogurt. The only real defining
characteristic of India’s pickle culture may be its range. Or, as Ms.
Prabakaran put it, “an inordinate variety of mind-boggling permutations.”
In her book, Ms. Prabakaran limited herself
to 1,000 recipes. When I finally got my own print-on-demand copy of “Usha’s
Pickle Digest,” through Amazon, I was dazzled
The book isn’t pretty. It’s text-heavy and
minimally designed, resembling the most utilitarian, guide-like cookbooks of
the 1970s. (“My book is meant to be used by people who cook,” Ms. Prabakaran
said.) It’s also joyous and authoritative, crammed with information.
There are tips in bold for, say, removing the
stamens from plantain flowers (tug at them with the blunt edge of knife) and
choosing the most pickle-worthy okra (look for tails that break with a snap).
A straightforward “anti-waste” chapter
includes recipes for plantain skins, jackfruit seeds, ridge-gourd peels and
lime leaves, which often end up in the compost heap. While restaurant chefs
make headlines now for cooking less wastefully, pickling has always been about
saving the scraps, developing flavor and texture with ingenious frugality.
A chart at the back of the book translates
ingredient names into nine languages, including Marathi, Bengali, Telugu and
Tamil, which serves as a gentle reminder of the multiplicity of India’s pickle
culture.
I tracked Ms. Prabakaran down on WhatsApp,
and asked if I could visit on my way to see relatives in Pune, about 750 miles
northwest of Chennai.
“I look forward to you picking my brain, or
what little of it is left,” she messaged back.
Ms. Prabakaran is small-framed, with a wicked
sense of humor and a big, throaty laugh. Her forehead is dimpled where the
tumor was removed, close to the hairline, and she has no interest in
reconstructive surgery.
“People care too much about looks,” she said
with a shrug. “If I have any spare time, I want to work on my books.”
Her home is at the end of a cul-de-sac of
gated houses with short driveways and lush, overgrown gardens — plumeria, wild
lemons, papaya, birds of paradise. The morning I visited, the pavement was
splattered with light rain, and a caramel-colored calf wandered along the wall.
In the open kitchen, a cook boiled tea and
steamed idlis for breakfast. “You have to try this with my citron pickle,” Ms.
Prabakaran said as she spooned the luminous orange sludge onto my steel plate.
The pickle did what all great pickles do: It
revived me with a ripple of salt and acidity. The grainy oil tickled with
chiles and citrus. It had the effect, with every breath, of filling my lungs
with more air so I could breathe more deeply. And it made everything on the
plate taste bigger, stronger, hotter, better.
“Isn’t it absolutely dynamite?” she asked.
The question was rhetorical. She was grinning.
Ms. Prabakaran grew up here in Mylapore, an
old neighborhood in central Chennai. At home, the family spoke Tamil and
English, though along with the children of other well-to-do families she also
learned Hindi and French, in between karate and Carnatic music classes. In
college, where she studied law, she met her husband, S. G. Prabakaran, who was
also training to be a lawyer.
Her mother enjoyed reading the newspaper
cover to cover, but cooking, not so much. Ms. Prabakaran’s mother-in-law,
though, scheduled her days around food, preserving new batches of seasonal
pickles every week, sending Ms. Prabakaran home with jars of gooseberries in
yogurt, sweet-and-sour orange peel and stuffed Bengal plums.
Ms. Prabakaran was hooked. She apprenticed
herself, learning to turn jars in the sun so the fruit dried evenly, and to
combine new and old tamarinds to balance out their acidity levels. She made so
many pickles that she often gave jars away to friends and family, who begged
her to write down a few recipes and share them. As she tried to standardize the
recipes, her project became increasingly more ambitious.
She wanted to document heirloom pickle
varieties, and to share every single tip she had learned along the way. What
would be the point of sharing recipes if she didn’t explain how to sterilize
glass jars, and grind masalas at home?
She spoke with publishers, and when none were
interested in her idea, Ms. Prabakaran decided to do it herself.
Though there are plenty of good-quality
industrial pickles in India, pickling, as a discipline, belongs to home cooks
and community pickle makers. These cooks pass their knowledge of regional
pickles and house styles by working alongside other cooks.
Ms. Prabakaran worried that without
documentation, the gradual loss of this knowledge was inevitable — that more
and more people would make fewer and fewer pickle varieties, until eventually,
the expertise was lost.
“The reason for writing the book was to
ensure that the vast culinary heritage of this land stays on the map,” she
said.
To broaden her sweep as she researched, she
turned everyone she met into a source: friends, family, their colleagues, cooks
working in middle-class home kitchens and banquet chefs catering weddings.
“My friends called me a crafty devil, because
I could wriggle a pickle recipe out of anyone,” Ms. Prabakaran said. After she
narrowed the recipes down from a catalog of 5,000, she tested each one in her
home kitchen three times — a more thorough process than is used for many glossy
cookbooks from big publishers.
After her husband died in November, she
turned her focus to finishing her second book. “Usha’s Rasam Digest,” in the
works for a decade, collects 1,000 recipes for rasam, an everyday soup also
called saaru.
Rasam, which is vegetarian and generally
quick and inexpensive to make, is deeply familiar to Indians, particularly
South Indians, but different regions and families have their own methods.
Friends who had supported her pickle book
were skeptical — was there really so much variation when it came to rasam?
Would she even be able to find 1,000 recipes this time around? And why devote a
whole book to something so ordinary?
Ms. Prabakaran was undeterred. She sat down
to write a love letter to rasam as a genre, extolling its value and declaring
it worthy of celebration. Then she spent 10 years researching it, gathering and
testing recipes, documenting patterns and anomalies.
As she collected recipes from home cooks, she
found some that were so extraordinary, they belonged in a “dazzling superstars”
chapter. Others made the most of kitchen scraps like empty pea pods, and showed
off the imagination and intelligence of home cooks, who could stretch flavors
out of just about anything.
“Even a simple black-pepper rasam holds so
much promise,” she said.
Ms. Prabakaran plans to self-publish the book
in March. She wants to make it easy for cooks to find, right from the start,
even if that means giving it away for free.
“I just want everyone to understand the
depths of Indian cookery,” she said, opening another jar of pickle, reaching
for a spoon.
Recipes: Instant Pickled Carrot With Ginger |
Tomato and Fennel-Seed Pickle
@ The New York Times