Vadas rule the roost

Vadas rule the roost


Kiru Naidoo

(Published in the Sunday Times Extra - Johannesburg, 24 November 2013)


Hot out the oil, golden crisp and crunchy. The real treat of the afternoon “flesh” prayers was my granny’s vadas. Speckled with red and green chillies, she deep-fried them in a wok-type cast iron kadai. The cooking ritual is etched in my memory and the pride of my lineage. 

My paternal grandmother, Kanniamma Govindarajulu, was a matriarch of silent majesty. Barely four feet ten and of the same navy blue complexion she bequeathed me, she rarely let anyone near the kadai. Her sari hitched and gathered between her thighs, she sat on her haunches over the leaping fire in our  Chatsworth backyard. 

In one hand she held a little square of banana leaf. In the other she balled the pungent wet mixture of stoneground dried peas, onions, chillies, coriander, cumin and a host of other spices. 

Everything was hand ground on a block of heirloom granite, the revered ammikal. The  spicy ball was slapped onto the banana leaf to be flattened into a plump little disc. The final flourish

was sticking her ring finger into the centre to poke a hole right through. The delicate formation was  then slid off the banana leaf into the crackling oil. As half dozen batches cooked they were theatrically scooped out with an enamel sieve-type ladle to form a growing mountain in a dish
alongside. 

Not even the favoured grandchildren were allowed to touch until the vada had been offered to the Goddess in the afternoon prayers. The morning ritual was the “pouring” of the sour porridge along with vegetable curries to honour the Mother Goddess who had rescued the faithful from a smallpox plague. 

The prancing roosters we slaughtered as offerings to the Mother were cooked for hours on open fires for the afternoon feast. The vada however occupied centre stage.

The crispiness outside gave way to a moist core bursting with a spicy, nutty, salty sensational crumbliness that overwhelmed the eager mouth. The matter of the hole still stokes fiery debate.

Some put it down to religious, ethnic or even sexual symbolism. (The hole is distinguished from other clans who use a three closed fingers indentation similar to the forehead ash markings of Saivites.) 

In my unlettered granny’s greater wisdom I suspect that it served only to cook the vada right through like the hole in a doughnut. 

The one mannerism where the Govindarajulu bloodline easily stands out is that the vada is eaten pressed by thumb and two fingers against a fried globe of sweet flour paste we call oorinda or to use my mother’s tongue, goolgoola. It’s our version of the sweet and sour. 

The vada also appears on other occasions like Purtassi, Kavady, when we pay homage to our ancestors and sometimes even Deepavali. Now and then it is doled out on cold winter afternoons with piping hot tea. Compliments have always poured in for my granny’s vadas.

The Govindarajulu’s freely share the recipe - minus a few ingredients of course.


Granny’s recipe from my sister, Ravathy Naidoo’s recollection (the five year old in the middle of the picture)

1kg dried split pea dhal soaked overnight

1 bunch dhania (chopped)

5 green chillies (finely chopped)

5 red chillies (finely chopped)

1 bunch spring onions (finely chopped)

2 onions (finely chopped)

2 tablespoons salt

1 tablespoon jeera

Sunflower oil


Method

Grind dhal on a stone to a rough pulp. (A food processor will do but it won’t make for a good story!) Fold the rest of the ingredients into the dhal and grind further without getting the mixture too fine. Extract in golf ball sizes and pat into a small disc on a square of banana leaf. Fry in batches in deep, moderately hot oil until golden brown and crisp. For best results use a cast iron kadai and open fire. Serve hot on a platter lined with paper towel. Quantity obtained depends on the temperament and generosity of the cook. Recommendation to serve with goolgoolas for which a vetkoek recipe should do the trick. Mainstay optional.