Prose Vignette — Breakfast
Today’s breakfast began one way, changed its mind, and filled me anyway. I misjudged the condition of the batter and resigned myself to making dosas. On a second look, however, the batter felt more suited to idlis. It had not crossed over; it only needed steam, not persuasion.
As usual, I began by oiling the moulds, deciding to use just two plates of four idlis. Each mould was coated by hand with sesame oil. I poured the batter carefully, keeping it to a half-ladle measure—enough to rise, not enough to spill and coat the base. The movements were familiar, almost automatic.
Standing there, looking at the assembled idli cooker, the scene shifted. For a brief moment, I saw the copper idli maker that belonged to my patti on my father’s side—the one used long before stainless steel entered our kitchens. The image arrived without effort, as memories sometimes do, when the body is busy and the mind unguarded.
A sudden movement—a lizard crossing the corner of my vision—pulled me back into the present. I set the cooker on the stove, turned on the flame, and fixed the timer for fifteen minutes. Steam would take over now.
As I stepped away, I thought of the long-forgotten idli kuṇḍān, the cloth-lined vessel of another time. It appeared briefly, unannounced, and then receded—much like the morning itself, already moving toward completion.
Idli Cooker Over More Than Five Decades
The idli cooker has changed steadily, from its earliest versions to the modern kitchen essential. The cookers I remember from my past were brass vessels with a single large plate that held about six idlis. These later appeared in aluminium and were commonly seen in early-morning food stalls set up for commercial use.
At home, however, idlis were steamed five or six times in one session to feed all the adults and children. Batter had to last through repeated steaming, which meant it was usually prepared every day. Dosa happened only on rare occasions.
Sometimes the batter was allowed to sit for just three or four hours and used unfermented, producing dosas with the strong, slightly bitter taste of fenugreek still present. These were eaten with a simple accompaniment: green chillies slit and cooked in oil with tamarind juice, finished with turmeric, roasted fenugreek powder, mustard seeds, and perungayam.
I remember idlis made by my patti, chitti, and amma. Even though we never spoke of whether it was enough for the women, everyone seemed to enjoy the idlis without complaint. I always felt I was the luckiest in the family. I stayed in the nest until my late twenties, and in memory, family gatherings often return as flashes of breakfast tables where idli was always present.
Of course, we ate other breakfast items too, but idli was the unquestioned superstar.
The idli kuṇḍān itself remains a slightly blurred memory. Copper shine clashes with aluminium in my recollection, but I do remember seeing a copper idli cooker stored away among unused vessels. That is why I believe it must have been copper after all.
Some memories come directly from what my mother told me. One family story involved a time when a rodent—peruchāḷi—fell into a hard-earned batch of batter, discovered just in time before anyone ate it. Another, more humorous incident had masala vadai bought as bait for the rodent, only for the family members to eat the vadai themselves while the rodent made do with a piece of stale coconut.
Whenever my mother narrated such incidents, I felt the quiet happiness of joint-family life. I am also aware that differences and conflicts existed. If two people cannot always agree, expecting dozens to do so would be a miracle. And yet, somehow, breakfast happened. Idlis were made. Everyone was fed.
That, too, was part of the miracle.
Grinders, Hands, and Time
I remember the grinder—the mortar and pestle—used by my patti on my father’s side and by my amma. Amma has witnessed the shift from traditional grinding to newer, high-end appliances. Watching kitchen tools change in the name of convenience must have been quietly fascinating.
Idlis ground by hand with a mortar and pestle were always softer than those made using a mixer. The wet grinder produced a gentler batter, though the mixie had its strengths—it made an excellent adai and other pulse-based dosas.
I became an idli devotee simply because it was the most frequent presence at home. I never tired of it. It became the dependable staple of our South Indian kitchen.
I remember my patti sitting on a stool, grinding batter with the ammi-kal, while chutney was prepared on a rectangular stone slab using an oblong pestle. Amma’s mortar and pestle were smaller, which meant idli every single day—and batter prepared every evening for the next morning.
The first mechanical wet grinders arrived in red, then blue, and finally orange—the one that stayed the longest. The earlier ones failed quickly, their motors replaced within weeks. The orange grinder endured, its stone held in place with woven plastic wire.
Sometime in late 1992 or early 1993, our kitchen acquired a five-litre Ultra grinder. It remained for years, until it was exchanged for a smaller 1.5-litre version to make things easier for Amma. She insisted on making batter herself, having little patience for my plain oatmeal with green apple.
That was when I realised Amma was the true idli loyalist. Appa, in comparison, had simply learned to choose idlis—less oily, steamed, and dependable.
For idlis and dosas alike, the real work lay in the batter. Urad dal and parboiled rice were soaked separately for hours, ground separately, then mixed with rock salt and left to ferment. Right fermentation produced fluffy idlis that stayed soft for a couple of days under refrigeration. After that, the batter found its best use in dosas.
Even now, idli feels like the safest choice—gentle on the gut, filling without heaviness. Of course, one cannot forget medhu vadai. The idli-vada combination has never failed the test of time.
The pleasure lies in getting the measures right—urad ground to a creamy consistency, mixed by hand, where warmth itself encourages fermentation. Idlis remain, any day, a gut-friendly food: filling, forgiving, and quietly nurturing.
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