For many years now, I’ve been paying virtual visits to Visakapatnam, (Vizag) India, to the kitchen of one of the most outstanding Indian food bloggers – Sailaja Gudivada.

Sailaja, or Sailu, as she’s popularly known, serves up traditional Andhra fare, along with a range of Indian and international favourites,  ayurvedic recipes, recipes for kids,  and even a crafts zone on her blog. Her recipes are impeccable, beautifully presented, and she even manages to make cakes and cookies look like healthy foods! My recipe files are filled with favourites from her lovely blog, and every one is a winner.

If you aren’t already familiar with Sailu’s Kitchen, you’re in for real treat!

Sailaja hosts the “Indian Food Trail” in which she invites fellow bloggers to showcase the regional cuisines of India. Previous posts by guest bloggers have featured Bengali, Maharashtrian, Mangalorean, Hyderabadi and Mysore cuisine. You’ll learn more about Kongunad, Khandeshi, Malabar, and Konkani cuisine here. Fancy a snack? Choose from traditional Tamil tiffins, or sweets and snacks from Kerala and Maharashtra.

I’m delighted to be a guest poster on the “Indian Food Trail”. Please join me as I visit Sailu’s Kitchen once again, this time, to share “A Taste of Kodava Cuisine“!

My grateful thanks to Professor B.P. Appanna, Vindhya Somaiah, B.A. Deviah, and of course, Mum (especially for saving the kaad maangé and baimbalé!)

Act 1: Remembering Grandma’s banana jam

On those rare days in my grandparents’ home in Coorg when there wasn’t a hot cooked breakfast, soft loaves of bread were sliced up and served on large platters. For those who wanted toast, it would be made on the stovetop, on a cast iron griddle. Or, more excitingly, a slice of bread would be clamped into an old fashioned wire toaster and held just close enough to the wood fire in the kitchen to give it a golden glow and allow it to pick up a hint of smoke. Then you’d settle down with eggs made any way you liked, fresh butter, honey, and an array of homemade jams to choose from – pineapple, boodhi kumbala (ash gourd), kaipuli, marmalade, and the undisputed favourite by far, banana jam.

Grandmother’s banana jam had a deep burgundy colour and a smooth, easily spreadable texture. The fragrance that filled the house when it was cooking had a warm, buttery sweetness. And the flavour! There was nothing else like it – rich, fruity, with hints of clove, cinnamon, and caramel. It’s no surprise that the banana jam was always polished off within days of its being made.

It was a long process, starting with peeling large bunches of ripe bananas. The two varieties she used were mara balé, or the large, red skinned variety, chondé balé, with a creamy yellow flesh. These made the best jam.

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While browsing in the pickle aisle in one of the stores in Vancouver’s Punjabi market recently, I chanced upon a dusty cast iron hand cranked grinder slung over the topmost shelf. This one was meant for dry grinding spices. But my mind was off and running – it’s time for some meatballs!

My grandmother had a heavy meat grinder that she used to make minced mutton or kaima as we call it. It was the kind that needed to be clamped to the countertop like a vice. I think it was standard equipment in many kitchens back then, and my mother had one too, but a smaller version. The driver, operator of all things vaguely mechanical, would be summoned to mount the device onto the end on the long kitchen counter.

Perched on a stool, I would watch with morbid fascination as grandma cranked chunks of fresh mutton through the machine, stopping every now and then to clear a bit of gristle that had wound itself around the spiral blade, or to unclog the perforated die. The emerging kaima would be patted together then pushed through again, for a finer grind if needed.

I think she’d be horrified to know that I now buy store made mince!

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It’s warming up here in Vancouver. A few days of brilliant blue skies and the neighbours have begun hauling out their barbecues. I, on the other hand, jump at the first chance to fling open the doors and windows and cook up a guilty pleasure – dried salt fish.

Why wait for warm weather, you ask? Well, there’s no denying the powerful odour of salt fish cooking. At its best, it’s the briny, pungent smell of a beach at high noon and low tide. Not the cool shores of the Pacific Northwest, mind you. So, rather than risk infusing the furnishings with the ineffable air of the baking sands of a tropical beach, littered with flotsam and jetsam, I bide my time till the balmy breezes blow.

In fish markets in Coorg, you’ll find a variety of dried shrimp, both fresh and saltwater, various kinds of salt tuna, anchovies, sardines, ray, and shark* (cautionary tale below). These usually come from nearby coastal Mangalore and Kerala. Chirau (shark), sigari (shrimp), and mathi (sardines) were our favourites, and my grandmother had many delicious ways of serving them up. Dried sardines could be curried with chunks of potato, or served crisply fried. Tiny dried shrimp perked up simple vegetable palyas, or were dry roasted and pounded with hot green chillis and lime juice to make a spicy chutney to eat with akki ottis.

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