Long, long before Chef Floyd Cardoz knocked the socks off the Top Chef competition with his upuma, there was Balan.

But first, a confession. As a child, I HATED upuma (or uppittu as we knew it) with a passion. Now there was very little by way of food that I actively disliked, but this was definitely close to the top of the list. Perhaps it had to do with the transitory nature of the stuff. Half an hour after eating an uppittu breakfast, my stomach would start to rumble as ominously as that Coorg monsoon thunder, forcing me to go in search of something more substantial to weigh me down. Not that that’s a bad thing necessarily, but you know how breakfast being the most important meal and all,  you can’t quite shake off a sorry start to the day.

There was also an air of afterthought bordering on downright negligence associated with an uppittu breakfast. What? No akki ottis, kneaded with strong hands and patted out painstakingly before being puffed on hot embers? Or dosas, or idlis, lovingly made from batter that was a full twenty four hours in the making? Heck! Even simple toast to slather with butter and jam would be accepted gracefully as a substitute for the varied cooked breakfasts one quickly grew accustomed to when in Coorg.

No, uppittu is what we got when the kitchen was busy with more important things. Or possibly just a little low on supplies, or help. So it seemed.

I know I’m not alone. If I did a survey of homes in Coorg, I’m pretty sure the results would show uppitu at the bottom of the list of breakfast choices.Its appearance at the table was usually met with one or more of the following reactions:

Denial: “What’s this?” (staring the obvious in the face)
Anger: “What do you mean,’no bread’?!”
Bargaining: “Isn’t there some of yesterdays pandi (pork) curry left?”
Depression: ((silence you could slice with a knife))
Acceptance: “What’s for lunch?”

A friend’s father always finds he needs to “take a little walk” when faced with the prospect of uppittu for breakfast. We, as children, didn’t have much choice, being brought up to politely eat whatever was given to us, particularly in other peoples’ homes.

Anyway, back to Balan.

Balan cooked and kept house for Great Uncle Nanjappa. My paternal grandmother’s brother, Nanju Mama, as he was known, was an urbane bachelor with a gift for entertaining. Sophisticated, charming, funny and with the wonderful ability to relate to all ages and interests, his home in Mercara was the place we most looked forward to visiting. Nanju Mama travelled a great deal, but his home was always immaculately maintained, ready to receive and entertain visitors and house guests.

The sprawling garden around his house was dotted with rather interesting sculptures by Balan, whose artistic expression found total freedom here. Also with a free run of the house and grounds was a motley assortment of pets – little pye dogs, a smug ginger cat , and best of all, our companions in the sunny dining room were cheeky parakeets and fat little rabbits that lolloped across from the kitchen for tidbits. To my child’s eye, it couldn’t get more perfect. But it did.

There were a few occasions when we stayed over at Uncle Nanjappa’s , enjoying the luxury of a  beautiful home with no restrictions on children or animals and the staff to keep us all fed and watered. Breakfast was when Balan was at his artistic best. He planned the morning menu and executed it with a panache that would do any top chef credit. Fresh orange juice, fruit, and the special of the day – it could be giant, white, poppy-like appams, perfectly golden crisp dosas, idlis like silk, sannas like satin. And always, with eggs made to order. Soft or hard boiled, scrambled, an omelette if you chose, or if you left it to Balan, you’d be rewarded with the perfect appam or dosa with an equally perfect egg cooked right into the centre.

So it’s only natural that this should be the setting of my  encounter with the uppittu that changed everything . One lovely  morning, we sat down to breakfast, a light fragrance from the eucalyptus trees on the slopes below the house drifting in on the breeze through the open french doors. Out from the kitchen came Balan, bearing a tray with  the morning’s special.

My eyes took in the sight,  but the signals to my brain that triggered the usual responses (see above) had clearly been scuppered. My brain refused to register “uppittu”, even as a plate was set in front of me. What I was looking at was a work of art, unlike any uppittu I had ever encountered before. No loose lumps of rubble, strewn on a serving dish, no dollops of oily heaviness, as encountered in most tiffin places of the time.

Balan’s uppittu was pale, creamy and subtly fragrant. It had been formed in individual jelly moulds before being turned out onto  pretty china plates. Wisps of fresh coriander, mustard seeds, curry leaves and flecks of pink onion showed on the rippled surface. And set in the centre, were buttery scrambled eggs.

It was beautiful, it was uppittu, and it clearly said “eat me”. Which I did, savouring every bite. That was my uppittu epiphany. I can’t be sure that the ginger cat wasn’t grinning on a tree outside, or if one of those bunnies  in the kitchen wasn’t wearing a waistcoat, but I wouldn’t rule it out.

And I wasn’t hungry half an hour later either.

I didn’t learn to really appreciate uppittu till many years later, but that encounter with a version dished up by a master chef showed me the possibilities that existed in the much dreaded breakfast of desperation!

There are far too many recipes for upuma/uppittu out there already, so choose any one you like.This version has mustard, split hulled urad, cumin, curry leaves, finely diced red onion, ginger, broken red chillis, chopped green chillis, a tsp of lime juice and a few sprigs of fresh coriander.

Use enough oil or ghee or butter to give your finished dish a creamy texture. You can use thin coconut milk in place of part or all of the liquid for a particularly silky version. Press the cooked uppittu into individual jelly moulds or small bunt pans. Unmould and scoop out the centre to make room for some buttery scrambled eggs. Salt, pepper, go!