Salty tales of the curry leaf

IF YOU pull up at the traffic light near the Unit 5 post office, there is a knobby little chap with bunches of curry leaves.

He reminds me of those flower-power American teenagers who tossed roses to soldiers at protest marches. I confess to never having handed the sniffling elf five bucks but, goodness me, those curry leaves have bothered me endlessly. One hardly notices the curry leaf in a dish. It is just there.

It is braised with the onions and dry spices. It is sometimes added at the end of the cooking. It is even in a dried form in the tub with the masala and part of the chevda mixture.

In my native Tamil tongue, it is kariveppilai. It sounds a lot posher said like that than Santa’s little helper with his bunch in a newspaper cone.

As a boy I spent a lot of time in the kitchen or my granny’s cooking shed. Mostly it was to hear stories. Back in the day, Indian boys were forbidden from touching the pots.

The rule was made by our mothers. One rumour was that if you fidgeted in a woman’s domain you would grow man boobs. Try telling that these days to wives and girlfriends who demand both the cooking and the cleaning up. One man who has no fears about the kitchen is my new best friend Muthulingam in Chennai.

On a recent jaunt there, I joined him in the kitchen as he got to work with all manner of vegetables, spices and herbs. My endless questions were reserved for the hardly-noticed curry leaf.

It turns out that it adds more than just a bit of flavour to the curry. Six leaves on an empty stomach is supposed to be a formidable weapon against cutting belly fat and obesity.

It is also meant to fight bad cholesterol and regulate sugar levels. Take that with a pinch of slightly less salt if you are a diabetic. Men with bellies are also frequently thinning at the crown.

One school of thought holds that curry leaves should be pulped, added to shampoo and rinsed off in the normal way. Unlike those garish adverts on street poles that promise insecure men miracles, this cure is considerably cheaper and less risky. Those willing to throw caution to the wind to thicken their once glorious manes can add curry leaves to coconut oil for the smellier option.

Really adventurous men might be tempted into making a paste of curry leaves and plain yoghurt to gently massage into the scalp. You might want to avoid strawberry yoghurt if you are keen to give that a try. Two teaspoons of curry leaf juice mixed with lime juice is supposed to cure morning sickness and nausea. I run the risk of being beaten up if that one does not work.

Light burns too may be treated with curry leaves applied as poultices to the affected area. While the touted medical uses made for hefty laughter in Muthulingam’s kitchen, the real evidence of the wonder leaf came in the cooking. A rice dish known as pongal gets real horsepower with a handful of curry leaves fried in ghee. It sure beats boring plain rice.

Curry leaves braised in yoghurt with grated carrot and turmeric is a divine accompaniment to a main dish. Pounded rice flour made into a light batter and thinly spread on a griddle is lifted with a few curry leaves. I wish I could have spent a few more days around Muthulingam but alas I had to return to the elf ’s neighbourhood.

Next time I see him I must ask where he gets his stash. A popular tale is that no one gives away curry leaf trees and that the best ones have to be stolen in the dead of the night.

Where people do hand over curry leaf trees, word is that they first boil the roots. The elf ’s shifty eyes suggest that he might be good at lifting things after dark.

Naidoo is a goldmine of useless information.