It was Saturday. I sat in front of my computer, slowly sipping a cup of tea, to write a new post for my blog. Alas! there was nothing inspiring to write about. Scratching my head, I looked around. Maybe Mother Nature could help. I stepped into my backyard but sunny though it was, the icy-cold breeze sent me rushing back indoors. Summer was still a far cry for Melbourne, with temperature hovering at 9 degrees at midday.
Deciding to catch up on some reading, I then grabbed a book and sat on my favourite armchair. However, a breakfast consisting of two slices of toast and jam did not fortify my constitution strong enough to carry on without recompensating. Soon it would be time to cut down the lazing and get into the kitchen to rustle up some lunch. Considering five tummies gathering to graze at the dining table, it had to be something substantial.
As I rummaged through my pantry looking for a different type of inspiration this time, I chanced upon some tinned jackfruit. Viola! I had found my inspiration for a curry and for my blog. Nature had come to my rescue after all. While I was thinking of the perfect recipe to go with my find, a million nostalgic memories trickled into my head.
To those of you who are not familiar with me or the fruit, a bit of an introduction to both. I hail from a tiny, southern coastal state in India which is also indigenous to jackfruit. Elegantly put in French, I am “un enfant unique” meaning an only child, though there was nothing remotely unique about me. Raised in a neighbouring southern state, the only things connecting me to my roots were a couple of my cousins and the annual visits to my grandma’s house.
Whereas jackfruit (Artocarpus heterophyllus) is a species of tree in the fig, mulberry, and breadfruit family, its origin in the region between the Western Ghats of southern India, all of Sri Lanka and the rainforests of Malaysia. I almost fell off my chair while copying this from Wikipedia as this fruit is nothing less than 30 inches tall and 40 inches wide on an average and would easily weigh between 10 to 25 kilograms. It would certainly take only a cheeky botanist to compare it to a berry. Perhaps one of the early Portuguese who arrived on the Malabar coast or the English naturalists who followed.
For a bit of life from back when I was nine-years old, I take you on this journey as you read along. Visits to grandma’s house coincided with Indian summers and school holidays. The tropics were an abundancy of greenery and bountiful produce. The verdant trees bore juicy mangoes, ripe jackfruits, plump cashew nuts, crisp rose apples and so on. Buzzing bees and chirping birds ran riot feasting on the fruits filling the air with excitement. As for the children, they easily clambered on the trees, to pluck and gorge on fruits dripping with nectar. But it was a different story where the jackfruit was concerned.
The heirloom jackfruit tree in grandma’s backyard was very tall almost 30 feet high (with trees having propensity to get to 66 feet tall). Beyond reach of humans even when standing on tall ladders, the fruits growing on the trunk, and the sheer size of the fruit itself added to further woes. Also, the rough skin of the fruit covered with blunt thorns did not make it any easier. To top it all, not everyone wanted to hang around it especially when a ripe one could come down crashing anytime. Not even a giant of a fruit warranted an unwonted tragic end. That this has been far and few is some solace.
It was also no small wonder that workmen skilled in climbing the jackfruit tree, harvesting fruits by carefully tying them with a rope and gently lowering them to avoid crushing both humans and the fruit acted “pricey” during the season. They certainly knew all risks involved especially as workplace safety and insurance compensations were a far cry in those days. For me, it was like watching a “Superman-Tarzan” show live with all its drama attached.
It took many days of intense and concerted efforts to entice the worker to discuss and set a plan to harvest the summer bounties. After some difficult haggling an arrangement of “fee” was arrived. A fraction of it was also paid in advance. The worker went away making promises to come back on “the” day. It was common knowledge that he had similar arrangements elsewhere too and many days were wasted with no sight of him as promised.
It was one such afternoon. With satiated appetites, the men had receded indoors to read newspaper or to hum old melodies coming from the radio. The women gathered under the shade of the mango trees trading gossip and bantering in general. Suddenly, just like magic, the worker appeared. The children cheered and the women went into a tizzy. Like a nimble monkey, he clambered up the trees and raided their tops.
Disconcerted, the women moved hither and thither screaming excitedly, shouting, and racing to collect the fruits in baskets and stack others in mounds. The matron sat in the centre of action, barking orders and shouting instructions to the man on the tree, to the women around and to all in general, adding to the chaos. The children ran harum-scarum snatching fruits. They were repeatedly chastised and chased off. The men retreated further indoors to avoid any chores that could be hastily thrust to them.
I was not keen to participate in such unruliness and so sat in a corner, picking, and eating the neatly sliced mangoes that someone had placed in my hands. My cousins would have none of it and ended up getting a smack or two on their derrieres, for staining and ruining their outfits with sticky juice and for adding to the general melee. The produce was hastily sorted, bagged in gunny sacks and placed in rows to make way to respective homes.
Once the giant jackfruit made its way into the kitchen, the women folk gathered around it, working on types of recette that was to be concocted. Chopped, sliced, curried and preserved, it would be enjoyed for many days to come. Almost every part of the fruit was put to good use from making curries to puddings and chips. The “jack” covered it all.
The preparations prior to the culinary extravaganza were just as menacing. A large machete was secured to chop up this giant. Oil was liberally applied to protect bare skin from the fruit’s white gum, which was extremely sticky. Once stuck, they formed gluey white strings like stringy mozzarella cheese and was quite difficult to get rid of. It was equally baffling to watch aunts battling the sticky gum and the oily machete with their slippery oily hands. They were brave hearts indeed and no fingers were lopped during this entire operation.
Women quartered the fruit and plucked out the plump flesh, removing the seeds. The sweet flesh was immediately consumed. Often, the uninitiated connoisseurs who binged on it ended up with cramps. One was forbidden from drinking water soon after too believing it slowed down digestion. But we found ourselves falling prey to an unrelenting thirst and made covert trips to the kitchen. Later we would find that there was some truth in old wives’ tales.
As though this didn’t suffice, there was yet another species of this fruit with extremely slippery, gooey flesh that could slither down the throat in an alarming fashion and almost choke one. Mothers often hovered around their children to avoid a mishap. Understandably, this was preferred for jams rather than as a fruit snack.
The raw jackfruit was made into curries based in coconut gravy. The sweet jam was used for puddings or stuffed into a rice steam cake, a traditional breakfast item. The seeds were dried and stored for rainy days to be enjoyed boiled, roasted, stir fried or added to curries as a thickening agent. The flesh of an unripe fruit was thinly cut and fried in coconut oil to make crisp jackfruit chips. An extremely popular snack, it is enjoyed by millions of South Asians around the world, even today.
In days gone by, even the rind and the thick flat feather like structures within it was put to good use too. Dried and preserved, it was fried and served as an accompaniment to rice gruel. But these have long lost their popularity and are lost recipes even among locals.
Just as versatile the fruit was in the kitchen, the men hated it for many reasons - strong smell, thick curries, bloated stomach, and perhaps for catalysing many such delicate constitutional issues that cannot be described here. However, that did not deter my mother from churning out her favourite jackfruit recipes in our kitchen. My dad continued to dose himself with digestive aids until the season was over.
Like holiday souvenirs, grandma made sure that the fresh fruit, chips, and seeds were carefully wrapped in brown paper parcels and along with bottled jam were secreted into one of the many cartons. These were enjoyed at leisure, thousands of miles away from the jack’s humble home. But one thing was for sure, back then no Indian household could deny the fact that they had a jackfruit in their house. Its permeating distinctive sweet and fruity aroma was a dead giveaway.
With a debatable reputation (rivalling Durian) coupled with people's “love it” or “hate it” relationship, the fruit’s entry into many kitchens was impeded. Sadly, many culinary secrets have been lost this way. Recent published studies promote jackfruit as the next “superfood”, an alternative to meat, a solution to end food shortage etc, but the jackfruit still has seemingly few takers.
Even in its homeland, Kerala, with fewer workers to harvest them, it often rots, attracting flies and is considered a pain in general. Perhaps the time has come for this gentle giant to take charge and re-introduce itself and show the world a million ways to attain great culinary heights a la Jack, through gastronomic adventures.
In the meanwhile, I dipped into my mother’s recipe book and cooked a delectable jackfruit curry that left the folks at home rubbing their tummies for the right reason and demanding for more. My grandma would have been pleased with me for sharing this legacy.
On a side note, the jackfruit is also the national fruit of Bangladesh, a South Asian country, bordering India. However, I am left wondering why Kerala did not obtain a GI certification* for it. At least for the sake of all the hullabaloo it has caused down so many generations.
* A ‘geographical indication’, or ‘GI’ identifies a good as originating in a specific region where a particular quality, reputation or other characteristic of the good is essentially attributable to that geographic origin.
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