A Beginner's Guide to Eating Thayir Sadam Correctly
That most prosaic element of south Indian meals — curd rice, makes an appearance in the most unexpected places, and is propped up by a culinary culture entirely its own.
Every meal in a vegetarian household in the south ends with thayir sadam. Thayir sadam is that dish of dairy and rice – made in so many different ways – from the rich, creamy, yoghurt-and-rice preparation to the restrained, thin-buttermilk-and-rice-gruel, each variation constructed to serve a specific purpose. It could be the digestif to signal the end of a meal heavy with spice, and filled with fiery gravies. In a pinch, it can become a meal in itself. And in the pre-refrigerator era, leftover (cooked) rice was covered with water and stored overnight in a terracotta handi, covered with a lid —this ensured the rice stayed cool and didn’t spoil. And in the morning, the rice was mashed to a pulp, and buttermilk and salt were added to make a complete meal. The men-folk would sip on it, with little bites of salted narthangai (citron medica) pickle on the side, before setting out into the fields before sunrise.
Thayir sadam, despite its humble construct, is so beloved, it makes an appearance in the most unexpected places. In many temples in the south, Daddojanam (temple thayir sadam) is the Lord’s Prasadam. It is made with raw white rice, mixed with full fat milk, and only the smallest bit of curd – to ensure that after the puja, when the prasadam is distributed, the thayir sadam does not sour.
Memories of Thayir Sadam
Train journeys were incomplete without thayir sadam. My mother would tweak the amount of yoghurt she added to the rice, milk, and cream, so that the sourness would be just right when we ate it, several hours after it was made. A pinch of salt to balance the tang, and a tempering of mustard, green chilli, curry leaves, and a pinch of asafetida in ghee, to finish. Each individual portion of thayir sadam was packed in a banana leaf parcel, with a piece of avakai or lemon pickle, alongside a packet of potato chips.
My first memory of thayir sadam however, goes back to a hot summer afternoon in 1956, in a small agraharam, in southern Tamil Nadu. In that year, it was still tradition for all grandchildren to spend the entirety of their summer vacations in paati’s home – irrespective of which part of the country they resided in the rest of the year.
There were more than 15 children, and just one of her. I was the youngest of them, and so I got to sit on her lap. She smelt of malligai, vibhuti and Mysore sandal soap. Every day, paati would cook extra rice at lunch because she knew her grandchildren would be hungry again at 4 o’clock. So she’d mash the rice, then add thick home-made yoghurt, milk, and a big dollop of aadai, or fresh cream skimmed off the morning’s milk. A dash of salt and a sizzling tempering in ghee, and it was ready. She never skimped on the tempering, even if it was just for us kids.
Then paati would sit down, as the rest of us surrounded her in a tight semi circle. She would give each of us a small piece of banana leaf, to catch any spills, and would begin: with her right hand she would put a small dollop of thayir sadam onto each outstretched banana leaf, simultaneously using her left hand to spoon a little sambar, or any kozhambu, over the morsel of thayir sadam, and we would slurp it up with delight.
Accompaniments would be leftover kozhambu, or the dregs of rasam from lunch. Other times it would be pickle, or a large batch of fried thayir milagai – green chillies left to soak in thick buttermilk and salt over a few days, until they turned white, then put out to dry every morning at sunrise, and placed back in the buttermilk to soak overnight – repeated until all the buttermilk in the pot was soaked up. Finally, left out to dry completely under the hot summer sun, they were stored in airtight containers. The dried milagai vethal are fried dark, just short of burnt, to be eaten with thayir sadam.
But the king of all accompaniments was Paati’s Vethal Kozhambu mixed with keerai masiyal. Paati had invented a way of feeding us greens, long before anyone had heard of Popeye. Her chundakai (Solanum torvum ) vethal kuzhambu was sharp and tangy, spicy with a hint of bitterness from the turkey berries or chundaikai. The addition of keerai masiyal mellowed the flavours, rounding them out. A teaspoon of this on a morsel of thayir sadam, was a mouthful to die for. Sixty years on, my mouth waters at the memory.
Recipe for Thayir Sadam
Ingredients
½ cup raw rice
1 ½ cups water
1 cup yoghurt
1/3 of a cup milk
2 tbsp malai/cream
Salt, to taste
Tempering
1 tsp ghee
½ tsp mustard seeds
1tsp urad dal white
1 green chili, chopped fine
1 sprig curry leaves, washed and chopped
1 dried red chili, torn in two
Hing, a pinch
Method
Wash the rice three times, until the water runs clear.
Add the water and cook in the pressure cooker, for one whistle on high flame and three on low. (This may vary depending on the kind of rice you use, so use your discretion. The rice should be overcooked; mushy for this recipe)
Allow to cool to room temperature. Now mash the rice with the back of a big ladle, or a potato masher, or a wooden keerai mathu.
Now, add salt and the fresh curd, and mix well. Taste, if the curd is very fresh, not too thick or sour, you may not need to add all the milk.
Next add the malai, mix, and finally add milk as required.
Tempering
Heat a teaspoonful of ghee in a small wok, add mustard seeds. When they sputter, add urad dal and dried red chili, and let it turn golden. Then add the chopped green chili (optional), curry leaves and a pinch of hing, add to the thayir sadam.
Mix well. Your thayir sadam is ready.
Meena Raj is a writer and sculptor with roots in Kerala and Tamil Nadu.
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