Memories are Made of Buttermilk

My first memory of Buttermilk is warmth and darkness. I must have been five or six years old. A pleasant swishing sound drew me to my grandmother's kitchen. My grandmother was sitting on the floor, her legs spread out and resting against the wall. Soft light came in through the window in front of her. Between her knees was a heavy mud pot. A tall wooden mathu or butter churner was placed inside the pot.

I walked into the cool kitchen. My grandmother turned. Her Beautiful face crinkled into a smile but see did not say anything. She was quietly busy. She held the two ends of rope that was coiled around the butter churner. They moved back and forth in a rhythm. My grandmother was both alert and relaxed. I had seen her in this position many times.

I slipped under the hands and sat down against the C-shaped curve of her body. My legs where spread out like hers, my hands level with hers. I learned against her soft belly. Together we pulled the rope back and forth, making the milk give up its butter. It wasn't milk really. It was the thick Yogurt that she had collected for a couple of days.

I loved sitting with my grandmother, matching my arms to here as we pulled the rope together. I could smell the buttermilk and feel my grandmother's breath on my neck. She didn't say a word, but I felt so safe and comfortable. Some minutes later, the heavy butter lumps began to form. My grandmother poured cold water into the mud pot. We continued churning. Within minutes, the butter lumps floated on top. Then we stopped.

My grandmother collected all the lumps together in her hands and shaped them together into a round ball. I sat still, waiting for the best part. My grandmother put the big round ball into a vessel filled with water, where it floated like those white planets that we drew in our Geography book. Then, then collected the smaller lumps of butter that were still floating inside, made a small ball and looked at me. Obediantly, I opened my mouth. In went the freshly churned butter. It tasted of the saltiness of my grandmother's. hand, the sweetness of cow's milk and the slight sourness of the yogurt cream that we collected.

Ten years later, my grandmother still made buttermilk, but now it was with her ' mixie' that my uncle had brought for her. It made churning a lot easier. She put thick yogurt into the blender, added ice- cube water from the fridge, and pressed a switch. After five minutes, the yogurt would foam on top. The bubbles were the signal for my grandmother.

She added a little more water and pressed the switch once again. Soon, lumps of butter would form. She would collect the large lumps went into my mouth. They still tasted like buttery heaven.

Every part of India uses buttermilk. In Kerala, we simply water it down, put in a few fresh curry leaves and drink it as sambaram. In Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka, Buttermilk is spiced with green chillies, ginger, curry leaves and salt, all of which are crushed and added to the buttermilk.

We call this maggige or neer-mor. Much of North India adds a combination of roasted and ground cumin, some salt,a dash lemon juice, and crushed Pudina or mint leaves to their buttermilk or chaas, as it is called. This watery , delicious and light drink is excellent for digestion and cooling the body. Punjab, of course, has its famous lassi, made with thick buttermilk mixed with fruits like mango. Mango lassi is available all over the world at Indian restaurants. Bengal, I thing, doesn't have buttermilk. They prefer their mishti dahi, not the lighter drink.

The beauty of buttermilk is that it is everyone. No matter how rich or poor, all of India enjoys this drink. Down the road from where I live is a pushcart vendor. All she has on her cart is a red earthen pot filled with buttermilk is that it she sells to auto drivers , bicycle messengers, and anyone who needs a cool drink on a hot day.

As for me I prefer buttermilk to yogurt. It I had a choice, I would drink my grandmother's buttermilk, but she is dead now. I still have her wooden churner, though. Every now and then, particularly on hot summer days, I think of bringing it out and setting it up with two coils of ropes, just as it was in my Grandmother's kitchen.

Thank you