KITCHEN FEVER, CUPBOARD CURE

Sri Owen ,  WEEKENDER   |  Thu, 10/29/2009 1:29 PM  |  Letter From London

There’s a lot of talk these days about healthy eating – such a lot that I sometimes wonder if people may be using it to salve their consciences, talking about it instead of actually doing it. I don’t recall that in my childhood healthy eating was ever mentioned. We just assumed that any food, if it wasn’t actually poisonous, must be good for you; in the 1940s and 50s most of us were glad to have any food we could get.

And most of us, in the countryside at any rate, stayed healthy most of the time. We ate very little meat, but quite a lot of fish, and when we couldn’t get rice we ate sweet potato, taro, cassava or maize. We foraged for edible leaves, wild herbs and fruit along the roadsides, in the fields and the forest. Folk medicine gave us all sorts of cures for common diseases. My younger sisters and I all had malaria from time to time, so we ate papaya leaves, as bitter as anything, from the pharmacist’s shop, and got better, though whether “because” or “in spite of”, who knows?

We always knew, of course, that many plants didn’t just keep us well or cure us if we got sick – they also tasted good and could give plain food some of the excitement of a party dish. Galangal, for example – laos or lengkuas, as we call it in Indonesia – that knobby rhizome with its pungent gingery-camphor-like aroma and subtle heat, essential for rendang and many other dishes from all over South and East Asia: it’s well known to be good for digestion, reducing wind and, for anyone who has overeaten or got a tummy bug, helping to keep the food down.

Galangal, a member of the ginger family, loses much of its aroma when dried, and when I first came to London fresh galangal was not yet available, even in Amsterdam where I could find most other fresh Indonesian cooking ingredients. Today I can buy it in England at any Thai food store, flown in weekly from Bangkok. Galangal in fact was much better known in Europe in the Middle Ages than it is now, and was, I daresay, even more expensive; it was a major item in the spice trade, carried westward first by the Arabs, in later centuries by the Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch and British.

I remember reading a lot of magazine articles about how those westerners wanted aromatic spices to hide the bad flavors of rotting salted meat at the end of their winter. Nowadays they have a different explanation: Spices cost so much in Europe that they showed off the great wealth of households that could afford them. But I think those medieval people knew, as we did, that spices like galangal could help save them from the consequences of eating too much rich food.

Turmeric, or kunyit for us Indonesians, the rhizome of another plant in the ginger family, strongly aromatic when fresh, and notorious for the way it stains your clothes or tablecloth deep yellow – magical, royal, sacred yellow that won’t wash out – was never in such demand in old Europe, because by the time it reached Venice or London it had lost most of its flavor. But in countries where it grew it was always in huge demand, for cooking and as medicine. In India, it was mixed with oil and rubbed on damaged skin, or with lime, to treat wounds; it was made into a soothing wash for sore eyes, a cold cure, a cough medicine, a fumigant.

Like most of the gingers, it aids digestion and, mixed with other ingredients, was a treatment for dysentery, fever, and ulcers. My grandmother once cured my infected insect bite with thinly sliced turmeric root by frying it in coconut oil and brushing the scalding-hot oil onto the wound. So I know it was effective in that instance. People question and doubt such treatment, but at least it does the patient no harm. More exciting today are the properties of one of turmeric’s chemical components, curcumin. This is under investigation in the US as an agent in protecting against cancer, combating Alzheimer’s disease and more.

However, my star turn this week is not a rhizome or a spice but a vegetable, the bitter gourd (or bitter melon), in Indonesia called paria, in India karela, and in the Philippines ampalaya. I’m diabetic and I have to watch my blood sugar all the time, very carefully. I know from repeated experience that this knobbly green gourd, when cooked, does effectively reduce my blood sugar level. It’s also delicious in itself – remember, we Indonesians, and most of our Asian neighbors, love bitterness as much as we love sweetness, when these tastes are properly balanced in a cooked dish.

So here is my favorite bitter-gourd recipe – healthy eating for everyone, not only people with diabetes. This recipe is from my latest book, Sri Owen’s Indonesian Food, but I will also give here an alternative filling that uses galangal and fresh turmeric, as well as lemongrass and kaffir lime leaf. There are two kinds of bitter gourd that are available in oriental shops in the Chinatowns of most big cities in the west: the larger ones, paler green in color, we call Chinese bitter gourd, and the dark green ones, smaller in size, are usually known as Indian bitter gourd, bitter melon or bitter cucumber.

PARIA BERISI TAHU DAN UDANG

Bitter gourd stuffed with tofu and prawns

For 6 as a starter

2 paria, each about 18–20 cm long
1 tbsp sea salt

Cut the paria across into several rounds, about 3 cm thick, or a little thicker, to make 12 rounds altogether (see picture). With a small knife, scrape out the seeds and the membranes. Put the rings into a colander, sprinkle them with the sea salt, and leave to stand for about 2 hours. Then wash off the salt under the cold tap, rinse each ring (and the colander) in a bowl of cold water, and leave the rings in the colander to drain.

The next step is to boil about half a liter of water in a largish saucepan. When it boils, put in the paria pieces, with half a teaspoon of salt. Lower the heat and let the paria bubble gently, covered or uncovered, for 2 or 3 minutes. Then drain the pieces again in the colander.

For the stuffing:

350 g tofu, diced
225 g peeled and deveined prawns, without heads, finely chopped
4 shallots, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 tsp ground coriander
½ tsp ground cumin
½ tsp brown sugar
1 kaffir lime leaf, shredded, or 1 tbsp chopped mint
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp ground white pepper
2 tbsp coconut milk, stock or water

In a bowl, mix all the ingredients for the stuffing thoroughly.

Arrange the pieces of paria on an ovenproof dish, spoon the stuffing into them and cook in a preheated oven at 180 °C/Gas 4 for 20–25 minutes. Alternatively, the stuffed paria can be steamed for 20 minutes. Serve hot, warm or cold as a starter, or as a side dish to be eaten with rice.

Now the alternative stuffing:

6 good-sized boned chicken thighs, without skin
2 tsp finely chopped lemongrass (sereh), inner part only
4 cm piece of fresh turmeric root, peeled and chopped
4 cm piece of fresh galangal, chopped
2–4 kaffir lime leaves (daun jeruk purut) or lemon leaves, chopped
10 cloves garlic, chopped
5 shallots, chopped
2 tsp curry powder (hot or mild, as preferred)
2 tbsp fish sauce or light soya sauce
1 tsp sugar
2 tbsp rapeseed or peanut oil
3 tbsp hot water from the kettle
salt and pepper if necessary

Blend all the ingredients except the chicken until you have a reasonably smooth paste. Cut the chicken meat into small cubes. Heat the oil in a frying pan or a wok and stir-fry the paste, stirring continuously, for 2 minutes. Add the chicken cubes, and stir for a minute, then add the hot water. Cover the pan or wok, and simmer for 3 minutes. Remove the cover and continue cooking, stirring often, for another 4–5 minutes. Taste and add salt and pepper if necessary. Stuff the paria pieces, and cook as for the recipe above.

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