Illustrated by Nidhi Joshi @thatnoviceartist
(Winner of Bound’s Food Essay Contest)
I was a fussy eater as a child. Pungent flavours never won my favour and needless to say, garlic was a strict no-no. Every winter, when green garlic hit the markets, my extended family would have a get-together to have a hearty (and heaty) Lassun treat. The dish involved boiled mutton mince, finely chopped green garlic and eggs drowning in ghee eaten with par wali rotis (literally translated to winged or feather-thin flat bread). As a picky teenager, I saw this as my worst nightmare. But one year, quite suddenly, as I was hitting the brink of adulthood, I had my Green Eggs and Ham moment. I tried it, and I loved it!
Kheema Lassun, or just Lassun as it is known in my family, is a quintessential Bohri dish. One might argue that it’s really a metaphor for the community itself: a perfect blend of Gujarati and Muslim traditions. The Gujaratis love garlic chives and use it in several of their recipes (undhiyu included) and even make a sabzi with the greens. Adding them to minced mutton and eggs can only be attributed to Bohri culinary ingenuity.
Unfortunately, by the time I learnt to appreciate the combination, our legendary Lassun dinners had begun to dwindle. Our once large family in Mumbai was shrinking, as my cousins started moving away. And then, I lost an uncle.
“And even though he was not a big fan of the dish, he played a very integral role in our Lassun nights. He was the ghee pourer. It was a role that required skill and technique and I suspect he didn’t trust anyone else to do the job.”
This uncle of mine had a big heart, which eventually failed him. He loved food, or the idea of it at least, because I believe he loved feeding other people much more than he enjoyed eating. I was never allowed to leave his house without eating something – even if it was just a banana.
I remember spending nights at his home, after a fun sleepover with my cousins, and waking up to him singing some silly ditty and furiously chopping onions. As a bachelor he’d spent many years in Kuwait, and I’m assuming that’s where he mastered the art of making omelettes. It’s what his family ate every single morning, my cousin adding her own twist with treacly condensed milk doused over her deliciously greasy egg.
My uncle was meticulous about everything, but particularly about his meals. He loved his mutton and biryani, but didn’t touch chicken. He was, however, extremely innovative in how he cooked it. He lugged along an old washing machine drum on a picnic once, so he could use it as a tandoor to grill chicken legs.
If there was one thing he loved doing, it was hosting and feeding his beloved family. And even though he was not a big fan of the dish, he played a very integral role in our Lassun nights. He was the ghee pourer. It was a role that required skill and technique and I suspect he didn’t trust anyone else to do the job.
“Growing up, I didn’t have any Bohri friends. I’m a Sulemani Bohri, a minority sub-sect of the community, and because the split had caused tensions, as kids we had been asked to lie low.”
Lassun might sound like quite a simple dish, considering you need only four essential ingredients. And yet, it was always a potluck dinner. Every family (which mostly meant the women of the family) was responsible for a particular part of the dish. Someone brought the boiled kheema (spiced mildly and cooked with ginger-garlic and no extra fat), someone else the feather-thin rotis, and a third family brought the eggs. The green garlic was the queen of the party. Every year tales were told of our ancestors in Surat, who used needles to make fine threads of the garlic chives before they were put to the knife to be chopped finely. The needles were done away with, but that didn’t mean one could be cavalier about the garlic. For my uncle, however, it was the ghee pouring that meant serious business.
The thaals (large round plates that were shared by 6-8 diners) were filled with the kheema, now green with a generous topping of the chopped garlic chives. Wells were made in the mince in which the raw eggs were broken in. In the meantime, my uncle would stand over the gas stove, watching the molten, golden ghee begin to sputter violently. When he was satisfied with its scalding temperature, he’d carry the utensil with a pair of tongs, rush urgently across to our thaals screaming orders for everyone to clear his path. The hot fat poured to perfection, was meant to cook the eggs perfectly. It was an art really. You had to be patient, but quick, coating every bit of the raw egg before the ghee cooled down.
“Bohri food, over the past few years, has been gaining quite a reputation and an audience.”
Growing up, I didn’t have any Bohri friends. I’m a Sulemani Bohri, a minority sub-sect of the community, and because the split had caused tensions, as kids we had been asked to lie low. It wasn’t until I was a grown-up that I publicly admitted to being Bohri at all (coinciding perhaps with my Green Eggs and Ham moment). I hadn’t talked about our traditions or our rituals to the outside world and for the longest time, I believed that Lassun belonged only to us. YouTube, of course, has since shown me that Bohris the world over share this food tradition.
Like so many other Bohri customs, Kheema Lassun is quintessentially a community affair. “The important thing about having Kheema Lassun was that it really brought family together. And even now, when it’s made in our house, we have to have my sister’s family over to enjoy the feast with us,” says home chef Lamiya Amiruddin.
Now based in Mumbai, Amiruddin grew up in Hyderabad, where green garlic never made an appearance in the market. Her parents found a simple enough solution, though. “We’d make beds of soil and sow the garlic bulbs, and watch patiently as the greens grew,” she recalls. In two weeks, the garlic chives would grow long enough for them to host a Lassun do. “We didn’t have a lot of family there, but a few family friends would join us. All the ladies would grow their own green garlic, we’d get together and chop it up finely. The feast would typically be dinner, but it really was a day-long event,” she says.
In Amiruddin’s home, once the eggs were cooked, the ghee would be drained out. I remember no such thing in my household, where the fat was relished with the rest of the meal. As the norm goes, every family has a slightly different take on the dish. Some serve it for breakfast, some replace rotis with bajre ka rotla. But most families will be particular about sugarcane as a post-meal cleanser and digestive aid. “You’re not to drink water immediately after the meal, instead you’re meant to chew on sugarcane. Because it’s hard to find sugarcane now, I get the vendor to send us glasses of fresh sugarcane juice after the meal instead,” says Amiruddin. As an extra treat and a cooling element, you’ll also be served asli malai and sugar at Amiruddin’s Lassun party.
Bohri food, over the past few years, has been gaining quite a reputation and an audience. Perhaps a Lassun night can become the pop-up of the season and I must admit that I planted the idea of hosting one into Amiruddin’s mind.
At the market this morning, I noticed that the green garlic chives had hit the stands. I couldn’t help but buy a bunch. And so while Amiruddin mulls over the pop-up idea, perhaps I can muster up the courage to try my hand at making some Lassun myself. If I ask nicely enough, maybe I’ll be able to wiggle some feather-thin rotis out of one of my aunts. As far as the ghee pouring is concerned—I’m not sure if I’ll be able to meet my uncle’s high standards, but I can try.
Moeena Halim is a Mumbai-based writer, who enjoys dabbling in different formats. Her most recent work includes an international audio show, a cross-genre feature film and a short story that has been published in an anthology. As a former print journalist, Moeena has covered a diverse range of subjects including food, gender, culture and communities. Her work has appeared in publications including India Today, Mumbai Mirror, Mid day, Scroll.in and The Hindu.
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