Wednesday, February 13, 2013

FOOD SPECIAL....NOL-KOLE.. Alien Life Form


NOL-KOLE   Alien Life Form 

How the weird looking kohlrabi came to be popular in India 

Directors of horror and sic-fi films know that the creepiest monsters and aliens aren't those that look radically different from us, but which seem entirely human, except for a few subtle, yet deeply creepy differences. A vampire is a dapper gentleman, except when he smiles and reveals those elongated incisors. Witches in India are beautiful women until you notice that their feet are the wrong way round. And Star Trek's Vulcans are all the more unsettling for looking almost like humans except for those pointed ears.
    Kohlrabi is a bit like this which may be why it is relatively little used. At first glance it seems like a regular rounded root vegetable, the same shape as turnips or radishes, though green (and sometimes purple) where they are white and red. But then you notice that while other such roots have stems and leaves sprouting neatly from their tops, kohlrabi has several stems, with leaves, growing from its side. Suddenly what looked normal, seems strange, multi-armed and vaguely monstrous, and many vegetable buyers, I feel, pass over it for more familiar, friendlier looking produce.
    In fact, kohlrabi is not a root at all. It is a swollen stem, which is why it is natural to have leaves branching out from it, and this is also why it is green which, a moment's thought will tell you, is not a colour you expect to find in roots growing underground, away from sunlight. Kohlrabi is one of the amazingly diverse Brassica family (it is specifically Brassica oleracea, var.Gongylodes), the cousinhood of cabbages, which ranges from the tight leaves of cabbages, to the swollen stems and heads of broccoli and cauliflower, to the pungent seeds and leaves of mustard.
    It is an indication of the family's variety that kohlrabi is only their third weirdest looking member, after the amazing fractal formations of romanesco and the thick stems with mini cabbages growing from it that we call Brussels sprouts (both of which have featured in this column which is a big fan of the Brassicas). Brussels sprouts and kohlrabi both seem to be relatively new offspring of the family, emerging in recent centuries from northern Europe, rather than the Mediterranean world where the older family members were domesticated and developed.
    But in fitting with its alien quality, there is a lot that is uncertain about kohlrabi. Is it the 'Corinthian turnip' that the Roman writer Pliny the Elder described in the first century of our Common Era and which features in Roman cookbooks? Was it the same vegetable that features in a long list of food plants that the Emperor Charlemagne, around 800 CE, ordered grown in his lands? Was this the vegetable that Edward Schafer in The Golden Apples of Samarkand, his study of food imports into China of the T'ang era (618-907 CE) mentions travelled there across Central Asia?
    And when did it come to India? Among kohlrabi's many oddities, perhaps the oddest may be that this vegetable which is so determinedly north European that most of its names are variants of the blunt German description of it as a mixture of kohl (cabbage) and rabi (turnip), has probably ended up being best appreciated and cooked in India. One suggestion is that it came, as with China, long ago and via trade across Central Asia, but then why would the names it is known by in many parts of this country still echo the German one, like nool-kol, kol-khol or olkopir?
    There are other names though, like ganth gobi, or munj in Kashmir, one of the few places that really esteems it. It is possible there was more than one introduction of kohlrabi into India, both from Central Asia in the North, while Bishop Heber, in his Journal of a Tour in Ceylon (1928) offers a clue when he records that the 'nolkol' he found there was "originally imported from the Cape", meaning South Africa, a place with much North European influence. By 1840 the Agricultural & Horticultural Society of Calcutta records a gardening contest where 'Hurrey Mallee' won second prize and five rupees for his "Nolcole, Turnips, Indian corn, Cabbage and Arrow-root." And Hobson-Jobson, the great dictionary of British-Indian language under the Raj, defines Nol-Kole as: "a vegetable a good deal grown in India, perhaps less valued in England than it deserves."
This is an early example of how most food writers deal with kohlrabi, acknowledging it is undervalued while still not feeling much enthusiasm for it. "There are better vegetables than kohlrabi. And worse," wrote the normally enthusiastic Jane Grigson in her Vegetable Book, while Nigel Slater moans that he never wants to see this 'sputnik-shaped root' again, noting darkly that, "perhaps the fact that slugs and bugs avoid it like the plague (which is why it turns up with grim regularity in many organic boxes) should give a clue why most people give it the cold shoulder." This is unfair, since I think it more likely reflects two aspects of kohlrabi, both of which can be seen as virtues: 1) it grows easily and profusely, and 2) it is cold-tolerant, one of the last vegetables to grow out in the fields in winter, and a light frost may even help it. This is what makes it abundant when little else is (and most insects have died), and it is obviously why Kashmiris value it. It helps that, like all the Brassicas, kohlrabi takes well to pungent flavours, such as those used in Kashmir, like mustard oil (after all, a cousin), asafoetida, ginger and their dried ver masala.
    Kashmiris also use the leaves, which add to the already high health rating of kohlrabi. Like all the Brassicas, it is packed with vitamins, antioxidants and minerals, particularly potassium. The bulb part is particularly filling, with few calories, which makes it a great weight-reduction food which, unlike most Brassicas, is not too tedious to eat raw, since it has a pleasantly crisp texture, and just enough cabbage taste - with a faint prickle of mustard - to add interest, without overwhelming you. Raghavan Iyer, in his 660 Curries, the best of the recent crop of blockbuster Indian cookbooks, quotes another food writer, Elizabeth Schneider, nicely describing the taste as a cross between "broccoli stalks, water chestnuts and cucumbers."
    Peeled, grated kohlrabi, in fact, makes a very good salad base, as long you remember to squeeze out the plentiful water it contains (which itself is quite nice to drink). One must be careful though to select only those which are small and tender since kohlrabi quickly grows too large and woody, which is another reason why many people take against them. At City Lights market in Mahim there is a lady who sits by the side of the gate and sells the generally less regarded gavti vegetables. She is the most conscientious vegetable seller I have ever seen, and when she sells me kohlrabi, she always takes care to cut them in half and jab them in the centre to make sure they are tender.
    Cooking kohlrabi makes it more tender, but it always retains some firmness, another reminder that is an overground stalk and not a starchy underground tuber. And despite its readiness to take up strong flavourings, whether the spices of India, or the cheese and meats that Germans stuff it with, kohlrabi retains a mild, yet persistent cabbage taste. This makes it an ideal accompaniment to other ingredients, a supporting one which does not seek centre-stage, yet isn't an entirely unmemorable subordinate either. If kohlrabi was really the alien lifeform it looks like, it would be the best kind of invader, mysterious yet benign, strangelooking yet not scary, a sympathetic presence you should be pleased to invite into your kitchen.
Vikram Doctor CDET130201



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