Thair saadam, macha

We had a long day (A, The Boy, and I) on Saturday, putting up the screens for the porch. Not for the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, was the realization brought upon me that I am simply not a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness three-fisted humdinger when it comes to DIY. We took two hours to put up the first screen (of ten total), which, five minutes later, we had to take back down because I walked through it. No bona-fide supraman me. So we downed tools and had lunch at Amy’s Café; I had the Texas Burger with spicy fries and a cold Bell's Oberon; A had the Mediterranean ragbag, and The Boy had, as I recall, a turkey sandwich; we also shared onion rings all around. Set just back from State Street, so it’s close enough to the action (but not too close), and serving up an eclectic mix of well-made fried foods from hither and yon, Amy’s is the perfect place for lunch on a warm (but not hot) sunny afternoon.
Pleasantly bursting with food and goodwill, we napped in the afternoon and worked some more in the evening; but when it came to dinner, we were still full. At this time, when asked what I could rustle up for a light dinner, The Boy suggested yogurt and rice. This put me in the mood to make some thair (pron. THA-yeer) saadam, a much-loved and long-uneaten preparation from college days in Pondicherry. Thair saadam is essentially cooked rice mixed with a few pungent spices (asafetida, dried red hot chillies, mustard seeds and curry leaves), a fried dal or two to lend it some crunch (typically urad and/or chana), cucumber, fresh ginger, green chillies and coriander (and green mango if you have it, I used amchur, or dried mango powder) for a bit o' zap and texture, and, most important, yogurt. NOT non-fat. The simple nature of this dish, which is universally beloved in southern India, means that virtually every home has its own secret recipe which is, naturally, the “best in the world.” In warm and humid Pondy, it was served cold for Sunday lunch with hot spicy fried chicken in the grad student dorms; we wolfed it all down with a bottle of Kalyani lager… ahh! You know, some memories are as indelibly associated with food as others are with smells… to me, the words “hot Sunday afternoon” mean thair saadam, and vice versa.
The Boy, naturally, being flesh of my flesh, loved it, and took some with him to camp on Monday, for lunch. A was not overly impressed; I think it fell somewhere in the general category of “Weird Indian Snacks” for her (other preparations that howl like lost souls in this purgatory of the palate include all milk-based sweets, kheer (a rice pudding), and kulfi, which is the Indian take on ice-cream – except it’s on a stick and has cardamom and almonds in it. Also included are all the salty crunchies that Indians of a certain age love to munch when having a glassy).
“Macha” (also spelled machaan) is the Tamil word for “brother-in-law”; it’s used as an affectionate or pejorative term of address, depending on the tone. It does not refer to the teahouse of the same name on Monroe Street. Although the fellow who owns it might well be someone’s brother-in-law, I doubt if that is its name’s provenance.