Summer means different things to different people — heat and humidity, sun glasses and cotton saris, holidays and vacation classes, chicken pox and conjunctivitis, cool drinks and ice creams...For me, summer is the season of fruits, especially the ‘chakka’ or the jackfruit.
The jackfruit invited well-deserved paeans of praise after its recent elevation in people’s esteem by being crowned the official fruit of Kerala, but everyone said little about its unique identification smell. The odour sticks to you like a perfumed leech — a dead giveaway about your recent gastronomical indulgence. But you’d rather eat the fruit and risk the tell-tale smell than sacrifice it at the altar of squeamishness.
The jack is not a fruit to be taken lightly. Unlike the guava or the mango which are devourer-friendly, the chakka cannot be eaten just like that. Cutting it open and extracting the pods from their sticky latex surroundings is pretty messy and demand great labour, skill, patience and concentration. Finally there’s the problem of what to do with the huge waste left behind — a delicacy for the bovine ilk, but then, where do you find them in a city that relies on packaged milk?
All this makes you hesitate when the gift of a whole jackfruit is offered. I had just declined two offers in as many days when my husband returned from his native place bearing a huge jackfruit, a rather woebegone specimen. I groaned. There was no smell, though, so I decided to defer worrying about it.
But the next morning, my husband announced that it should be opened immediately. “But why?” I asked, dismayed.
“See, the spiky skin has become flat.” Foolishly I passed my hand over the ‘flat’ skin and jerked it back with a yowl of pain.
“I meant a little flat,” he clarified. “The colour has begun to change.” I peered closely at the dull green fruit but couldn’t find any difference. Next he tapped on it like a cautious woodpecker. “Listen, the sound tells you it is ripening.” “Really?” This impressed me. I hoped to pick up tips from this knowledgeable man and tapped too. “With this variety, even a day’s delay can prove fatal,” he declared.
Mission begins
The emergency operation began. My help refused to play the lead role in the hacking. She placed the jack on some sheets of newspaper in the yard and mumbling something about a domestic emergency, disappeared from the scene.
My husband began to shout instructions and I obeyed. “Bring the knife! No not that one, silly, how can you cleave through a jackfruit with a penknife? I meant the machete. Get some coconut oil. Not the whole bottle. Oil in a small container. Fetch two vessels. Good. Now watch.”
He smeared oil on the machete and on his hands. After making some calculations, he took careful aim, raised his arm and brought the machete down heavily. Bang! It hit the ground, getting the edge of the fruit’s stem. The jack jiggled with mirth. I giggled.
He took his annoyance out with some heavy blows that landed all over the place. “Rusty knife!” he gasped, blaming the tool. After ten minutes of this now-you-get-me-now-you-don’t game, the mangled fruit gave in. Breathing heavily and bathed in sweat, my husband wrenched it open with a whoop of joy. He cut it into smaller pieces, peppering the exercise with grunts.
“Raw!” I complained. He gazed at it and changed his tune. “Yes, but this variety shouldn’t get too ripe. It tastes best at this stage.” I believed him and joined in the picking of the whitish bulbs after oiling my hands. “Pods in this utensil, seeds in that,” he ordered.
Finally it was done. My husband, hair on end, face streaked with sweat and oil, was a sight to behold. “Look at the state the state fruit has got you into!” I suppressed my laughter.
“Maybe, but look at the result,” he said, gazing fondly at the pods. He popped one into his mouth and I ate one too. It was the most tasteless jackfruit I had ever had.
“The raw jack is full of nutrients,” he claimed. “Make curries out of it.” He folded the waste in the newspaper to bury it.
I looked at the bright side of the whole exercise. At least there was no smell of the jackfruit on me. The doorbell rang. It was a friend with the gift of half a ripe jackfruit, already giving out its signature smell. I went to get some newspaper...
A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academic and author of the Butterfingers series. She can be contacted at khyrubutter@yahoo.com
