One of the greatest joys of childhood is that intoxicating cocktail of hope and anticipation. In these days of social distancing and Sunday masses that stream online, I can’t help but wonder: will all be well before Easter Sunday? Will our dining tables groan under the weight of Easter goodies? The answer may be a resounding No. But what’s the harm in a bit of vicarious feasting to get our mind off the gloom?
Growing up in a devoutly Catholic household, hope and anticipation of the edible kind ruled us kids right through Lent, beginning with ‘Fat Tuesday’ when we gorged ourselves silly on white crêpe-like pancakes, their portly bellies stuffed with a lurid pink sweet coconut filling. Little did we know then that the white pancake signified the body of Christ and the pink stuffing, his blood. But morbidity aside, it was the dish we anticipated the most.
Another Lenten delicacy that sat higgledy-piggledy atop each other on our dining table was the sweet-savoury steamed rice cake called sanna. Mum was not very well-versed in the art of making sannas, so we would always (and still) rely on the skills of Rosy Aunty for what was practically our quotidian Lenten supply.
The ‘Idli-wali Aunty’, as she was called by her clueless Maharashtrian neighbours for whom an idli and a sanna were ‘same-same’, octogenarian Rosy Britto has been making sannas for as long as she can remember.
Her bifocal glasses are perpetually fogged up by the plume of steam from her faithful copper sanna steamer called chondro in Goa and tondor in Mangaluru.
Same, but different
Often mistaken for an idli, a sanna is a Goan-Mangalorean festive delicacy made from a fermented mix of fat-grained parboiled rice, coconut, sugar, salt and that all-important leavening agent, the sap of coconut palm colloquially known as ‘toddy’ or sur in Konkani.
Toddy is one of the main differences between sanna and idli. In idli, urad dal (black gram) is used for fermentation.
Forsaking an idli steamer for a funnel-topped chondro steamer, sanna is always spooned into small, steel vatis (bowls), also called gindlaan in Mangaluru, which give it its round, cake-like shape unlike idli’s convex contours.
Texturally, a sanna is spongier, with a glossy white finish unlike the more crumbly idli — although often the red Goan parboiled rice renders a few tiny red flecks onto a sanna’s surface. Its accompaniments too are very different from those of an idli: no chutneys or sambar here.
With or without?
I always like to eat sanna by itself. But I must admit to several rather unsuccessful pairing attempts over the years — with everything from Nutella to BBQ sauce.
As a child, I once even convinced our cook to deep-fry a few bits of stale sanna with disastrous results.
But for the most part, the duo of sanna ani dukramaas (pork meat) is considered the ultimate way to relish the rice cake. A rich, fiery red pork stew called sorpotel is the de facto plate fellow in Goa, and in Mangaluru the preferred accompaniment is a robustly spiced pork bafat, with the curry’s spiciness often tempered with a little roce (thin coconut milk).
For sweet lovers like me, there is a dedicated sweet iteration of the sanna called godachi sanna, made with jaggery and best enjoyed at tea time.
Interestingly, just like the steamed rice and milk dish called kiri-bhat in Sri Lanka and Kerala’s bamboo-steamed coconut and rice cake puttu, sannas crushed with a little milk, sugar and ghee are often fed to infants as their first solid meal.
As I finish this piece, a little ray of hope beams down to me in the form of a reply to a panic-tinged text message I had sent someone important a few hours ago. “Yes, you’ll get your dozen sannas this year, too!” Rosy Aunty reassures me, as I smile to myself in relief, hope and anticipation of that one constant even in the year of the pandemic.
The Mumbai-based writer and restaurant reviewer is passionate about food, travel and luxury, not necessarily in that order.
