“We should do more with this,” Rekha suggested. At least I can say that neither of my boys was tipsy after a few glasses worth. And the layers of scent and taste still marvelous–fermented just enough to be “probiotic” (kind of) but not alcoholic. We didn’t get as far as Kerala cashew apple toddy or Goan feni, but our plastic bottles were tight when we opened them, a week later. And because we had more bottles of the concentrate, they got to sit around longer–for me to play with fermentation, which continues even after the fruit are cooked. The next batch was bigger, and I realized I needed industrial equipment to process the volumes fast enough. It was not just delicious, it was memorable in the way the best fragrances always are. They’d had the concentrate over ice with a starfruit slice and a dash or three of vodka, topped with soda. The juice returned to the pot, boiled this time with sugar and a few black peppercorns, and reduced slightly. It was something of a tedious process (I had lots of help from the ever-patient Chitra.) While I know that cooking isn’t necessarily a way to reduce the acrid taste of tannins (heat doesn’t do much for tannins in tea), I hoped that the removal of the pulp might have some effect. We chopped and cooked the fruit in batches, straining out the pulp and extracting juice from the cooked fruit instead. Not having kanji on hand, we went a different route. In cashew growing regions of the South, a bit of kanji (or congee), a sort of rice gruel, gets added to fresh juice–allowed to rest a little while the starch in the kanji draws the tannins into itself–then the liquid on top poured off to be consumed. Straight juicing wasn’t an option, given that the tannins required some treatment. We plotted, and by the next morning, I had a whole tray delivered to me, ripe with expectation. Cashew apples are extraordinarily perishable and even just ripening fruit spoils in hours. Knowing that anything from Rekha’s garden was unlikely to have been directly sprayed, I lost no time. Never fond of the sensation fruit tannins produce inside my mouth, I’d always satisfied myself with the cashew apple fragrances until, this summer, a call from a dancer friend, Rekha: “Cashew apples everywhere,” she said, “what do I do with them?” But cashew apples abound, excesses with no easy use. The crisper nuts disappear before we can even contemplate baking with them. Younger, softer kernels make masala spice pastes perfect for simmering meats. Acidic enough to burn, their outer casing has to be roasted almost to cinders and then cracked open. The nuts of this pseudo-fruit are harder still to tackle. Our boys eat the first ripe fruit all up with little complaint, but their rich tannin content puts a quick end to any gluttony. It’s hard not to be charmed by their intoxicating and inimitable scent. ![]() It’s hard not to gawk at the red and yellow apples that abound, though it’s the kernel in the extraneous seed that everyone’s really after. Our cashews, when they come, are fruits of this environment: of the red laterite soil, of the struggle between conventional and organic farming approaches over sustainability and ethics and profitability and livelihoods, all forced to co-exist, side-by-tight-side. In the meantime, the cashew trees stretch their low canopies, and wait.Ĭashew apples arrive in March, and into April when, they say, the effect of pesticide spraying has no-doubt worn off. “You can smell it in the air,” they said, as though that was a good thing: at least we would know when the poison was there. The stuff is Other Aurovillians told us to simply stay away in February, when the spraying happens. We knew about endosulphan use, the genetic havoc wreaked by entirely discriminate pesticide use in places like Kerala. We should have been delighted, but the delight of living near commercial farming areas is invariably fraught with anxiety. ![]() ![]() Stretching far until the highways cut them off. ![]() We live in Cashew country. All around us, cashew orchards.
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