Hidden Kitchens of Sri Lanka by Bree Hutchins

Author:Bree Hutchins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin

No sooner has she started to eat than there is a knock at the door; it’s one of the local farmers, who has damaged his eye in an accident in the field. Manike is the local medicine woman and has cured many of the villagers with Ayurvedic remedies that she learnt from her father. Most of Manike’s remedies come from plants grown in her garden. She doesn’t charge for her treatments, believing her knowledge is a gift that should be shared freely.

As the evening draws to a close, it is time for bed. Jeevamali kindly gives me her tiny room. Exhausted, I flop onto the bed, but my body thuds as it hits the mattress. Lifting the thin sheet, I discover the bed is merely a plank of wood. I’m worried I might be in for a sleepless night, but I’m exhausted and quickly drift off to sleep.

‘Manike is the local medicine woman and has cured many of the villagers with Ayurvedic remedies that she learnt from her father.’

It is 4 am when Manike wakes me, holding an oil lamp in one hand and a hot cup of tea in the other. Stumbling out of bed, I find Jeevamali busy ironing the school uniforms with a heavy, cast-iron flat iron, heated with burnt-down coconut shells. When the ironing is finished, she sits down to cram in some study before the sun rises; she then collects the water and sweeps the house.

After the girls leave for school, Manike finally sits down. Over a breakfast of roti and leftover pumpkin curry, we map out our day. There is washing to do and today is also market day. But first, Manike is going to show me how to make piti guli, a Sri Lankan version of a doughnut. ‘It’s a traditional recipe from this village,’ she explains proudly. ‘You won’t find it in other areas. It is my husband’s favourite.’

Working the simple flour, bicarb soda and water mixture into a sticky dough, Manike tells me that we should let the dough rest for an hour first, but today we are pressed for time, so she adds the sugar and salt, and continues to twist and pull the dough. When it has the right elastic consistency, she takes a handful, clenches her fist and squeezes out a ball of dough, which she drops into boiling coconut oil. I have a go, but getting the right shape turns out to be harder than it looks and Manike is quick to rescue the remaining mixture.

As we share some piti guli and a cup of spicy coffee made with freshly roasted coffee beans from her garden, Manike tells me how she will be sad when it is time for me to leave. ‘I will feel like I’m losing a daughter,’ she quietly says. ‘But perhaps you can come back again in April, when the coffee bush has ripened? I can teach you my father’s recipe for coffee.’

Her offer is too good to refuse and I immediately agree. Planning my return visit, I ask if there is anything I can bring back for her.

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