As
Gur as It Gets
It
is all about handcrafted goodness but gur is yet to get its due. Perhaps it
will get a cachet of exclusivity when western chefs ‘discover’ jaggery
Anywhere in
the First World, it would be hailed, nay worshipped, as an example of ageless,
handmade goodness. People would fight for it to be given Geographical Indicator
status, and guard its exclusivity jealously. Its seasonal appearance would be
publicised and celebrated with international marketing campaigns.
But for us, gur is, well, just gur. It is the stuff of traditional and rustic fare, a poor substitute for shiny, crystallised, factorybuffed white sugar. It is certainly not found in artisanal stores, keeping company with imported extra virgin olive oil, organic white honey and other prized handproduced foodstuff. Not because it shouldn’t but because we don’t respect it.
Why is Gur not Glamourous?
Consider truffles, those odoriferous tubers snuffled out of the ground by pigs and dogs in the damp, cold woods of France and Italy, and then reverentially consumed by humans thousands of miles away. They are not pretty, they smell strange and have very little intrinsic flavour. Yet, they command huge prices.
A closer comparison may be maple syrup, the national symbol of Canada. It is tapped from the grand tree that gives that country its distinctive leaf logo, and spans the price and exclusivity spectrum from supermarket to boutique. Its sweetness is different from both sugar and honey, and there is a syrup for all pockets.
Gur — jaggery — should be in that same position, given its unique qualities. Admittedly, there is a seasonal appreciation of jaggery. Right about now, as the sun begins its northward journey after Makar Sankranti, all over India, gur is used to make traditional sweets, redolent of its characteristic rich brown hue and heady aroma.
Trendy Indians now routinely stock up on golden and brown sugars, and know the difference between castor, demerara and muscovado, but care little for jaggery in all its hues from light gold to deep treaclebrown. They probably do not know or even wonder why gur comes to market only at a certain time of the year — from the end of winter till spring.
Yet, it is the most nutritious, wholesome sweetener available. Gur has 2.8 gm of vital salts like magnesium and potassium per 100 gm, compared with white sugar’s 30 mg, besides iron. Our ancestors acknowledged its beneficial qualities — purifying blood and preventing rheumatic and biliary afflictions — in ancient medical texts.
Sweet Nothing?
Today, gur is regarded as quaintly arcane or delightfully rural by the otherwise organically orientated elite. It flavours tea in the outback, sweetens the meals of robust farmers and is carried by India’s masses as a cheap alternative to regulated white, granulated sugar. Catch it being given pride of place on trendy tables in the metros!
Do city slickers know where jaggery comes from? Is it a sort of hardened honey? A resinous extract like maple syrup? An Indian molasses, maybe? And what should trendy gourmets do with it so that they don’t seem like throwbacks to granny’s time or imply that they are falling on hard times and cannot afford something imported but of similar hue?
Well, for those who care to know, the agriculture ministry decrees that “jaggery or gur means the product obtained by boiling or processing juice pressed out of sugarcane (Saccharum officinarum) or extracted from palmyra palm (Borassus akeassii of family Arecaceae), date palm (Phoenix dactylifera) or coconut palm (Cocos nucifera of family Arecaceae).”
In other words, gur comes either from sugarcane or the extract of sap from various palm trees, and much like artisanal products abroad, there are government rules for the entire process — from boiling to packaging. There are specifications for moisture, sucrose content, ash, acid and even “extraneous matter”, not to mention colour and sweetness.
The Art of Jaggery
Raw sugarcane juice is heated to 200° C and simmered in pans to evaporate excess water, after which it is clarified using specific natural vegetable extracts such as sukhlai (Kydia calycina), deola (Hibiscus ficulneus), bhindi (Hibiscus esculentus) or, at a pinch, sodium bicarbonate. It is then cooled by decanting from one pan to another till it hardens and is set in moulds. Date palm jaggery (called khejur gur in Bengal) is very different in colour and depth of flavour. It is made only when the sun is at its mildest so that the delicate sap from V-shaped cuts high up in the trunks of palm trees does not ferment before it is collected from the earthen pots. Each type of palm promises a different gur, like grape varietals dictate how wines taste.
Time is of essence as the pre-toddy stage sap is boiled to desired thickness — from molasses-like syrup to a viscous mush that hardens soon after it is poured into circular moulds. It is not unlike the hand-processing of the best cheeses in Europe. Only there, the skill of the artisan to judge the right time and consistency is reflected in its price. Not so, here.
But jaggery is far from being provincial and infra-dig. Of course, it is used in sweet and savoury cooking all over our region and from Sri Lanka to Burma and further eastwards, but it is also very much a part of South American cuisine and is called panela. Sadly, because western chefs still have not “discovered” jaggery, it is yet to get a cachet of exclusivity. Once they do, jaggery will get its due. Its similarity to truffles and cheese by virtue of seasonality and handcrafted charm respectively, will be hailed. Haute-ey Indians may offer a selection of their favourite exclusive gur like antipasti some day. And maybe some region in India will start a seasonal gur fest, just like the National Panela Pageant at Villeta in Colombia.
But for us, gur is, well, just gur. It is the stuff of traditional and rustic fare, a poor substitute for shiny, crystallised, factorybuffed white sugar. It is certainly not found in artisanal stores, keeping company with imported extra virgin olive oil, organic white honey and other prized handproduced foodstuff. Not because it shouldn’t but because we don’t respect it.
Why is Gur not Glamourous?
Consider truffles, those odoriferous tubers snuffled out of the ground by pigs and dogs in the damp, cold woods of France and Italy, and then reverentially consumed by humans thousands of miles away. They are not pretty, they smell strange and have very little intrinsic flavour. Yet, they command huge prices.
A closer comparison may be maple syrup, the national symbol of Canada. It is tapped from the grand tree that gives that country its distinctive leaf logo, and spans the price and exclusivity spectrum from supermarket to boutique. Its sweetness is different from both sugar and honey, and there is a syrup for all pockets.
Gur — jaggery — should be in that same position, given its unique qualities. Admittedly, there is a seasonal appreciation of jaggery. Right about now, as the sun begins its northward journey after Makar Sankranti, all over India, gur is used to make traditional sweets, redolent of its characteristic rich brown hue and heady aroma.
Trendy Indians now routinely stock up on golden and brown sugars, and know the difference between castor, demerara and muscovado, but care little for jaggery in all its hues from light gold to deep treaclebrown. They probably do not know or even wonder why gur comes to market only at a certain time of the year — from the end of winter till spring.
Yet, it is the most nutritious, wholesome sweetener available. Gur has 2.8 gm of vital salts like magnesium and potassium per 100 gm, compared with white sugar’s 30 mg, besides iron. Our ancestors acknowledged its beneficial qualities — purifying blood and preventing rheumatic and biliary afflictions — in ancient medical texts.
Sweet Nothing?
Today, gur is regarded as quaintly arcane or delightfully rural by the otherwise organically orientated elite. It flavours tea in the outback, sweetens the meals of robust farmers and is carried by India’s masses as a cheap alternative to regulated white, granulated sugar. Catch it being given pride of place on trendy tables in the metros!
Do city slickers know where jaggery comes from? Is it a sort of hardened honey? A resinous extract like maple syrup? An Indian molasses, maybe? And what should trendy gourmets do with it so that they don’t seem like throwbacks to granny’s time or imply that they are falling on hard times and cannot afford something imported but of similar hue?
Well, for those who care to know, the agriculture ministry decrees that “jaggery or gur means the product obtained by boiling or processing juice pressed out of sugarcane (Saccharum officinarum) or extracted from palmyra palm (Borassus akeassii of family Arecaceae), date palm (Phoenix dactylifera) or coconut palm (Cocos nucifera of family Arecaceae).”
In other words, gur comes either from sugarcane or the extract of sap from various palm trees, and much like artisanal products abroad, there are government rules for the entire process — from boiling to packaging. There are specifications for moisture, sucrose content, ash, acid and even “extraneous matter”, not to mention colour and sweetness.
The Art of Jaggery
Raw sugarcane juice is heated to 200° C and simmered in pans to evaporate excess water, after which it is clarified using specific natural vegetable extracts such as sukhlai (Kydia calycina), deola (Hibiscus ficulneus), bhindi (Hibiscus esculentus) or, at a pinch, sodium bicarbonate. It is then cooled by decanting from one pan to another till it hardens and is set in moulds. Date palm jaggery (called khejur gur in Bengal) is very different in colour and depth of flavour. It is made only when the sun is at its mildest so that the delicate sap from V-shaped cuts high up in the trunks of palm trees does not ferment before it is collected from the earthen pots. Each type of palm promises a different gur, like grape varietals dictate how wines taste.
Time is of essence as the pre-toddy stage sap is boiled to desired thickness — from molasses-like syrup to a viscous mush that hardens soon after it is poured into circular moulds. It is not unlike the hand-processing of the best cheeses in Europe. Only there, the skill of the artisan to judge the right time and consistency is reflected in its price. Not so, here.
But jaggery is far from being provincial and infra-dig. Of course, it is used in sweet and savoury cooking all over our region and from Sri Lanka to Burma and further eastwards, but it is also very much a part of South American cuisine and is called panela. Sadly, because western chefs still have not “discovered” jaggery, it is yet to get a cachet of exclusivity. Once they do, jaggery will get its due. Its similarity to truffles and cheese by virtue of seasonality and handcrafted charm respectively, will be hailed. Haute-ey Indians may offer a selection of their favourite exclusive gur like antipasti some day. And maybe some region in India will start a seasonal gur fest, just like the National Panela Pageant at Villeta in Colombia.
::
Reshmi R Dasgupta SET130120
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