Maampoo Chammanthi & Kalanda-Saadam

For the mighty fruit that will eventually emerge from panicles such as these—such diminutive little mango blossoms.

The sight of the trees covered in pyramidal, frond-like inflorescences we know and love for their lightly astringent-sweet fragrance, their red-green tinges, and the way they catch the yellow light of a summer slowly setting in.

But how much really do we know about the thousands of little blooms on the mango tree in full and profuse bloom like so many dots on a pointillist’s brush? Those pretty, curled petals with red-golden throats are often male flowers, there just to provide pollen to ants, bees, wasps, and other comparably small pollinators. Those that will eventually bear fruit are in fact hermaphrodites, with only a single fertile stamen of five. Think of it that way and it’s such a miracle that we have mangoes at all, and no wonder that eventually that abundance of panicles drops with the weight of a far smaller number of drupes when it comes to it. But none of that has happened yet; it’s still too early for even the tiniest of fruits.

I’ve long been barred from picking blossoms (or even grumbling about the mango trees’ rather wide growing habits, which of course shade my kitchen garden unforgivably). This year, just as I was eyeing the flowers and considering pinching off some low ones, I found my sister-in-law rather high up in her mango canopies: her trees are in first bloom, and to keep them strong for subsequent years (we’ve been told) it’s good to pick off blossoms. She was doing this dutifully and I was therefore the lucky beneficiary of a large handful of tender panicles which became a chammanthi which became the kalanda-saadam or mixed rice or “variety rice” that is the ultimate climax of this story.

The “chammanthi” is a style of chutney more from the Kerala side of things than the Tamil; it can ask for additions like shallots or sambar onions and coconut bits, though whatever is added is pounded or ground together into a crumbly-moist mixture that holds together as a ball but does not pour like other chutneys. Needless to say, no water is used in making chammanthis, but a tempering is poured over top. The whole thing makes better sense if you know also that “chammanthi” derives from the Sanskrit “sambandhi,” which means marriage. And, as with any marriage, there’s a coming together, a unifying, and a melding–but not so much that individuals are indistinguishable. So in the chammanthi you can still taste that bite of onion or chilli or feel the coconut to be that distinct texture; ingredients retain something of their individualism, whereas in the chutney they simply cannot.

The maampoo chammanthi uses a handful of cleaned, tender flowers and buds, a little coconut, a little more tamarind and a few more dry red chillies than a chutney might need. Salt, to taste. Jaggery for those (like me) who cannot do without. Nothing to it really. Everything to it in the sensory capture of that subtle first flush of summer, that maa malar vaasanai [mango flower scent] and astringence [thuvarppu].

This chammanthi can be consumed on its own–sprinkled over eggs or appams for example–or it can be added to cooked rice, which then gets tempered and crunchy peanuts added to make it what Tamilians will call “variety” rices: others popular ones are lemon rice, tamarind rice, tomato rice, coconut rice, mustard rice [kadugu saadam], urad rice [ulundhu saadam], even curd rice [thair sadam]. Get it? Varieties and varieties of rice, also called “mixed” rices because some chammanthi-like or thokku-like or gojju-like preparation is what is being mixed with plain cooked rice.

So now in mango flowering season, add to that list the maampoo kalanda sadam: mango blossom mixed rice. Add a boiled egg or some chips and it’s the easiest and perhaps most interesting office lunch you might have to show off at those company lunch tables.