By Joel Denker
Its golden color transfixed the Chinese, the Indians, and the Arabs. Much more than a spice, turmeric was a magical coloring agent used in the rituals of a variety of cultures. Both ancients and moderns also extolled its curative powers.
My grasp of turmeric was limited. I knew that it was responsible for the yellow in curry powder. I would discover that the spice’s allure for cooks had deeper roots.
The roots of this tall plant, which has long tufted leaves and pale yellow flowers, contain the treasured condiment. The brown skinned surface of the homely root hides a vivid interior. Cut open the rhizome’s central bulb and finger-like extensions and you will see what food writer Bruce Cost calls “carrot orange” flesh.
A relative of the ginger, turmeric grows best in a hot, damp climate. The peoples of India, China, and Southeast Asia, its native habitat, dug up the wild plant and ground a pungent powder from the roots.
No longer found wild, turmeric today is cultivated commercially. Processors in India, the world’s largest producer, clean, boil, dry, and grind the rhizomes.
Indians were enchanted with the radiance of saffron, a dearer and scarcer spice than turmeric. The Aryans, early invaders of the subcontinent, identified the crocus with the sun, which they worshiped.
Saffron and turmeric could not be more different. Saffron was delicate and subtle, while turmeric was harsh and astringent. Since both had a rich, yellow color, they were easily confused. The Arabs, who traded in turmeric, named it kurkum after a Persian word for saffron. The word curcumin, the pigment in the roots, comes from the Arabic.
Haldi, the Hindi name, which was grown widely in India for over 2,000 years, became a ready, inexpensive substitute for saffron. Sometimes known as “Indian saffron” or “mango ginger,” the condiment lent its sunny color to Indian cooking. It suffused curries, brightened rice and pilaf dishes, and tinged dal (lentil) purees.
Haldi was a sacred symbol in Hindu religious rites. Women. who often made their cheeks glow by rubbing them with turmeric, applied it more lavishly when they became brides.
They would color their face a brilliant yellow. Tamil women from South India decorated their feet for weddings. The golden thread tied around a wife’s neck at the marriage ceremony had been dipped in turmeric paste. The cloth that covered a married woman brought to the funeral pyre was bathed in the yellow dye.
The Malays also revered the golden flesh of the root they called kunyit (“yellow”). In Malaysia and other Asian countries, a clump of turmeric was planted in the middle of a rice field, according to food historian Maguelowne Toussaint-Samat, to bring the farmer good fortune.
At festive gatherings in Indonesia to celebrate births, weddings, or a new home, cooks prepared a cone of yellow rice for guests. In Java, children were coated in yellow at their circumcision ceremony.
Asian cultures valued turmeric as a drug for a range of ailments. A traditional cure for flatulence in Malaysia, reports botanist I.H. Burkill, combined the spice with garlic and onions. Turmeric was recommended as a remedy for indigestion and as a treatment for the eyes.
In India people with colds and sore throats are given boiled milk with a bit of turmeric. A paste made from the “hot” spice is applied as an antiseptic for burns and wounds.
When the spice reached medieval Europe, apothecaries added it to their cabinets. They imagined that the yellow powder would rid patients of jaundice and fever. The Asian transplant, food linguist John Ayto notes, was given the name terre merite, Old French for mysterious earth.
Believers in alternative medicine today are convinced of turmeric’s effectiveness. Rick Birken, the manager of Naturally Yours, the Dupont Circle health food store, showed me several bottles of turmeric-based caplets billed as anti-oxidants, joint treatments, and liver and bile disease remedies. “The hot herb will make blood go through your system better,” Birken said.
I marveled at a container filled with chunks of turmeric roots. Birken could not remember ever selling any.
Originally published in The InTowner: http://intowner.com/food-in-the-hood/
