Litti Chokha and A Revenge Christmas Party

     The “litti” is a ball of wheat dough filled with “Sattu” which is basically the flour of  roast gram seed. This stuffed dough-ball is cooked over slow fire of wood charcoal or cow-dung cake(colloquially called "Goitha"), which gives an earthy flavour and a unique taste. Together with the humble brinjal “Chokha”, it is an integral part of cuisine of Bihar and West UP. For people coming from these parts of the world, there is nothing as delicious as the “litti-chokha”, and a call for “Litti party”  is likely to elicit a stronger emotion than an invitation from the White House.

My wife informed me that they would be celebrating Christmas this year by having a “litti” party at home. My sister-in-law and her husband were designated the main cooks as well as the hosts for the evening. I, being physically separated from my wife due to an ongoing pandemic which caught us in geographically different parts of the country, was not going to be a part of the celebrations.

Let me be clear, I like “litti”, but I do not consider it to be one of the things to die for. However, I make an exception for the “litti” cooked at my sister-in-law’s place. Her husband is a pathetic cook, but he makes  delicious “litti” which is truly fit for the Gods. The very prospect of a “litti” party at his house is enough for the anticipatory activation of the gastric and other digestive juices. So, I was obviously pretty miffed at the non-inclusion.

There was only one way out – I planned a revenge party of my own. On the anniversary of the day on which the Magi culminated their long journey and brought magical gifts, I dug into my kitchen store and came out victoriously with all the magic ingredients. As luck would have it, I even found some brinjal. My preparation was complete.

But I did not have the technical expertise to roast the brinjal for making “chokha”. I had assisted my mother in this task a few decades ago, but since my marriage this task has been done perfectly by my wife, who not only did not require my assistance, she actually spurned it and I have frequently been kicked out of the kitchen for asking too many questions and making too many suggestions. Just as I was struggling to come up with an acceptable plan of action, my maid came to my rescue and took over. I asked her to roast the brinjal over the gas stove and mash it. I intended to take complete care of garnishing it.

All through our various transfer pastings, my wife tries to teach the maids about her favourite cuisine wherever she goes. My present maid had resultantly perfected the art of preparation of the “sattu” for the “litti”, and all I had to do was to ask her to prepare the dough and leave. Being the methodical person I am, I asked her to complete these preparatory tasks by noon, and then set on to prepare the bonfire which would be lit a couple of hours after the sun set. Having accomplished the desired targets, I went to bed for my siesta.

By evening, I had already informed a few of my friends about my intention of having a bonfire and plans to make some “litti-chokha” in the evening, and they were eagerly waiting for the delicious outcome of my successful endeavors.

Come evening, I called up my wife just as she was leaving for her sister’s place. We did not talk for long, and I got after the promise of the mouth – watering blessing from the fire god. I took out the mashed brinjal, and realized I did not know what to do with it.

When the going gets tough, great men do not shy away from taking tough decisions. I immediately decided that it was time to ask for some expert advice, and called up my wife. The phone was answered by my elder daughter, who asked what I was doing. I told her to hand the phone over to her mother, and was curtly informed that she was preparing the dough and could not hold the phone.

The time had come for another tough call. I swallowed my pride and asked my daughter to ask her mother about the garnishing required for “chokha”, and received full instructions passed second hand while the entire family was in attendance. Notwithstanding the mirth that ensued, I succeeded in deciphering the language sufficiently to make a palatable mix.

Next came the filling of the dough. Here, I worked like a professional and had somewhat round balls filled with “sattu” ready in around thrice the time that my wife would have taken. I would have patted my back over the accomplishment, but my hands were dirty.

The Brilliant fire that is a precursor to Litti preparation

Earlier in the day, I had piled some wood, and all I had to do now was to light the fire. Surprisingly, I succeeded in doing so without singeing myself. A glorious fire was set before me, and I collected photographic evidence of my accomplishment before settling in front of the welcome fire.

Over the next few minutes, the fire died down, leaving the cinders I desired. I promptly put the dough-balls in fire and covered them with a mixture of hot cinders and ashes. I remembered that one has to occasionally turn the shapely objects for even cooking, which I did as well as I could. This was when I singed myself. But then, what is bravery without scars.

Cinders of dying fire are the best for litti. another very good option is cow-dung cake (Goitha)

It was a very quiet night. I could not hear any cricket or monkeys, though I am sure that some of them would be watching from the nearby mango or litchi trees. I gently hummed as I went inside to cover myself in a jacket and get some water to drink.

When I came out, the cinders had converted to ash. I looked for the “litti”, and realized that they had undergone the same fate. Without losing my breath or my head, I took it out, put it in a plate, and photographed it. Next, I called up all my friends who had been assured of a heavenly treat that the trip to heaven had suffered a roadblock, and that they should not hold their breaths while they waited. They took this information sportingly, and I even got an invitation from one of them to join the family at his house. The lady was really insistent, but I had my pride. I had decided that I would have “litti-chokha” for dinner, and so it was going to be.

Burnt Litti. However, there still was hope, as I later realised

As I lay dejected, I recalled something that my cousin had shared with me a long time ago when he had prepared the same dish in the field at my village. He had ruled that the initial impression of every good “litti” was always a seemingly burnt look. One should scrub it with a towel and polish it with some “ghee” or butter to turn it into the beauty that it should look like.

I hunted out a fresh towel, and went on to scrub the charred ball of dough as though my life depended on it. Within half a minute, I was rewarded with the fresh look of the delicacy which was worthy of being called a “litti”. I renewed my effort with excitement over the remaining ones, and was duly rewarded. I then polished the stuff with some butter. It looked heavenly.

Litti polished with a little butter. It got me raving comments on social media

I set the entire stuff on a plate, and arranged the accompaniments.

And then I performed the most important activity. I photographed it, and sent the pictures on the social media for the world to see and appreciate. Within a few minutes, I was rewarded with appreciative comments and words smacking of envy, jealousy, and even desire for tasting this manna from heaven.

Litti with Chokha and garlic-coriander chutney

Properly plated, and yummy looking

As far as the taste of the food is concerned – well, that is a story for another day.