Certain dishes just stay with you, tucked inside a corner
of your heart, reminding you of a place you can no longer visit often, or of
someone you miss more than words can say, whom you can’t see or can’t hold, no
matter how badly you want to. For me, Aam Tilapia is one of those dishes, and every
time my mom-in-law or I make it, it’s just not a cooking session; it is a trip
down memory lane.
Aam Tilapia, a summer special in Bengali cuisine, but
honestly, for me, it’s so much more than just a dish; it is something that
feels like a warm, golden handwritten postcard from my childhood days. On
weekends, after Maa used to leave for work, it was time for Baba and me to cook
up a storm in the kitchen, despite Maa already keeping everything prepared for
us. It was his way to rejuvenate, to replenish, and loosen the constraints of
the repetitive weekly schedule. And for me? I used to sit cross-legged on the
cool red oxide floor, watching the kitchen transform into a temple of seasonal
magic while Baba moved like poetry through the kitchen-diner. What an amazing
aura he had.
Summers meant “tok-jhal-mishti” for us father-daughter
duo, and that was where Aam Tilapia found its soul. The dish showcases a
beautiful balance of the zesty tartness of raw mangoes, the pungent aroma of
mustard seeds, the tenderness of Tilapia fish, where the green chilies add just
the right amount of crunchiness. It’s the kind of food that doesn’t just fill
you up, it cools the body and soothes the mind. Ideal for those hot, muggy
summers of Bengal, when the sun is beating down on you and all you want is
something light, refreshing, and soul-stirring.
The Simplicity of It
All
Even now, when
I make Aam Tilapia in my kitchen, I try to do it his way. There is no
fancy ingredient list or elaborate recipe, just honest flavors that speak for
themselves. It’s not one of those Pinteresty and aesthetically pleasing haute
cuisines, it’s humble, seasonal, and full of heart.
Here’s how I prepare it:
INGREDIENTS:
- Tilapia Fish (whole fish
or cut into pieces, cleaned) - Medium-sized raw mango
(peeled and grated. You can use sliced mangoes instead.) - Mustard seed paste
- Mustard Oil
- Turmeric powder
- Salt to taste
- Nigella seeds (kalojeere/kalonji)
- Green chilies (Slit
lengthwise) - A pinch of sugar
(optional, but it enhances the taste) - Water
WHAT TO DO:
- Rub the fish with salt and
turmeric. Let it sit for some time while you prep other things like
grinding the mustard seeds, slicing/grating the mangoes. - Now, heat mustard oil in a
pan and fry the fish lightly, take them out when both sides are done. Be
careful not to over-fry them. - In the same oil, add the
nigella seeds and green chilies. Let them pop. - Add the grated/sliced
mango, a pinch of turmeric, and salt. Sauté for a couple of minutes till
the mango becomes soft. - Now add the mustard paste
and more chilies if you like. Add sugar. - Add a cup of water to make
a thin gravy. Cover and let everything cook for a minute. - Slide the fish back in the
gravy. Simmer for 5–7 minutes. - Taste and balance if
required. - Serve hot with plain
steamed rice.
Every time I
make this, I find myself back in that kitchen. I can see Baba, his silver streaks peeking through and glinting
in the sunlight, his hands stained yellow from turmeric. I can still smell the
mango melting into the gravy while Baba’s mellifluous recitation of Tagore
poems adds magic in the background, and feel that little rush of happiness as
the first bite hits your tongue—sharp, yet soft, light, tangy and comforting.
These days, I
make it for my own family. Though my 3-year-old picky eater scrunches up her Rudolph’s
red nose at the sourness, she always comes back for more. I tell her stories of
summers she hasn’t seen or experienced, of mango trees and of sudden Kalboishakhi
evenings when we would dash out barefoot into the storm’s wild breath, giggling
as we scrambled to gather fallen kancha aam, stories of a man who cooked with
nothing but instinct, passion and utmost love.
Now, when
those people are not physically present, I always find these recipes as a way
of taking me back to them and bringing me back to myself. And when I sit down with a plate of rice,
spooning in that gravy, it all melts into something that feels like a hug from
the past, an invisible embrace.
Anyway, my
emotions are all over the place today. I’ll wrap up today’s post here.
Make it sometime. And when you do, close your eyes for a second. Listen. You
might just hear a koyel calling from a faraway mango tree.