I Asked Amma to Make Me Rasam Today

I asked Amma to make me Rasam today—a South Indian staple.

I grew up around Rasam, not with it.

As an undeniably spoiled child, I grew up not liking Rasam, even when it was a secondary dish, mixed with other dishes.

Growing up, in our household, Rasam was reserved for Appa, who liked it with garlic and dried red chilli—both ingredients I hated as a child. Too Indian. Too hot. Too sour. Too spicy.

And now, as it tends to be for this kind of thing, I love them. But it still was a journey.

The first time I truly appreciated Rasam was during my second year in Singapore. I was sick as a dog—most likely food poisoning. I took a day off and lay in bed the whole day. Eventually, hunger won. I dragged myself across the HDB complex where I lived to the main food street in Little India, Race Course Road and went to the first restaurant I saw – a Chettinad joint.

I don’t remember what I ordered as the main, but that day, I deliberately got rassam. It was the first time I ever paid for rassam.

But the pull wasn’t just the rassam itself. It was a Nandu (crab) Rasam—I didn’t even know such a thing existed. But crab has always been my go-to, ride-or-die, last-meal food. So when I saw it in the menu, my homesick heart inside my real-sick body yearned for it.

The Nandu Rasam turned out to be delicious. Soul-warming. I became superstitiously convinced that the Nandu Rasam from Chettinad was a cure-all. So much so that I kept going back to the same place, for the same rassam every time I felt sick during the many years of my Singapore life, believing in its magical healing powers.

It’s also one of the many things I miss about Singapore.

Still, it took me years to make my own. It was again when I was sick again—this time in Melbourne—and there was no decent South Indian food around South Yarra worth ordering from Uber Eats.

So I called Amma. We made Rasam together—me asking the stupidest questions regarding cooking, and she yelling it back to me over the phone. I didn’t have tamarind, so I used lemon. It wasn’t great. But it worked. I was cured.

Rasam is the only dish I can cook from memory (though sometimes I forget the cumin or add mustard seeds in the very last minute).

It’s also the first South Indian dish I ever asked Amma to write the recipe for. It’s the most frequently made dish in our home—a weekly feature in Winter.

If I were a better writer, I would describe the curry leaves from our garden as emeralds, the dried chillies as garnets, the mustard seeds and garlic as pearls. Unfortunately, I’m not.

Also, unfortunately, my Rasam doesn’t look all that appetising. I tend to make it in my terracotta Indian chatti, which looks like brownish water with half-burnt red chilli and wilted curry leaves floating on top like they’re waiting to be rescued.

But don’t be fooled by the appearance. I’m only humble about how it looks. Taste-wise? I’m beyond confident. I am proud.

And if you ask Fafa, he’d say my Rasam is the best. I don’t know about that, but it is the only South Indian dish I can whip up in a flash, without a recipe, using whatever ingredients we have at home. Amma’s recipe—passed down to me, and now passed on to a friend.

I can make and serve it right in front of guests without blinking.

And yes, I’ve made it for guests who stayed with us, including Uncle Ram, who noted that my Rasam lacks salt (to his liking). “But that’s okay. Your chicken curry is too salty, so it balances it out” was his exact note.

It’s hard to mess up Rasam

And If you tell me your Rasam better than mine, you wouldn’t get any argument from me. as I said a vegan friend—who made the most beautiful sticky rice Rasam without even knowing if he got it right because he’d never tasted it before—that Rasam, like chicken soup or pasta, is a comforting bowl of warm liquid made from whatever you have at home. A few key ingredients are a must, but beyond that, it’s endless in variation.

Every household makes it differently.

And that’s the beauty of Rasam.

Amma’s Rasam

I asked Amma to make rassam today—not because I was craving it. It’s 30 degrees outside. But because I recently realised I’ve never truly taken the time to savour her Rasam.

Even though I had built my own recipe from hers. A recipe I’ve tweaked, modified, and made a magical concoction of, which births the wonder:

What would Amma’s Rasam taste like now that I know what my Rasam tastes like?

The verdict? For me, it was way better because it’s my Amma’s Rasam (I asked her to make it again for me tomorrow).

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