They Didn’t Taste Swedish

“Ooo, yum, I love these, they’re Swedish,” my husband’s cousin says.

“Really? You mean, like puff pancakes?” I ask. We are standing on the rooftop terrace of a swanky Mumbai apartment building scarfing the little dumplings as part of the six-day wedding we’ve all come to attend. Yeah, the black, cast iron pan looks a bit like the dimpled cooker you can buy at Williams-Sonoma to make the Scandinavian treats. But as I survey the cityscape and feel the 80-degree December night waft past my skin, I’m skeptical. I think perhaps this particular relative has lived too long in California.

Which doesn’t stop me. The little puffs are moist, and supple, and they melt on my tongue, so I stand there making a spectacle of myself long enough for one of the aunties to join me.

“Kaku,” I ask, “what are these?”

“Pani yarram,” she says. Of course, I can see that from the handwritten sign that sits on the table.

“Yes, but I mean…are they Swedish?”

“Are they what? No, they’re from South India.”

Okay, so not Swedish. I tell her I taste banana. She speaks to the guy in the toque. “Yes,” she says definitively. “They are made from rice, banana and coconut, because in the South they have all these things. Swedish…” she shakes her head in disbelief as she puts another in her mouth.

All I can say is, somebody got the idea from somebody….