Nanna’s Butta

The dripping, sticky heat of mid-summer in Pakistan burned the kiosk-packed streets of my hometown until the concrete and stone began to sweat just as vehemently as the people. There, I ventured through the thickets of bustling shoppers, on my own quest for my favourite snack: corn. But it wasn’t just any corn. It was not corn-on-the-cob, for instance. It was not canned corn either. It was cob-less, freshly grilled corn served in cones of newspaper from one tiny kiosk at the end of Tariq Road. 

I had strayed far from my parents, who were out shopping for my older sister’s wedding gifts. The air was singed with excitement, about her future marriage, about my freshly earned freedom from 6th grade, and about the seasoned, smoked corn I was about to eat. My grandmother was still alive then, and it was her who had instilled this love for spicy, salted, cobless corn in me. She held my hand fast in hers, both our palms sweating, as she paid the rickety old man behind the plastic folding table for our newspaper-clad corn cups. 

“There are no spoons,” my grandmother said to me as she saw me looking around. “There is no need for them. Tip your head back.”

Confusion spread in my mind, but the heat and the dizzying smell of cardamom and chilli powder made my stomach rumble. I had always loved spicy food. I tipped my head back and dropped some corn kernels into my mouth. The taste was instant, a jarring sour sensation exploding on my tastebuds, which had been longing for something more cold and liquid, but were given something completely unexpected. It tasted delicious.

My grandmother did the same, and we chewed the still steaming kernels in unison. When I was even younger, she used to make a similar dish when I fell ill, which at the time was very often. That dish was made of peas; this of corn. I ate a few more, loving how the sweet kernels exploded in my mouth and the spices were so strong I could smell them. 

We walked back to the jewelry store together. The streets of my hometown (really the whole country) are never quiet. This memory, though, appears silent in my mind, except for the sound of chirping birds, that are almost as numerous as the people who keep up a steady chatter as they barter for cheaper goods. 

When I ran out of corn, I scraped at the edges of the newspaper cup to get every last bit of seasoning. The disappointment I felt at how bizarrely small the portion was for such a delectable snack blossomed on my face, and my grandmother laughed.

“Can we go get more?” I asked her in Urdu. She didn’t speak any English, not in my youth and not as we grew older either. It took a minute for her to reply, as she was discussing the merits of one thick gold bangle over that of several thin gold and silver ones. Something about the rising value of gold, although at the time this all meant nothing to me. I just wanted more corn.

“The streets are melting my dear,” she replied wearily, but with a lively humour that was ageless on her. “If I walk all the way there and back, even my walking stick won’t stop me from collapsing.” She laughed then, big and buoyant, at my very stern look of disapproval. 

Since I never did see that kiosk again, which is their tendency, I learned to make it myself. As the child in this memory, I tracked every flavour and spice as I ate the corn, and now have perfected, even improved, the shockingly simple recipe. Corn, grilled for five minutes. Cumin, coriander, dried ginger, salt, black pepper, cardamom and chili powder. A capful of lemon juice. 

Serve, with a spoon.

Image credits: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/486248090990398255/