Code crimson: Operation dinner

I savoured each spoonful as if it were dessert disguised as dinner.

As a child, I was known in the family for one unmistakable trait—my insatiable sweet tooth. My love for sugary treats was so intense that I often refused to touch regular meals. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner—it didn’t matter. I would sit at the table, lips pursed, waiting for dessert instead. My mother’s pleas and threats made little difference. For me, food was only worth eating if it was sweet.

But my mother, ever patient and inventive, refused to give up. If sweetness was what I longed for, she decided, then she would find a way to bring sweetness into everyday food—without actually turning it into a dessert. She began experimenting quietly in her kitchen, testing how a touch of jaggery or coconut might coax me into eating. And then she discovered my one weakness: beetroot.

Unlike other vegetables, beetroot never met with my resistance. Whether it was a simple poriyal or a salad, I would eat it eagerly. My mother noticed how its earthy sweetness seemed to satisfy the same craving that drew me to sugarcane or sweets. That small realisation sparked an idea that would become one of her most memorable creations—beetroot sambar.

Sambar, the quintessential South Indian stew of lentils, tamarind, and spices, is usually tangy and robust. But my mother’s version was different. Into the simmering pot of tur dal and tamarind broth, she added chunks of beetroot—deep red, glistening like jewels. As they cooked, their colour spread through the dish, transforming it into a vivid crimson stew.

The aroma that filled the kitchen was both familiar and new: the warmth of spices mingling with the gentle sweetness of beetroot.

When she first served it, the family was stunned. The sambar’s intense red colour looked almost otherworldly. My father hesitated; my siblings giggled. But I needed no convincing. I dove into my plate, savouring each spoonful as if it were dessert disguised as dinner. The sweetness, subtle yet comforting, felt like a secret meant just for me.

From that day on, beetroot sambar became a fixture in our kitchen. No teasing or disapproval from the rest of the family could make my mother stop making it. For her, this dish was more than food—it was affection made visible, a mother’s quiet way of saying she understood me.

Even now, when I see beetroot bleeding its colour into a pot, I think of her—stirring the crimson stew with love and patience. It reminds me that sometimes, sweetness isn’t found in sugar at all, but in the small, tender gestures that fill our lives with warmth.