There is a stage in the life of an assorted mithai box when it stops being an assortment.
The kaju katli has gone. A few other sweets remain in their paper cups, suddenly more conspicuous. Someone asks who finished it. Nobody offers a useful answer.
For a sweet so often described as the safe choice, kaju katli inspires remarkably decisive behaviour.
Perhaps it benefits from being easy to approach. There is no syrup to negotiate, no spoon to find, no substantial commitment of time. A diamond can be picked up between two fingers. This is an advantage at a family gathering, where acquiring a plate can turn a passing interest in food into a formal commitment.
Its smallness gives it a certain social agility. You can take one while still standing near the door. You can accept one after declining dessert. You can also spend quite a long time saying that you only wanted a small piece while the small piece disappears.
A little less room to hide
Kaju katli also makes an interesting case for restraint. Cashew and sugar sit at the centre of many versions, but recipes vary: Sanjeev Kapoor’s published recipe, for example, includes ghee and liquid glucose, with milk used during syrup preparation. Powdered cashew is combined with the syrup before the mixture is shaped, rolled and cut. The short description conceals a sequence of decisions.
How thin should the piece be? How much resistance should it offer before yielding? How clearly should the cashew come through? These are useful questions to ask of the sweet in front of you. They are not a laboratory test for purity. A pleasing bite can tell you what you enjoy; an ingredient list can answer a different set of questions.
We like the attention this kind of sweet invites. Look at the edge. Take a small bite. Notice whether you want the next one. You do not need a tasting vocabulary borrowed from wine to have an opinion about kaju katli.
Indeed, opinions are seldom in short supply. One person wants it thinner. Another prefers the version they remember from childhood. Someone has a shop recommendation from another city and regards the matter as settled.
That, too, is part of the craft of mithai: making something people will judge with their mouths, their memories, and the considerable authority of an uncle who has just arrived.
The achievement of being wanted again
Familiarity can be an awkward thing to sell. “You will recognise this” sounds less exciting than “you have never seen anything like it.” Yet recognition is a substantial pleasure. We return to foods because we want a particular sensation, not because we have failed to discover enough alternatives.
A favourite does not have to keep auditioning for the role. It has already earned a place.
There is room for invention in a mithai box. There is also room for something that asks very little of the person choosing it: no explanation, no performance of adventurousness, no need to work out whether the garnish is edible.
The last piece briefly changes the atmosphere. Until then, everyone has been helping themselves. Now the box acquires manners. “You have it.” “No, please.” A knife may be proposed. The diamond becomes a negotiation.
It is an impressive amount of ceremony for the safe choice.
