My Grandmother's Brass Vessels: Why Cooking in Metal Changed How Food Tastes (and Feels)
- Vijayakumar Subramanian
- 7 hours ago
- 4 min read
The shine of my grandmother's brass vessels is still etched in my memory. As a child, I would wake to the sound of her scrubbing them with tamarind pulp until they gleamed in the morning sun. Then she would fill one with water, another with rice, and another with the thin, spiced soup we call rasam (a thin, spiced tamarind soup).
Back then, I didn't know why she insisted on brass. To me, they were just heavy, hard to lift, and too much trouble to clean.
"Steel is easier," I would complain. She would only smile and say, "This metal gives life to the food."
Years later, when I moved to the city and ate meals cooked in aluminum and stainless steel, I finally came to understand. Something was missing. The same rasam didn't taste the same. Even sambar (a South Indian lentil and vegetable stew) felt flatter. And payasam (a creamy festival pudding made with milk, rice, or lentils) lost its richness when it wasn't made in her brass pot.
I kept thinking about those old pots.
The Science Hidden in Tradition
My grandmother never used words like "minerals" or "acidity." But her wisdom was practical science. Brass, known in Tamil as vengalam, is an alloy of copper and zinc. Both release trace minerals when they interact with food.
Modern studies now confirm what elders long believed: cooking in brass can increase the amount of zinc and copper in food, both of which support immunity and digestion. The metal also possesses natural antimicrobial properties, which help keep food fresh for longer in a tropical climate.
When rasam simmered in a brass pot, its sharp tamarind tang would mellow into something rounder.
My grandmother would say, "Brass makes sour things gentle on the stomach."
She was right - the metal reacts with tamarind, balancing the acidity so the dish doesn't upset digestion.
Even payasam cooked in brass felt different. The milk thickened slowly, with a sweetness that seemed fuller. It wasn't just dessert - it tasted like home.
Daily Work That Mattered
Cooking in brass wasn't just about the food. It became part of her daily routine.
Every Friday, my grandmother polished her brass pots with tamarind paste or ash until they glowed. I thought this was only about appearance, but it was also about hygiene. Tamarind cleaned the metal naturally, removing oxidation and restoring its shine.
When she cooked in those vessels, she believed the food carried not just taste but also strength.
My grandfather, who is now 85, still insists: "Food from brass keeps the body cool. If you eat gravy from brass, it feels different inside."
My neighbor, Kamala Aunty, once told me:
"Now people spend on supplements and tonics. We got all that from the vessels themselves. The pot gave its medicine to the food."
What Has Changed and What Remains
In today's kitchens, brass has nearly disappeared. Supermarkets sell stainless steel and nonstick pans that promise convenience. Brass, with its weight and its demand for polishing, feels old-fashioned to many.
Even in my own kitchen, I don't use brass every day. Life is faster, and cleaning takes time. But I keep two vessels from my grandmother - one for rasam and one wide-mouthed uruli for payasam. On weekends and festivals, I bring them out.
The food tastes different, yes, but it also feels different. Cooking in those vessels slows me down. I stir more patiently, watch the boil, listen for the sounds of food cooking the way it did in my childhood home.
My cousin Ram, who works in a bank in Delhi, told me recently,
"Whenever I eat rasam from brass, I remember our grandmother's house. It's not just the taste - it's like being seven years old again."
That's what these pots do. They bring back everything.
Why I Still Use Them
People talk about cast-iron or ceramic cookware these days. In South India, brass was our version of that. For her, brass wasn’t special. It was just the vessel she trusted - sturdy, lasting, and giving food a taste nothing else did.
When I cook rasam in my grandmother's brass pot, I can taste her hands in it. When my son eats payasam from that brass uruli, he thinks it’s just dessert. I know it carries a line of memory that began long before him.
What stays with me is how these vessels shaped the way we cared for each other. My grandmother polished them every Friday, taking her time. When I use them now, they slow me down too. A meal cooked in brass always felt like it mattered.
My son is sixteen now. He complains when I ask him to help clean the brass pots. But I see him pause, running his hand over the metal without thinking. I used to do the same.
One day, he’ll know why.
About the Author
Vijay Kumar is a storyteller based in Coimbatore, India. His writing reflects psychology, culture, and lived experience - rituals, beliefs, and memories that shape us.
