Labneh love letter
How yoghurt cultures sustain and self preserve us
I postponed writing this newsletter so much that I have been awake at nights, goading myself into thinking about topics that never made their way to me. Two nights ago I came to the conclusion, while trying to tell myself to fall asleep, that something was missing in my life. Specifically: labneh.
It sounds funny, strange even, that one could miss the presence of a strained yoghurt-soft cheese hybrid in their life and not know it. Or that the shapeless void in (my) life could be filled with small balls of labneh, covered in herbs and dropped into a jar with olive oil to preserve them for the future, irrespective of how immediate it is. But making labneh seems to be a natural progression in a house that constantly makes yoghurt all the time.
The first time I made labneh it was by accident, as all beautiful things are aptly conceived. Initially, I set out to make shrikhand since that year we had a great bounty of sweet mangoes. So I drained about 1/2litre of yoghurt in a muslin cloth lined over a stainless steel sieve, which I then draped all over the yoghurt and tied into a knot like making juicy kozhukattais, placed a heavy stone on top and a small vessel at the bottom, and put the whole contraption inside the refrigerator. Except I forgot about it for three days. And in three days, the yoghurt had flattened to half its size but was twice as creamier with fluorescent green whey1 pooling at the bottom.
The resulting labneh was luxurious—sprinkled with oregano, salt, chilli, and flooded with olive oil—and just incredible. I don’t have the vocabulary to describe exactly what it was like but it was a deeply sour, cultured, milky thicker-than-Greek-yoghurt, luscious cheese. It also reminded me of clotted cream but without the cloying heaviness; labneh, if anything, is lighter, zingy and depends on the milk and reflects the yoghurt practices of one’s home.
Both the product labneh and its name are derived from milk, of course: i.e. the Arabic word laban meaning milk also refers to the colour white referred to the milky white peaks of the snow-clad Mount Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon, in turn giving rise to the Mediterranean country’s name, Lebanon. It is said that when people leave their homes they carry their culture along with them, sometimes too literally, by dipping a handkerchief in a bowl of yoghurt, letting it dry and and reviving it in their new homes.
These cultures can last for ages, since all you have to do when making yoghurt is just use the yoghurt from the previous batch, which can ultimately be traced back to the first yoghurt, which is a connection to the previous generations (of people and yoghurt), to cultures (of people and yoghurt), and to home, identity, and country. Elmaz Abinader writes for The Counter on rekindling yoghurt making along with simultaneously rekindling connections with her extended family in Lebanon during the explosions in Beirut in 2020. “My grandmother’s impulse to dip her handkerchief into the yoghurt bowl was about authenticity, about culture, and about family… And while we did not keep Sitti’s alive, the line of culture had blossomed and our dedication to family strengthened.”
Both yoghurt cultures and rituals are far flung, thriving especially in hot countries and regions, as the natural souring (due to warmth) of milk that produced yoghurt was by accident. It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly but the consensus is that it was sometime around 5000BC in Central Asia and Mesopotamia by the Neolithic people.
It was also products like yoghurt and cheese that allowed humans to process dairy — as infants, we all have the ability to digest lactose present in milk due to digestive systems secreting the sugar lactase. Post weaning, the ability decreases and stops at a certain point. For the Wellcome Collection, I wrote a little about this, before venturing into the larger point of the piece which is that milk’s ascension in India was due to postcolonial notions of progress, globalised industrialisation and nationalist nutrition guidance. And as my colleague Anna Sulan Masing wrote for our magazine Cheese, it was the invention of pottery that allowed for a natural fermentation of milk into yoghurt and cheese, which in turn allowed for an ease in the consumption of dairy as adults.
And how far flung is the practice? Yoghurt finds home in countries in the Levant and the Middle East, Balkans to the south of Mediterranean, subcontinent to Mongolia, Ukraine to the Caucasus, and more. Yoghurt, in India (known as curd), is known by names in many regions, dahi in Hindi might be the most well known outside the country. The shrikhand that I wanted to make with hung yoghurt, cardamom, sugar, and mangoes is a traditional sweet found in Maharashtrian and Gujarati cuisines, and sometimes eaten with puris. Diluted with water, yoghurt becomes a cooling drink, which we refer to as buttermilk. Lassi is a sort of yoghurt smoothie that can be sweet or savoury. Churning curd gives butter, which is melted down to make ghee.
Then there’s madzoon, qatiq, kefir, koumiss, ayran, doogh, skyr, and mast2, which are the different yoghurt traditions and cultures around the world. And the cheeses that are derived from yoghurts: qurut, kashk, shanklish, areesh, suzma, chakka, basa. If there are numerous strained-yoghurt-cheese hybrids there naturally are many countless ways of eating them, foremost in a mezze style of a selection of small dishes. The word mezze itself is borrowed from Turkish (meaning appetizer), which comes from the Persian mazza(e)h (meaning to taste/relish). Yoghurt as we know it comes from the same Turkish word (yoǧurt), but today most strained yoghurt/thick yoghurt is known as Greek yoghurt possibly from a corporate marketing plan.
Recurrence, repetitiveness, or habituation is key for making yoghurt and the more you make it, the more it becomes a ritual in itself. As opposed to the process of making paneer for instance, which is over in minutes. Yoghurt requires coming back to, whether it’s saving the starter over and over again thereby preserving cultures or checking on it to see if fermentation has happened, a rather common anxiety in cold countries.
I’ve had paneer come together time after time, but not yoghurt: there are times when it just doesn’t set, even if it’s scorching and humid outside, conditions which are perfect for it. On those days, I add a whole green chilli as its stem helps in the formation of lactobacillus, the bacteria and probiotic found in the digestive and the reproductive systems as well as in yoghurt. I guess making and eating yoghurt is in a way self-preserving.
When there is a glut of yoghurt, making labneh—a modest substitution for soft cheese-seems the natural next step for me. I eat it with bagels, cucumber, and tomato for breakfast; as a garlicky dip with steamed sweet potatoes; instead of cream cheese to go along with smoked salmon and dill; or even my mum’s methi paratha. Labneh, in forever sweltering Chennai, is a wondrous addition to just about anything; it’s both delicate and rewarding, and just like yoghurt, leaves its mark on the many cultures that consume it and the many cultures it produces.
Miscellaneous
I’ve already linked my milk piece above which was a collaboration between Sourced and the Wellcome Collection for the series Milk, From Ground to Glass.
I also have another essay out for the latest issue of Filler zine on mangoes and conversations with my mother, a deeply personal and emotional essay that I’ve ever penned down, alongside other contributions and illustrations from stellar people.
I’ve been reading some essays online which I really liked and I’ll recommend them here: this on our post-Twitter social media world.
On ending tourism to Antarctica: it baffles me that people can be so selfish to disrupt an ecosystem that wants nothing to do with them.
For archive stories, a new project on creative and non-traditional archives, this piece on halwa and mahyawa and their multiple connections and living archives.
On writing poems to save one’s life. This was my favourite and I resonated with this so much, since I’ve been back at my desk attempting my hand at poetry and self examination, which is what most poetry is. Creating awareness, finding relief or disgust, but soldering on through words on an empty page. The author concludes beautifully, “all the times I wasn’t sure I was alive, and then poetry stabbed me in the heart and brought me back from the dead.” To which I wholeheartedly agree.
TW Lim for their newsletter
on the “Singaporean Hawker experience” in New York, which totally misses the point of hawker stalls and treats it like a theme park of all vibes no thoughts.Also loved Claire Maxwell’s latest for their newsletter
I used the whey to make flatbreads. I have also used it to water plants in case I don’t have anything left to cook.
There are so so much more, apologies for not including each one! Same goes for the cheeses.
This was such a lovely read, you are inspiring me to make my own yoghurt and to start making labneh again. I am currently 10 days into eating a lot of yoghurt in Greece and I am know I will miss it when I go home!
The one one halwa and mahyawa! great further reading