How to Make Sri Lankan Cucumber Salad (Pipingaa Salad)

It’s funny, this salad. Looks simple. But it surprises you. Like that quiet aunt who suddenly cracks a wild joke at the family dinner. You won’t see it coming.

Sri Lankan cucumber salad with coconut milk—or “Pipingaa Salad” as some call it back home—isn’t your average, watery, boring cucumber thing. No. This is creamy, spicy, cooling, rich. All at the same time. It does something to your tongue.

So what do you need? Not much, really.

The magic stuff:

• 1 large cucumber (the Asian kind, not that thick, watery supermarket one)
• Half a coconut's milk, fresh if you can (the packet ones? Meh. But okay in a pinch)
• 2 green chillies, sliced thin
• A small red onion, sliced fine, like really thin
• Salt, to taste
• Pepper, just a little
• A squeeze of lime. Maybe more. Taste it and see.
• A few curry leaves, if you’re feeling fancy
• Optional: tiny bit of mustard paste (secret touch... shhh)

When I was a kid, my grandmother would make this in five minutes flat. She used to yell from the kitchen—“Where’s the damn coconut scraper!”—while the smell of fresh scraped coconut filled the room. You don’t get that smell from those canned ones. But anyway.

Right. So you take the cucumber. Peel it. But not all the way. Leave some green lines on the skin. For looks. Slice it thin. Paper thin if you can. Toss it in a bowl.

Throw in the onion and green chillies. Mix it up with your hands. No spoon nonsense. Your fingers know best.

Now... pour in the coconut milk. Slowly. Like feeding the salad. It should coat everything, not drown it. Sprinkle salt. A little pepper. Maybe squeeze that lime. Taste it. Too bland? More lime. More salt. It’s like tuning a radio.

Some people—like my uncle—dump in mustard paste. Just a little. Gives it a secret kick. You decide.

Finally, a few curry leaves on top. Or not. Up to you.

Let it sit for five minutes. Just... let the flavours chat with each other. Trust me.

When you eat it—it hits. The creaminess of coconut. The crisp cool cucumber. The sudden snap of chilli. Lime poking through now and then. Like old friends arguing happily.

Perfect with rice and curry. Or just by itself, standing at the kitchen counter, stealing spoonfuls before dinner. Like I do.

And that’s it. No rules. No measuring cups. Just taste, adjust, smile.

That’s Sri Lankan cooking for you.