Colours of Chicken II

I am sad to have neither received any chips from any of you good souls, nor be called over for a drink. But I am tireless, and the coffee is good, hence I continue, for your pleasure only, since we have had the pleasure of having it already!

Day 3: Pissed with trying to avoid pizzas and not knowing how to live up to "good-food" I ran into the kitchen last weekend. The month had merely begun and my promised quota of chips was already consumed. I was in a foul mood as I put some extra chillies in the musur dal. This could not go on, this being deprived of entertainment and budgeting our days and falling into the habit of rejection, I thought, and opened the freezer to the rest of the chicken. This time the marinate was in grated ginger and onion. The rest as they say, is history. I used the dhania powder to great use and ignored the rest of the yearning spices and pining tomatoes. To this I added a secret ingredient (it is a secret, not aamchur or hing). I repeat it is a secret which I will not let out. Now readers, I am not beating my own trumpet, but really the Mother should stop saying that meat takes no calibre to cook. She cooks exceptional fish and paanch torkari and patient's chicken (a mix between stew and curry and soup), but I would willingly challenge her to making the meat taste so diverse each time. I am waiting to find out who cooks the mutton at Bhai-Phota (for 40+ people) this time. This wood brown preparation was nothing like what either of us had tasted in a long, long time. The nearest M said it reminded her of, was, of her childhood chicken, which is a huge compliment because I also have a soft corner, no, reverence actually, for slow cooking -- nothing beats it.

Day 4: Yesterday, the weather changed. One could see fog and feel a dip. It made me feel like this is the Delhi I always loved -- gently gregarious. It was an evening to slowly smoke on the balcony, which too I have almost let gone of. It was a lovely evening of welcoming winter. I had befriended the local vegetable vendor and got some lovely vegetables and beaten M to her wise measures. I forget! I was happy because I had the first orange! Yes, that must be it. This was the Delhi of long drives and drinks and wild lights. We had to prep today's tiffin and were done segregating the groceries when I said let's cook something delightful! M said she wanted a "light" chicken. I asked her if she would like a soup. "No" she said. Ok, light-coloured! How was that niramish (vegetarian) mutton made? Wasn't it draped in its holy off-white? I had thought of an alternative -- comforting, warm, white-ish, wintry chicken -- I could visualize it, but how do I do it? Once again, like a painter to her brush, I took to my knife and carefully selected the ingredients -- which, deliberately, I will not mention. I think I should have a testimonial here from M about how it tasted, or looked. I can still try and post a photograph from the remains after I get home today. The burnt red chilli and the fresh green micro-inches of coriander gleamed out of the pressure cooker. The chicken sat cushioned against a gravy of sophisticated off-white, garlanded by a rich spill of oil, ornamenting it like a neckpiece. It wasn't dhania chicken, no. It was just the kind which makes you feel you should be under the quilt, with the TV on, Harry Potter or some SRK movie running on it and soldiers of breadsticks to chew the gravy with. 

Gosh. I cannot work anymore. I must go home and eat. 

Gosh, I write palpably well. You are invited -- to compliment and come over for a meal! (Please do not forget to get a packet of chips, or a bottle of good whiskey along). I am tired of doing things for free.