I have always taken outright pride in declaring that I am the sous chef -- I chop and I clean. I almost feel like a product with a tagline, guaranteeing an unfailing performance. However, this phenomena is on the verge of being challenged as I now, over a span of couple of weeks, have cooked something that is better than how I cook mutton. Most things are an accident. I took to the kitchen this time because I was dissatisfied with how my friend left the kitchen. Basically, I have been disgusted and dissatisfied with everything.
The heat of the stove and the piling dishes can choke the best of chefs, but in my case, I was glad to have learnt how to master dal and recollect Mom's dal and ideate what the recipe could possibly be. And I cooked Bengali chhanar dalna with paneer. It smelled very bengali and went down unprecedentedly well. Now it was the turn of the chicken. The chicken cooked at my Salt Lake house is generally very uninteresting -- a local tender hen (the star) cooked mildly (sets without shining). It bored me. I could not convince my mother to separate the kilos and cook them differently. She is not one to be messed with, who knows, she might have just flung the ladle or spud in hand at me. Now that the kitchen was kind of my kingdom, I did exactly that.
1: I followed M's instructions and cooked a luscious honey-glazed chilli chicken out of the beautifully diced boneless set. The prep time was longer than the actual cooking. It was a fiery maroon to look, and perfectly accompanied the deceivingly bland looking vermicelli we turn into noodles. A sight to behold, how those harmless looking little bits turned into mighty bites of flavour. The crisp of the onion slices made me believe that the way a knife runs through an onion governs the taste of the item. I thanked my good sense to not leave behind my knives home.
Day 2: Somedays later, with our boned chicken, I took one half and marinated it in a mixture of curd and various basic spices. With the sound of the tomatoes sizzling in the mustard oil, I realized this was up for another stellar preparation too, especially with the curry taking up the fragrance of the whole spices like a sponge to soapwater. It was marvellous and made us miss the ruti. What we get here is either the massive tandoori rotis which are too chewy after sometime, or the unnecessary Roomali, which I do not have any respect for. Anyway, the chicken was cooked thoroughly thick, and could easily classify as chicken kassa. By the time this slightly red-slightly brown chicken was devoured, a little sour and mostly hot, my confidence generated a glow and I took charge of the regular cooking. I teamed it up with a make-believe navaratan pulao -- nutritious with the colourful bits of vegetables, semi precious with nuts, sweet in its demeanour -- we felt like attending a royal's private invite.
The rest will follow in a different post. I can almost see you salivating. I had a slice of extra sweet chocolate cake (couldn't finish it) with an espresso, go, grab a coffee before you read my next! And if you like it (I hope you aren't listening, M), you can always courier me a packet of chips!
The heat of the stove and the piling dishes can choke the best of chefs, but in my case, I was glad to have learnt how to master dal and recollect Mom's dal and ideate what the recipe could possibly be. And I cooked Bengali chhanar dalna with paneer. It smelled very bengali and went down unprecedentedly well. Now it was the turn of the chicken. The chicken cooked at my Salt Lake house is generally very uninteresting -- a local tender hen (the star) cooked mildly (sets without shining). It bored me. I could not convince my mother to separate the kilos and cook them differently. She is not one to be messed with, who knows, she might have just flung the ladle or spud in hand at me. Now that the kitchen was kind of my kingdom, I did exactly that.
1: I followed M's instructions and cooked a luscious honey-glazed chilli chicken out of the beautifully diced boneless set. The prep time was longer than the actual cooking. It was a fiery maroon to look, and perfectly accompanied the deceivingly bland looking vermicelli we turn into noodles. A sight to behold, how those harmless looking little bits turned into mighty bites of flavour. The crisp of the onion slices made me believe that the way a knife runs through an onion governs the taste of the item. I thanked my good sense to not leave behind my knives home.
Day 2: Somedays later, with our boned chicken, I took one half and marinated it in a mixture of curd and various basic spices. With the sound of the tomatoes sizzling in the mustard oil, I realized this was up for another stellar preparation too, especially with the curry taking up the fragrance of the whole spices like a sponge to soapwater. It was marvellous and made us miss the ruti. What we get here is either the massive tandoori rotis which are too chewy after sometime, or the unnecessary Roomali, which I do not have any respect for. Anyway, the chicken was cooked thoroughly thick, and could easily classify as chicken kassa. By the time this slightly red-slightly brown chicken was devoured, a little sour and mostly hot, my confidence generated a glow and I took charge of the regular cooking. I teamed it up with a make-believe navaratan pulao -- nutritious with the colourful bits of vegetables, semi precious with nuts, sweet in its demeanour -- we felt like attending a royal's private invite.
The rest will follow in a different post. I can almost see you salivating. I had a slice of extra sweet chocolate cake (couldn't finish it) with an espresso, go, grab a coffee before you read my next! And if you like it (I hope you aren't listening, M), you can always courier me a packet of chips!
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