The lockdown veg biryani
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So, during this lockdown, when any day of the week is indistinguishable from another, we successfully confirmed this morning that today is indeed a sunday.
Shortly after breakfast, the world's most boring household question was asked "what to cook for lunch?" - a rheotorical question, because the husband's answer has no value.
.
"I don't know, I'm ok with anything".
(That is how a country like Sri Lanka starts diplomatic talks with USA)
"Tell something no, I'm bored of the same set of things"
"what should I say ?"
"Im tired of this repeated sambar/rasam/avial/olan/kootu/thoran/poriyal/porichu-kuzhambu/vatha-kuzhambu/arachu-vitta-kuzhambu/morkoottaan ....."
"Stop"
"What about veg biriyani ?"
"Hmm...lots of work, will take hours, you will have to wash the utensils while I cook"
(That was the first torpedo into the hull of my brilliant suggestion)
Before "will take hours" became the killjoy which would quell my yearning to break away from gastro-monotony, I had to reply with something smart.
"We can easily use up all the even-odd remaining vegetables in the fridge, each set of which, by themselves do not meet the critical mass requirement for a standalone dish. Biryani is the only thing to make, if they are not to be wasted"
(USA was surprised at the strategic clarity from SriLanka, and had to relent)
"Ok, will you help me with the chopping of vegetables ? I can start the cooking process when you are done"
"Yes, madam"
The chopping began gleefully. Out tumbled all those near-expiry neglected vegetables from the back of the fridge, who were all happy to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, rather than freeze into oblivion. I was happily chopping away, a spring in my step. However, it had already reached a point of no return by the time I realized that I went a bit overboard with the chopping, and there was just too much of it in the bowl. Enough for 3 days.
The wife made a flying visit to check on me, and let out a shriek over my shoulder
(actually around my elbow, she is much shorter than me).
"What is this, didn't you take a step back and look what you were doing ? see how much this amounts to, we could be eating biryani for the whole week"
(This was the US naval fleet flexing its military muscle to belittle SriLanka's lack of experience, during joint-sea-trials in the indian ocean).
It was a factually correct statement, though. By proportion, atleast 1-1.5 kgs of rice would need to be cooked, to accomodate so many veggies into the biryani. I was in a proper fix - it was my idea, and I had goofed up the execution. Already. But the first rule of diplomacy is to never admit mistakes.
And so I began "I know what I am doing, this is the
ustaad-biryani that we are making, with a completely different proportion of ingredients, than other 'regular' biryanis. It's from mughal era"
"What ? what's that ? and what different proportions ?"
"The reasons for larger ratio of (vegetables : rice) involves complex understanding of heat exchange thermodynamics between metal, steam and cellulose. Do you want me to explain ?"
"My god, No. Don't. Spare me. So you are trying something. Ok. Are you sure that you are doing it right?"
(the criticism had eased. USA had taken the bait. However, there was an urgent need to quickly come up with what the hell "ustaad-biryani" really was & how it ought to be made)
"So, how to actually cook this, like normal method, using cooker only no ?"
"No no... this is a bit complex. Layer of ghee-fried onions in between rice layers, then steam cook, then some fry, some more steam cook. It's complex, I learnt from youtube"
"Oh really ?"
"Ya. You know, why don't you play with our son
(the little devil who has hijacked the TV over the entire duration of this lockdown and suspended my BP-exercise sessions with Arnab Goswami), and take a well deserved break from the kitchen today, I will manage to cook the whole thing. If you wish, you just make the side-raita after I am done, ok ?"
"Are you sure ?"
"Yes my dear, close the kitchen door behind you as you leave"
(I even got a hint of a smile from USA, as the armada left SriLankan waters)
Now I had to really come up with a plan. I put my science hat on. Veggies -already too much, rice -cannot be too much. That's the problem definition.
Idea.
Let me use regular rice instead of biryani rice - regular will absorb lots of the moisture released from the veggies, and puff up well, and also even smudge with the pieces better, so the proportion problem can be tackled.
Schwarzenneger is back.
Feeling smug, I began the actual cooking. Onion was fried in ghee, layered inside wet rice, cashews and raisins used liberally, veggies were sauteed, the lonely heavy-spices-box in the back corner of the kitchen cupboard finally smiled, etc, etc. Overall, the cooking turned out really well. Half hour later, the spiced-&-sauteed vegetables finally entered into the holy marriage with "regular" rice inside the pressure cooker. The smell in the kitchen was like those paradise biryani shops, and I was feeling proud of myself. Indeed, there may actually have been an 'ustaad-biryani' afterall, somewhere in india, such was my level of smugness.
Some 8-9 whistles & a further half hour later, it was time to open the cooker. The moment of truth.
OH. MY. GOD.
It was like a 10-year old unwrapping santa's gift on boxing day and finding that the 'gift' = small brass oil lamp from Giri-Trading
(chennai-ites will know) alongwith a 'temples of india' 80-page booklet. "Disappointing" is too mild a word - the cooker revealed some kind of gelatinous goo, resembling the contents of a chemical vat used to dissolve dead bodies in a bond-villain's underground bunker. There was no rice, no vegetables, only plasma. All of the contents which went in, had been nuked into their sub-molecular elemental atoms.
I had to analyze what led to this abomination. The answer was obvious -> regular rice, already sauteed veggies, too much water & too long cooking with too many whistles from the cooker - a unique jugalbandi of blunders. Hmm. Somewhere after the 3rd whistle, chemical breakdown would have happened and from the 4th onwards, until the 9th, the chemical reaction would have gradually morphed into nuclear fission. Correct analysis, but totally worthless to the situation I found myself in.
(Plan B ? what plan B ? there is no coming back from this disaster. But I had to do "something")
The smell was great, though. That was the only ray of hope, onto which some credibility had to be quickly built - yes, let's lean on the smell. I slowly closed the pressure cooker and asked my wife to not open it because I didn't want 'wasted flavour' whilst she readied the side dish raita.
Sometime later, it was lunchtime. The big reveal.
(USA's jaw dropped)
(And there appeared a condescending "you idiot" smirk on her face.)
"Oh.. dont smirk like that... its authentic ustaad biryani"
"what ? stop bluffing, you have screwed it up"
"No not at all. What that looks like, that is the consistency of lucknowi-ustaad biryani"
(lucknow = extra autheniticity) (the same shake of the head by the judge when he hears a false witness in court)
"I knew it all along that you would screw it up"
"But, but.... I was helping reduce your workload, I tried. Authentic ustaad-biryani is somewhat like this only, overcooked and tasty"
"Oh really, do you really want the conversation to go there ?"
(I stared at her unblinkingly for 2 continuous minutes, with an incredulous expression, posing as if I was holding back my many points of rebuttal because I was a gentleman; whilst it was a genuine case of repeated "no ammo" SOS pings from my brain to my tongue)
Finally the diplomacy ended.
"Im sorry, but it's still edible, the smell is great, don't you think ?"
Silence.
The smirk slowly diluted but the mouth thundered "DO NOT ENTER MY KITCHEN AGAIN" as she started serving the lumps of the gelatin onto our plates.
All is well. I managed a weak smile.
"ok, let's eat. Mmm... the raita you made, wow, tastes so nice"...