I remember the first time I cooked chicken for LH. He said it was more like chicken rasam (soup) than chicken gravy. So after the wedding, armed with resolve and my mom's recipe, I went forth into the chicken..er, kitchen to amaze one and all with my culinary skills. No one would call my gravy as rasam this time because I was going to follow that recipe like Hercule Poirot on the tail of a clue.
Not ignoring a single hint from my mother that I had scrawled on the margins of my notebook, I diligently chopped, stirred and added stuff. It looked right, it smelt right, the initial tasting was quite passable and I patted myself on the back for doing a good job.
On went the lid of the pressure cooker. The steam hissed out as expected. I put on the weight. All was well with the world. I prepared to wait out the ten minutes watching TV, but kept a vigilant eye on the clock. That chicken was not messing with me this time.
Five minutes passed and there was an acrid smell of burnt food in the kitchen. I rushed in waving my hands like a fan in a pitiful attempt to make it all go away. The problem? I didn't know the right heat settings for the induction stove. I called up my mom and informed her of this development. She laughed. Then she reeled off heat settings for possibly everything I might ever attempt to cook in my lifetime.
Thanking her for the late information, I did the only thing I could: damage control. After transferring the slightly burnt chicken to another cooker, I finished cooking it and then spent fifteen minutes scrubbing away at the blackened remains of scorched chicken from the other vessel. Fun night.
And it wasn't that bad. I thought it had a smokey flavour, but I think LH only ate it because we were just married and he didn't want to say anything except, 'Yeah, it's nice. A little burnt, but uh....nice!'
Three months and many chicken gravies later...
Yesterday, I made chicken gravy again. And this time, I said to myself, 'screw the recipe!'And what do you know?
The damn thing tasted pretty good.
Not ignoring a single hint from my mother that I had scrawled on the margins of my notebook, I diligently chopped, stirred and added stuff. It looked right, it smelt right, the initial tasting was quite passable and I patted myself on the back for doing a good job.
On went the lid of the pressure cooker. The steam hissed out as expected. I put on the weight. All was well with the world. I prepared to wait out the ten minutes watching TV, but kept a vigilant eye on the clock. That chicken was not messing with me this time.
Five minutes passed and there was an acrid smell of burnt food in the kitchen. I rushed in waving my hands like a fan in a pitiful attempt to make it all go away. The problem? I didn't know the right heat settings for the induction stove. I called up my mom and informed her of this development. She laughed. Then she reeled off heat settings for possibly everything I might ever attempt to cook in my lifetime.
Thanking her for the late information, I did the only thing I could: damage control. After transferring the slightly burnt chicken to another cooker, I finished cooking it and then spent fifteen minutes scrubbing away at the blackened remains of scorched chicken from the other vessel. Fun night.
And it wasn't that bad. I thought it had a smokey flavour, but I think LH only ate it because we were just married and he didn't want to say anything except, 'Yeah, it's nice. A little burnt, but uh....nice!'
Three months and many chicken gravies later...
Yesterday, I made chicken gravy again. And this time, I said to myself, 'screw the recipe!'And what do you know?
The damn thing tasted pretty good.
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