A Liar's Guide to the Dreams..

In the dead of the night, the dreams come in one by one. They cling to you with soft acceptance, and they know it all..

These are the dreams which leave a note of remembrance. They cling to our tongues like a bittersweet delight.

They feel familiar, though their flavour melts in the mouth... and taste distinctly unusual.

December 27, 2007

Joyful Joyful Joyful.....

Yes so the ordeal is finally over now. I am this close to being SUPERFATWOMAN of the year, because the last few days’ menu comprised of Lard, Fat, Bacon, Cheese, Butter and all things that should be banned by the rulebooks for being so yum.

Yes, right, this is a sort of food post. I seriously should look for a career in the gastronomical delights section of life because there is no one (and I proudly say that) who can be compared to me for eating and feeding people during this Christmas. And that too, without making any dessert at all.

Oh so it began when I carried around 3 pounds of beef pickle to my Prof’s place and played carom all evening over that and mulled wine. Prof and I gel well, so over the rapidly disappearing pickle, he sort of asked me to open the fridge, see what’s in it, and make whatever’s suitable out of it.

I went. I opened. I gaped.

Delight of delights! There sat an unopened, queen-size pack of Lindt Milk Chocolates.

At this point, I really do not need to go ahead and say that I put my face into that luscious mass of melting delights and sort of… licked and sucked and nipped and gulped. Maa… that was like… like getting kicked in the teeth and electrocuted in a good way. And Oh, then the Prof and I sort of settled down to talk over fried chicken and fine alcohol (My man, the Jack) and his wife came over and watched me with awe as I finished the entirety of the Lindt.

Yes, well, I have taken up walking and Tai Chi again.

And then there was The Pain.

My eyes suddenly began to itch. I have no clue why, but they sort of went cold and red. Sir declared I have a cold, and I said… NONONO I don’t … I so don’t (because I have all the plans made and nothing can go wrong now, can it?)

Oh it can. Resulting into me wearing a pair of OLD glasses to one of the snazziest parties of the year.

AH me! And oh, the hacking cough to go with it. Just my luck to get one day, I repeat, One DAY, off in one year, and it turns out to be glassy.

And I came back to my friend’s place and promptly fell asleep, only to wake four hours later to run back home because I needed to cook lunch.

The lunch was fabulous. I made Rum-Glazed Chicken… a slight deviation from the Original Roasted Turkey and Ham and Whatnot. I shall provide the recipe because I know that a few people reading this blog have an insane urge to cook and eat…

SO what you need is a chicken of considerable size (three pounds/1.3 kgs should just about do it)… prepared for roasting (i.e. without the icky squishy liver and other bits innit, and with the skin intact). You wash the chicken and check if there are any feathers sticking to the skin of the chicky. If so, take em out, I say! Then what you do is, make that headless baby sit tight while you bash up and chop about 10 large cloves of garlic, and mix it with a couple of tablespoon of marmalade, a tablespoon or so of honey, some salt, pepper to taste, a teaspoon of dried rosemary, and about 2 tablespoon of French mustard. At this point, let me tell you that I MAKE MY OWN MUSTARD but feel free to use any good brand available to you… you can even substitute it with kashundi which is Bengal’s answer to mustard. Now what you do is, sort of loosen the skin of the chicken from the meat around the breast and the thighs. This is a slightly tricky thing… but what you need to do is work around the cavity of the chicken, make a little cut on the skin, and then put your finger inside the hole and push it good!

Then comes the part that I love… The Bacon. I sort of put in the mixture that I made all over the chicken and give it a nice backrub. And then I cram as many slices bacon as possible inside the little pouches I made between the skin and the meat. This generally means around eight slices… but I keep around 12 in handy because after stuffing it, I put the remaining in the baking tray, beside the chicken.

The oven, meanwhile is on at 200 degrees C. I take a baking tray, smear it with A LOT OF BUTTER…(and I am saying this with a straight face, I am) around 1/3rd cup, and make the fat baby sit there with her kids around. For kids, read onions… as many possible, quartered, and (preferably) fried in some of the butter. I also put in the remaining bacon, and begin roasting.

About fifteen minutes later, I open the oven door, take out the remaining bacon gracing the sides… and nibble on them while the chicken’s being cooked.

About fifteen more minutes later, I turn my baby on its stomach, and allow him to bask in his glory. At this point I add around half a cup of rum around and over him, to make sure he tans nice.

He smells nice, too.

Then the oven is turned down to 180 degrees C and the chicken is allowed to cook till its soft and juicy and the pan is full of mostly charred onions… and the Burnt Crunchy Bits are sticking to it. Let me tell you, there is nothing more heavenly on this earth for some people to scrape out the Burnt Crunchy Bits and gobble them down. They basically rule, because you don’t know if its bacon or onion or any other goodies you get. Around 5 minutes before taking the chicken out, I sort of arrange a few cocktail sausages around the chicken and pour a lot of rum over them again to make sure they look and smell Rummy. And then I carry the whole lot out to the table and carve the chicken while everyone watches in rapt anticipation and reverence.

I cant go on like this. My Christmas dinner was basically a cocktail of drinks and medicine (oh, the hacking cough continues) followed by a massive hangover that spilled over the next day…

Yes, I sort of hate Christmas. Not for the food and friends and fun though. Just that, I still wait for some miracle to happen, when I am waiting alone in a dance floor full of gyrating people, or when I am walking alone to Park Street, or when I’m getting by with a little help from my friends.

I loved Christmas this year, though. It was made marvelous by the people around me. And it sort of brought in my view that though I can’t fight these tears from coming, I still can make it with these miraculous people around me who love me. And I can live with that.


quietlittleshything said...

haha. and i keep talking about the rum-glazed chicken to anyone who'd listen. let's do thisthing aabar :D

panu said...

yesyesyesyes. no probs whatsoever.

sandman said...

Even the North koreans don't do this to defectors.


panu said...

i will. in hell.

Dhruva said...

you're such an ossum cook <3 <3

panu said...

i am.