An homage to my mother’s kitchen

Usually when someone asks me a question about my favorite “something,” it takes me a second to think about it before I can answer. My favorite animal, my favorite class, my favorite drink? Shoot, I don’t know, you’re going to have to give me a second. But ask me what’s my favorite food, I’ll answer before you even finish your sentence.

Hyderabadi chicken dum biryani; spicy chicken layered with fluffy rice and fried onions, slow cooked over low heat, melting the flavors together. The seasonings and marinade from the chicken soak into the rice, which is also topped with a saffron mixture — flavor on flavor on flavor. What makes this cooking technique different from others is the fact that once you put the lid on, you can’t take it off until it’s done cooking. It’s truly a skill; I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s one of my missions in life to perfect this dum (pronounced like duhm, with a “th” sound, rhyming with plum) technique for cooking. Traditionally, this dish is made in a clay pot and sealed with a layer of dough, however, this step isn’t something I grew up with but is something seen in resturaunts.

Now, I may be slightly biased, but my mom makes the best biryani in the entire world. If making biryani was an art, my mom would be Picasso. We’ve had family and friends travel decently long distances just to eat some of Suchi’s biryani. My mom has even catered events — she really is just that good. She makes her own seasoning blend, unlike any other biryani masalas I’ve ever tried.

Biryani is a labor of love. It’s an extensive process that is incredibly worth it, resulting in a warm, decadent meal often served at special occasions. My mom swears biryani is the easiest thing to learn how to cook, and you know what, I really wish that were the case. They say practice makes perfect. Hopefully that applies to making biryani.

Growing up, this was my dad’s favorite food and my mom’s favorite recipe, leading to weekly gatherings of family and friends centered around a big pot of biryani. I remember Friday afternoons at the butcher, then coming home where my dad would clean the chicken and my mom would begin the marination. I watched as she poured in the masalas, measuring with her heart. The next night, I watched as she fried onions and layered the meat and rice. Thirty minutes later, our home would be full of family and the smell of cardamom. Watching everyone gather around the massive pot, eating to their hearts’ content, laughing and conversing, I would sleep with a full stomach and a full heart.

Biryani was never just chicken and rice. It was a physical manifestation of my parents’ teamwork and love for each other. My dad cleaned the raw chicken because he knew how my mom hated it, and my mom would always adjust her recipe to my dad’s liking and current spice tolerance. Each pot was a symbol of community. Despite Hyderabad being 8,000 miles and two oceans away, Saturday nights always felt like a glimpse of India, like a small taste of home, as we ate and cheersed mango juice and beer. 

Now, in my Isla Vista kitchen, I’ve learned my mom’s recipe and have made it a few times. While it never does her recipe justice, I’ll invite my friends over for biryani and as I step back and see them sitting around my living room, eating and laughing, I see my past meeting my future over a pot of chicken and rice.

I swear, I’ll have a recipe coming soon but unfortunately, this editor has not nearly perfected her biryani masala or technique and needs to call her mom ASAP. Hey Amma, if you’re reading this, I miss you and I love you. Also, can you please make me some of your masala next time I’m home?