I made butter chicken on the weekend for the first time ever, and it was really really good. I mean, I suddenly get why people go on about how wonderful butter chicken is. I also whipped up some delhi saag (from a CAN. You can get it in a CAN!), and relished it along with a spice-numbing brown rice while moaning in a somewhat erotic manner. I can’t stop thinking about that butter chicken. I’m obsessing about that creamy goodness that tantalizes my culinary g-spot.
You came all this way to hear me go on unintelligently about butter chicken. I know it’s disappointing, but I do have a point other than “butter chicken is gud!”
This culinary experience has led me to conclude, predictably, that I’m actually east Indian.
My mom says my newest conclusion is false, but I can’t hear her over top of the newest Bollywood streaming clips and Mohammed Rafi’s Jaan Pehechaan Ho:
(edit: I originally spelled culinary incorrectly in this post. I’m usually such a lousy cook, I can’t even spell the terms correctly. Fitting. Real fitting)