Jeweled Khussas are Burning

What, you wonder, makes me the "Basmati Hottie"? I thought you would never ask!

The first part, Basmati, is a given for anyone who is even slightly aware of Middle Eastern and Asian culture. Every meal I prepare comes with cumin scented basmati rice, an aromatic long grain rice renowned for it's delicate flavor and soft texture. I have basmati rice on the table every night, even when I am serving some of my mother's family-famous Bavarian recipes.

The second part, Hottie, is a little more involved. It all started when my husband and I were married a few short weeks. We had just returned to our apartment after marrying and honeymooning abroad. Being a newlywed, and vigorously inspired by my very cuisine savvy in-laws, I wanted to impress my husband with a beautiful Mughlai dinner. I had worked all day and my husband was returning from classes at the nearby University, so I ran down to the Persian grocer and grabbed all the implements required for kofta salan, a deliciously spiced meatball curry.

Multi-tasking my way around our tiny kitchen, my husband bounded through the door with eyes large and mouth watering in anticipation at the glorious concoction bubbling away on the stove top. As I rushed to greet him, the look on his face went from excited anticipation to pale terror. "What?!", I thought out loud. Did the raita look to milky? Was the naan cooling to quickly on the carefully prepared table? What could it be? Then "it" hit me, or rather "it" hit my nose... fire! Something was burning on the stove behind me! Whirling around, to my horror, I saw that a corner of the towel used for catching the steam on my simmering pot of basmati rice had fallen loose from it's bundle and was dancing in the open flame of the gas burner. "Oh my G-O-D", I screamed as I twisted forward and grabbed a yet untouched portion of the towel.

Throwing it to the floor, I stomped at the flame that was quickly engulfing the delicate flour sack. Stomp, stomp, stomping away, I thought I had it licked until my beautifully jeweled khussa also started smoldering. With eyes tearing and arms flapping, it all came to a swift and sudden end with a firm "cla-PLOD" from my husband's size 11 sneaker. So yes, the fire was out but so was the tiny pinkie-toe tucked into said delicately beaded slipper.

We managed through the dinner; the kofta was almost as good as his second cousin's youngest daughters interpretation, and she's 11. I think that my husband actually enjoyed telling and re-telling the story to every member of his extended family more then the meal itself. Out of this humbling experience, the Basmati Hottie was born. Not as glamorous as you originally thought, huh?