My father was a great cook. He belonged to an era when culinary skills were cultivated and elevated to a fine art. We as children looked forward to the special days when he donned the apron and entered the kitchen or (more appropriately), when the chullha was lit in the verandah and the degchis were brought out in our ancestral home where we lived as a joint family. His rich repertoire consisted of murg mussalam, galawati kebabs, mutton korma , koftas and of course, Yakhani Pulao. We buzzed around him in excitement and ran to do small errands for him. The ingredients were chopped, sometimes coarsely, sometimes fine, sometimes to a thin paste as we stood around in deep awe and fascination watching a painter mix colours on the palette and then put the first strokes on the canvass. Very soon tempting fragrances would rise and waft around the entire house activating our saliva glands.

Many years later when we grew up and set up our own homes, my brothers and i would exchange notes on how papa made some of those very special dishes. Of couse, we never came even close to his standards...but even then, many who have tasted even a very watered down version of papa's favourite dishes have gone into raptures of appreciation.

Yakhani Pulao was a special favourite of mine so i will describe here how papa made it.

I could never ask papa what portion of the mutton is the most suitable for biryani, but my guess is that it is the upper shoulder region where the meat is more tender compared with the "ran" (hind legs) region where the meat is more fibrous.

After the meat is chopped into 3-4 inch pieces, it is to be washed and put aside. Papa would heat some ghee in a degchi and put tej patta (bay leaves) and whole garam masala such as cardomoms, pepper, clove, cinamon, nutmeg powder, zeera, chilles, etc. Chopped onions and garlic paste would then be mixed along with meat pieces. The degchi was then covered and the mutton left to simmer on slow heat for 1.5 hours or so. The idea was that the meat should cook in its own juices.

While the meat was being cooked papa would cook basmati rice in salt water. The rice had to be removed from fire when still slightly uncooked. This would be called "ek kinki ka chawal". This literally meant that the core of the rice should remain uncooked.

When the mutton was almost done, which meant it had become tender but the juices were still there, papa would cover the meat with rice, put kewra jal, saffron with milk, jawitri, etc. and put very little water. The degchi was then sealed. Sealing of the degchi was an interesting excercise. Papa would roll dough into the shape of a snake and then use this to seal the lid over the degchi. The idea was that as the yakhni or the mutton juice rose as a result of something akin to capillary action it would cook the ek kinki ka chawal / rice and thus also impart all the flavours of the yakkhni and the masalas to it.

There were places where the seal would be breached when the vapours were formed. It was this fragrance of the yakkhani pulao that whetted our appetites and we could hardly wait for the seal to be broken and the pulao to be served.

A "parat" or a big hollow dish was brought out when the pulao was ready. Papa would slice through the layer of rice and mutton vertically to ensure that there was a fair proportion of meat to the rice and the yakkhni was uniformly distributed.

Though i have become a vegetarian now, i have yet to forget the taste of yakkhani pulao from my childhood.