My object is biryani. A Dish of no boundaries. Able to feed people around the number 30. Out early, around 3pm cant wait for tender, filling and oh-so-delicious chicken. Waiting profound unease, being very hungry. It makes the lone wolf patiently waiting to eat its prey, not wasting nor letting it decay. Feeling like I want cake, taking three hours to make, it can be great if spice isn't upon the list of things you hate. As mom pours the rice boiling in a water crate, cooking the chicken to a proper state, letting it get to a solid golden, not molten. Letting it rest but not to the point where its olden. nor frozen. Then she takes a pot that's hot filled with smoke and fog as she's pouring the rice into the pot and pouring all that chicken in then adding more rice. Letting it sit and cook to immortality. Then pour a serving, grab a coke wish a good feast and pig out. Having a beach party with the sweet waves of the ocean, the hot flavors of the sun and the night life feeling of the fresh home-cooked dish I call home that is biryani.

– Daud Razaq

Relationship:  Im/migrant Im/migrant