Skip to main content

Men can cook: Egg Burji or whatever floats your boat

You don't cook the egg burji. The egg burji cooks itself.
- Someone who's not me

Egg burji is what you get when you try to make an omlet, but you lack the dexterity to flip semi cooked eggs, and break it. Ok, that joke is done to death, buried, resurrected and buried again. That's only because it's true. So, it's best to skip the being careful part and jump right into the sloppy, careless fuckery that results in a glorious mouth orgasm. An egggasm.

Egg burjji is essentially desi scrambled egg. Like all other egg recipes, there are a million ways you can cook the burji. The egg is the only main ingredient. The rest are just filler stuff. So,

Eliminate.

Experiment.

Enjoy.  

Gordon Ramsy has an interesting way to make good scrambled eggs. (link here) Watch that. Now, we'll do the exact opposite of  what the Michelin star chef made, in order to make the perfect sides for beer/ rice- sambhar/ chappati/ egg sandwich etc.

Viva la eggalusion!

Chop a medium sized onion. Small cubes/ large cubes, whatever floats your boat.
Chop up a medium sized tomato. Small cubes/ large cubes, whatever floats your boat.
Get some pepper powder/ chilly powder (or both), a pinch of salt, some tumeric powder.
2-3 eggs are recommended.

I would also recommend finely chopping green chillies, but you might just cut your finger and cry like a bitch. Then you'd associate egg burji with pain and crying, and begin to resent it. Or you might crave egg burji every time you cry, I guess. I am not sure how Pavalov's classical conditioning works. (N.B- That "bitch" earlier in the paragraph was not a set up for the Pavalov's conditioning here. It was accidental)

Place wok on medium to high flame. Add a table spoon of oil. Bring to heat. If the wok begins to smoke, get it off the flame, away from your face, and give it a firm talking about the ill effects of smoking. Once you are done, place it back on the flame.

Add the onions and fry until golden brown. Or until it does not burn. Add tomatoes. Fry it a bit. If you have chopped chillies this would be a good time to put them in. A couple of minutes later, add a pinch of tumeric, half a tea spoon of pepper powder, half a tea spoon of chilli powder (or more if you like your egg burji like I like my porno) and a tea spoon of salt. Mix well, let it cook for a few seconds.

Crack the eggs and add them in. Throw away the egg shells. Take a fork and beat the eggs until it froths a bit. Mix the egg and the masala mixture well. By now the mixture should have started to cook. Reduce the flame, and cover the wok with a plate.

Wait a couple of minutes.

Open the plate. The egg should have risen. It might look like a cake. Take the afore mentioned fork, and scramble the fluffy egg. Turn off heat and continue to scramble till it breaks apart like like logic in Rohit Shetty's movies. Or not so much. Whatever floats your boat.

You can eat it as it is, like a cave man. Or you can be more civilized and garnish it with some chopped coriander leaves before consumption. What ever... yeah, that's not working anymore. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Peter Principle and the (Middle) Managerial Trap

If you are in any managerial position (thanks to promotions) and this is the first time you’re hearing of the Peter Principle, then you are already a lost cause.  Close this tab and go back to scrolling Instagram reels. Bye-bye. According to Wikipedia (remember that old relic, before ChatGPT became the de facto encyclopedia? Remember encyclopedia? Never mind). According to Wikipedia, the Peter Principle “observes that people in a hierarchy tend to rise to 'a level of respective incompetence’”, which means your promotions are based on how good you are at your current role. You continue to rise the rungs of corporate till you reach a position where you, and you will, suck at your job. At some point in your career, you will end up rotting away at a level you are least competent at; some place where you barely scrape by, unsure of where you’re faltering because the barometer for quality is hidden behind a thick veil of your own incompetence. Hence, the burnout.  And the desperate ...

Clubhouse. CoWin. China.

If you feel an odd sense of deja vu while reading this piece, then you've spent too much time switching between Facebook and Clubhouse. Unless you've been living underground or in a home with ACT broadband, you know what Clubhouse is - it is where many people can have their Mann ki Baat at once. And Facebook has turned into a platform to critique, analyse and make fun of discussions that happen on Clubouse. Congrats Clubhouse, you just replaced the Indian Government, at least as far as Facebook discourses go. Clubhouse is more or less an impulsive, live podcast session - an open space where everyone is made to feel like Joe Rogan. But no one talks about DMT or shaved gorillas or MMA or shaved gorillas doing MMA while on DMT. But it always does sound like everyone is on something stronger than the devil's lettuce. Maybe you need that to hear your own thoughts over the din of uncomprehensive ramblings and mouth-breathing noises. Speaking of noises, Saudi Arabia restricted the...

The Shadow of a Dead Hound

I was at my desk trying very hard to not pass out from the sweltering Bangalore summer heat when trouble came knocking at my door. She was wearing a wide brimmed hat and a pair of big sunglasses, which obscured her face just as much as the long, black woollen poncho obscured her figure. Just looking at her made me sweat a little more. "I need you to find a man." she said in a thick, raspy voice. She was no stranger to whiskey and cigarettes. "The marriage bureau is in the next road, lady" I said, knowing very well what she meant. But it's not every day that a poor, private dick gets to chat up a pretty lass. I wanted to make this last as long as possible. "Please mister, this is no time for jokes." she said, nervousness slipping past her sandpapery voice. Maybe it was the way she said it, but I immediately cut the crap and up straight. "Does this man have a name?" She fished out a glossy eight by ten from her purse and slid it acro...