When the OTG Betrayed My Mutton Curry Dreams

When the OTG Betrayed My Mutton Curry Dreams

Cooking, they say, is an art. But sometimes, it feels more like a cruel prank played by the culinary gods. My most unforgettable kitchen catastrophe was not a mere burnt toast or a collapsed cake—it was the day my ambitious mutton curry met its epic Waterloo in the OTG.

It all began with lofty aspirations. I had envisioned myself serving a regal dish, one that would carry the aroma of spices, the tenderness of slow-cooked mutton, and the pride of a self-proclaimed master chef. Instead, what emerged from my Oven-Toaster-Griller (OTG) could only be described as the tragic love-child of rubber and charcoal.

The preparation started well enough. I lovingly marinated the mutton overnight, as if it were a pampered guest at a five-star resort. Into the OTG it went, with my naïve confidence soaring high. I imagined the applause of diners, the appreciative nods, and perhaps even whispers of “move over, Gordon Ramsay.”

But alas, my dreams were roasted before the meat ever was.

The OTG, which I had treated like a benevolent partner in crime, turned rogue. The mutton, instead of simmering gracefully in its spiced bath, seemed to wage war against the appliance. Hours went by, and the meat neither softened nor surrendered. Instead, it grew tougher, like a gladiator refusing to bow. The curry base dried up into an unrecognisable paste, and the once-proud chunks of mutton resembled meteorites freshly plucked from a volcano.

By the time I lifted the lid of doom, the smell that greeted me was less of “mouth-watering aroma” and more of “kitchen crime scene.” The curry clung to the sides of the dish like a stubborn tenant refusing eviction. A spoon refused to go in, a fork refused to come out, and a knife bent in sheer protest.

In desperation, I tried to taste a piece. Reader, it was an act of bravery fit for epics. My jaw exercised more than a marathon runner’s legs, and after prolonged struggle, I gave up, fearing dental insurance might not cover this level of foolishness.

Friends who heard of this fiasco laughed so hard that I was unofficially crowned “the Shakespeare of kitchen tragedies.” My pride was singed, my curry incinerated, and my OTG sat smugly on the counter as though mocking my misery.

From that day, I learnt a golden rule: some dishes demand the slow caress of a stovetop or the dignity of a pressure cooker. Mutton curry, in particular, is not a gladiator to be thrown into the arena of an OTG.

Still, I console myself with a thought: every great chef has their disaster stories. Mine just happened to be written in the fiery script of burnt curry.

As the proverb goes, “Too many cooks spoil the broth”—but in my case, it took only one enthusiastic fool and one treacherous OTG.