The Great Basmati Debacle of 2014

It all went south after the soaking. 

On Sundays, hubby is in charge of dinner.  Here's how it works:
"See you at 6:30," I say, as I exit gracefully into the garage.
"Have fun.  Don't overdo it," he says, lovingly.
For some reason, hubby thinks I'm going to over-dance myself into a frenzy of pulled muscles.  Why does he think that?  Just because I sometimes return with a noticeable limp?  In any event, off I go to dance my cares away, while he ruminates over dinner.  Last night, I return to the smoky scent of grilled salmon and the curious case of the Basmati Debacle.
"I eff'd up with the Basmati," hubby tells me.
I peer into the pot and find a big mush pile of rice.
"What happened here, my love?"
"I don't know.  I followed the instructions."
"Really?"
"Yes.  I soaked the rice, I did everything right."
"I'm sure you did."
Enter the almost-done-with-college son, enjoying his last few weeks of freedom. "I'm not eating that."
"I followed the instructions," hubby says.
"Maybe the rice is defective," I say.  "But let's never speak of this again."
"Unless you blog about it."
"Well, there's always that possibility."