Food, drink, love and disappointment
every sunday i tell you i love you
in 1/2 a kilo of mutton
six whistles of a pressure cooker
and tender mutton curry.
indian mothers won’t tell you they love you
they’ll ask about water,
“have you had water?” “want water?” “can i get you water?” “have water, you’ll feel better,” “let me fill your bottle” “you look like you need water,” “here, drink this?”
3: from ‘A Cookbook for Fuckbois’, pg 125:
take 125 grams of unsalted butter
lay it on thick, pour a dash of rum
whisk in three compliments and
one cruel observation
let it simmer softly
slip in a “let’s just be friends”
don’t stay for dessert.
4: note on a refrigerator:
old rice makes soft pongal
rotting bananas- sweet bread
what do i do with the love we had
now that our relationship is dead?
today when i dipped a biscuit in my tea
a corner broke off and
slowly sank into its hot brown depths
which is when i thought of you
and how you once called
your floaty-soggy tea biscuit
“a tiny broken corner of pangea”
it’s been so long since you left
i’ve almost completely forgotten you
but each time a biscuit falls apart in tea
i feel a little broken too.
there were ghosts in the gosht we ate today
did you hear an old cook’s song?
taste a grandaunt’s salt and onion tears?
find sorrowful histories in the marinade?
this is a recipe from too long ago
and along with the mutton, the onions, the ginger and garlic
hundreds of years have been
dum pukht and slow cooked
into this gosht full of ghosts.