Never a solemn foodie
But i relish Kitchen
Of course next to the sanctuary
And the commode realm.
But Kitchen is Kitchen myan
This is where the makutu happens
An occult ceremony on flame.
Where the raws are rended
sundered and prepared..
groovin to the chiming rythm of cutter
As it drubs against the chopping slab
And the cadence of lohoro
As it goes thrashing the silauta
The whistle of cooker..
The scratching of grinder..
The bursting fenugreek..
Or the cracking of cumins..
Seeds and plants.
Then those discrete aromas of
Bay leaves and coriander and Garlic and ginger .and Timur. Cloves . Asafoetida..
Along the pungent whiff of kashmiri mirch
As it gravitates…
Right deep into the searing hot oil
And how the exhaust fan
Vaccums away all the miasma..
Welcome to the karahi’
For a vital creation
Where anaemic lumps turn vigorous
With just a pinch of yellow rhizome.
Or some chilli pepper.
Ohh! No thing appeases the eye..
then to ogle
the cheese melt..
the batter bubble..
As it twirls
round and round
Inside those translucent microwave.
This is where I galvanize all the senses. This is where I bend the Fire and water.the earth. This is where I ingest the colors. This is the kitchen. My recent den.