Fried eggs with chilli flakes folded inside,
hing frazzled in along their gilded edges,
sitting atop an unabashed biryani -
things that would never be found
in my grandmother's herringbone kitchen
make up the bulk of the fare in mine.
Thank her God, or his missionaries, for that.
My bottle of rioja is nearly empty;
her whisky decanter was always full,
no matter how many men washed down
potatoes-and-milk with its nectar.
We stand in our kitchens
scattering salt like glitter on everything
scooping from the pan with our fingers
surveying each other across the century
wondering in a language
the other doesn't know - how on earth she copes.
About the Creator
TheSpinstress
New bio in progress :)
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Comments (1)
Abstract thoughts of the past and present, such a mish mash of the young and the old.