Food

I’m in the throes of a one-sided love affair the spouse heartily approves of. Before this opening sentence leads to

A bag sits on my kitchen table. Inside are neat parcels of gnarled roots and dry leaves, stars and tiny

That white house lived under blue skies and its best friend was a pretty nellikai tree. It nestled by the

Nellikai. Tiny awla. Amla. Gooseberries. Starberries. Mouth-puckering sourness. The last time I ate one was forty years ago. We lived

I was all cooked out this afternoon when I lay down for a nap. It was a long weekend off

The seventeen year old begs for deep fried potato thingies. It’s ten thirty at night. The potato blobs are out

It always seems to start with khichdi. I freely admit to a slight obsession with this simple yet delicious blend

I wish I were a disciplined cook, or unimaginative or even both. I’d have a timetable on my fridge door

Imagine a house, all white, inside and out, perched in a shady garden. White walls, white swing, furniture painted white,

Brun pao, fresh and crusty, lavished with butter and honey to accompany a steaming hot cup of chai. Or batasa