Poem: A mother and daughter on Cooking

Taken in an Italian restaurant yesterday in Farringdon. The red and the yellow in the tray was almost Desi. Thanks Gi-Ve – for Lunch and Conversation.

Her mother writes:
I let deep sighs into my
womb, when your husband’s
mother complained that
his belly had sunk in. Are
you not feeding him right?

You were always reluctant,
to cook. You complained.
Red Chillies make you sneeze,
and salt burns the cut on
your fingers. Dear Girl, did I

Not teach you to pour
your soul onto the frying pan,
to steam your love and serve
it in tiffin boxes? That all
that work in the kitchen will

Also make you beautiful. The
steam cleanses your pores, and
the oil softens the hands. Besides,
the way to a man’s heart,
winds through his stomach.

She writes:
Dear stir-fried mother, do not
believe a word of what she
tells you. This man, his belly
has become so round, that
when we make love, our faces

Don’t even touch. Besides,
on our wedding night, he said
that his heart was in my
palm. If I squeeze the tamarind
in water, I risk it slipping within.

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0 Responses to Poem: A mother and daughter on Cooking

  1. ?! says:

    You shoulda had the sojji bajji pen paarkings. Then you woulda learnt to cook well.

    Oh well, you learnt poetry instead. And cut his heart out!


  2. Bala says:

    Thats a great piece of thinking,
    “nicely cooked thoughts”


  3. Dear stir-fried mother



  4. shoefiend says:

    This will be on my favourite list for a very long time. Lovely


  5. Zz says:

    Well done.

    Spiced just right.



  6. nandita says:

    Beautiful! Loved each word…