Once again with a thought of being honest to the
marital vows taken in the bygone century I decided
to lay down a gourmet meal for the darling husband.
Discovered an ancient recipe from the archives of
the great Confucius and took out a vintage Indian
spice box chiseled out of great silver ivory tusks, handed
to me by the Roman goddess Edesia to tame wild husbands.
The box gilded with rows of turquoise peacocks mating
with peahens, embellished with golden petals of marigold,
with spice bowls placed like pawns on the board of chess.
Each spice trying to outshine the other in exotic flavors
and rich aromas. With a conniving conspiracy to satiate
the belly and in the state of intoxication of thousand opiates.
To put forward a burning desire in my bosom since I put
my promiscuous gaze on one emerald green neck-piece in the
grand Promenade on route number five, one fine spring day.
For I resisted the entire spring and summer and carefully
weighed a hour in the fall when planets were to be aligned
in my favor as prophesied by a Turkish soothsayer
I took out my slender Moroccan tagine, and lined
it with a luscious dark pressed oil glistening like sparkles
on the earthen pot and smeared it with my scheming hands
to the farthest corners possible for the spell to work.
Sauted some mellowed sweet onions, craftily sprinkled the
topaz turmeric, with julienne of aphrodisiac garlic and
blew a long kiss of exotic scarlet peppers over the tagine
To prepare a curry of a freshly butchered young lamb
still warm, acquired specially from the northern highlands,
reared and slaughtered only for the special occasions like this.
Adorning the garb of a regal chef, I simmered and simmered
for hours till the juicy flesh fell of the fragile white bones,
while engaging in brown study of all that I can extract from the
hapless man in the state of profound ecstasy.
I laid my plan meticulously in the hibiscus laden English bowls while
weaving a devilish plot, wore a plunging lace blouse with the help
of pygmy elf of seduction to give a little sneak- peak of the cascading
waterfall between the two splendid alps, and clamped lips for a pout.
Threw an oomph in the curry along with the strands of aromatic
Kashmiri saffron and laughed at the marvel of my own success,
while patiently waiting for the door-bell to ring and my unarmed
knight to arrive to begin with secret culinary seduction.
