I cook my own feast

I was making mutton biriyani,with the news of the London blastbreaking on TV.

A splayed pound of mutton legwell-chopped,marinated with ginger-garlicand papaya paste,the pink flesh lacerated,death's odor cloaked with herbsand spices.

When the Philippines boiled over,I was cooking chickenin a scooped-out watermelon rind,later to remember its exotic,raw and smoky taste.

A salad of purple cabbage,for Afghanistan. Grated carrots,and pomegranate blood-beads from Kabul,a dash of lime as alwaysfrom my yards of tears.

Today, I put my signatureon neichoruwith sunset strands of saffronand no beefon a slow, simmering fire.