It blooms
in the steam,
white and velvety.
What makes it unique
is its shape and taste. True
culinary art is created in the heart.
Ajinomoto is never sprinkled for a harmful
delight. The old purity prevails in the batter of rice,
black gram, fenugreek, and salt, challenging time. The
idli brings a hamlet into the limelight. Like a ballad, its recipe
and cuisine have been passed down. I goggle at it before gobbling.
No gripe. Eupeptic. My fatigue does vanish in the relish. It’s not the
painted wall, but the warm air and the delicious dish that linger in my soul.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
Categories:
ajinomoto, food,
Form: Free verse
What ponderous rouge of Titian red,
Creations juiciest from an earthen bed.
From royal king to drunken red head,
The one fruit you truly never could shred.
Piquant and sour the need of the hour,
Without your ketchup? left partly fed.
Sometimes, well blanched and made into puree,
Enjoyed by both, the judge and the jury.
Stuffed with mincemeat or well mashed potato,
A good thick soup laced with ajinomoto.
The seeds could leave you petrified,
Some kidney stones well calcified.
With all his tangy and acrid ways,
Still finding his way onto salad trays
- Prince Freakasso(Artist & Poet)
Categories:
ajinomoto, food
Form: Light Verse