Asha’s Poha: A South Indian Symphony

In the kadai, where oil from coconut beams,
Mustard seeds pop to start Ashaa’s dreams.
A symphony spicy, with cadence, it flares,
Red chilies, curry leaves thrown without cares.

Raw mango, grated, into the medley slips,
Under Ashaa’s watchful eye, it flips and dips.
Golden turmeric, methi’s grounded grace,
In the South Indian poha, they find their place.

Speckled with the pink of ancient Himalayan salt,
Each flavor in this dance, a delicate waltz.
Coconut grated, from the palm’s embrace,
Weaves in warmth, this southern space.

Poha, soft and swollen with stories to share,
Nests in the mixture with nurturing care.
Sealed with a lid to simmer slow and sure,
On flames whispered low, its essence pure.

When the moment’s ripe with aroma’s rush,
Crowned with cashews, in gentle hush.
Asha’s handiwork, from a recipe bold,
In this poha poem, her tale is told.

Bendi Bliss in Sunflower Hues

In the cool embrace of curd, rest cashews and poppy’s seeds,
While onion, ginger, garlic dance in the pan till they brown succeed.
With a sprinkle of chilli, dhaniya, and jeera so fine,
A dash of Himalayan salt in the mix—they’re prepped to grind.

Into a paste so glorious, fragrant, smooth, and lush,
Reserved aside for the moment where flavors rush.
Now, in the humble khadai with sunflower’s cold-pressed grace,
Chopped bendi descends, sizzles in its warm embrace.

Till golden and tender, the bendi does its dance—
Sprinkle haldi, jeera, and chilli in a fragrant prance.
In this lively twirl, now the gravy’s turn to pour,
With dhaniya leaves, finely chopped, adding green to the core.

My dear hubby’s gift—not roses, but herbs he plucks,
Joining the feast, each leaf a burst of luck.
Together they simmer, flurry of spices in a boil,
A savory symphony, in the pot they tenderly coil.

Flame off, and a whisper of lemon juice gleaming bright,
A final stir, a perfect harmony of taste and light.
In this vessel of flavors, where love and care blend,
A simple dish transforms, into a poem with no end.