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.