well, if you look up a recipe from a page like bawarchi, it has to be good.

aside making the chapatis,
the turmeric infused rice,
and the kashmiri chilly curry
(oh **** me, bring
the cuisine, curries are great
contenders of the goulash...
ha ha... goulash in a gulag:
possibly a great title for
a book... that will never be
written)...
there was this little curiosity
to add on today's menu...
i realised that:
   i've never used mint in a curry
recipe...
luckily i have a lovely beu of
a mint "shrub" in the garden:
why?
   well, the people i'm living
with love their mojitos...
so there is was, staring back
at me: mint chicken curry...
i've never used so little spices
in all the curries i've made...
plus, i do like my peshwari naans...
all it took was mint (which you
rarely see)... fresh coriander...
a quarter inch of cinnamon,
    three legs of a star anise
  a bay leaf, and some chilli powder...
evidently blitzed into a paste
with some water...
   but **** me... turmeric?
(i had to add it in the end) -
cardamon pods? cloves?
        the rest of the jazz band?
but you know what...
         it didn't matter,
         it came out in the end,
pretty as a *paul gaugin -
weird radioactive green at first,
then, over a period, a nice pale
vindaloo brown... who would have
thought: mint, cinnamon, coriander...
i guess the anise too...
but that's beside the point,
as the title suggests...
this really is: a culinary conundrum
for me...
    you know how when you
cook an italian dish,
  you can still pick up the texture of
diced onions?
   well... when making a curry...
the onions? "magically" disappear...
every, single, curry, i've made
has the ability to: literally dissolve
the onions, so the diced onion tecture
apparent in italian dishes: vanishes!
into thin air! well, more like vanishes
into: a rich sauce.
how? good question: i, don't, know.

p.s. i can't believe i sat for two hours
worth of film,
   watching clive owen be this model
father, carpenter and even a car mechanic,
looking for this missing tool-box,
which was stolen, from his truck...
i mean some people started looking
for the holy grail, the ark of the covenant,
no, this was just a movie about
a man on a mission: to find his missing tools...
hollywood can really provide some
funny-eerie movies sometimes,
   this was one of them; which brings
me to:

p.p.s. i really don't know how to write
poetry -
   i'm stuck wavering on the thin line
between mushy-mushy ooh la la love
me tender, my love's so perfect
or the macho stuff...
          i like neither, it's easy to make
a clear enough distinction,
but harder to write a down-the-middle
types...
       i mean: the guy is a carpenter,
and he can fix a car...
     what do i have to offer,
        a few words on a **** of paper -
mind you, i do get to retain a laugh about it,
but the manual aspect of labour is very much
   the most masculine command of the world...
this? incy-wincy spider labour,
  itchy fingers,
  more importantly: an itchy ego -
can't scratch it, like i might scratch
my head my *** or my *****...
     hence the translation into writing;
jealous? a little bit...
            i mean... try justifying writing
"poetry" when you could have been
    an understudy for the profession of industrial
scale roofing with your father...
  but i have to admit,
   that scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's?
               a **** fine summer that was,
even though rolls of felt weight around 40kg...
and bags of gravel a nice 25kg,
    and doughnuts of permaquic around 30kg...
and the heat from the boiler...
   and the annoying finishing touches of
laying insulation...
     but a **** great site...
   and the rewards of a shade, and a bottle
of water, and a sandwich...
        and the cigarettes...
                 i still believe the motto
   arbeit macht frei -
              you are able to forget, stop thinking,
automate yourself to perfection
  within a certain skills criterium -
        apparently mine translated into a fluidity
of language (plus the itchy ego,
that i keep scratching / writing about) -
oh no, i don't mean that phrase in the ****
sense of doing pointless tasks...
translate that into the world outside that
very bad joke...
          even the russians with their gulags
made work authentic,
   i guess they were, or maybe that documentary
on the black eagle penal colony
was fake? i'm guessing the failings of that
statement in its original zeitgeist context
translates into: never under-estimate
the power of arbeit - lounging on a beach
and getting a suntan never provides
   the same sort of mental labyrinth,
                counter to a day's worth of
                          "menial" exertion.