behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.

and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.

oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.

what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.

'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'

Pots, pans and plates
Pots, pans

And the larder
A ghost house
Trembling

The larder
Stocked with oats and rice
Pots

And when it is time to cook
And then the gas stove is lit for
A feast

Pots, pans and plates
- Rows of jars line
The windowsill

Preserves, chutneys, jams
Preserves, chutneys
- and mango atchar

That reminds me
Of India
Oh! Lord Gandhi!

Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day

Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great

So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'

So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast

First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired

Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good

In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother

But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish

Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend

But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'

This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake

So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'

The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'

When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat

So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make

So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess

So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'

But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way

In a corner of splendid Somerset,
Off Junction 22 M5,
Is a fantastic foodfest,
Where gourmands will feel alive.
There are the finest morsels known to man,
And loads of nibbles free,
Cheese and ale and honey for sale,
From our local bumble bee.
You can saunter undercover,
Taste beef that melts in the mouth,
Take a speedy lesson from a chef,
Try all the best foods from the South.
Have your pic taken with a tractor,
Sample olives, chutneys, beers!
Spend a pound or two, come enjoy the sea view,
And wish them many successful years.

Transfixing mushrooms wide
into soil where it spreads like jelly
congealed of teary elephant trunks,
where upon raves of reviewing waves
widened with staves of sonic craze,
like spores into you, like you!

Across Africa, truly truly –
not one country. All through chutneys,
it is poetry and Aphrodite’s ivories
where blood drowns in Lake Loch’s
scabs of **** of Ella’s contrast
back into square dancing acts
and somehow, somehow –
esta no es mi lengua
why did you ever come out?

Crumbling inwards as in space,
individual supernovae, quite a chase
I do hope Woodrow dies a boy.

The roses are doing wonderfully well.

Nothing and everything grows
it's like watching a magic show

as the sun appears the waterlily rears
up and blooms
the orange tree, and funnily enough it's still a brown sort of a tree and not orange at all
I digress
the orange tree is in rude health along with the apple, the fig , the peach and the plum, the time will soon come for chutneys and preserves to be put into kilners for the winter months., that's if I don't scoff the lot first.

Vada-Paav, in Aamchi Mumbai, or Maharashtra entire, is definitely the most popular inexpensive dish.

But according to the circumstances that prevail here at  Bombay, been it should have Bhel-puri, I do wish.

There are Maharashtrians, Gujjus, South Indians, Sikhs, Bongs etc. and us Parsis, though very miniscule  

Similarly Bhel has sev, mamra, chevda, puris, onions, potatoes, coriander, chillies, chutneys, you can add more, there is no rule

Just like the ingredients of Bhel, the population mingles, mixes, blends, whatever you can call it,  to be called Bombayites

But but but!!! wait and watch, when they board a suburban local train, just watch their many big & small fights.

To see the Bhel Puri, in this city cosmopolitan, encounter you have to the fisher folk, giving "shivya, our popular Maushi baai"

In our Bhel-Puri population, there are Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jews, Parsis; but in Bombay they are lovingly addressed, Bhau n Taai.

Hope you liked my BHEL-PURI, please do taste and comment.

Armin Dutia Motashaw