I cook my own feast

I was making mutton biriyani,
with the news of the London blast
breaking on TV.

A splayed pound of mutton leg
well-chopped,
marinated with ginger-garlic
and papaya paste,
the pink flesh lacerated,
death's odor cloaked with herbs
and spices.

When the Philippines boiled over,
I was cooking chicken
in a scooped-out watermelon rind,
later to remember its exotic,
raw and smoky taste.

A salad of purple cabbage,
for Afghanistan. Grated carrots,
and pomegranate blood-beads from Kabul,
a dash of lime as always
from my yards of tears.

Today, I put my signature
on neichoru
with sunset strands of saffron
and no beef
on a slow, simmering fire.