I'm a teacher, an instructor,
but I can't instruct my wife.
God love her, I love her,
but as for teaching,
well, I'm her husband.
She's usually the one instructing me.
I told her, one night, and another, and another,
on course nights, please don't cook,
please just be with the children,
relax, watch TV, call a friend,
let me order a pizza for us all.
Above all, most importantly, don't cook.
You see, when Indians cook, they cook.
They cut, they grind, they fry, they stir, they mix,
and then the cooking starts.
This is not food you pop in a microwave oven,
or heat up in a pan on the stove.
This, you see, is real, good, wife cooked food.
Tonight, course night, the smell entices me,
mutton, frying onions, garam masala.
So lost in a poem, and thoughts of dinner later,
I failed to notice two sets of naked legs, and naked arms
walk up to my chair, ready for their bath.
I could hear the sound of the grinder in the kitchen.
I could smell the roasting meat, and stewing potatoes.
I could see the end of poetry, for now, at least.
My wife just spoke to me a moment ago.
Pizza, it seems, will be a good idea next week.