United Kingdom
Little Parcels A slow gold burn, lamb-and-pea-filled shells all day I imagine their flakes falling from lip to plate spiced, smooth, a prayer the size of my mother’s palm their journey begins at 8am in strange kitchen light, the sky’s hangover from Sehri stretches through the window, onto the floured worktop little white stars stirred with oil and salt my mother peels the dough off her fingers, washed in time for Zuhr, a midday kneeling before it starts again set to medium heat, a marigold blooming from the hob infused with cumin and fennel, ginger, crushed coriander, chilli to taste she lines the dough with meat and builds, a careful crossing and folding before it slides into crisp heat – it’s Maghrib now, I place the aam, sliced in the shape of crescents on the dining room table, sticky date syrup and lassi in place for when my mother carries them in, sizzling slick with light grease spotted with black pepper and then we wait, and wait, for the first bite of samosa to stitch itself to tongue, to shed its pastry skin spread its curled wing, newly born, just in time for Iftar. Nabeela Saghir is an English graduate from Keele University, with a British-Pakistani background. She currently runs an online blog on all things poetry and aims to publish a short poetry collection in the next few years. https://nabsticle.com/
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STAY HOME DIARYan online archive of diary entries by Asian artists and writers, recording our lives from March to April 2020. |