It Poem by Thomas Case

I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined spices like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled foreign and exotic;
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around
the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called nann was dipped
in the stew. it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine, smiles, laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandori chicken smells
like a TV dinner.