Reading a great poem feels effortless.

No trace of the toil and struggle the writer endured bringing the piece

into the light.

So with food, a great meal lingers. A great dish

fills you with satisfaction, eclipsing the effort put in. No trace of the chopping, stirring, seasoning, just the finished feast.

When I made this dal (my first venture into Indian cooking), I thought of poetry.

I thought of the process. Of stitching together a poem the way I stirred the lentils.