Unpacking the Indian food is part of Tamalehawk's enjoyment: a flurry of curries splayed on the table, restrained in containers in a display so lively it could rival a box a crayons. He immediately cracks open a samosa to prospect for fleeing peas to feed a squawking Babyhawk.
After all the foil is uncoiled and lids dismissed, there's a symphony of spooning and spilling, dunking and dripping until he is nearly paralyzed from the abdomen up by a rising spicy beatitude, his diurnal yearnings once again adjourned and fomenting nomenclature on the tractate.
No comments:
Post a Comment