Mixing, kneading has already been dusted.
My weekend beauty sleep has been busted.
That occasional clank of the pan with
the soft rattling rolling-pin.
A warm doughy waft invites me in.

The flour and oil, rolled into a ball so tender.
A Phulka, a Paratha, a ghee laden Puran poli, I wonder.
I enter nonchalantly and say,”What’s cooking?”
Shrinking well below three feet when she says, ” Tuck-in my darling!”.