"If
only I could cook," I sigh as I see my wizard at work. He peels a
potato, juliennes the peppers, minces the meat, chops an onion, dices a
tomato - all expertly (or maybe just regularly; I wouldn't know the
difference) - and sautées it all with garlic. He adds aamchoor to the
Chinese and a hint of soy sauce to the murg mussallam, juggling like a
joker and attacking like Shivaji my olfactory cells. He comes with a
spoonful of magic and it's mind-alteringly delicious, and he peeps into
my diary as I write this and sighs, "if only I could write."
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