the saffron for the eggplants dip

"Just take it, I won't use it", my neighbour had said a few months ago, of the tiny jewel-like tin box she had received from an iranian friend. I took it, invited her to the lemony chicken I made with it, but a few strands were left. So into the dip they went, wispy pleasure of sight, smell and taste, real treasure of the senses. Harvest of the dawn. From a poetic people tossed about, and now bombed, by men who couldn't care less about crocuses.

calendário pragmatico até ao fim

de março e de macau