“OJ Mami,” he says with all the breathlessness of a critical revelation, “milk has 2 names: last name Du and first name Du.”
And with that, my 4-year-old nephew gulps down his glass of cocoa.
(Yes, yes, I only married the Boy for his genetic material, so sue me.)
First,
pour the milk,
frothy and warm.
Watch its
whiteness bubble to
hug the sides of the cup.
Scatter strands of saffron, red
flotillas of poetry, they seep
into verses by Rumi and Hafez.
Slip in the almonds, soft, blanched,
they descend to the bottom and
strengthen the brew.
Next,
sprinkle sugar, top it off with
cardamom, a splash of
vanilla, then gently stir.
Let sit the
quietness, the comfort, the
potion;
it awaits its
recipient,
eager to serve.
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi