That familiar odour paraded my nostrills,
Sending through me a craving of no ease,
A craving tending to rip my stomach out,
A craving threatening to drive me crazy,
For walking by could not happen,
The odour not only pricked pangs of hunger,
But also left me running out of spatter.

Down sat my lovely grandmother,
On the three-legged stool bought by father,
On a closer look by a passer-by,
One could see how occupied she is,
Trying to make the delicacy we all knew of,
The one that...