My eyes are stinging
And my nose smarts
From the sensory attack
That is the annual chutney cook-in.
The fruit soaks up the spices in vinegar
Swelling with proud absorption,
The spoon stirs until leaving a trail,
Standing in the rich, dark pool of preserve.
Hot jars await the plasma ,
Rubber seals close down the smell,
Weeks of virtuous patience are
Rewarded with palatable satisfaction.