"I don't like curry," she said
as she used a cucumber like a snow plow
through steamed rice and ranch dressing,
ripping the edges of pita bread away
afraid they had touched the goat meat
swimming in brown gravy,
of course smothered in curry,
or so she said.
Incidentally, I love curry
it is one of my favorite blends. 

"I told you I didn't like Indian food,"
she announced with a pouty face.
"I’ve been to them before,
everyone says, they don't put curry in everything,
But they do."
And she knew before we went there
and I had to listen to her tell me so
after we left
as we made our way to the burger joint
for her second lunch,
that everything , in fact, did have curry in it.
I can still smell it on my hands and cloths.
I like it.

"One cheeseburger," I yelled into the drive through box,
"Hold the curry."
She was so cute during all of this
pouting like a little girl
who didn't want to eat that one thing
Mommy said she had to eat before dessert.
Playing in her plate, pouting and sulking.
Giving me that look of despair
hoping for the guilt to set in.
Which it did. 

And in a moment,
one of those magical moments,
a couple experiences now and again
I found myself falling in love
with a different part of her,
one I hadn't seen yet.
It strikes me as I think back
on that moment,
that we find fondness in the strangest places,
love in the most unlikely moments.
And I owe it all to curry,
that sassy blend of spice,
for seeing her that moment
in this unexpected time
where epiphany resides,
overwhelming me
with a greater love of her
and curry.