I dump the  powder into the pot and slip into the past…back to fifth grade and Miss Vanderlaan’s turtleneck sweaters in that same yellow-grey shade. A pungent smell—maybe garlic, maybe cumin—calls me back to the present and I shove the empty ziplock into the bear barrel.

Something black plummets into the pot. I bend forward through the smoky darkness and try to scoop it out, but the sparks fend me off. Probably a twig. Maybe a spider? Just then a freight train rumbles through my intestines, obliterating all traces of arachnophobia, and I stir the stew, intruder and all, at double speed.

Photo courtesy of Angela Domini via flickr.com

Mugs loaded, I maneuver my backside between the branches of a fallen tree. I juggle the hot mug between city-sensitive fingers, pausing at intervals to land a spoonful of stew in my mouth. Steam billows out as I pant off the heat. The nerves in my fingers and tongue yelp in protest, but my empty stomach runs the show.

With that first spoonful, some yellow powder latches onto a taste bud and, suddenly, a Jackson Pollock painting fills my vision. Globs of neon drip and dazzle my senses. I swallow and the mirage dissipates.

A second spoonful settles onto my palate and, suddenly, I race down Las Vegas Boulevard in a red convertible. A million fluorescent lights blink and swirl and mesmerize me. I swallow and the vision dims.

A third mouthful unleashes fifty sari’s in pinks and yellows and reds. Gold embroidery flashes as they swirl and bounce around me. Bolllywood music blares.

I had met Curry. 

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