Santa Inês gay hook up near taunton Over the last couple of weeks, I have been totally uninspired, both in the kitchen and on this blog of mine. I wanted to be productive and was hugely disturbed that I wasn’t. A few possibilities crawled hesitatingly into mind evoking memories of Ted Hughes and his ‘thought-fox’, but no amount of coaxing, willing, or compelling produced any results. But then, I am no Hughes, am I? Did I lack motivation? Perhaps, but I was also caught up with a few other tasks one of which was contributing to a new Facebook page that had come up to promote talent: ironically, writing was one form of expression that was being encouraged and I was advancing its cause. Another reason was my shameless obsession with The Shannara Chronicles. It was, therefore, no wonder that the page and the pot remained blank and mundane, respectively. And then my muse, the lady across the street, the vadavam pork curry friend and the angel who rescued us from the intimidating coterie of medical practitioners on the birth of our lockdown baby, arrived in my home with a sample of her beef pickle. Anything from her kitchen is destined to be flavoursome and this did not disappoint, either. Recipe procurred, I set about making my own supply the next day. Just looking at the end result had the rest at home unashamedly drooling and asking “Can I taste, please?” To Christina Doss Sandou, a former boulevard Pondicherrian like myself, thank you for constantly reliving the past through your food and conversation that hopefully might one day be more than just a blog from an uninspired writer.