Each spice has a special day to it. For turmeric it is Sunday, when light drips fat and butter-colored into the bins to be soaked up glowing, when you pray to the nine planets for love and luck.

I walk out of the room, lurching under the weight of the lesson I've learned less than one hour into wifehood: How quickly the sweetest love turns rancid when it isn't returned. When the one you love loves someone else.

Expectations are like hidden rocks in your path , All they do is trip you up

The dream is not a drug but a way. Listen to where it can take you.

Fenugreek, Tuesday's spice, when the air is green like mosses after rain.

Monday is the day of silence, day of the whole white mung bean, which is sacred to the moon.

That's how it is sometimes when we plunge into the depths of our lives. No one can accompany us, not even those who would give up their hearts for our happiness.