Brazen wisps of tandoori chicken snake sinously from the oven to duel with the tangy sassiness of makhani sauce on the stove. They will marry soon, overcoming the quarrels and barriers that have separated them so long, combining their finest qualities. Dressed in their wedding garb of carmine, like all good Indian brides, they will unite to the trumpet call of bubbling ghee.
The wedding guests assemble. Cardamom wearing its thick white coat, and mace in its lacy finery holding the hands of their adopted garlic clove offspring, are first to arrive. Handsome, arrogant juliennes of emerald clad chilli, and ginger in her lemon chiffon, strut pompously in behind. They seat themselves, shuffling to make room as the corpulent Kashmiri chilli powder and salt, tumble and romp noisily in. Exuding verve, hand in hand, they will bring spice, and lift the proceedings.
The guests bubble and jiggle excitedly around the makhani, revelling in the pomp and ceremony of the event. The makhani is quiet, absorbing all the exuberance of her animated guests.
The air stills, the guests fall silent, and tandoori chicken enters in a dignified hush. Her normally creamy skin glows with the cochineal hues of her bridal attire. Demurely she places one coy foot after the other, inching closer to the makhani. The makhani’s own crimson marriage apparel deepens in colour, an instinctive reaction to the approach of her love.
They come together before the nuptial fires as the priest-cook pours ghee reverently on. Seven times around the flames and they are wed. As the bubbling music crescendos, the ululating guests throw celebratory leaves of fenugreek.
Blissful in their union and blessed by all assembled, the couple feed each other cream and honey to bring forth abundance and sweetness for all time to come.