mango pickle

        Solar winds licked the stratosphere.  An aurora soared above the dark treeline in hues of crimson, scarlett and california poppy. To Brother Ambrose it resembled a fantastic native thunderbird. He was standing on Sonya Chekov's little patio balcony. There was a new chia pet. It looked like a gay troll with green hair. Sonya was cooking chickpea dal with spices imported from India. Ghee and rice added  simple aromas.  It all smelled good, and he was glad that Artie had introduced her the cuisine.
        Mugsy snoozed on the ledge. Stretched sinfully to the ends of the earth.
        "How much longer, Babe?" 
        "Another hour."  She trilled.  "Must let everything simmer."
        His stomach was growling. He was unbearably hungry now. He ducked inside to see if he could speed things up.
        "Hellzapoppin! Babe, ya gotta feed me!"
        "Oh, you're being Ziggy again. Here, have a chipati."
        The chipati was fried heaven. He grabbed a bunch and a jar of Bedakar's Mango Pickle and sat on the sofa, almost giddy.
         "Oh, man.  This is so good."  Tears welled in his eyes.  The bastards were spicey hot.
         "You old hippy."
         "You know, I still have that tee-shirt you gave me."
         "Which one is that?"
         "Laughing Jesus."