Neither prose nor poetry

Neither prose nor poetry it is just
The way my Grandma made puttu...

Childhood mornings at Grandma's home

Puttu always came from rice

Soak the rice for hours before,

Tiny hands powder the rice

Roast the flour, sprinkle water

Set aside, then scrape coconut
Add some sugar for taste
Off goes Grandma to collect some twigs
And dried coconut leaves
To lit her mud stove from the scratch

Brings a pot of water to boil
Layers flour and coconut in a tube
That fits perfectly on the pot
Quickly Grandma visits her store room
To fetch some ripe plantains and bananas
Before the tube on the pot starts to steam

Now, it is time to remove the tube
Grandma picks up her ladle turns it around
And sticks the stick end into the tube
That gently pushes the puttu out
Steaming hot with great aroma

With watering mouths we kids watch her do
Fill another puttu in the tube
Nicely set on the boiling pot
Off to fetch some plates for us
While we sit in the short kitchen walls & steps
She gives us puttu and some fruits

Yum so yum the puttu tastes
We finish it quickly and wait around
For the next puttu that cooks along
Even after the second round
We still wait around with hopes for more

Neither prose nor poetry it is just
The way my Grandma made puttu...