Flor de abobrinha

Stuff, fry, eat within two minutes or the petal goes to leather.

One salt hit inside the cheese. The flower has no savour of its own.

Melts to a thread and glues the petals shut in the fryer.

Batter is structure. Without it the flower disappears in oil.

Fried batter goes flat in seconds; acid buys it another minute.

Two pollen flavours in a row, one floral, one medicinal.

Flower and fruit on the same plate, one soft, one squeaking.

The blossom is already honeyed; the drizzle just admits it.

Barely a flavour, mostly perfume. Fold it in with the heat already off.

Pollen sweetness on iodine. Both collapse if you cook them twice.