>>80451391In the valley where the ice grass grows,
A staple meal that everyone knows,
A bland bowl turns to morning delight,
With seasonings and toppings, just right.
Ice grass, subtle in flavor and scent,
Savory, yet mild, it's heaven-sent.
Obaba-ready, not just any kind,
Prepared with care, its worth you'll find.
Pulled from the snow, but not yet done,
A week in water, then pressed by ton.
Excess morakar drawn out with might,
From woody strands to a meaty bite.
Pale in color, from pink to blue,
A sign of quality, tried and true.
Long, narrow bags, the market's pride,
Stored dry and cool, for years they bide.
Handle with care, and choose with ease,
No brown or black, just hues that please.
Half a pound per person, break in two,
Into the bottle, they fit just right for you.
Lalzu mixed, three parts to one,
Salt and shake, and you’re almost done.
Twenty minutes to soften and blend,
A hearty broth, a morning friend.
Prepare the mix-ins, add your touch,
A bowl of goodness, loved so much.
In the valley, where traditions stay,
Ice grass meals start the day.
