I feel like cooking this morning. This is one of those creative spurts where in my enthusism i almost remove a finger while preparing vegetables. I'm in a trance, might as well be in a five-star resturant with a big fucking tope, all i can think of is taste buds, flavor explosion, unfound complexities and simplicity. I want to find something new and fresh. A discovery that will flood the world with the drool of fat aristocrats cashing in on the reservations made two months in advance. My recidpes will fortell the furter and unlock the deep mysteries of the universe, and as the world crawls my doorstep to bathe in my wisdom of culinary magicianaryism...
Im in the kitchen now, the crepes are frying in the hot fat. Snap, crackle, pop. Oil upon my skin, little implosions of yellow orange and red ravage my pysche... Psychie? Sharpness and euphoria that the best coffee ever shat out of a south american cougar could never bring, washes through the kitchen. Ripples of golden sunshine echo on white counter tops, crystaline symphonies focus the senses. pour the batter, listen to the uproar as white upper class civilization meshes in the melting pot of Chicago's night life, sizzlin jazz browns the rock hard demeneor of the once proud sheltered watchmen fo american decency. Shake, flip. My fortune is told to me in blotches of varying shades of brown and tan. Life unlived, love un-unleashed, a future buried in the fog unknown lay before me as the flames meet the metal in my palm, as i flip the crepe once more.