Gradually stirring home but not before thoughts began to come and leave as the
flavor of un-aged cheese. Banquet table laid out between leathers, suede dome
and calf skin below, seemingly under appreciative my chin is pasted to the
wheel since a combination of fog and short order holiday season drivers made
for extra mayo. Riding atop a bumpy burnt onion ring I can see I'm getting
closer to the summit. Attending to the mustard strip I eventually relish in
the spray-on buttery slickness of droopy jazz makings. These moments make me
pot stick a bone and stare; seethe with steam. Enjoyed but now tongue tarter
than sauce, searching past butt sauté I flapjack flip to an orifice a soon to
be syrupy menthol. Now teeth on avalanche patrol on a baked Alaska maybe they
like it or possibly not. But I'm chill, shocked by cold graphics it's an
ingredient that calls for mixing, and from the size of my hat I know I can
spread another hour on my scheduled plating time. I felt traffic slow into the
ooze of cooling marzipan, now as we are whisked, the white chocolate is cut by
neon raspberry toast. With the slower pace my eyes watch the walls as if that
chowder could boil, lo mein inlay, and add a black licorice dash. Behind me I
hear screaming kettles pressure above what can be stopped. I'm ladled an
accidental serving, Being coursed over in a pepper grinder, caught somewhere
between the press and the dye wish I could garlic malinger but duty doesn't
wait. I can feel gravity taking over with a dip of wasabi, becoming airborne as
fresh shrimp reduction. Past all the garnish. Stuffed boulders covered in
frozen shattered Amaretto skin on a bed of custom made biscotti served with a
side of tenderized lamb all elements drizzled with a light fiery brown stock.
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