A Recipe. Sort of.

I am not a very spontaneous person.

But sometimes seeds are planted.  Ideas can lodge themselves in the throat like a sliver of popcorn and remain there until you spend every ounce of your energy bringing the Thing into reality.  This is what happened to me a couple of nights ago.

I haven’t been sleeping.  But in between my typical dream vignettes of loosing my teeth and my being roused at 4am by a phone call and trying to speak into the end of my stick deodorant on my nightstand (I am an extremely heavy sleeper) – I saw it.  A tomato tart.

WANT.

So this was my thought process for the remainder of Tuesday:
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Great Big Bowl of Crack

Stop what you are doing.  Just stop.  Turn off the computer and proceed immediately into the kitchen and make this.  Right now. Baring that, proceed to Jeff’s place. Break in if you have to (if you can get past the Cat Lady on the front porch who will leer at you, you should be able to get inside) and use all necessary force to pry these crunchy, salty, cinammoneous (?) caramel-ey sweet little things out of my gooey, sandy, coma-induced fingers.

I suppose I should back up.
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Because I Can’t Let Fried Dough Claim Another Victim

Hunger has its own logic, doesn’t it?  I don’t mean the everyday pangs one becomes accustomed to after a long day in the cubicle, the kind easily remedied by a few bites of fruit or the occasional order of cheese fries.  I mean… HUNGER.  The sort of desperate and carnal weakness that overpowers your entire body.  It moves at times all the way from the searing pain along your temples to the feet that can barely move – the sort of creeping desperate, agony where your soul is in panic mode but your body cannot rescue you. 

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A Man, A Plan, A Paella Pan

I’m still weak in the knees.

This isn’t sated, or full, or even satisfied or happy – this is one of those moments where you’ve spent hours with your eyes glued to the back of your skull and your jaw slack from what you’ve just felt – and all of your favorite smells and tastes have just shouted to you in a mysterious language you only at this moment understand.   And you realize, right then, when you’re done sitting in the dark corner licking the unctuous charred bits from the edge of your plate or trying to fish those last grains of rice from the tines of your fork even though you’ve already finished dessert – that THIS this is the meal against which all future versions will be Judged and Found Wanting.


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