I chopped. I minced. I diced. I was jammin’ on my knife like Muddy Waters on his axe, wailin’ the blues. Got my mojo working, got my mojo working, Got my mojo working but it just won't work on you. But it uh uh just won't work on you.
I sautéed. I flambéed. I simmered. I was Hendrix with my sauce pan. You should have heard my version of Are You Experienced. Hell yeah I was experienced. I was Hendrix playing with his teeth. My scorching licks could have made a Jonas brother weep.
I sprinkled. I salted. I seasoned. I was Ravi Shankar with my fennel seeds. Into the pan and out to the universe. Long, sustained notes of fragrant nirvana. That’s when I blew the roof off the kitchen. I felt the hot lights and the players and the energy and forgot all about my client and my valve job and my waning memory. My soulful chops reached up to the heavens and kissed the sky.
As those powerful vapors filled the air, I was dizzy and drenched. It was time to sit in the audience and savor the sweet sounds of supper. I tasted. I swallowed. I sighed. I clapped. I whistled. I cried for more. I was on fire tonight. The meal was so good. So mine. And so gone.
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