Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
judy smith Nov 2016
Whether in Montreal, where she was born and raised, or in Delhi, where her award-winning brasserie sits, the stylish chef’s love for gastronomy has always run deep. She came to India to chase her passion about eight years ago, after leaving behind an engineering career and having trained at the esteemed ITHQ (Institut de tourisme et d’hôtellerie du Québec). In 2014, she introduced unusual combinations like oysters with charred onion petals, tamarind puree, and rose vinegar when she became the first Indian chef to be invited to host a solo dinner at the James Beard House in New York City. Also presented there was her very own coffee-table book called Eating Stories, packed with charming visuals, tales and recipes.

In pursuit of narratives

“I am studying Ayurveda so, at the moment, I’m inspired by the knowledge and intuition which comes with that, but otherwise I completely live for stories. Those of the people around me — of spices, design forms, music, traditions, history and anything else I feel connected to.”

Culinary muse

“I truly believe that nature is perfect, so I feel privileged to use the ingredients that it provides, while adding my own hues, aromas and combinations…it feels like I get to play endlessly every day.”

After-work indulgence

“My favourite places to eat at are Cafe Lota and Carnatic Cafe in Delhi, and Betony and Brindle Room in NYC.”

Dream dish

“This salad I created called ‘secret garden’. It’s so beautiful to look at and has such a unique spectrum of flavours…all while using only the freshest, most natural produce to create something completely magical.”

Reception blooper

“Most people make the mistake of over-complicating the menu; having too much diversity and quantity. Wastefulness isn’t a good way to start a life together.”

A third-generation entrepreneur from a highly distinguished culinary family, she runs a thriving studio in Khar where state-of-the-art cooking stations and dining tables allow her to conduct a variety of workshops and sessions. Her grandfather is remembered as the man who migrated from Africa to London to found the brand that brought curry to the people of the UK — Patak’s. She took over as brand ambassador, having trained at Leiths School of Food and Wine and taught at one of Jamie Oliver’s schools in London. What’s more, Pathak is also the author of Secrets From My Indian Family Kitchen, a cookbook comprising 120 Indian recipes, published last year in the UK.

Most successful experiment

“When I was writing recipes for my cookbook, I had to test some more than once to ensure they were perfect and foolproof. One of my favourites was my slow-cooked tamarind-glazed pork. I must have trialled this recipe at least six times before publishing it, and after many tweaks I have got it to be truly sensational. It’s perfectly balanced with sweet and sour both.”

Future fantasy

“As strange as it sounds, I’d love to cater my own wedding. You want all your favourite recipes and you want to share this with your guests. I could hire a caterer to create my ideal menu, but I’d much prefer to finalise and finish all the dishes myself so that I’m supremely happy with the flavours I’m serving to my loved ones.”

Fresh elegance

“I’m in love with microgreens for entertaining and events…although not a new trend, they still carry the delicate wow factor and are wonderfully subtle when used well. I’m not into using foams and gels and much prefer to use ingredients that are fuss-free.”

This advertising professional first tested her one-of-a-kind amalgams at The Lil Flea, a popular local market in BKC, Mumbai. Her Indian fusion hot dogs, named Amar (vegetarian), Akbar (chicken) and Anthony (pork), sold out quickly and were a hit. Today, these ‘desi dogs’ are the signature at the affable home-chef-turned-businesswoman’s cafe-***-diner in Bandra, alongside juicy burgers, a fantastic indigenous crème brûlée, and an exciting range of drinks and Sikkim-sourced teas.

Loving the journey

“The best part of the job is the people I meet; the joy I get to see on their faces as they take the first bite. The fact that this is across all ages and social or cultural backgrounds makes it even better. Also, I can indulge a whim — whether it is about the menu or what I can do for a guest — without having to ask anyone. On the flip side, I have no one to blame but myself if the decision goes wrong. And, of course, I can’t apply for leave!”

Go-to comfort meal

“A well-made Bengali khichri or a good light meat curry with super-soft chapattis.”

What’s ‘happening’

“This is a very exciting time in food and entertaining — the traditional and ultra-modern are moving forward together. Farm-to-fork is very big; food is also more cross-cultural, and there is a huge effort to make your guest feel special. Plus, ‘Instagram friendly’ has become key…if it’s not on Instagram, it never happened! But essentially, a party works when everyone is comfortable and happy.”

A word to brides

“Let others plan your menu. You relax and look gorgeous!”

This Le Cordon Bleu graduate really knows her way around aromas that warm the heart. On returning to Mumbai from London, she began to experiment with making small-batch ice creams for family and friends. Now she churns out those ‘cheeky’ creations from a tiny kitchen in Bandra, where customers must ring a bell to get a taste of dark chocolate with Italian truffle oil, salted caramel, milk chocolate and bacon and her signature (a must-try) — blue cheese and honey.

The extra mile

“I’ll never forget the time I created three massive croquembouche towers (choux buns filled with assorted flavours of pastry cream, held together with caramel) for a wedding, and had to deliver them to Thane!”

Menu vision

“For a wedding, I would want to serve something light and fresh to start with, like seared scallops with fresh oysters and uni (sea urchin). For mains, I would serve something hearty and warm — roast duck and foie gras in a red wine jus. Dessert would be individual mini croquembouche!”

Having been raised by big-time foodie parents, the strongest motivation for their decision to take to this path came from their mother, who had two much-loved restaurants of her own while the sisters were growing up — Vandana in Mahim and Bandra Fest on Carter Road. Following the success of the first MeSoHappi in Khar, Mumbai, the duo known for wholesome cooking opened another outlet of the quirky gastro-bar adjoining The Captain’s Table — one of the city’s favourite seafood haunts — in Bandra Kurla Complex.

Chef’s own

AA: “We were the pioneers of the South African bunny chow in Mumbai and, even now, it remains one of my all-time favourites.”

On wedding catering

PA: “The most memorable for me will always be Aarathi’s high-tea bridal shower. I planned a floral-themed sundowner at our home in Cumballa Hill; curtains of jasmine, rose-and-wisteria lanterns and marigold scallops engulfed the space. We served exotic teas, alcoholic popsicles of sangria and mojito, and dishes like seafood pani puri shots and Greek spanakopita with beetroot dip, while each table had bite-sized desserts like mango and butter cream tarts and rose panna cotta.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Alex Paul Mar 2013
On the 15th of May
In the French Laund-er-y
There was a small man,
The Chef De Partie

He was mixing and stirring
And stirring his sauce,
But his sauce wouldn’t thicken
He was at a loss

So he needed to think
and ponder awhile
Until on his face
Was a bright white smile.

“I have it!” He said.
“I know what to do
All  that I need
Is a nice thick roux.”

No reductions or tomatoes
Or even puree
He needed the roux
It was the only way

So what he did next
was truly “the ****”
He melted some butter
And dumped flour in it.

This mixture was gloppy
And looked like wet sand
The roux was ‘a cooking
But looked awfully bland

Morton must think
How to flavor this glob
Chef Tomas Keller said
“Morton its your job”

He thought and he thought
“Oh what can I do?
Bechamel or Veloute?
What to do with this roux.”

“Veloute I think
Sounds good for today.
I’ll make some of that.
Chef might exclaim, “yay!”

So he added some stock
Of Gertrude McFuzz
It was the best bird
It certainly was
Fond Blanc De McFuzz
Was clear and not milky
Morton’s Veloute
Ought to be silky

He cooked it awhile
Maybe for one half an hour
And when it began to bubble
The roux showed its power.

It thickened and coated
The back of a spoon
This stuff’s almost ready
It should be done soon

He strained it
removing the floury bits
It needed to be clean
No clumpys or grits

It was almost over
It was just about ready
It still needed some tweaking
“Can’t we eat it already?!”

“No” said chef Teller
as he took a lick
Was it good? Was it bad?
Was the sauce too thick

“You did a great job!
Trust me, you did.”
Said Teller to Morton
“You did good kid”

“One thing I will say
That you forgot to put in
It’s the most vital ingredient
In the entire kitchen”

“Its something that most chefs
Don’t use a lot of
It comes from within
The spice of true love”

Morton thought a bit
Like he often does
And then he said
“Chef! That’s what it was”

“It didn’t taste right
It was missing its pop
Its pep in its step
Its fizzle. Its hop”
He learned something there
From Chef Thomas Teller
Food needs more love
It needs to be stellar

After all that
And in the end
Morton threw it away
And started again.
Shout out to Dr. Seuss, Chef Thomas Keller, and Chef Robert Corey. Also Morton brand salt. haha
tread Jul 2011
I like to constantly mix up my mind and take everything I know and stick it in a blender, then switch it on 'Liquefy' and wait until everything and anything I thought I knew is nothing but a smoothie of confusion. I could choose to leave that smoothie in the blender and go down a nice hot mug of reality, or I can choose to down the smoothie and get lost in the taste of it all, mixed together so fervently that one former form of knowledge is incomprehensibly inseparable from another former form of knowledge. It is at this point that I either come to terms with the fact that they are so mixed up there will never be any individual understanding of any of them ever again, or I start down the futile road of separating all the puree'd ingredients of the smoothie in a vein attempt to make them solid and individual once again. When I start down that road, I have no choice but to acknowledge I will never reach the end, and I have to acknowledge that never again will the blended banana ever be a solid part of reality, and I have to acknowledge that I have no proof to say the milk and yogurt were ever of separate forms. This is when reality becomes incomprehensible, yet closer to the honest nature of the universe, and further from the conventional delusions of the human mind.

This is when it becomes clear that we are all blind;
This is when it becomes obvious that there is no great truth to find,
And that we are lost in the beauty and delusion of perception.

This is when it becomes clear that we're alive.
MalakF Jul 2022
O, come a little closer - hear what I have to say,
I know that one piece of writing can be interpreted in so many different ways.
O, but do pay attention to my word-play,
To the picture I’m trying to portray.

O, I hope by the end of this you will understand the image I am trying to convey,
But do not get me wrong, the end of this is something I am attempting to delay.
O, it is saddening to know that sooner or later my rhymes will fade away
So I will replay, replay, replay.

O, how I pray that what we have will not decay.
Like all the flowers & bouquets that I watched wither/die a bit more every day.
O, but how pretty were they?
Sad to know that each & every single one was thrown out like the contents of an ashtray.

O, how you must have noticed the repetition of O’s - I think they are here to stay,
Unlike my pathetic, childish rhymes that I am struggling to hold at bay.
O, do not get me wrong - the rules to rhyme are so easy to obey,
They are so easy to slay.

O, like tray, cafe, puree,
For god sake, even JFK.
O, please tell me - do you see the problem on display?
Do you see what I am trying to say, what is coming my way?

O, it feels like a betrayal
No, no, no that’s not a rhyme.
I need to rhyme, I need us to be okay.

Ray, clay, Bombay.
Tray, fray, mae.
Ray, clay, Bombay.
Tray, fray, mae.

O, please stay
I need us to be okay.
O, I know repetition of words is not a rhyme,
Nothing more than copy & paste.

Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.
Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.

O, please I don't want us to stray
I hate how we went from white to grey.
O, please I don’t us to end this way,
I know I am barely rhyming but I will try my best, okay?

Look - ballet, allay, hooray,
Hay, weigh, olay.
Look - ballet, allay, hooray,
Hay, weigh, olay.

O, please stay
I need us to be okay.
O, I know repetition of words is not a rhyme,
Nothing more than copy & paste.

I’ll come up with more,
Dismay, replay, is-lay.
Tray, cafe, valet,
Delray, Alleyway, Chevrolet.

It is not that I don’t know how to rhyme,
I just need something to rhyme for.
Rhyming is synchronisation, it is compatibility
I just need to know we are.

Please, stay, stay, stay,
Don't go away, don't go away, don't go away.
Please, stay, stay, stay,
Don't go away, don't go away, don't go away.

Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.
Ray, clay, Bombay,
Tray, fray, mae.

I know I am barely rhyming, but I will do my best okay?
Please stay,
Don’t go away.
I always associated rhyme with compatibility, and although sometimes certain words that rhyme does not mean the same thing - such as "tree" and "flee", but in a bizarre way, they connect through rhythm. Rhythm can be such a beautiful thing, like in songs - where it can be jumpy, makes you want to dance and generally has a nice flow to it. Music is only one example of the input of rhythm. In general, a rhythm means consistency, a pattern in some way. To me rhythm (although it is not always the case) connotes good & happiness, like the act of skipping in a field of flowers.

Whereas with repetition, I always interpreted it as a point to emphasis, a dire need to be paid attention to, to be highlighted, acknowledged, underlined and to be focused on. In a way, it screams desperation to me. I don't believe it flows smoothly. Instead, I see it as pressing the car brakes quite abruptly & harshly, that your water bottle, phone and even yourself are yanked out of your seat - with the seatbelt suddenly burning your chest, or a child throwing a tantrum (crying, stomping their feet, throwing themselves on the floor & screaming).

In this writing of mine (partly completed), I speak about rhyming and how I do not want to stop - where at the same time there is the presence of repetition. And if you see repetition as a "scream of desperation" as I do right now, then as you progress through the page, you will be able to see that my rhymes become an embodiment of exactly that (desperation) - not only through stating clearly my urgency for rhyme but also by my rhymes themselves becoming repeated - thus my repetition of "O" fades away around the end - but that does not mean repetition is not there anymore - all that happened is that it took another form. Repetition becomes the only way for me to rhyme. Does that mean they are still rhymes or are they repetitions? If a word is repeated does that mean it rhymes or is it merely a duplication of the word? Can we distinguish between them? Is repetition more powerful or are rhymes? What do we make out of this?
……………………………………………………………………………………
           The figures stood still, a blank expression to fill. Their waxed complexion holding dust, soulless cages immune to rust. Light bulbs flash in rhythmic delirium, contrived joy running at a premium.
           Flocks of herds came to take notice of this brand new attraction, one designated worthy by an overriding faction. Social conscience had said its peace, and passed on its opinions in a shifty lease. Word had spread as fast as it could, regardless of whether it necessarily should.
           “T. Elsey Wax Museum” was the hottest ticket in the city. Vouched for by an annual subcommittee, composed of men of no esteem, and opposed to views deemed too extreme. Every vacant mind had jumped on board, its entrance fee was small enough to afford.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Prosperity renewed, discord unglued. The walls of Briar Field, seem to leave much concealed. It’s owner, a Mr. Holden Reeve, is a vain little creature beyond reprieve. He sees no value in an altruistic life, and seems to anguish in his everyday strife.
His facility has been thrashed in print, and regarded as no more than a publicity stint. Still, if true, his machine would be a marvel, something verging on plausibly being artful. Its said Mr. Reeve has tapped into the human soul, and made monetary gain his lonesome goal.
The patents of Mr. Reeve lay out the plan for an odd looking device, but it’s purpose isn’t made overly concise. According to speculation, the machine can resurrect an individual’s ideals, but I can’t tell you how worrisome that makes this reporter feel. Mr. Reeve is toying with the work of God, something he should know to be intrinsically unflawed.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Eliot Tern was standing in a ridiculously long line, it ran four blocks down to a street named Woodbine. Elliot had been there since midday, though he had begun contemplating whether or not he should stay. Looking back there was a hectic crowd, pushing and shoving in a manor quite loud.
Eliot had dragged his friend Henry along with him, though that boy thought their odds of getting in were pretty grim. Henry stood casually, kicking stones, outside the front of BMC Savings and Loans. A woman in front told him to knock it off, Henry called her a ****, but masked it with a cough.
It was two in the afternoon by the time the two boys were about halfway, a nearby baby cried as it spat up apple puree. Some of the sauce found its way onto a man’s face, he told the mother that her parenting skills were a complete disgrace. The woman slapped the man in vicious spite, though to speak truthfully she had every right.
The man screamed and pouted for a minute or two, then he calmed down, and began to clean up the child’s spew. He glanced around to see if anyone was glaring, and poor Henry was noticed hesitantly staring. The man pointed to Henry and began to call him a coward; he spoke with the type of veracity that made it quite apparent that he felt empowered.
Henry stood calm for only a moment, and then began to stare at the man like he was no more than an opponent. The boy picked up a large rock from a graveled path, and hurled it at the man with the feeling of contempt and wrath. The stone struck the man just bellow the eye, and for a moment it looked as though he would cry.
Then the man screamed with a furious hate, it became quite clear that he was now irate. Henry took off; leaving Eliot on his own, it wasn’t exactly a measure the boy could postpone. The man had begun pushing through the crowd trying to get to the boy; his face reflected no hint of joy.
Henry ran for about 10 minutes, he had pushed himself to no new limits. The man had given up the chase after leaving the line; he tried to reclaim his spot shouting, “*******! It’s mine!” The crowd booed the man as angry mobs do, and he had to walk his way to the back to calmly stew.
……………………………………………………………………………………
               Henry was only 12 when he walked in through the rusted doors of Briar Field, it’s hinges shrieked as though inadvertently sealed. A reception desk stood before a large, arched entrance, and there sat the owner’s, under-skilled, apprentice. The man spoke in a seemingly mocking tone, as though Henry was standing in a restricted zone.
         The boy, feeling mocked, turned towards the exit, the man ran up, in a manor quite hectic. He told Henry that he was only joking, just doing a bit of nonsensical provoking. He said to Henry that his name was Fredrick Barnes, grew up, quite happily, on several local farms.
           Fredrick, or Fred as he liked to be called, began explaining the nature of how he went bald. He told Henry that he had developed an addiction to charity, making his true nature no more than a parody. Lived for years with his ego at bay, and gave every dollar he earned away.
            It took its toll in rather short time; though to live vicariously makes it all seem fine. Fred ignored his dreams for far too long, believing God to be king making him just a pawn. Then one day, he told Henry, “I was caught in a storm”, he said, “The falling rain against the wind seemed so pleasantly warm.”
             Then a man came by, begging for some change. Fred had no issue giving up his entire measly, well-earned wage. His Christian nature told him he was no better, then this hungry man in a beat up old sweater.
            Fred handed over 1,200 dollars, a mere hours work for some uneducated scholars. The beggar began to smile, showing all of his teeth, there was a yellow glow from a plaque-ridden sheath. He then turned to Fred, with a more sinister grin, and Fred noticed then, that the man stunk of gin.
             He asked Fred if he had any money, timid, Fred responded, “This really isn’t funny.” The beggar pulled out a small caliber pistol, and said that, “one has a responsibility to be fiscal.” Skin peeled off of Fred’s wrist, as the beggar pulled at a watch through clenched fist.
              In the end, the beggar took all but Fred’s clothing, and left with a bang, as to not to seem imposing. He had only shot the man just bellow the knee, but blood loss had made it hard for Fred to see. He crawled and clawed his way towards a distant street lamp, but movements were elongated by the weight of his clothes, which, obviously, were quite damp.
              Fred laid hopelessly on the cold, wet cement, with the rain mocking him in its relentless dissent. The beacon he had crawled towards turned out to be a dead-end, the severity for which was hard for the man to comprehend. There in the stillness of the night, Fredrick Barnes became aware of the true nature of his plight.
              Holden Reeve had found Fred while the man was riddled with a complex terror, spouting off nonsense about living his life in error. Holden took the young man in through the doors of Briar Field, a museum, which, to the public, had yet to be revealed. It didn’t take long for Fred to fully recover; eventually he began to look at Holden as a brother.
             Fred turned to Henry and told the boy that was the end of his story, and now, it was time for the moment of glory. He opened the two doors hidden under the arched entrance, and Henry walked into the room, followed by Holden’s apprentice.
             When they entered the room Henry immediately asked, “Where’s Mr. Reeve? ...I’m sorry if he’s passed.” Fred laughed and told the boy Holden was most certainly not dead; in fact, the two of them were standing in the middle of his homestead. Then the boy noticed the nature of the room, and how cobwebs gave it the foreboding feeling of doom.
             There was another set of doors at the end of the room, but Fred turned and knocked on a bare wall with the backside of a broom. A panel slipped open and retracted into the wall, and out stepped a noble looking man, though, truthfully, quite small. There were no visible features on the man at first, so initially Henry was expecting the worst.
              Fred acknowledged him as Mr. Reeve, so Henry stood tall, and tried to make his back as flat as the wall. It wasn’t so much that the boy was often courteous, in fact, with regards to that sentiment, the boy was usually impervious. He just felt that in this particular situation, there was going to be no recapitulation.
              This was clearly a man who only spoke with the most precise of words, those capable of collecting and massacring mass herds. Though Holden Barnes would never speak to such a crowd, his absentmindedness for them would be hard to shroud. The man was indifferent to any collective thought, and his principles were to firm to ever be bought.
              Holden spoke to Fred in brief manor, those unheard of in the print of “The Banner”. He asked if Henry seemed like a reasonable boy, or if he was merely some shady companies plotted decoy. Fred vouched for Henry, who he didn’t know; playing a bluff, and hoping it wouldn’t show.
               Holden nodded and shook his friends hand, and spun to the boy, as though his motion had been a cautious ploy. “Who are you?”, and “Why should I care?”, Mr. Reeve asked Henry, the response for which seemed to be lost in the boys memory.

“If you can’t speak to me I don’t know if you should be here, I’m not the one in the room who you should naively fear. My greatest achievement lies just behind those doors over there, but if your this timid, you could get quite the scare. I’ve constructed a testament to the human soul, and it’s designed for any man to control.”

“Though to put it in such terms is hardly fair, it’s just not something that easy to compare. I’ve gotten to where I am, if you’ll dare me to say, through myself and am not one to decline the pay.  My invention just doesn’t seem to arouse much attention, in the press Fred says I haven’t even stirred up a mention.”

“I tell you this though, it’s been their mistake, for what I’ve created here is no preposterous fake. I’ve created a method of speaking with many various forms of reason, though to them it’s some form of religious treason. They seem to think I have resurrected the soul, ghostly figures ripped out of a black hole.”

“But that simply isn’t true, as you’ll come to see, now Fred tells me your name is Henry. You have to choose now before your walk through those doors, if your ready to dance on such hallowed floors. The mystery my seem quite vague to you, but understand this offer has been made to but a few.”

“I don’t understand, what should I say?”

“To ask such a question, here I thought you were a stray? An opinion, like ego is something to treasure, not cast off at someone else’s pleasure. This decision is yours and yours alone, you can use no alchemy from the philosopher’s stone.”

Henry was caught up in an odd predicament, one with no true equivalent. He had no real idea what he was choosing between, but he knew that he couldn’t let that fear be seen. So Henry said yes, without further discussion, and hoped along the way there would be no major repercussion.
At the end of the hall there stood an entrance, Fred stood by acting as apprentice. He told Henry to try and open the door, as Henry pushed his feet slid across the floor. Fred laughed and said that it was locked, and could only be opened one way, Holden kicked a loose rock imbedded in the wall, and soon, the door moved, quick to obey.
The room was not nearly as large as Henry had pictured, and distant light bulbs scornfully flickered. There was only one object in the center of the space, here Henry began walking with a quickened pace. It looked as though it was just a large computer monitor, but its framework seemed composed by an ancient astrologer.
Objects spun about with contact precision, and small fractures of light seemed to meet through collision. The spectacle was truly something to behold, though Henry still had no idea what was about to unfold. Mr. Reeve walked up to the machine and began to touch its screen, and all the lights stopped, and then seemed to reconvene.

“Alright Henry, I suppose it’s time I explained the true nature of this device, but somehow I only now realize you got in here free of price. No matter, it’s been a while since it’s seen someone new, I’m curious what some of these people are going to say to you.”

“What you are looking at now is a labor of scientific process, but believe me when I say there is no need to be cautious. There is no black magic at work here, though many have said so without coming near. This machine I’ve created does what some say to be impossible, like Nemo’s creation, just far less nautical.”

“This machine collects and records all forms of the written word, sweeps them in like collecting some massive herd. It organizes and sorts data of all different norms, and emits it in a conversational form.”

“You see this creation has given man a chance to talk to those of the past, allowing for a legacy only time can outlast.”

Henry stopped and stared at the man for quite a long period of time, and tried to figure out why Mr. Reeve looked so perfectly sublime. Henry now thought he understood the nature of the device, in fact Holden had made it all seem so concise. The machine would allow Henry to talk to anyone from the past, as long as there had been enough information amassed.

“Who do you want to talk to first? I’d suggest Ayn Rand, if you’re okay with being coerced.”

Henry had no idea concept of Mrs. Rand, so the concept to him didn’t seem overly grand. He lingered on the thought for a second or two, not wanting to pick an individual who could be considered taboo. Then, it came to Henry like a sudden case of dysentery, he saw this man as more than a visionary.

“Is it possible for me to speak to someone who didn’t actually exist?”

“I can see what I can do if that’s what you insist?”
……………………………………………………………………………………
Eliot was furious as he saw Henry; the boy had been gone so long it had slipped from his memory. He stood and waited for Henry to ask to step back into line, and then he would make it clear that everything was not fine. Eliot was now standing at the front, to just let Henry in would be a great affront.

“I’m going home.” Henry said as he let his eyes roam.

Eliot felt sick as Henry walked away, then he became curious how he had spent the last three hours of the day. “No matter” thought Eliot as he waited patiently, he’d have his victory soon enough, and he would take it graciously. Very suddenly a woman opened up the front doors of the institution, and thanked everybody for their “contribution”.

“It’s time to say goodnight. The museum will be open at 9 o’clock tomorrow, during daylight.”

The woman very casually walked away, as Eliot was in complete dismay. Then he had a calming thought, none of the creations were going to rot. All he would have to do is come back the next day, everything, he thought, will be okay.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "
Alpha Day, Alpha Night, Omega Day Omega Night
There are small moments in my life
where the waking world
slows to a dialogue.
Asking to let the river come.
To wash away the sawdust
from woodchips
set to a fine puree
in the blending of my heart
sounding off midst thunderstorm
midst sun shower
midst silence
midst hunger pang
midst every hungry lover and everything in between.
A little mental friction
for a lot of features
content to become words.
Sounds that become symbols
becoming a box.
Express delivery
intending to deliver me.
Here, here, it’s here finally.
Talking to flowers
I feel guilty for having starved;

"Wake up little ones,
the bees thank you for breakfast
their queen sending her regards in all in an instant.

Heralding her approach  with a question,
"If ever body of water is the same then how come we give them different names?"
My insides swell as the pitcher empties
a cascade of the liquid life force each of our bodies are known to contain.
Despite all the knowing,
despite the constituents of our anatomy being hardly a mystery
I still find myself capable of pondering a stranger's.

Even stranger to think of any beauty before me
as a complex wave function.
trinkling into my sight on waves of light
like water over hungry flora hoping to make something of those same waves.
She's here
the queen's words shining in every droplet
and they say,
"given enough time stars become people, becoming you,
becoming a cog in the clockwork that becomes the reason
we thrive."
Reminding me, though the light may play tricks with my sense,
anything anybody else ever has told me about beauty has been a lie.
This is THE soul reason to even be bothered to write this dialogue down.
So I may lie to you.
An open book so you may be certain.
Have you ever been so certain of something?

It seems all that could ever be true is the royal you.
Sliding perspective's scale over a notch
you become the queen's resolution,
laboring to unify a single mind
and the world becomes you
watering flowers out of guilt.

Transforming what you know to be most real,
washing over you  
like seredipity on a day
where everything has gone wrong,
into right
into a dialogue
into you
into everything
and back.
tracy Feb 2014
remember the time when i tried to glue my hand to yours and
claimed that glue would be the reason we'd stay together?
you didn't stop holding my hand that day.

i walked 20 steps from your side of the bed into the bathroom,
the towel smells a little bit like you and you promised
it would stay there for another 20 years.

you know i'd stay here forever, right? when you're in a rocker and
i'm eating puree, ask me again to tell you the story of us.
i'll tell you a story better than cinderella or snow white.

they tell me i'm poetic but poems are written with meaning.
i write because i am searching for ways to describe you but
you're too big for poetry and i love you too much for language.
Sally A Bayan Feb 2019
(morning, noon 'til night)


1)
dew drops fall on grass
slight sun permeates bay window
a cool breeze blows by

2)
parsley sprigs adorn
a bowl of yellow puree
hot creamed pumpkin soup..

3)
while sipping soup, muse
flies with brown mariposa
rain taps sharp on roof

4)
i run....to gather
fresh, sun-dried clothes from clotheslines
dog stirs from the rush

5)
wet soil's scent meanders
dry earth quenches thirst with rain
petrichor smells good!

6)
after chasing breath,
crisp cropeck, teams with coffee
crumbs adorn my shirt...

7)
fragrance chokes twilight
"queen of the night" spews sweet scent
white blooms...so divine!

8)
monitor lizard
tangoes up the ceiling...stares,
then falls on my lap!

9)
from the bamboo tree
gecko's distinct twilight call
shrills cold twilight air

10)
moon nestles coz'ly
in a circle of gray clouds
night.......is all her own...


Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 3, 2019
AprilDawn Jun 2016
This Summer’s
dulcet legacy
ground
down to a saucy
red puree
to keep around
just a little longer
than the strawberry
June  full moon
a last hurrah  of local berries
little paler than the first batch
savored in the Spring
then again
when the apples are harvested
the reminder of your glory days
will linger
like a long lost lover's
last kiss
Our  local whole life food club  we shop at regularly  mentioned  that  they  would  most likely   not  be getting any more strawberries this season.  This made me sad .
We raced down  to get  one of the last batches  .So I could   prepare it to freeze  for a later date . Our solstice  with a strawberry full moon  was   a theme  I used as well.

I live for local  strawberries in the spring and summer .
lirau Feb 2017
A smorgasbord of pies, apples, noodles
pour into my arteries like a puree
filling the gaping hole, levels rising
only visible to me
hand over my eyes,
I swallow.
a poem about eating too much when I get hungry
Andrew Gelant Jun 2016
Those Raisins are so sweet like the time you first giggled
And eyes like puree to my heart,  which it craves
That crying effect when your throat kinda wiggles
Is part of the feeling that stays engraved

Willows cannot make the sound that co-exists with me In my mind
Because before my Eyes makes it hard to coincide
The feeling, the urge,  the bitter love I gave
In storms,  and rain and hail till today
Kareena Sep 2017
Prune puree
Applesauce
Toast with jam
Tablecloth

I want us
To age well
Blossoming unity
I truly tell

In our old age
Please always be
My confidant
My busy bee

In summer rain
And morning dew
I reach my hand
And search for you

I hope to always
Find you there
My lifelong wish
My love affair
Devon Brock Jul 2019
I stared the crowd down squinty,
always squinty,
a jaw tooth grinding, neck vein
throbbing squinty.

I ****** the mike like a baseball
and spit the windscreen drenched
with naive codified lyric.

They took it all in.

The blender chewed them
to a fine puree of sweat,
bodies and stomped glasses.

And I eyed them squinty,
angry less at Reagan,
angry less at their sheepish
individuality, less
at proliferation or the grim
disparities of class or color -

more so at the soap
in my hair that gave me spine
and drooled stinging into my eyes.
Bryant Aug 2018
Emulsify​ my fragments with yours
We become puree
Our mixture is pliable and capable of smoothing any blemish

A false sense of durability, like layers of plaster over diminishing foundations

A stern wind sends us to chattering and reduces us to shards

An upside-down jigsaw with so many pieces who's interlocking combinations are infinite and impossible

We beset upon this futile quest with reckless abandoned
Punitive passions emblaze our cornea and deafen our cochlea

These inflictions only intensify our other​ detection receptors
Emboldening our synapses with astroglia most hearty and foolish

In the face of self-imposed adversities; the chortling consumes us
Mole hills spur and contort; vertically and violently
Titanic crags obstructing our path and encumbering our better natures
Yet the giggling continues

Brave men will face death without question, but only those who have tasted oblivion jest at it's expense
When you feast on everything and nothing, imagination and fear are savorless against your palate

Sordid sentinels
Mechanisms, blueprinted in hedonism and swill
Completely ****** by design

We are the crusty plaque in the corners of each others lips
The coke-like residue that accumulates from the burning depletion of our crude resolve

Exhaustion smogs our atmosphere and silts your dermis
The granulation makes you coarse and curt
You find friction in all things
There is no refuge for relief
Even afloat amongst the stellar ylem, the invasive abrasion intercepts your drift

Nothing is sacred!
Nothing is truly yours!

Your inter-most thoughts scream from the windows of their cells

You have been divulged and further more, made completely bare
A sort of ****** where opinions can be made on the hue of your skeletal system
Stark and helpless; sprawled wide
Revealing every tiny nook of your crevices, giving breath and larynx to your insecurities

A vivisection

The young men and women gather around the respiring corpse
Every deffect will oust it's cause
A foreign recollection of your story
Quivering and flinching under the pressure of a razor thin plane

Blankly, they stare like bipedal bovine
Sweetness and sorrow is wasted on them
They only seek silence for the deft and ******* for the blind

Now! both have been provided!
Arek Oct 2019
there has to be an easier way
from this daily grind
before my teeth are worn away
from worries on my mind

before my fingernails are all eaten
right down to the bone
before my face is sad and beaten
looking overgrown

before my dreams become puree
and i on them gag
there has to be an easier way
before i lay an egg

— The End —