“In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you”
Cook, baby. Cook! Fire up that old stove and magic the ingredients together. Work the creation into a culinary batch of divine intervention. Fill the pan with life and love– with before–with now–with someday. Sprinkle in more of that “we-will-be-the-always-and-forever” of songs, baby. Spice it up with so much hope and glory that we sit there at the table, grinning at each other, basking in the afterglow of recipe conception. For you and I are the gods of gastronomic design. Our universe swirls with the passion that sizzles and fizzles in the drop of olive oil. Lush and iniquitously large measures are for the living; to hell with the consequences. The future is now and we are hungry.