I am told that I have been eating chocolate the wrong way all my life. This is a revelation for me.
You need to suck on it.
Let it melt on your tongue; the sooner
the taste disappears, the cheaper
the quality of the
She places a thin shaving of dark chocolate
On her already wet and salty tongue–
her eyes roll back into the
whiteness of silicone
It isn’t like truffles;
It has nothing to do with aroma
— Once infused
with other ingredients the
Textures melt and disintegrate
Into particles of mixed flavours.
A faint hum
of the electric mixers
resonate throughout the kitchen
and slowly fade from her
now calm, and focused on one thing:
the eating of
Love was once described
by the Greek poet Sappho
as being sweet first,
The chocolate is semi-sweet:
it has hints of both
milk and cocoa.
She swallows and it
lingers in her mouth.
Moments later, there is still
Sweetness, and then
There’s this hopelessly gorgeous song
by Tori Amos
“The Doughnut Song”,
which tells you that you’ll
from a doughnut hole.
I am convinced that this song is
stuffing vaginas with
Dicks (and/or dildos).
I feel a constant need to stuff
My mouth with
usually food, and
For a while
that thing was my fist
but now I’m back to
Eating just food and dicks.
keeps me thin
and I never
need to go on a
For ten years I had wondered what a madeleine would taste like.
I knew that they were like cakes
I knew that they were like biscuits.
I also knew that they were supposed to be dipped in tea
and that Proust adored them.
Pretty shell shaped sponges; they
reveal hints of honey, lemon and butter
and fail to trigger memories.
I am a madeleine virgin. And I am searching for lost tastes.
The only iron that I own is a hair straightening iron.
It sits on top of a plastic storage box, next to some rose-scented pink garbage bags.
My first lesson in Pâtisserie is how to tie a cravat. It must first be folded into creases in a manner which is not dissimilar to the process of lamination. Butter is used to laminate puff pastry and croissant dough.
My neckerchief of cobalt blue is steam-pressed into five tapering folds.
According to Zola, French laundresses in the late nineteenth century were pretty, coquettish labourers. Her linens were always freshly ironed to mask her weakness for dancing and alcohol.
A pâtissier is no less a whore than a laundress, I learn quickly: we tempt with beauty; and we sell decadent and empty pleasures.
My boyfriend does my laundry.
He irons and folds my chef whites like thin Origami paper.