The sun set; dusk fell on the shelf, and lights began to appear along the stove. That which blends, so held, in hand or all alone, such power, to mix, to mash, to merge, to fuse, once individual, now as one, together. The upper reaches, the place of monstrous leftovers, marked ominously with a date, huddle in the brooding gloom of fridge light, mocked by the enticing garish glare of magnet cradled take-out flyers.
“And this,” she noted suddenly, “has to be one of the dark places of the earth.”
In the static of their surroundings, the slightly scornful pots, pans, knives and other pointy things lurked, growled their promise, ready to play the food game.
She doggedly tried to follow the medically suggested diet; the worst that could be said of her was she wanted to believe.
Food is not for the faint of heart, it beckons, it…
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