Dreaming in Cayenne and Paprika.

Yes. So during the last two posts, I spilled milk on the keyboard. Twice.
Thankfully, the flea is clean and my brother had a spare one stashed in his room... and just now I am freed from schoolwork (for a little while--much research and typing still to be done) and housework (at least until my dad comes back and gives the call to arms) and can FINALLY write what's been on my heart for quite a while now.

If God hadn't called me to journalism, I'd dedicate my life to culinary pursuits.

Being a writer, it is hard to be completely and utterly unable to express my heart and my mind... but regarding FOOD, I am incapable of coherence. Almost.

I can grunt and give throaty sounds of pleasure and longing for UMAMI and ACIDITY and SUGARINESS.

Also I am able to mentally scan picture after picture of recipes and salivate over them...Pot-au-fue, Coq-Au-Vin, raspberry charlotte, maraschino cherries (oh sweet star-morsels), Dijon-spiked tender flesh and crisp roasted chicken skin, soulful coulete...the list goes on and on and on--and so do the mental pictures and salivations.

I dream of owning a tiny, cozy place with hearty fare on the New England coast...or maybe in San Francisco or Louisiana...next to a body of water somewhere is my point, with plenty of local flavor. Cliched? Maybe so--but idyllic nevertheless.

Can you picture it?

Sandy, pebbly beaches; slope-roofed weathered walls; steamy aromas of bubbling pink lobsters, and sweet medleys of fat fresh-shucked Galveston Bay oysters and garlicky gold potatoes...

This is the stuff my dreams are made of.

Bustling between kitchen and front, I will resemble the chickens I send out before they were sacrificed for the cause of pleasant survival--plump, full of life, and content.

Because I do not plan on being skinny if I become a chef. A journalist (in my humble opinion) needs to be thin, to keep up with the hustle-and-bustle image; but a chef is expected to have evidence of savoring food in his rotund middle. I would be only to happy to oblige.

My kitchen would smell so delectable, French perfumists would visit and ask to bottle the fragrances emanating from the place to put in little round bottles for the use of desperate housewives (nothing draws a man quite like food).

Also my tables, all fifteen of them, would have seasonal fresh flowers as centerpieces, and no two tables would be alike. Even the tables and chairs would be different!

Ah, but I have grand dreams. Maybe I can do this someday, and write articles as I'm shepherding saffron duck pot pies from the kitchen.

My dear, I love you ardently
Adore your charm, the way you look,
I'm captivated by your voice,
I've read with pride your latest book,
And yet I will not marry you
Until, sweetheart, you've learned to cook.

--by a Smart Man.