Do I take you to be my lovely…
I split tops of organic stocks on my kitchen counter tops,
Knife yielding, blade on some rebound Heman type shit, with the attitude of a cop;
The kind that pulls your ass over in the rain type cop.
Fresh cutting board to absorb the stresses of my day….
Yooo! I did that carrot top something mean with my santoku chef, slicing steel
Shrimps, chicken wings, sausages of turkey and beef compositions know exactly how that shit feels.
Feels like; alcohol on wounds, perms burning the scalp, or being slapped with breath like onion peels.
Little bit of this, couple dashes of that, boiling water with rice and some Arroz Con Pollo is what you got.
Broths and sauces on locked!
I punks; the flagrant flavors framing fancy fiestas, fucking beautifully!
No puns intended, but buns are accepted.
Honey butter glazed after egg wash for color and consistency; no neglecting.
I build dish doses that’ll make your lapband smile,
Closest resembling comparison be the grocery store’s International isle.
Your favorite mom couldn’t put foot-to-ass behind these skillets like I do,
Flaming fillets that stick to shit like widgets; spleen glue.
Simply put, be prepared to slap your mommy dearest.
Chardonnay charred, italian dressed ribeye and sirloin shanks, flank the whole plate sides making starches look like infantry and the meat like tanks.
Even pros sometimes nick a fingertip, its the sign of being overly equipped,
No slips, just sips of red… Wine
Vegetables garnish and play bondage to edible designs.
Edible Arrangements, digestible protractors, contraptions that set and forget what’s at steak…
Lol, dinner dates and Slapchops, chopsticks and appetites, I detest the sights of pork chops, so I substitute swine with lamb.skewering cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes and chicken segments with flame burlesque and lemon-lime.
Holy mother of…
medium rare, well is truly better,
Conflict of congestion, information and indigestion.
Heart burns plague the esophageal intersections,
Celery butts and massive french words, saturated salt binges and grab-ass name brands.
Pam is to pans, as laps are to the lap dance.
Music blaring, stirring molecular particles opposite to slurries or rouxs.
I propose a magical moment enchanting enough to casually provide you the means of disgustingly belching all over your damn self…