Your wooden spoon/ m4w/ Chicago’s Cooking School (Lincoln Square)
I smelled hot sauce and angst on your breath. You wanted to know, where was Gordon Ramsay? You thought you were auditioning for Master Chef. The cooking instructor kept saying: This wasn’t good, and that wasn’t good. I said: I just want to feel good like jello pushed into a hot oven. I want to open random aprons with nimble hands. You were building a tiny Parmesan nest to hold a deviled egg. I was fondling the cooking utensils, dreaming about sex with you in a floral apron. You told me to focus; but I was hungry and thinking about Hooters 5-Wing Flappertizer and their rib platter; and how I could make you burn like hot wings. The instructor was on repeat: simmer, sauté, drizzle. It was a great class until the fuzz showed up and accused me of putting drugs in the cardamom cookies. If you remember any of this, you’ll also recall you said you wanted to go home with me. Alas, I was in handcuffs, and you were in the hospital for an allergic reaction. When I was released, I visited you while you were unconscious. I read you my grandmother’s recipes. Fried green tomatoes are my specialty. When you wake up maybe we can cook something up?
via Simone Muench
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