Hush now. It's a midnight feast. I eat too much when Husby's not here, filing the empty space that can never be satisfied a-lonesome by wine, food or heartfelt telephone calls. I want to cook for you, and let us eat together.
|egg white smoked salmon, greek yoghurt,shallot on cucumber. with pepper. 12am ~s.|
not wanting to tempt fate. never do I do this. I created a Chicken Quinoa Laksa. You don't want the recipe.
|she wasn't Laksa. ~s.|
Laksa should be smooth. velvety. languishing over a bed of noodles like a supermodel drenched in creamy, lengthy asian sunshine. This beauty was an isle of man bit o'pretty trying to soak up the last of the summer rays. I did admire her gentle warmth. Her hope and sustenance. But she wasn't Laksa.
Yet oh. midnight and a feast of leftover bits-on-cucumber discs. At midnight, alone, fork in hand, I like to pretend I'm sophisticated, oh so thin, and that a properly glamorous life is still just softly, gently, waiting in the wings.