Chop. Chop. Chop. The colors of the pepper scatter on woodgrain. They sit next to the diced onion that I cut blind- Chop with my face turned to the door. Those are next to the once big trees of broccoli- Chop now small flowers, and there's a potent pile of garlic- Chop ready to be thrown into a shallow pit of heat- the olive oil is sizzling. Stop. Listen to sound of produce. Go! Don't let the smoke rise too far- the noses will come visit and take your dinner away. That's okay... **I wasn't hungry anyway.