Purity of water blended in rusticity of soybeans too so that's why tofu ordinary yet noble no comparison no stooping down always keeps a good attitude soft delicate and smooth the taste is praiseworthy add a little scallion it gets more stylish more elegant that's what people call standards of life tofu plus shallots clean and righteous.
I used to make this exotic Indian dish. It combined so many spices—like cardamom, coriander, and a hard pulpy substance called tamarind that I soaked in hot water and used only the juice. It was a giant Middle Eastern stew. It was half science and half art. It was math at its best, generally, I despise math. It smelled so foreign and exotic, it contrasted with the wife and 2.3 kids placed neatly around the dinning room table, waiting on the finishing touches, sprigs of fresh cilantro tossed atop each bowl. An Indian bread called naan was dipped in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing. The wine—smiles—laughter, I can still smell it and taste it. And now, on lonely winter nights, my take-out tandoori chicken smells like a T.V dinner.
This pressure cooker, supposedly life. Scrambling to meet a husband or wife. Missing the things, needed the most. slipping from life, becoming a ghost. I've got potato, bring me some leek. I'll put it together, await your critique.
So . . .
Lets do soup together. Today, tomorrow. Maybe forever.