Bread. Sourdough, baguette, ciabatta. A good start. Toasted. Even better.
Garlic. Mint’s boisterous umami cousin. Always welcome. Always a delight.
Butter. Lavish. Rich. Deep. Saturated. One with the crust, one with the fill. Every crumb blessed.
Salt? In moderation. He will own the day. If you let him. This is not about him. He must be told.
Mozzarella. The partymaker. The rule breaker. A plus one? Asiago. With wisdom, you nod.
A cacophonic harmony, an angelic orgy, an instant of eternity, a grating, nagging, raging itch in your soul that what could be is being squandered and what should be is being suppressed and what must be is being denied. You scream, gutteral, primeval, enraged at the injustice, and then you see. In the doorway. Silhouetted. Cocky. Confident. Italian spices. One of your hands rests on his shoulder long enough to push him aside. You have no time for his charlatanism, he can only add to what is already an abundance. Instead, you will know the sultriness of refinement, the ecstacy of admonishment. You extend a hand, and a figure, once hunched meekly and in shadow, rises to glowing majesty and takes it. A tear rolls down your cheek, unnoticed.
Parsley.
morrowind@lemmy.ml 56 minutes ago
> “don’t give a single heck about stranger’s opinion”
> asks for stranger’s opinion on garlic bread
hmmmm