The cook stood still, his apron a blood red. He was now a murderer, a criminal. How?, How? he thought to himself how did it escalate to this degree? If one had told him that he would be here, burying a body he would have laughed in his face. But now, now it was terrifyingly real.
Someone who takes recipes—maybe about food, maybe about something entirely different—and creates something with the ingredients they have. Then it is presented to the public, the audience, and they review it, critique it. It’s a process.
the cook sat in a dark, cold alley outside his place of work, a high end restraunt. He was thinking, about life and his place in it. What? he thought What was my place in this unfeeling world?
the cook sat discontented outside the kitchen, in a dark and cold alley. He was thinking, about life, and his place in it. What, he thought was his place in his unfeeling world?
the cook sat discontented outside the kitchen, in a dark and cold alley. He was thinking, about life, and his place in it. What, he thought was his place in his unfeeling world?
He sat there, alone, thinking. Sauce coated every thinkable surface, his apron no longer white, but a repulsive shade of crumbly pink. With a slap, his masterpiece in a bowl sprawled on the floor. He cried.
Food. yummy. mom making food. cooking is fun. we all like to cook. cheifs cook. my dad sorta cooks, well, he bakes which is kinda close. I like to cook with my mom.
A dash of articles, 1/2 cup of finely diced prose, two table spoons of metaphor, a teaspoon of adjectives,* and 3/4 cup of raw philosophy. Bring to a rolling boil for twenty minutes. Allow to cool before proofreading twice. Garnish with semicolon. Serve the next day.
*Substitute with a choice blend of verbs and nouns for richer flavor.
I dont really see the point in this exercise… cook, can be a noun or a verb. Can refer to someone who is able to prepare food, aka. a chef or it could be referring to ones actual ability to combine ingredients to make meals… people eat what they cook…
She was a cook at a high-end restaurant in New York City. Long hours, little appreciation. She was bitter, but sometimes she would get small pleasures in having customers for dinner.
After serving them all, the crowd dispersed and it became clear to the cook that they would never be back again. He waited in his kitchen for an immeasurable amount of time. The food began to rot. Other customers came, but for some reason they never mattered as much as the ones that had already left.
She cant cook, but she doesn’t really care. There is no one to cook for but herself and why would she want to waste her time with that when there are plenty of restaurants put on this very earth to cook for her. Her diet would make Jillian Micheals cringe which consists of Taco bell and toast. Ironically enough, watching the Biggest Loser makes her want to go eat something.
We cook because we love to eat. We love to be full. Full of food, full of happiness, full of laughter and love. We love this fullness because it makes us feel complete. There is no room for error here.
I’m a pretty good cook, but I never seem to have the time to cook. It’s not even really that I’m super busy. I mean, I’m pretty busy, but if I had better time management skills, I could probably find the time to cook. I’d probably be healthier if I cooked my own food, too. And have more money. Shit.
I want to cook her something nice. I want to put my adoration into food because it’s easier to watch her eat it and taste it in her mouth that to let the words drop from mine. I love her but only enough to bake her a cake, not enough to part my lips and try.
We cook because we love to eat. We love to be full. Full of food, full of joy, full of love. We feel so content, as if since our bodies cannot hold any more, we surely could not ask for anything else.
Why she put up with this family, she didn’t know. She had been looking after these rascals almost all of her life and she was fed up with them. No thank-yous, no pleases. Even a look in the eye was a rarity. No more meals would she prepare for this lot. They could kiss her ass.
Cooking was always his strong suit. While he stumbled over his words and took an awkward stance, not knowing what to do with his hands, clumsy and young, he felt at home in the kitchen.
People were difficult. You could never predict how they’d act. But food was reliable, but still interesting. It surprised him the ways they’d combine, but he understood them well enough to trust and to try. Food was more easier than people.
i was cookin sum gd meth yo
jesse was like
yo
mr white
wassup
yo
then i realised i had cancer
and died
RIP
Walter White
Neither a borrower nor a lender be
He was Brave
But also a twat
THE END
She grabbed the heavy pot, unable to control her anger she threw its contents onto his body. As he screamed from pain she laughed silently. Too bad for the pot roast.
once upon a time I was in the kitchen and I decided to try make some ice cream using ingredients in the fridge. To my surprise all the milk had been devoured but I thought of my position and how I could easily just pop to the shops and get some more. I’d hate to be a cook though
There once was a cook. He was slender, attractive, a well-rounded citizen. He fell in love with a girl of vibrant colors. Reds and violets, hues of blue and yellow shrouded her, it was her.
The hand was still twitching, he gave it a good wack with the tenderizer and continued putting the chunks of his lovely dinner in the pot.
He loved lady soup.
It was the one thing she felt like she could truly do right. When she cooked, she was so much more than just a chef; she was an artist. She was mixing different tastes together into one. She was a creator.
I have nothing to cook right now. That is why I am going to the store today. The rain makes it hard, and my mind is in no state to be doing mundane tasks, since I still have plenty of work to do for school. All in good time.
I cook for my friends, I cook for my mother, I cook for the dead.
Those who don’t cook sure are boring.
Cooking entails the spices of life.
I am a chef, and a connoisseur of the finest.
Come taste my curry.
Isn’t it spicy?
He was a cook. And he was the best at it. He would make sure the shrubs were perfectly trimmed. No weeds were in the yard when he was done with it. At lunch, he would two-way with his co-workers as they all ate lunch in different places in the city. He mowed lawns until it got dark. Maybe he wasn’t a cook.
She cooks, throwing things into pots like she knows what she’s doing. Everything goes everywhere, spilling across the kitchen floor and stove top. I swear I smell smoke. She cooks like she knows what she’s doing, but she burns water and bread.
I can’t cook.
I’d love to,
but I can’t.
I help my mom when I can,
however this normally results in me getting kicked out of the kitchen or told to just ” Go fix the drinks”
Even then I spill them.
He was a cook. And he was the best at it. He would make sure the shrubs were perfectly trimmed. No weeds were in the yard when he was done with it. At lunch, he would two-way with his co-workers as they all at lunch in different places of the city. He mowed lawns until it got dark. Maybe he wasn’t a cook.
The castle cook was wonderful. She was a plump round lady, which was stereotypical, but her food was like God came down and made dinner. And dessert. My favorite dessert was her raspberry pastry, and I had requested those to be served at my engagement party. Which was something I didn’t like to think about.
I love to cook. I love cooking casseroles, pizza, pasta, and desserts. But cooking reminds me more of Rissa. Her making us pancakes in the morning, us laughing, kissing in the kitchen, dancing around. I miss that. I miss her.
I was cooking some meth in my garage. I know its a teriible thing to do, but i dont have much of a choice. There are no other jobs available in this world anymore. anyway , I was in the garage when
I like to cook. I love pasta, casseroles, desserts, pizza. Cooking reminds me of mornings with Larissa, her making pancakes and us laughing and kissing in the kitchen. I miss it. Cooking connects people and makes memories. We love to eat too, Rissa and I that is. Cooking reminds me of a happy time.
when I was little I wanted an easy bake oven. Now this seems silly because I loved the novelty of cooking, but I could have cooked anytime with my mother in the kitchen and made some truly edible instead of a rubbery sugar filled cake or cookie in a single serving pan. But the oven was so beautiful and pink and white and it was the system of it that I loved.
The cook stood still, his apron a blood red. He was now a murderer, a criminal. How?, How? he thought to himself how did it escalate to this degree? If one had told him that he would be here, burying a body he would have laughed in his face. But now, now it was terrifyingly real.
Someone who takes recipes—maybe about food, maybe about something entirely different—and creates something with the ingredients they have. Then it is presented to the public, the audience, and they review it, critique it. It’s a process.
the cook sat in a dark, cold alley outside his place of work, a high end restraunt. He was thinking, about life and his place in it. What? he thought What was my place in this unfeeling world?
the cook sat discontented outside the kitchen, in a dark and cold alley. He was thinking, about life, and his place in it. What, he thought was his place in his unfeeling world?
the cook sat discontented outside the kitchen, in a dark and cold alley. He was thinking, about life, and his place in it. What, he thought was his place in his unfeeling world?
He sat there, alone, thinking. Sauce coated every thinkable surface, his apron no longer white, but a repulsive shade of crumbly pink. With a slap, his masterpiece in a bowl sprawled on the floor. He cried.
Food. yummy. mom making food. cooking is fun. we all like to cook. cheifs cook. my dad sorta cooks, well, he bakes which is kinda close. I like to cook with my mom.
I want to taste the magic potion… straight from your hands… Emotional cooking has always been a delight for me…
My mother keeps a schedule on the fridge of all of the meals she plans on cooking for the month. I always look forward to Thursdays.
A dash of articles, 1/2 cup of finely diced prose, two table spoons of metaphor, a teaspoon of adjectives,* and 3/4 cup of raw philosophy. Bring to a rolling boil for twenty minutes. Allow to cool before proofreading twice. Garnish with semicolon. Serve the next day.
*Substitute with a choice blend of verbs and nouns for richer flavor.
I dont really see the point in this exercise… cook, can be a noun or a verb. Can refer to someone who is able to prepare food, aka. a chef or it could be referring to ones actual ability to combine ingredients to make meals… people eat what they cook…
She was a cook at a high-end restaurant in New York City. Long hours, little appreciation. She was bitter, but sometimes she would get small pleasures in having customers for dinner.
After serving them all, the crowd dispersed and it became clear to the cook that they would never be back again. He waited in his kitchen for an immeasurable amount of time. The food began to rot. Other customers came, but for some reason they never mattered as much as the ones that had already left.
She cant cook, but she doesn’t really care. There is no one to cook for but herself and why would she want to waste her time with that when there are plenty of restaurants put on this very earth to cook for her. Her diet would make Jillian Micheals cringe which consists of Taco bell and toast. Ironically enough, watching the Biggest Loser makes her want to go eat something.
We cook because we love to eat. We love to be full. Full of food, full of happiness, full of laughter and love. We love this fullness because it makes us feel complete. There is no room for error here.
“You will fry for this!” She shouted at him.
He smirked back at her and walked away from the phones, following the guards back toward his cell, orange jumpsuit looking strangely in place on him.
The next day, at home, over tea and croissants, she saw the headline.
“James Crossely found dead in cell.”
He choose his death himself. Controlling to the last.
I’m a pretty good cook, but I never seem to have the time to cook. It’s not even really that I’m super busy. I mean, I’m pretty busy, but if I had better time management skills, I could probably find the time to cook. I’d probably be healthier if I cooked my own food, too. And have more money. Shit.
I want to cook her something nice. I want to put my adoration into food because it’s easier to watch her eat it and taste it in her mouth that to let the words drop from mine. I love her but only enough to bake her a cake, not enough to part my lips and try.
We cook because we love to eat. We love to be full. Full of food, full of joy, full of love. We feel so content, as if since our bodies cannot hold any more, we surely could not ask for anything else.
Why she put up with this family, she didn’t know. She had been looking after these rascals almost all of her life and she was fed up with them. No thank-yous, no pleases. Even a look in the eye was a rarity. No more meals would she prepare for this lot. They could kiss her ass.
Cooking was always his strong suit. While he stumbled over his words and took an awkward stance, not knowing what to do with his hands, clumsy and young, he felt at home in the kitchen.
People were difficult. You could never predict how they’d act. But food was reliable, but still interesting. It surprised him the ways they’d combine, but he understood them well enough to trust and to try. Food was more easier than people.
i was cookin sum gd meth yo
jesse was like
yo
mr white
wassup
yo
then i realised i had cancer
and died
RIP
Walter White
Neither a borrower nor a lender be
He was Brave
But also a twat
THE END
She grabbed the heavy pot, unable to control her anger she threw its contents onto his body. As he screamed from pain she laughed silently. Too bad for the pot roast.
once upon a time I was in the kitchen and I decided to try make some ice cream using ingredients in the fridge. To my surprise all the milk had been devoured but I thought of my position and how I could easily just pop to the shops and get some more. I’d hate to be a cook though
There once was a cook. He was slender, attractive, a well-rounded citizen. He fell in love with a girl of vibrant colors. Reds and violets, hues of blue and yellow shrouded her, it was her.
The hand was still twitching, he gave it a good wack with the tenderizer and continued putting the chunks of his lovely dinner in the pot.
He loved lady soup.
It was the one thing she felt like she could truly do right. When she cooked, she was so much more than just a chef; she was an artist. She was mixing different tastes together into one. She was a creator.
I have nothing to cook right now. That is why I am going to the store today. The rain makes it hard, and my mind is in no state to be doing mundane tasks, since I still have plenty of work to do for school. All in good time.
I cook for my friends, I cook for my mother, I cook for the dead.
Those who don’t cook sure are boring.
Cooking entails the spices of life.
I am a chef, and a connoisseur of the finest.
Come taste my curry.
Isn’t it spicy?
He was a cook. And he was the best at it. He would make sure the shrubs were perfectly trimmed. No weeds were in the yard when he was done with it. At lunch, he would two-way with his co-workers as they all ate lunch in different places in the city. He mowed lawns until it got dark. Maybe he wasn’t a cook.
She cooks, throwing things into pots like she knows what she’s doing. Everything goes everywhere, spilling across the kitchen floor and stove top. I swear I smell smoke. She cooks like she knows what she’s doing, but she burns water and bread.
I can’t cook.
I’d love to,
but I can’t.
I help my mom when I can,
however this normally results in me getting kicked out of the kitchen or told to just ” Go fix the drinks”
Even then I spill them.
He was a cook. And he was the best at it. He would make sure the shrubs were perfectly trimmed. No weeds were in the yard when he was done with it. At lunch, he would two-way with his co-workers as they all at lunch in different places of the city. He mowed lawns until it got dark. Maybe he wasn’t a cook.
The castle cook was wonderful. She was a plump round lady, which was stereotypical, but her food was like God came down and made dinner. And dessert. My favorite dessert was her raspberry pastry, and I had requested those to be served at my engagement party. Which was something I didn’t like to think about.
I love to cook. I love cooking casseroles, pizza, pasta, and desserts. But cooking reminds me more of Rissa. Her making us pancakes in the morning, us laughing, kissing in the kitchen, dancing around. I miss that. I miss her.
eating – need to eat.
with you – need to eat
without you – need to eat
in here – out there – need to eat
before – now – later – need to eat
I was cooking some meth in my garage. I know its a teriible thing to do, but i dont have much of a choice. There are no other jobs available in this world anymore. anyway , I was in the garage when
I like to cook. I love pasta, casseroles, desserts, pizza. Cooking reminds me of mornings with Larissa, her making pancakes and us laughing and kissing in the kitchen. I miss it. Cooking connects people and makes memories. We love to eat too, Rissa and I that is. Cooking reminds me of a happy time.
when I was little I wanted an easy bake oven. Now this seems silly because I loved the novelty of cooking, but I could have cooked anytime with my mother in the kitchen and made some truly edible instead of a rubbery sugar filled cake or cookie in a single serving pan. But the oven was so beautiful and pink and white and it was the system of it that I loved.
The sweet spicy smell of sauce simmering fills the kitchen. She hums to herself and adds a dash of salt. Her customers are waiting.