She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her best friend was trying and not succeeding at making them breakfast. Her friend was a terrible cook and more often than not her food would be inedible.
The list of ingredients was long, and written in the old-style script, on parchment. They included many strange things, which were not readily available on Medin. She looked over the list and wondered what they could substitute for the gall bladder of an Inzit.
I stare at the counter, taking in all of the things in front of me. Particularly, the eggs pop out; the last time I cracked one of these, I got so much eggshell into the batter that I had to scrap the entire batch and do it over again. My sister wasn’t happy, to say the least. It’s okay, though, this time I have more ambitious hopes for her birthday cake.
Ingredients are things you put in something to get the same result like a remake.
Kendell Pugh
It made for a really terrible pie, that recipe of grandma’s, but I had all the ingredients and I didn’t really like Mary and Jesse anyway so contributing a good dessert wasn’t all that important to me.
Anony Mous
milk, eggs, sugar, ummmmm I like cake so I’m listing ingredients of cake.
it takes me forever to find ingredients in the store. I have to get help for every single thing.
angel
The superflous,
the frothy, the rottening,
novel of today’s time, alas, we know it
is the unspoken, unforseen, story of religion.
In countless circumstances,
overexaggerated fititious beings and things,
may grant us wings,
but the true ingredient,
is right in of us, the tangible, the seen
the very scene which you are the investigator
your friends and foes, the forensic scientists,
listen up, and stir, your life,
to the sound,
of bliss!
if you can find bread in human hair,
and we still devour our turkey sandwhiches,
without a care,
and if we frolick on through
a peach
wherein, inside,
a reawakening seed
can heed, then, then,
then our true ingredients are not what we routinely read
but what mother nature
has to breed!
The perfect ingredients he thought to himself, sweat pouring from his brow. Wiping away at the beads of liquid he swung into action. One dinner, one powerful family waiting outside, the perfect ingredients.
Steven Guillen
A thousand pin pricks in the middle of an open desert. A thousand small hands, small eyes, watching with curious investment into what they will become. Can they ask themselves the meaning of their indescribable mundane use as only part of a whole? The battery against each other to produce the picture that people only appreciate when done. We think we are important individuals, while others know they are important because they are unseen, blended, marred and mashed and intertwined like sick circus sex into another being. Another thing. We are all in the midst of one big recipe.
She sifted the flour, sort of mindlessly, staring at the wall as though it were a window to something no one else could see. Eventually she looked down and realized she had been tapping an empty sifter for several minutes. She had to focus. Baking was science and you can’t fall asleep at the wheel during something as complex as this.
Ingredients – to food, to life, to God’s creation, to our love, to our romance, to our marriage, to our children. Ingredients for a pizza, ingredients for what? WHAT? WHY AM I WRITING ABOUT INGREDIENTS THIS IS SO DUMB I GOT HERE BECAUSE OF STUMBLEUPON. Meow. Cats
Sam
“¿Estás segura de que esos ingredientes son los adecuados?”. Giró la cabeza hacia mi y me dedicó una mirada que me fulminó al instante. Acto seguido, sin dejar pasar un segundo, sonrió. “No lo sé, la verdad; pero a mi me gusta así”.
List the ingredients to who I am.
As if I am someone to make up,
I am ready, I am ready,
they take me out–
not knowing, I am still someone raw on the inside.
IT is so hard to make a list of all the things that go into me, but i’m sure as hell trying to. Theres something to be said for the recipe. bitter sweet.
you and me
ingredients
when mixed together
what do we make?
a bomb that destroys
exploding with such ferocity
laying waste to all that surrounds
shrapnel piercing the innocent
stay away!
nothing good can come from our uniting
emotional destruction, inciting
poetwarrior
I rush out the door and fumble to unlock my bike, made difficult by the flour still dusted here and there from hurried prep. All of the dry ingredients are set out on the counter waiting for an egg. it’s always a damned egg.
Pedaling to the store I’m thinking about the week ahead – “these cookies will only make me breakfast for a week…” I park my bike, and I let me body guide me through the aisles while my mind walks elsewhere. “I’ve really been craving some coconut curry, maybe I’ll do that…” I spy sweet potatoes, fresh from the new Autumn crop, and put a few in my bag. “Maybe breakfast potatoes would be good on the weekend, I could make some excess and bring them to work for lunch.” Onions, Bell peppers, they’re on sale – I see a few seasonings that might go well and pick those up too.
While I love the homey, nostalgic, but altogether fake flavor of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I figure I’ll try and make some of the real stuff from scratch, so I find myself in the milk aisle. Milk is awful here, but it doesn’t matter if you add enough flour, butter, and cheese. Assuming the cheese isn’t terrible. God, what kind of cheese do they even sell here…? My eyes scan a plain yogurt lid and I can taste the chicken skewers from our local Indian restaurant, “maybe I can make those at home, if I marinade it right.”
Yogurt makes it in the basket, and the weight on my arm tells me it’s time to go. I check out, buy bags because of course, I forgot the reusable ones at home, and bike back to my apartment.
I unpack all of the groceries and look at the inevitable feasts that lay before me. When everything’s put away, I look back at the bowl, re-read the rudimentary instructions I’ve written myself (it’s now taken twice the time), and reach for an egg, grabbing nothing.
I rush out the door and fumble to unlock my bike, made difficult by the flour still dusted here and there from hurried prep. All of the dry ingredients are set out on the counter waiting for an egg. it’s always a damned egg.
Pedaling to the store I’m thinking about the week ahead – “these cookies will only make me breakfast for a week…” I park my bike, and I let me body guide me through the aisles while my mind walks elsewhere. “I’ve really been craving some coconut curry, maybe I’ll do that…” I spy sweet potatoes, fresh from the new Autumn crop, and put a few in my bag. “Maybe breakfast potatoes would be good on the weekend, I could make some excess and bring them to work for lunch.” Onions, Bell Peppers, they’re on sale – I see a few seasonings that might go well and pick those up too.
While I love the homey, nostalgic, but altogether fake flavor of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I figure I’ll try and make some of the real stuff from scratch, so I find myself in the milk isle. Milk is awful here. My eyes scan a yogurt lid and I can taste the chicken skewers from our local Indian restaurant, “maybe I can make those at home, if I marinade it right.”
Yogurt makes it in the basket, and the weight on my arm tells me it’s time to go. I check out, buy bags because of course, I forgot the reusable ones at home, and bike back to my apartment.
I unpack all of the groceries and look at the inevitable feasts that lay before me. When everything’s put away, I look back at the bowl, re-read the rudimentary instructions I’ve written myself (it’s now taken twice the time), and reach for an egg, grabbing nothing.
Love, pain, sunshine, broken glass
Rivers and snowfalls and smiles, all kinds of places
Are some of the ingredients that make up this lifetime
Maddy
A dash of spice, a pinch of cinnamon
Don’t forget the flour, the eggs, the lemon
Normal ingredients for a normal recipe
But what about concocting a disaster?
A hydra of worries, insurmountable, crushing pain?
How do you bake anxiety, how do you measure self-gain?
Do you add a teaspoon of greed, or perhaps a cup of fear?
A sprinkle of malice, a quart of timidity
A tablespoon of hate, a gallon of stupidity
How do you grind insecurities and disbelief, the icing on the cake?
The finishing touch, deadly candles with black flames, quake
If chaos, betrayal, and destruction is what you’re after,
How does one concoct a disaster?
“Weren’t you going to make a chicken dish for dinner, sweetie?” asked Claire, as she sat down in front of her plate of fish. Bell peppers and steamed broccoli proudly decorated the fried tilapia.
Taylor grinned haplessly. “I was,” she admitted, “but I was missing one of the ingredients.”
“Which was…?”
“Chicken.”
Belinda Roddie
Life is all about ingredients. Whether it be baking a new dish or lining up your next job, you have to have all of the basics in order to accomplish the goal. Gather the ingredients, form them into what you want, and then you have your desired outcome. If you are missing anything, what you had in mind will not turn out in the way you imagined.
Theresa
Individuals are unique – just as everything on this earth is. No two living things are identical – errors in DNA replication ensure this. Still, a cluster of unique individuals do make a dish we commonly refer to as communities.
A mostly negligible list, but enough to make my head spin; each one an opportunity for mistake, and I have yet to wrap my head around two different flavors making an entirely new experience, and all the possibilities I will never think to explore weigh on me. I don’t own most of these things, can I fake it? A run to the store, I lay everything out. Flour, sugar, milk, butter, eggs, baking soda, baking powder, nutmeg, cinnamon…God this is more oil than I’ve ever used. I roll, cut, shape, drop, taking three times the time written on the paper. I stand over the frying dough, and after such an investment I am no longer willing to excuse failure, whether it be my first or fiftieth time standing here.
Worried about over-cooking, undercooking- better too little than too much, but has it really been enough?- I scoop my creation out, pat it dry, take a bite- it burns, it’s good, it’s sweet, and I am satisfied until I reach the gaping hole in the middle.
“These are the perfect ingredients for a great disaster,” muttered Sawyer, watching Belle sharpen her sword. “It’s not going to turn out okay at all.”
“It’ll be fine,” Will shrugged, watching Belle. “She’s got this all under control.”
A pause. “I think.”
cally d.
put all the ingredients together and watch them explode. watch them turn into something else, a new random string of molecules before your eyes. mix it, add to it. our universe is amazing (sometimes)
well well well, i think we have here a classic case of … bullshit. Forget about the racional, or the fun side of life. It is a struggle, a permanent struggle between today and tomorrow, between doing it or delaying. Libraries versus the beach. What are the main components for equilibrium? Or the way?
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her best friend was trying and not succeeding at making them breakfast. Her friend was a terrible cook and more often than not her food would be inedible.
The list of ingredients was long, and written in the old-style script, on parchment. They included many strange things, which were not readily available on Medin. She looked over the list and wondered what they could substitute for the gall bladder of an Inzit.
I stare at the counter, taking in all of the things in front of me. Particularly, the eggs pop out; the last time I cracked one of these, I got so much eggshell into the batter that I had to scrap the entire batch and do it over again. My sister wasn’t happy, to say the least. It’s okay, though, this time I have more ambitious hopes for her birthday cake.
i put my cake ingredients in a bull
Ingredients are things you put in something to get the same result like a remake.
It made for a really terrible pie, that recipe of grandma’s, but I had all the ingredients and I didn’t really like Mary and Jesse anyway so contributing a good dessert wasn’t all that important to me.
milk, eggs, sugar, ummmmm I like cake so I’m listing ingredients of cake.
All you have to do is throw all the ingredients in the bowl and mix them. Bake for thirty minutes at 270 degrees in the oven, and there you have it!
it takes me forever to find ingredients in the store. I have to get help for every single thing.
The superflous,
the frothy, the rottening,
novel of today’s time, alas, we know it
is the unspoken, unforseen, story of religion.
In countless circumstances,
overexaggerated fititious beings and things,
may grant us wings,
but the true ingredient,
is right in of us, the tangible, the seen
the very scene which you are the investigator
your friends and foes, the forensic scientists,
listen up, and stir, your life,
to the sound,
of bliss!
if you can find bread in human hair,
and we still devour our turkey sandwhiches,
without a care,
and if we frolick on through
a peach
wherein, inside,
a reawakening seed
can heed, then, then,
then our true ingredients are not what we routinely read
but what mother nature
has to breed!
The perfect ingredients he thought to himself, sweat pouring from his brow. Wiping away at the beads of liquid he swung into action. One dinner, one powerful family waiting outside, the perfect ingredients.
A thousand pin pricks in the middle of an open desert. A thousand small hands, small eyes, watching with curious investment into what they will become. Can they ask themselves the meaning of their indescribable mundane use as only part of a whole? The battery against each other to produce the picture that people only appreciate when done. We think we are important individuals, while others know they are important because they are unseen, blended, marred and mashed and intertwined like sick circus sex into another being. Another thing. We are all in the midst of one big recipe.
She sifted the flour, sort of mindlessly, staring at the wall as though it were a window to something no one else could see. Eventually she looked down and realized she had been tapping an empty sifter for several minutes. She had to focus. Baking was science and you can’t fall asleep at the wheel during something as complex as this.
Ingredients – to food, to life, to God’s creation, to our love, to our romance, to our marriage, to our children. Ingredients for a pizza, ingredients for what? WHAT? WHY AM I WRITING ABOUT INGREDIENTS THIS IS SO DUMB I GOT HERE BECAUSE OF STUMBLEUPON. Meow. Cats
“¿Estás segura de que esos ingredientes son los adecuados?”. Giró la cabeza hacia mi y me dedicó una mirada que me fulminó al instante. Acto seguido, sin dejar pasar un segundo, sonrió. “No lo sé, la verdad; pero a mi me gusta así”.
List the ingredients to who I am.
As if I am someone to make up,
I am ready, I am ready,
they take me out–
not knowing, I am still someone raw on the inside.
IT is so hard to make a list of all the things that go into me, but i’m sure as hell trying to. Theres something to be said for the recipe. bitter sweet.
you and me
ingredients
when mixed together
what do we make?
a bomb that destroys
exploding with such ferocity
laying waste to all that surrounds
shrapnel piercing the innocent
stay away!
nothing good can come from our uniting
emotional destruction, inciting
I rush out the door and fumble to unlock my bike, made difficult by the flour still dusted here and there from hurried prep. All of the dry ingredients are set out on the counter waiting for an egg. it’s always a damned egg.
Pedaling to the store I’m thinking about the week ahead – “these cookies will only make me breakfast for a week…” I park my bike, and I let me body guide me through the aisles while my mind walks elsewhere. “I’ve really been craving some coconut curry, maybe I’ll do that…” I spy sweet potatoes, fresh from the new Autumn crop, and put a few in my bag. “Maybe breakfast potatoes would be good on the weekend, I could make some excess and bring them to work for lunch.” Onions, Bell peppers, they’re on sale – I see a few seasonings that might go well and pick those up too.
While I love the homey, nostalgic, but altogether fake flavor of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I figure I’ll try and make some of the real stuff from scratch, so I find myself in the milk aisle. Milk is awful here, but it doesn’t matter if you add enough flour, butter, and cheese. Assuming the cheese isn’t terrible. God, what kind of cheese do they even sell here…? My eyes scan a plain yogurt lid and I can taste the chicken skewers from our local Indian restaurant, “maybe I can make those at home, if I marinade it right.”
Yogurt makes it in the basket, and the weight on my arm tells me it’s time to go. I check out, buy bags because of course, I forgot the reusable ones at home, and bike back to my apartment.
I unpack all of the groceries and look at the inevitable feasts that lay before me. When everything’s put away, I look back at the bowl, re-read the rudimentary instructions I’ve written myself (it’s now taken twice the time), and reach for an egg, grabbing nothing.
I forgot the eggs.
It’s always the damned eggs.
I rush out the door and fumble to unlock my bike, made difficult by the flour still dusted here and there from hurried prep. All of the dry ingredients are set out on the counter waiting for an egg. it’s always a damned egg.
Pedaling to the store I’m thinking about the week ahead – “these cookies will only make me breakfast for a week…” I park my bike, and I let me body guide me through the aisles while my mind walks elsewhere. “I’ve really been craving some coconut curry, maybe I’ll do that…” I spy sweet potatoes, fresh from the new Autumn crop, and put a few in my bag. “Maybe breakfast potatoes would be good on the weekend, I could make some excess and bring them to work for lunch.” Onions, Bell Peppers, they’re on sale – I see a few seasonings that might go well and pick those up too.
While I love the homey, nostalgic, but altogether fake flavor of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I figure I’ll try and make some of the real stuff from scratch, so I find myself in the milk isle. Milk is awful here. My eyes scan a yogurt lid and I can taste the chicken skewers from our local Indian restaurant, “maybe I can make those at home, if I marinade it right.”
Yogurt makes it in the basket, and the weight on my arm tells me it’s time to go. I check out, buy bags because of course, I forgot the reusable ones at home, and bike back to my apartment.
I unpack all of the groceries and look at the inevitable feasts that lay before me. When everything’s put away, I look back at the bowl, re-read the rudimentary instructions I’ve written myself (it’s now taken twice the time), and reach for an egg, grabbing nothing.
I forgot the eggs.
It’s always the damned eggs.
Love, pain, sunshine, broken glass
Rivers and snowfalls and smiles, all kinds of places
Are some of the ingredients that make up this lifetime
A dash of spice, a pinch of cinnamon
Don’t forget the flour, the eggs, the lemon
Normal ingredients for a normal recipe
But what about concocting a disaster?
A hydra of worries, insurmountable, crushing pain?
How do you bake anxiety, how do you measure self-gain?
Do you add a teaspoon of greed, or perhaps a cup of fear?
A sprinkle of malice, a quart of timidity
A tablespoon of hate, a gallon of stupidity
How do you grind insecurities and disbelief, the icing on the cake?
The finishing touch, deadly candles with black flames, quake
If chaos, betrayal, and destruction is what you’re after,
How does one concoct a disaster?
ingredients are food or things that you will need to make food or other things. [Like cake]
I don’t want to get better
it got late fast
you have today only to explain yourself
the last time…
arduous ink
silent treatment
dead bloomer
this is the gift that will haunt you
you can never tell them
tombstone technology, last laugh
“Weren’t you going to make a chicken dish for dinner, sweetie?” asked Claire, as she sat down in front of her plate of fish. Bell peppers and steamed broccoli proudly decorated the fried tilapia.
Taylor grinned haplessly. “I was,” she admitted, “but I was missing one of the ingredients.”
“Which was…?”
“Chicken.”
Life is all about ingredients. Whether it be baking a new dish or lining up your next job, you have to have all of the basics in order to accomplish the goal. Gather the ingredients, form them into what you want, and then you have your desired outcome. If you are missing anything, what you had in mind will not turn out in the way you imagined.
Individuals are unique – just as everything on this earth is. No two living things are identical – errors in DNA replication ensure this. Still, a cluster of unique individuals do make a dish we commonly refer to as communities.
A mostly negligible list, but enough to make my head spin; each one an opportunity for mistake, and I have yet to wrap my head around two different flavors making an entirely new experience, and all the possibilities I will never think to explore weigh on me. I don’t own most of these things, can I fake it? A run to the store, I lay everything out. Flour, sugar, milk, butter, eggs, baking soda, baking powder, nutmeg, cinnamon…God this is more oil than I’ve ever used. I roll, cut, shape, drop, taking three times the time written on the paper. I stand over the frying dough, and after such an investment I am no longer willing to excuse failure, whether it be my first or fiftieth time standing here.
Worried about over-cooking, undercooking- better too little than too much, but has it really been enough?- I scoop my creation out, pat it dry, take a bite- it burns, it’s good, it’s sweet, and I am satisfied until I reach the gaping hole in the middle.
“These are the perfect ingredients for a great disaster,” muttered Sawyer, watching Belle sharpen her sword. “It’s not going to turn out okay at all.”
“It’ll be fine,” Will shrugged, watching Belle. “She’s got this all under control.”
A pause. “I think.”
put all the ingredients together and watch them explode. watch them turn into something else, a new random string of molecules before your eyes. mix it, add to it. our universe is amazing (sometimes)
today I want to make a cake, so i put my ingredients in a bull mixed it up and baked it in the oven.
well well well, i think we have here a classic case of … bullshit. Forget about the racional, or the fun side of life. It is a struggle, a permanent struggle between today and tomorrow, between doing it or delaying. Libraries versus the beach. What are the main components for equilibrium? Or the way?