I stood there in the kitchen, a laddle in one hand and the mix in the other hand. I just stared, blank. “I can’t cook anything to safe my life,” I whispered to myself. I took the overcooked ramen to the sink and slowly poured it down the drain, my head shaking disapprovingly.
Sierra
The smell coming from the kitchen was overwhelming. I couldn’t wait to taste what was in the oven. Once the timer went off, I arranged the plates and waited, with bated breath, to taste the deliciousness that I was about to experience. One bite….dry. as. hell. Dammit. Overcooked again.
Alouette
My mind is overcooked.
Thoughts smoldering,
ideas burning inside me.
The crisp black taste of
too much
too much.
Margaret
Sometimes I think the whole world has been overcooked. We’ve steeped in hatred and pollution and arrogance for so long that I think all the vitamins have been cooked out.
Her rabbit stew tasty like jello,
The bits of meat, rubber,
And the peppers were sandpaper.
Still Herbert happily munched away.
Or so his impression gave her.
Really he wanted nothing but to stand up and throw her stupid stew all over that stupid painting of Bono that she cherished above all else; to spray the walls with her foul incarnations that he was force to endure in silence day after day after day after–
“How is it?” She asked, her eyes beaming with sinister hope.
Herbert swallowed his bite,
And his tongue.
“Great!” He responded.
The revolution was going to begin.
But not quite yet.
one word description of anything is very tough. i cann describe myself in one word as confused. one word of any emotion can chnage the life of a person
divyata
my food is overcooked today. I don’t like this type of food much except in some special cases , like in case of potatoes. Don’t you think it’s different that way !!!
Anil
Like a dry piece of chicken
Choking you
Long past overdue
What a waste
Of time and of space
I should’ve given up long ago
Lauren
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Was the food
Lizzy Grey
She chewed valiantly and swallowed. Overcooked chicken, undercooked mashed potatoes, gritty salad; none of it was palatable, but at least her husband was trying to help out.
i always worry that my food will be overcooked. but i also wonder if i’m overcooked, like done too much, past the point of no return. how do i get back from something like that? what if he won’t take me back or want to keep me?
you suck overcooked pickles
the pickles weren’t sour
you bite them instead
they still aren’t sour
you break the overcooked pickles
they still aren’t sour
you buy some new pickles
these not-so-overcooked pickles
are sour.
Lizzy Grey
Lizsa Mina Mey decided that 3:30 was the perfect time to collect her children from school. She decided to put souffle in the oven for them
She had a super duper long chat with the teacher
And the souffle
Was overcooked
Lizzy Grey
The hideous souffle was overcooked by an amazing chef name Ranoldo
He shouted “Mi amor!” because that was what the overcooked souffle was
I think
Maybe it wasn’t
Ranoldo was Canadian, you know. An overcooked Canadian.
He decided he should move back to Russian Canada but he had no money
His money was overcooked
A monkey stole his overcooked wallet because Ranoldo was rich.
That was why it was overcooked
Lizzy Grey
She was running late to pick the children up from school and when she arrived her daughter’s teacher wanted to speak to her. She didn’t want to refuse and the conversation went on longer than she hoped. When she got home she realised she’d left the oven on too high and her dinner was overcooked and ruined.
the steak was overcooked again. she stabbed it with her fork, its tongs digging into the tough meat, and sawed into it with the serrated edge of her best knife. there was no way she could serve this to him. such a dinner would not end well for either of them.
“You know that lettuce loses 90% of its Vitamin A when cooked? They’re so de-vegetized that they’re not vegetables anymore. We’re basically eating bland mush.”
The meat in the furnace was overcooked. Mrs. Tillman, who was supposed to be watching her dish, had rushed outside to the sound of a siren. Who had called the ambulance? Then she remembered what had happened as she collapsed on the ground.
Ashley Saunders
Yesterday, my mother cooked rice and she overcooked and cause fire on the food. And i lost my appetite to eat. So that i not eat until night and continue do revision.
ida
I was impress with the smell of the food that was been prepared for us at the conference, however, while we were at the table having our lunch, the meat appeared to be overcooked and that alone, was enough to turn my mind away from it.
Could be burning and brown and black, could be bodies that Tyreese finds and they’re all black and shriveled and steaming and the putrid smell of melting human flesh in penetrating every pore, those would be overcooked, cerainly, although there’s red showing and it would be tender to the touch, perhaps sticky too.
Ryan
challenges are charm of life
shivmeel
I think we may have overcooked it. Last night. And the night before. And every time we ever even tried to “cook” it. It got hard and rubbery, and frankly indigestible. But we kept cooking it nevertheless, thinking somehow that we could salvage it if only it were cooked a little more. He cooked it some more, then I did, back and forth and back and forth, each of us thinking only “I” can cook it right. We cooked it a little in the morning, then from our respective job places during the day. Then, finally, we threw it away. It was never gonna be consumable anyway, and then, after being boiled to mush and burnt to a crisp, together, we threw it out in mutual disgust, finally agreeing on something. And then we agreed on another, then another and another, until we remembered what was really there, lurking just beneath the murky surface of the “it” we insistently cooked. We finally saw the light, the joy, the wonder again, like a big fresh scoop of Thrifty brand cotton candy flavored ice cream, (trust us, it tastes like creme brulee), that we could happily spoon together, and that never needed cooking.
Laurel
Burnt pieces of flesh
overcooked on the
iron stove
hearts of stone
boil in the pan
hardened by the
pressure and the
heat and the
ache.
Overwrought and
spoiled we learned
how to
unravel all the
way down to
When she picked at the pile of green on her plate, it slopped and slurped like a dirty swamp. Her nose wrinkled and her forehead pinched in distaste. How could this lump of vegetation possibly be nutritious?
You met an overcooked rock star recently. Guess when your on fire, you tend to stay that way, and if you’re going to be honest with the crowd, you’ve actually met this type of person more than once this year. It’s sort of a job requirement at this point. But you didn’t judge them so harshly as you did at 18, back when you wrote a jangly poem about being in a crowd of aging pill poppers with sad faces painted on like evening wear done up all high and mighty.
Your present self snickers at your past naivety, but respects the long view you had even then. You knew even before you put on these shoes where a path could take you. After all, you like to explore with a general sense of direction in mind. This begs the question: did they have that too? Do they even think of it at all or are they too busy getting lost in chasing a daydream? And what fuels that need for escape. Do they even wish to take choices back? I know I do. The blase phrase: “No Regrets,” or these days “YOLO,” feels like mind control as I regard regrets as the way not to repeat destructive patterns. Kind of a necessary mechanism if you’re going to evolve as a creative. Because splatter-y brains on the wall is a word of “no, thank you.” #kevinspacey
The eggs sat overcooked in the skillet. She had already made a scrumptious looking english muffin topped with raspberry jam. Sitting on the plate were also hashbrowns; they were not quite done, but her love of them overpowered the negative thoughts on that. She had planned a lovely Saturday morning to herself, and was not going to let a few cooking mishaps deter her plan.
Megan
i just spilled hard lemonade all over my computer fmlsazdcx32dw
my mom’s chicken always tasted like charred lemons and crushed peper in probably the worst way. I had no idea that chicken could turn black all the way in. By the time i saw it, it was more like carbon and ash than anything else. about half the size of what went in.
Andrea
The potatoes were overcooked, the meat not nearly seasoned enough, and the candles just wouldn’t stay lit. To top it off, you spilled the (cheap) wine on your shirt when you were trying to open it (which resulted in the cork falling into the bottle).
But as she looked at you in amusement while forcing herself to eat the dinner you tried your very hardest to make, you couldn’t help but feel you did this just right.
The third time I said “I love you” today
went like this:
You can’t make toast
to save your life.
I guess I’ll have to make breakfast
every morning
from now on.
I stood there in the kitchen, a laddle in one hand and the mix in the other hand. I just stared, blank. “I can’t cook anything to safe my life,” I whispered to myself. I took the overcooked ramen to the sink and slowly poured it down the drain, my head shaking disapprovingly.
The smell coming from the kitchen was overwhelming. I couldn’t wait to taste what was in the oven. Once the timer went off, I arranged the plates and waited, with bated breath, to taste the deliciousness that I was about to experience. One bite….dry. as. hell. Dammit. Overcooked again.
My mind is overcooked.
Thoughts smoldering,
ideas burning inside me.
The crisp black taste of
too much
too much.
Sometimes I think the whole world has been overcooked. We’ve steeped in hatred and pollution and arrogance for so long that I think all the vitamins have been cooked out.
Her rabbit stew tasty like jello,
The bits of meat, rubber,
And the peppers were sandpaper.
Still Herbert happily munched away.
Or so his impression gave her.
Really he wanted nothing but to stand up and throw her stupid stew all over that stupid painting of Bono that she cherished above all else; to spray the walls with her foul incarnations that he was force to endure in silence day after day after day after–
“How is it?” She asked, her eyes beaming with sinister hope.
Herbert swallowed his bite,
And his tongue.
“Great!” He responded.
The revolution was going to begin.
But not quite yet.
one word description of anything is very tough. i cann describe myself in one word as confused. one word of any emotion can chnage the life of a person
my food is overcooked today. I don’t like this type of food much except in some special cases , like in case of potatoes. Don’t you think it’s different that way !!!
Like a dry piece of chicken
Choking you
Long past overdue
What a waste
Of time and of space
I should’ve given up long ago
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Overcooked
Was the food
She chewed valiantly and swallowed. Overcooked chicken, undercooked mashed potatoes, gritty salad; none of it was palatable, but at least her husband was trying to help out.
i always worry that my food will be overcooked. but i also wonder if i’m overcooked, like done too much, past the point of no return. how do i get back from something like that? what if he won’t take me back or want to keep me?
you suck overcooked pickles
the pickles weren’t sour
you bite them instead
they still aren’t sour
you break the overcooked pickles
they still aren’t sour
you buy some new pickles
these not-so-overcooked pickles
are sour.
Lizsa Mina Mey decided that 3:30 was the perfect time to collect her children from school. She decided to put souffle in the oven for them
She had a super duper long chat with the teacher
And the souffle
Was overcooked
The hideous souffle was overcooked by an amazing chef name Ranoldo
He shouted “Mi amor!” because that was what the overcooked souffle was
I think
Maybe it wasn’t
Ranoldo was Canadian, you know. An overcooked Canadian.
He decided he should move back to Russian Canada but he had no money
His money was overcooked
A monkey stole his overcooked wallet because Ranoldo was rich.
That was why it was overcooked
She was running late to pick the children up from school and when she arrived her daughter’s teacher wanted to speak to her. She didn’t want to refuse and the conversation went on longer than she hoped. When she got home she realised she’d left the oven on too high and her dinner was overcooked and ruined.
the steak was overcooked again. she stabbed it with her fork, its tongs digging into the tough meat, and sawed into it with the serrated edge of her best knife. there was no way she could serve this to him. such a dinner would not end well for either of them.
“You know that lettuce loses 90% of its Vitamin A when cooked? They’re so de-vegetized that they’re not vegetables anymore. We’re basically eating bland mush.”
The meat in the furnace was overcooked. Mrs. Tillman, who was supposed to be watching her dish, had rushed outside to the sound of a siren. Who had called the ambulance? Then she remembered what had happened as she collapsed on the ground.
Yesterday, my mother cooked rice and she overcooked and cause fire on the food. And i lost my appetite to eat. So that i not eat until night and continue do revision.
I was impress with the smell of the food that was been prepared for us at the conference, however, while we were at the table having our lunch, the meat appeared to be overcooked and that alone, was enough to turn my mind away from it.
Could be burning and brown and black, could be bodies that Tyreese finds and they’re all black and shriveled and steaming and the putrid smell of melting human flesh in penetrating every pore, those would be overcooked, cerainly, although there’s red showing and it would be tender to the touch, perhaps sticky too.
challenges are charm of life
I think we may have overcooked it. Last night. And the night before. And every time we ever even tried to “cook” it. It got hard and rubbery, and frankly indigestible. But we kept cooking it nevertheless, thinking somehow that we could salvage it if only it were cooked a little more. He cooked it some more, then I did, back and forth and back and forth, each of us thinking only “I” can cook it right. We cooked it a little in the morning, then from our respective job places during the day. Then, finally, we threw it away. It was never gonna be consumable anyway, and then, after being boiled to mush and burnt to a crisp, together, we threw it out in mutual disgust, finally agreeing on something. And then we agreed on another, then another and another, until we remembered what was really there, lurking just beneath the murky surface of the “it” we insistently cooked. We finally saw the light, the joy, the wonder again, like a big fresh scoop of Thrifty brand cotton candy flavored ice cream, (trust us, it tastes like creme brulee), that we could happily spoon together, and that never needed cooking.
Burnt pieces of flesh
overcooked on the
iron stove
hearts of stone
boil in the pan
hardened by the
pressure and the
heat and the
ache.
Overwrought and
spoiled we learned
how to
unravel all the
way down to
Goodbye
When she picked at the pile of green on her plate, it slopped and slurped like a dirty swamp. Her nose wrinkled and her forehead pinched in distaste. How could this lump of vegetation possibly be nutritious?
You met an overcooked rock star recently. Guess when your on fire, you tend to stay that way, and if you’re going to be honest with the crowd, you’ve actually met this type of person more than once this year. It’s sort of a job requirement at this point. But you didn’t judge them so harshly as you did at 18, back when you wrote a jangly poem about being in a crowd of aging pill poppers with sad faces painted on like evening wear done up all high and mighty.
Your present self snickers at your past naivety, but respects the long view you had even then. You knew even before you put on these shoes where a path could take you. After all, you like to explore with a general sense of direction in mind. This begs the question: did they have that too? Do they even think of it at all or are they too busy getting lost in chasing a daydream? And what fuels that need for escape. Do they even wish to take choices back? I know I do. The blase phrase: “No Regrets,” or these days “YOLO,” feels like mind control as I regard regrets as the way not to repeat destructive patterns. Kind of a necessary mechanism if you’re going to evolve as a creative. Because splatter-y brains on the wall is a word of “no, thank you.” #kevinspacey
The eggs sat overcooked in the skillet. She had already made a scrumptious looking english muffin topped with raspberry jam. Sitting on the plate were also hashbrowns; they were not quite done, but her love of them overpowered the negative thoughts on that. She had planned a lovely Saturday morning to herself, and was not going to let a few cooking mishaps deter her plan.
i just spilled hard lemonade all over my computer fmlsazdcx32dw
my mom’s chicken always tasted like charred lemons and crushed peper in probably the worst way. I had no idea that chicken could turn black all the way in. By the time i saw it, it was more like carbon and ash than anything else. about half the size of what went in.
The potatoes were overcooked, the meat not nearly seasoned enough, and the candles just wouldn’t stay lit. To top it off, you spilled the (cheap) wine on your shirt when you were trying to open it (which resulted in the cork falling into the bottle).
But as she looked at you in amusement while forcing herself to eat the dinner you tried your very hardest to make, you couldn’t help but feel you did this just right.