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Of Cookery and Poetry

These two turned up, Song of the Mystic this morning and Coca Loca, in very crude form, last night. What surprises me is the change of mood and pattern in the language of mind in a few hours.

Coca Loca arrived because I couldn't sleep. I had made the most rank and disastrous attempt at a stir fry ever; I mean, it's not hard...but I had these frozen king prawns in their shells. What I should have done was fry the water out of them, pour it away, shell them and start proper. I just bunged them in and hoped for the best, adding soy and chilli and sesame oil and ginger and a little white wine, and just kept going until the result looked like one of those swamps in the deep south, with vegetation oozing out of it in threat mode. We had to chuck the whole thing away.

But the weird thing was that I switched the hob off, and was very aware of switching it off. Later we went to bed, and I could smell something cooking. Checked downstairs, one of the plates was on, with the wok on top of it. I was rattled, because I recalled switching everything off very clearly. I switched it off, but couldn't rest until the smell had cleared completely. Coca Loca was born of a fuming wok. She'd like that.

Song of the Mystic turned up when listening to meditational music this morning, no perhaps that is no surprise. But I am intrigued by the way the mind turns itself around so quickly. Unfortunately I am not going to have much time for story proper today. Now is all about getting the house ready for the approach of in-laws; they are too set in their ways to enjoy what I call a comfy home*. What's a little chaos among friends?

*AKA the house of havoc

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