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Hands still fondling it, eyes still upon it, even an occasional nose to sniff it, it waited. Until it dozed off into a shallow sleep, peppered with vague dreams of dirt and butterflies. And then something slippery and dry wrapping itself around it. A stifling blanket of some sort. A plastic bag. Jostling, mingling with the others, a dark ride somewhere. The kitchen.
The bath was nice, if a bit brief. Then something shiny. A twinge of fear, but then a sweet sense of surrender and purpose. This was what it would all come down to. An act of sacrifice. It had been chosen and now the time had come.
The first slice was a bit of a shock, But there was no pain, in fact if an eggplant were able, this one would surely have let out a sigh and settled in with a smile. Allowing itself to be overtaken by the rhythm, being dredged, dipped, encrusted and lovingly lowered into the hot oil. Like a weary soul in a spa treatment, it laid back, flipped & bubbled, all the while being transformed yet again.
Out to drain for a moment, then a carefully thought out process began. A thick red wine sauce became the pillow that it began to be tucked into. Blanketed with layers of cheese and more sauce, the sense of contentment deepened as it was slid into a warm oven, where it’s metamorphosis became complete.
Realizing that the trip had come to an end, it rested, feeling that it had arrived. Until the fork approached and guided it into the waiting mouth that soon after it’s role of mastication was complete, began to utter it’s praises. Such adjectives spilled forth from that portal, that the eggplant may have actually blushed under all of it’s saucy, cheesy layers. It was “delicious”, “amazing”, “sexy”., and it made them “full”. Full of contentment, nourishment and dare I say, joy.
From there was a world of wonderful, complete darkness. A purpose fulfilled.
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| Eggplant Parmesan - contruction |
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| Eggplant Parmesan - going to the oven... |
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| Eggplant Parmesan |
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig. And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it? If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell? How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? Have you noticed that we talk about certain things only when they are absent? Have you ever seen a horsefull carriage or a strapfull gown? Met a sung hero or experienced requited love? Have you ever run into someone who was combobulated, gruntled, ruly or peccable? And where are all those people who ARE spring chickens or who would actually hurt a fly? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm goes off by going on.."
~ Author Unknown
