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Mole is a Concoction. 
You can put a lot of things in mole. 
Almonds, toasted & ground up with tomatoes.
Chocolate, melting at the end of everything.
Tomato & ginger, reduced as a dream I'm remembering.
Shallots or Sweet Onions or Feral Onions.
It's like a heart buried in the ground in winter.
A Duck in the oven. 
A brick of tofu. 
A hearty slice of brioche, its light crust dusted with large crystals of sugar.
Chocolate, smooth between the tooths.
Almonds, blanched & toasted in a cast iron pot.
I used to want a poem to speak of its poetics.
Goat meat. Pork belly. White chocolate. 
Cloves, Cinnamon, Tumeric, Garlic, Coriander. 
The g-dd-ss of spices has given you a tongue.
The g-dd-ss of spices has given you a tooth to your tongue.
Volcanic ash, the wheel reinventing itself turning wheel against wheel. 
I wouldn't put a candle in mole. 
I would put a fried plantain, sliced w/ farmer's cheese, in mole. 
Even when I'm not in crisis, cooking is still necessary.
In this way, I might pull a rabbit out of a mole. 
Toasted almonds or toasted pine nuts. 
Red Chile powder. 
Hot oil. Maple sugar. Snake skin boots I took off by the sea. 
When was cooking not fusion?
I would not put a silver dollar in mole, but 
I would put a secret in mole. 
I will tell you the secret because once you crocheted a cloud into rain. 
The secret is smoked salt and something else.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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