Friday, September 12, 2008

32 Celcius

Other than the occasional jostle of the cooks

as they reach around my legs for tools,

I stand in my corner alone.

Melted chocolate pools shiny on my cold marble. I massage and stir it with my palette, watching it firm, be controlled into temper.

I can tell now

(without my thermometer)

that it has given up-

been tamed

is ready.

We speak the same language.

It goes back to the bowl to rewarm, in anticipation of what it will become.

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