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By James R. Whitley The terrible pool in the bottom of the pot cools, thickens, stares back at you like a big bloodshot eye, accusatory. Suddenly, it’s an unpalatable scum-- gore, gruel, cruor. Every night: a restive surfeit in the kitchen, an imbalance, as if to compensate for a deficiency elsewhere. Suddenly, you realize your senses will be challenged like this repeatedly. And the old steps will likely be missteps. And the new paths will likely be cold. |
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Document last modified on: 08/19/2003