Surprise in Japan - Mosquitos in the Oil
not so oily to the ears
mosquitos and other insects
in the used cooking oil
cooking oil for reuse
mosquitos, and insects
at bottom of the can
restaurant special recipe
adding to the taste
used oil with mosquitos
Most books I read tell us about Japanese being very clean people but the chef of this this restaurant in Nishi Funabashi I found put his used cooking oil in a can and under the choppng table in the kitchen. It was meant for reuse. I found mosquitos, ants, and other insects at the bottom of the can. It was really a surprise.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
I sometimes think the chef end of cooking is not the real end of cooking. Cooking is all about homes and gardens, it doesn't happen in restaurants.
quote by Delia Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Funkier Than A Mosquitos Tweeter
Aillene bullock
Youre nothing but a dirty, dirty old man
You do your thinking with a one track mind
Keep talkin about heaven glory but
On your face is a different story
Clean up your rap your storys getting dusty
Wash out your mouth
Your lies are getting rusty
Cant believe nothing you say
cause Im around and I see what you do
You know youre funky as a mosquitos tweeter
You gotta mouth like a herd of boll weevils
Same old game, same old thing
You never changed
Always rappin bout the same old thing
I got something to tell ya
I got something to tell you baby
But you aint hip to baby
Blowin minds is a thing of the past
You blew your chance thats why you never last
You want to be a graduate mother
But in reality just another brother
You think you slick but could
Stand a lot of greasing
The things you do aint never really pleasin
Cant believe nothin you say
cause Im around and I see what you do
You know you funky as a mosquitos tweeter
You got a mouth like a herd of boll weevils
Same old game, same old thing
A...lways rappin bout the same old thing
You beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful, beautiful
Brought yoursef a pot of baked stew
Nothin worse than an educated fool
Talkin sex is your favorite conversation
But peace and love is a famous generation
Whats in your head has really started
Showing your conversation gettin kinda boring
Cant believe nothin you say
cause Im around and I see what you do
You know you funky as a mosquitos tweeter
You got a mouth like a herd of boll weevils
Same old game, same old game
Same old thing you never change
Same old game, same old thing
Always rappin bout the same old thing
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There was no romance about the mosquitos, however.
quote by Edward Burnett Tylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gourmet vs the Usual
a good food and a good drink
seven days a week
I wouldn't ask for more
I'll just eat with love and won't get bored
I tried cooking my own food
following mom’s recipe
but it didn’t taste exactly as
when mom’s the one cooking
Oh, I realized
I couldn't buy in the store
an ingredient mom has when cooking a food
I couldn't buy love and patience
in the fresh market or in any grocery
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I don't like gourmet cooking or ""this"" cooking or ""that"" cooking. I like good cooking.
quote by James Beard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The restaurant chefs in Spain are breaking ground, but in terms of the everyday cooking in Spain I still hear people coming back and saying they were disappointed. I think it's because they're expecting the chef stuff.
quote by Sally Schneider
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dish (cuisine) that talks
I am a dish that talks
and usually i want the chef
to do his stuff my way
wishing this, wishing that
hoping to be the next best dish
to top the restaurant list
as the chef sprinkles
his spices and salt onto me
i diffident would complain of
the excesses, the overindulgent
use of veggies and mutton
or mollusks, mustard
vinegar and pepper
and even the overheating,
charbroiled, stir fried
steam cooked or stewed
i want it my way giving
little regard to the chef's expertise
for fear of becoming an
offensive blandness on
the tongues of the masters
over enthusiastic over
what would turn out of me
only when my fragrance
spreads over the table
to trigger that salivating
nerves in mouths that
the buddha himself would
jump over the wall to
have me in his belly that
i realise the chef is correct
he is cooking me and he knows
how best i should be served
that exquisiteness that could only
result from an original recipe
the chef himself knows best
how he should turn out his creation
i take the opportunity to ask him
what he finds most in the way
as he tries to realise his dream of me
and he says 'Your load of bland ego
with the toughness of a three year old chicken.'
'It takes such a long time to just
boil them down to edible portions.'
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Southern Cross
(A Frustration)
Four stars on Night's brow, or Night's bosom,
Whichever the reader prefers;
Or Night without either may do some,
Each one to his taste or to hers.
Four stars—to continue inditing,
So long as I feel in the vein—
Hullo! what the deuce is that biting?
Mosquitos again!
Oh glories not gilded but golden,
Oh daughters of Night unexcelled,
By the sons of the north unbeholden,
By our sons (if we have them) beheld;
Oh jewels the midnight enriching,
Oh four which are double of twain!
Oh mystical — bother the itching!
Mosquitos again!
You alone I can anchor my eye on,
Of you and you only I'll write:
And I now look awry on Orion,
That once was my chiefest delight.
Ye exalt me high over the petty
Conditions of pleasure and pain—
Oh Heaven! here are these maladetti
Mosquitos again!
The poet should ever be placid.
Oh vex not his soul or his skin!
Shall I scare them with sulphurous acid?
It is done, and afresh I begin.
Lucid orbs!—that last sting very sore is;
I am fain to leave off, I am fain;
It has given me uncommon dolores—
Simpliciter, pain.
Not quite what the shape of a cross is—
A little lop-sided, I own—
Confound your infernal proboscis,
Inserted well nigh to the bone!
Queen-lights of the heights of high heaven,
Ensconced in the crystal inane—
Oh me! here are seventy times seven
Mosquitos again!
Oh horns of a mighty trapezium!
Quadrilateral area, hail!
Oh bright as the light of magnesium!—
Oh hang them all, female and male!
At the end of an hour of their stinging,
What shall rest of me then, what remain?
I shall die as the swan dieth, singing,
Mosquitos again!
Shock keen as the stroke of the levin!
They sting, and I change in a flash
From the peace and the poppies of heaven
To the flame and the fuel of—dash!
O Cross of the South ! I forgot you,
These demons have addled my brain.
Once more I look upward. . . . Od rot you!
You're at it again
There ! stick in your pitiless brad-awl,
And do your malevolent worst!
Dine on me, and when you have had all,
Let others go in for a burst!
O silent and pure constellation,
Can you pardon my fretful refrain?
Forgive, oh forgive my vexation—
They're at it again!
Oh imps that provoke to mad laughter,
Winged fiends that are fed from my brow,
Bite hard! let your neighbours come after,
And sting where you stung me just now!
Red brands on it smitten and bitten,
Round blotches I rub at in vain!
Oh Crux! Whatsoever I've written,
I've written in pain!
Ye chrysolite crystalline creatures,
Wan watchers the fairest afield,
Stars—and garters, are these my own features
In the merciless mirror revealed!
They are mine, even mine, and none other,
And my hands how they slacken and strain!
Oh my sister, my spouse, and my mother!
I'm going insane!
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Willing to Surrender
Sprung into Spring,
With Fireflys remembered
And mosquitos kept at bay
By scented charcoal mists.
This chilly moonlit night
Comes to visit with these thoughts.
Winter seems to have a last finger hold
Before unfolding new offerings anticipated.
Too many sunrises have come
To find me awakening wishing to be touched.
I will dress and walk feeling stalked by chirping birds.
Hoping this Spring
Finds routine in my steps with someone who catches
My breath...
And willing to surrender!
Believing its adventure that must be seized,
To please someone special found!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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MaMa's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
It's an assortment of goodie things
Chocolate, pies and banana pudding
Enough food and that's Mama's cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Apron in hand and lasting impression I didn't want to miss
Everything seem perfect from beginning to end
Enough food and that's Mama's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Smiling faces and a gentle speech of o.k.
Noone knows how much the void I can't fill
Enough food and that Mama's Cooking
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Being polite and sincere would carry the weight
Seemingly enough she has the greater plan
Enough food and that Mama's Cooking ahead
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
The napkins, plates and never-ending why didn't it last
Noone knows how much the void I can't fill
Enough food and that's Mama's Cooking again
Thinking of times I would say what's cooking everyday
Craving for the turkey and dressing pan
Not to admit, seemed a bit much
Enough Food and that's Mama's Cooking again
So nowadays, I look for the needle in the haystack
Wishing on the times, she would come back
It's been 10 years, since I said thoughs word's
Enough food and that Mama's blessing for us
Missing mom everyday becomes second-nature for me
Enough food, Enough love and One day she'll see
For know I'll take her spirits with me and others will speak
Enough food, Enough love and One day she'll see
poem by Natasha McGee
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Insects
Tiny insects in my hair
Tiny insects everywhere
Tiny insects in my pants
Watching insects make romance
Insects make me make me want to dance dance dance
They make want to dance . . .
Flying insects everywhere
Flying insects buzzing buzzing buzzing thru the air
Just like little diamonds in the sky
Insects buzzing in my eye
Buzzing insects make me want to dance dance dance
They make me want to dance . . .
Insects crawling all around
Insects squirming in the ground
Insects gooey squeaky chewy
Should I eat them--no
Id rather stomp them hurt them stomp
Stomp them while I dance dance dance
I hurt them while I dance dance dance
I stomp them while I dance dance dance . . .
Insects make me scream and shout
They dont know what lifes about
They dont have blood
Theyve got too many legs
They dont have brains in their heads
They know theyll rule the world some day
They bite and sting me anyway
They bite and sting and suck
They bite and sting and suck suck suck
They bite and sting and
Suck suck suck suck suck . . .
Dance dance dance
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For the most part this is a place to find down-to-earth advice on everyday cooking, eating, food shopping, cooking equipment, and nice things to put on your table.
quote by Arthur Schwartz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I cook everything. I love Mediterranean cooking, I love Asian cooking. I do lots of Japanese noodles.
Cooking
I want her
To be
Blemish free
So I don't
Want her
To learn
Cooking…
For the fear
Of getting
Burned or scalded.
But I have to
Teach her
Cooking…
So that she
Becomes
Self-reliant and
Society doesn't
Disdain her for
Poor cooking…
She is able to
Lead a life
Blemish free.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Just over 800 people were gathered around the cooking stage, all eager to learn about my five-minute flavor cooking. The demonstration had to be done right then and there, in front of everyone.
quote by Rocco DiSpirito
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Love Is Too Much
My love is too much-
it embarrasses you-
blood, poems, babies,
red needs that telephone
from foreign countries,
black needs that spatter
the pages
of your white papery heart.
You would rather have a girl
with simpler needs:
lunch, sex, undemanding
loving,
dinner, wine, bed,
the occasional blow-job
& needs that are never
red as gaping wounds
but cool & blue
as television screens
in tract houses.
Oh my love,
those simple girls
with simple needs
read my books too.
They tell me they feel
the same as I do.
They tell me I transcribe
the language of their hearts.
They tell me I translate
their mute, unspoken pain
into the white light
of language.
Oh love,
no love
is ever wholly undemanding.
It can pretend coolness
until the pain comes,
until the first baby comes,
howling her own infant need
into a universe
that never summoned her.
The love you seek
cannot be found
except in the white pages
of recipe books.
It is cooking you seek,
not love,
cooking with sex coming after,
cool sex
that speaks to the penis alone,
& not the howling chaos
of the heart.
poem by Erica Jong
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I like cooking, but I like other people cooking more.
quote by David Wenham
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Obsessed With Incestuous Love
Why obsess something that is relative?
Everyone has their own fetishes.
But I will say this,
Having that kind of a love for 'insects'...
Is a bit extreme.
'Incest.
Not insects.
I said they were obsessed with incestuous love.
I aint mad at 'em.
What they do they do.
I could care less how or who they hop around with.'
Oh?
So you're one of those 'tomato' tomahto...
'Potato' potahto people.
'One has nothing to do with the other.
Normally they have wings.
I am not referring to insects but to incest.
What I refer to has arms and legs,
And struts around naked like no one knows.'
You buggin' today, huh?
Let it go, my brother.
Let it go.
It will be okay.
It doesn't pay to put that kind of stress on yourself.
Trust me.
Slowly...
Just let it go.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sex In The Kitchen
Girl you're in the kitchen
Cooking me a meal
Something makes me wanna come in there and get a feel
Walk around in your t-shirt
Nothing else on
Strutting pass, switching that ass while I'm on the phone
Cutting up tomatoes, fruits and vegetables and potatoes
Girl, you look so sexy while you're doing the damn thang
I want
Sex in the kitchen over by the stove
Put you on the counter by the buttered rolls
Hands on the table, on your tippy toes
We'll be making love like the restaurant was closed
How would you like it, baby
(How would you like that?)
Tell me right now pretty baby
Hey man, I'm gon call you back
Girl you're in the kitchen, chillin in your robe
I'm saying to myself she better go put on some clothes
Tickling and teasing
Doing that little dance
Girl, you gon make me lay you down and give it to you one mo 'gain
[Chorus 2x]
Girl I'm ready to toss your salad
While I'm making love, I'll be feasting
Girl you're in the kitchen
Sweating up a storm
The oven's on 500
So you know the kitchen's warm
Girl you know just how to get into a brother's mind
Cause here we are still in this kitchen
Doing it for the third time
[Chorus (fades out)]
song performed by by R. Kelly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cook: A Tribute To Bibhu Padhi
The cook knows
that his shadow
burns in the fire.
Turmeric fragrance drives
hungry crocodiles away
from the greenroom.
While cooking himself
the cook discovers
that each fire has its own inscription.
You know how profound
the fire is, how much
it demands from life.
Cooking is self-cooking,
discovery of fire-roses
getting wiser in the soul of a bird.
poem by Rudra Kinshuk
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