She smooths her hands down the vertical stripes of her alb and begins the invocation.
“The perfect batter billows like a pillowcase in the breeze.
Effervescent, bubbles swell and burst crater-like on the surface. Mercurial hops complement the aluminium bite of the ocean-deep.
Beer and flour are chilled numb, sculpting unbearable lightness - the marble veils of Bernini are neither so gossamer, nor so ethereal.
Cod should be thick-fleshed and chalk-white - the length of a hand, the depth of a Hemingway.
Beef dripping injects an umami twist, unctuous, luxuriant, transforming good to glorious.
Frying temperature, no-more-or-less than 1. 8. 5. A fork should fracture the amber crust with a ricochet; saltwater steam should rise, ambrosial, heavenly.
The sacraments: triple cooked chips, sulphuric peas, malt vinegar, clouds of salt. DEMAND SCRAPS.”
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