39- fertility soup

I do not recommend making bread, it can become a dangerous passion. A few years ago, I bought an amazing machine through which flour, yeast, and water were inserted through a hole. A clock would be set, and the next day we would wake up to the fragrance of freshly baked bread. How this transmutation happened still remains a mystery. Soon, the consequences were noticeable in the waistlines of adults and the unwavering rejection of children to be fed with proteins or vegetables, they only wanted rolls, buns, braids, and other delights. In view of this, we decided to remove the machine from circulation. It was abandoned in the garage for several months until Harleigh, my stepson, the one with the morbid tattoos, came up with the idea of changing some parts, adjusting a couple of screws, and using it to convert marijuana into chocolate cookies, which he sold at a great profit at school. That was my only attempt at making bread. Like poetry, bread is a somewhat melancholic vocation, whose primary requirement is free time for the soul. The poet and the baker are brothers in the essential task of feeding the world.

If you insist on writing verses and making your own bread, skip this chapter, as it won't suit you. People who need to experience everything, even if it's just once, eventually fall into the temptation of making bread. In such cases, I suggest compensating for the deficient quality, natural in a beginner, by giving the bread a fun appearance. To that end, I gave my mother a mold in the shape of Il Santo Membro, as they often call the male organ in Italy, I don't know if it's out of arrogance or mockery. However, after baking it, the bread turned out too bulky, and my mother has not dared to serve it because she fears humiliating the octogenarian gentlemen who come to her house for tea. In erotic cuisine, bread is an indispensable accompaniment - wheat is considered aphrodisiac and is a symbol of fertility - but making it consumes hours that would be better spent in bed. I advise guiltlessly buying it at a good bakery and drastically giving up on the patient art of kneading because you can't do it all in this life.

In a story by Guy de Maupassant, the young maid of a bourgeois household goes with her basket under her arm to buy bread every morning. Through a small window, she spies on the young baker kneading dough and takes with her the image of his wide back, powerful arms, shiny sweat-covered skin, and those sensual hands vigorously kneading the dough, just as she would like to be touched. And, being a love story, her fantasy is fulfilled beyond measure. The sight of one of those large country breads brings back the inevitable memory of Maupassant's baker and his hands in the dough and the firm flesh of the girl... There are many different types of hands, some heavy and clumsy, others small and strong, some light and timid, others large and gentle, but for making bread and making love, what matters is the intention guiding the hand.

In Chile, the most popular bread is called marraqueta and it has the shape of a vulva; in France, the baguette, phallic in appearance, is not so in temperament: it is modest, reliable, and never disappoints. It can be found in any civilized city, although nowhere else is the baguette as crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside as in Paris. If the menu indicates another variety, ignore it, with a baguette, your reputation is always safe, except when a malleable bread is required for exotic dishes, the ones you eat with your hands. Its only drawback is that, since it contains no fat, it becomes stale within a matter of hours, which is why respectable housewives in France buy it twice a day. But such dedication should not be demanded of anyone; you can revive your baguette by sprinkling it with water and heating it in a conventional oven for a few minutes. If it is fossilized, soak it in milk and give it to the dog. Do not put it in the microwave, it breaks your heart and its violated essence turns into rubber.

The raw dough swelled with secret sighs, moved gently, throbbed like a woman's body in the surrender of love. The acidic smell of fermenting dough mixed with the intense and vigorous breath of freshly baked bread. And I, sitting on a penitent's stool, in a dark corner of that vast stone room, immersed in the warmth and fragrance of that mysterious process, cried without knowing why...

creatures of the sea In his book De poenitentia decretorum, Bishop Burchard of Worms talks about a curious erotic practice that, of course, led sinners straight to the pits of hell: a woman would insert a live fish (presumably a small one) into her private parts and, after it died, she would cook it and feed it to the man of her desires. Almost all water creatures, except for whales, seals, and dolphins, splendid oceanic mammals that do not deserve to end up in a pan, are aphrodisiacs: eel, tuna, bass, turbot, salmon, sardine, herring, trout, and the list goes on. Seafood is rich in vitamins, minerals, and proteins, low in fat, has a delicious taste, and an aroma that evokes the most intimate scents of the human body. Fugu is perhaps the most controversial fish. With Panchita, we had serious doubts about whether to include it in these pages, as it is not a delicacy that can be prepared at home. Moreover, you cannot even buy it, except in Japan. It contains a powerful poison for which there is no antidote, even in small amounts, it immediately paralyzes the bravest heart and empties the lungs of the slightest breath, causing death. Chefs specializing in this fish know how to clean it, leaving just enough poison to induce some symptoms and produce erotic excitement without causing death. Even so, in that country, nearly five hundred people die annually from ingesting fugu.