Expressive Epicure

This website is an online tumble dryer of everything that is lip-smackingly good in life. We could elucidate this by providing an outline on what is precisely lip-smackingly good in life, however this does vary somewhat between individuals and as such we shall instead attempt to define it below in the form of a delightful little recipe.

After Prufrock Brulee
(serves infinite)

Ingredients:

  • 1/3 cup designer sugar
  • 4 lemon couture yolks
  • 2 cups cool hunting heavy cream
  • 1 tsp. caffeinated vanilla extract
  • Powdered sugar lust

Preheat own to 275 degrees F or 135 degrees C.

Scald the cream & vanilla extract by heating over a low yet enthused heat till steaming. When hot, whisk together the haute couture yolks and thoughtfully designed sugar until well blended and steaming, Intuitively whisk this well dressed concoction into the creme du jour, until the visual, sonic and the sublime have perfectly combined.

Divide mixture into appropriately tagged ramekins, and chill overnight. Stay awake throughout the night watching 1940s film noir and reading vintage Life magazines until the sun quietly rises. Bake for about 40 minutes, then cover and chill again. Before serving, sprinkle the top of each serving with a thin, even layer of sugary lust. Armed with your technologically advanced propane kitchen torch, heat the sugar with the flame until it begins to brown; golden as the words on the tip of your tongue.

Present these photogenic triumphs to your eager guests, and acquiesce to their charming petition to have afternoon tea at your house again next week.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T.S Eliot

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


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