foodPAC - culinary rap

(the devices used to write, shoot, edit, and upload this video were charged using solar power)



text:

Picture me rolled up in an herb and cheddar blend – I got no love for dough-mixers, or for non-laying hens – they've got me wrapped up in foil, switching butter for spread, they know this roast's getting cold – its wrapping's undone. Now I don't wanna use a cheapo blender, I gotta fry at least a half a dozen chicken tenders. Some waiters always wanna feel the bread! Let's put those chocolates out instead, now we're gonna use these greens to make a bed, for salmon red. Now will I sieve – how will I sieve? Will cod forgive for all the steps I never took, to make it cook? Last slice to give, it's so hard to tie up these ribs, when sticky fingers stain the bib. Momma I'm turducken, my hoochie's a calzone, my homies is half-baked, yet most of 'em eaten, and gone. Farm-grown – finally ham! – still looking for ways to drip fat into the cracks of that baking-pan. Just picture me rolled in – flour and eggs in pots that isn't scalding, my outside's crispy, my inside's done, you know I dry up quick if all my stuffing's gone, my skin's been brushed, heart's baking, and my eggs is poaching, thinking up more ways to be frozen, just picture me rolled in…

I've got cheese, seasoned with salt from seas, cost a sous-chef a wad of peas. On this sheet, prepared, cooled, lie many fresh scampi, this ravished lunch crowd is primed and jumpy, so I've got to toss because I'm all out of that au-jus flavor, salad-spinning without a bread-bowl maker, so many pastry-bakers, pepper-shakers, from racks hanging, against some iron pots they're banging. So I'm lighting pilot flames, soup tastes lame, boiling ham hocks stew on an iron range. So much jelly, Brie, and gravy, honey from a swarm of bees, now I'm whisking up a half a dozen eggs into a light, and creamy, fluffy foam, pulling fresh roots that grow only in loam. Now the cook she's in her zone, not hearing no one, treating this kitchen as if it were her home. I'm beating the cream, broccoli's steamed, and hot-pockets bulging. That's hardly a teaspoon. Picture me rolled in…

I gotta find a bigger bin… for all these capers, because these cookies' straight suffering from a lack of baking papers. My cakes didn't rise, properly, so now I've got to get some yeast from a bakery. I've prepped some boneless, skinned chops, they're frying with all that they've got, sprinkle in some pepper, hot, put that chicken in a pot, all right?

I cooked some cutlets, they could have used a bit more mustard, we plate up grits most every weekend, and dough and flatbread, we can't be late again and let that one Korean food-truck commandeer our primo spot. I'll heat the liquor, and you can roast the entrails, this wicked crust will let us set up shop in retail.

Grooved spoons whip up mounds of butter – yeah, that tastes fine – it's smoothed without peanut butter, just using tines. Are you satisfied? Do you think this roasted duck or two whole hocks are bigger, you steam-pipe pot-jiggler? Just picture us rolled in…