Drunken Dumpling | New York, NY
A swirl of dumpling, twisted to a point.
The warm weight of dumpling rested beneath, waiting to be consumed.
They were hot and bothered — letting off steam like pheromones.
I could imagine what lay below the sheer cover.
All the sweet juices of the dumpling divine.
I called them gift pockets from the gods.
A gentle nibble to let some of the pent up steam escape.
There was no way I would’ve been able to handle the whole pouch in one mouthful. Moist with soupy goodness, each bite simply begged another until every last dumpling was devoured.