Old Hands

Old grandmother people’s hands cook magic. Try making what they made? You don’t. They cook up a simple dish. It’s lit.


I got a pastry from muddy waters. Straight sold to me by the moroccan lady. Made by 70 year old lady half italian half armenian. It’s called a napoleon. I’m eating it now. Soft. Fresh. Not too sweet, not too not sweet. Light. All the descriptors you’d want for your lady.

It’s no machine. It’s hands. Old hands infusing ingredients with fumes from the pussy of Aphrodite and other secret God written instructions, maybe the proximity to their slightly wrinkly soft skinned fatty tissue laden arms, maybe the white hair on their head that may perchance land while shes kneading the pieces together, maybe that off kilter face they make absorbed into their process pondering something from their distant past perhaps how their father would bring in one chocolate coin treat for each kid when he would return from his trips, and she would eat it thinking it’s the best thing she’s ever had.

The lady who made this napoleon, and the lady who recommended I try it, and me who’s sitting here one bite at a time.