She ran towards the kitchen, tears spilling down her face. She knocked over the flour as she reached for the knife. He was right behind her and she couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave her children behind, they needed a mother. She turned around swiftly and sliced the man’s throat open.
you put in in a lot of food . you ask your next door neighbor for it when you need it. its a great conversation starter. if you’re into that. I guess. so flour is white. and soft. it doesn’t taste like much. but it’s really popular for food and stuff. it’s nice to have. in your pantry. or your food.
You can make cakes from flour, funny that I think about cakes when I’ve never made a cake from flour in my entire life. I am hungry though. I don’t even actually like cake. I’m more a fan of pies, like Dean from Supernatural. Hey I’m, a fan. Sorry I’m not poetic, sorry. I feel rushed.
You came to the door and gave me flour
because you didn’t have sugar or salt or produce and I was crying
and you didn’t understand homophones
and I took the sad sack
and grieved over your neighborliness
Thank you.
we were baking a cake. you were laughing and everything looked white, pure, surreal.
the blessed sanctity of your genuine self looking straight into my soul.
I love when my green 1950’s kitchen is covered in flour and sugar and cinnamon, rolled out dough awaiting the eager hands of my daughter and I to sprinkle and roll and cut. I love flour on noses and aprons, signs of baking that comes from the heart.
Poof! The air became dusted in the volatile baking substance. I looked across through the dusty air – yeah. We definitely shouldn’t have tried cooking.
a ground, a place we set foot on, we think it’s stable, we think it holds us and keeps us standing.. to me, it’s just the bottom of whatever we live one, it’s the limit or sometimes the beginning of a rise.
Flour. You use it in Pancakes, Cake, Cupcakes and baked goods really. So very essential. Speaking of which…. I really need to hit the grocery store and stock up on flour. Oiii o.e Well that’s life..
White and silky and innocent enough. I couldn’t decipher the parts from the whole. I wondered where the internal thoughts began. Where was the democracy?
Flour coated my hands and was streaked across my fair and dusted my hair. I pushed my sleeves back for the thousandth time, kneading and molding the dough into something delicious and beautiful. Cooking was my escape, and it was with joy that I made food for others. If only they would say “thank you” once.
Flour comes in different types. Wheat, self rising, or all purpose are variables.. my family only uses one type. I didn’t know there were more until I was 25. Its not just that way with flour either….
Add flour and mix. What an easy instruction in the recipe, even I can’t mess that up. I did. I left lumps and made a mess and realized I’m not meant to bake. But I couldn’t complain because she was there to fix my mistakes, make sure it worked out. She makes me a better person and is all I ever need in life. 3 more years I must wait. But its a wait more than worth making.
Spilled flour, patting down your clothes with signs of untidiness and the pleasure of baked goods. The little things always get me more than anything that means- the little things are left behind, the clouds to roll the dough in, when the life is flushed away.
I like flour, i use it to make food . i have never wrote about flour but i like the concept. I miss Jeff, i doubt he even know i am here -but i am. He is in the Philippians .. i think that’s how you spell it , im not sure. Im in the United States. it makes me sad
flour is used to make cakes. yummy yummy ass cakes LOL ugh that picture killed me okay. flour rhymes with flower. flowers are pretty. ohlalala i wished a guy gave me flowers. um actually no they’ll die in my presense LOL.
Flour spilled all over the floor. My jaw hung as low as the ripped bag as I stared in disbelief at the view in front of me. My best friend and my boyfriend. Kissing. What high school soap did I just walk into?
The texture makes me think of comfort and I try to think of passing it on to people through my baked goods, but the texture turns hard and sometimes too soft. It makes me wonder how people taste it through their tongues.
The flowers in the field were stunning. Gold surrounded by emerald and saphire jewels, all swaying in the light spring breeze. small butterflys fluttered among the foliage, dancing with the breeze to a song only they could hear. except I could hear it too.
i dont know what flour means but it sound like something easy going, goes with the flow, oh now i know it’s to cook, the basis of everything, what makes the meals delicious, what gives it life. You cannot live without flour in your kitchen, you have to buy two packages when there is no more.
He walked into the kitchen and stood there looking at her. She had a touch of flour on her cheek and her fingertips were covered as and were resting on her hips as she looked in a cookbook reading. She took his breath away.
Fog drifted through the fields, settling on the remains of the mill, where a few hours ago a fire had destroyed every last bit of the families existence. Flour the was left drifting aimlessly through the air mixed in with the wintery fog.
It is amazing how fast we forget about the times we share with those around us. One day we are pouring flour into cake batter with our parents and the next we are doing so with our own.
Flour reminds me of making bread with my Nonni. I imagine the flour, powdery and pure white, sprinkled all about the kitchen counter with more than intended spilled over onto the floor and other areas of the kitchen that were to remained untouched. I remember rolling out the dough over a bed of flour at the age of five. Pushing the rolling pin hard enough to flatten the dough took my strength away for an entire day.
“Enjolras, could you pass me that flour?” Jehan asked before catching himself, blinking for a moment, and then giving a delighted little laugh. “Oh, that’s quite poetic, isn’t it? On a normal day I certainly might ask for you to pass me a given flower, and today, too, I do so, but with different meaning! Ah, the poetry of homonyms!”
Enjolras, meanwhile, was kneading his own dough with revolutionary fervor, tongue pressed between his lips in concentration while he blatantly ignored his housemate. “I have a feeling this dough isn’t going to rise,” he muttered. Without missing a beat, Courfeyrac poked his head around the doorframe to deliver his punchline: /”Much like the people!”/
“An exceptional metaphor, Courfeyrac!” Jehan cheered while Enjolras shot Courfeyrac a glare that would have sent anyone quivering if not for the flour in his golden hair and the gingham apron tied around his waist.
If you can’t learn to spill flour
or grease the floor with shortening
and pirouette until you fall
If you can’t sing in the shower
drip mud down the stairs
or tear holes in a few thousand pairs of pants
Then you lack the basic human power
of laughing at mistakes
A cloud of flour exploded from the mixer he turned it on. I watched from the door amused, as he quickly attempted to turn it off, only succeeding in speeding it up.
Flour cascaded into bright white dust over her hair. The fruits of her labours stood before her, flat failures. No rising sunflower seed crowns. Just sad dollops of sunken bread.
Flour is what you put in bread. It reminds me of olden days flour mills, with windmills creaking…kind of Dutch…and the flour being produced. Spots of flour on cooks’ noses. Clogging up your lungs. A table laden with cakes, cookies, pastries. Wheat belly?
I still remember that summer afternoon
when we were trying a new recipe
we were both covered in flour
and then you surprised me
with a bunch of flowers
and a simple question
Standing there, with her face and hands covered in flour, I couldn’t help but laugh. She looked over at me, her face aghast, at least until she caught sight of her reflection in the toaster and doubled over with the force of her own laughter.
She ran towards the kitchen, tears spilling down her face. She knocked over the flour as she reached for the knife. He was right behind her and she couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave her children behind, they needed a mother. She turned around swiftly and sliced the man’s throat open.
you put in in a lot of food . you ask your next door neighbor for it when you need it. its a great conversation starter. if you’re into that. I guess. so flour is white. and soft. it doesn’t taste like much. but it’s really popular for food and stuff. it’s nice to have. in your pantry. or your food.
You can make cakes from flour, funny that I think about cakes when I’ve never made a cake from flour in my entire life. I am hungry though. I don’t even actually like cake. I’m more a fan of pies, like Dean from Supernatural. Hey I’m, a fan. Sorry I’m not poetic, sorry. I feel rushed.
You came to the door and gave me flour
because you didn’t have sugar or salt or produce and I was crying
and you didn’t understand homophones
and I took the sad sack
and grieved over your neighborliness
Thank you.
we were baking a cake. you were laughing and everything looked white, pure, surreal.
the blessed sanctity of your genuine self looking straight into my soul.
baking
cooking
flower ^^
cakes and muffins
sunday pancakes
drugs :P
baking with your best friends
flour fight -> huge mess in the kitchen
I love when my green 1950’s kitchen is covered in flour and sugar and cinnamon, rolled out dough awaiting the eager hands of my daughter and I to sprinkle and roll and cut. I love flour on noses and aprons, signs of baking that comes from the heart.
Poof! The air became dusted in the volatile baking substance. I looked across through the dusty air – yeah. We definitely shouldn’t have tried cooking.
a ground, a place we set foot on, we think it’s stable, we think it holds us and keeps us standing.. to me, it’s just the bottom of whatever we live one, it’s the limit or sometimes the beginning of a rise.
Flour. You use it in Pancakes, Cake, Cupcakes and baked goods really. So very essential. Speaking of which…. I really need to hit the grocery store and stock up on flour. Oiii o.e Well that’s life..
White and silky and innocent enough. I couldn’t decipher the parts from the whole. I wondered where the internal thoughts began. Where was the democracy?
Flour coated my hands and was streaked across my fair and dusted my hair. I pushed my sleeves back for the thousandth time, kneading and molding the dough into something delicious and beautiful. Cooking was my escape, and it was with joy that I made food for others. If only they would say “thank you” once.
Flour comes in different types. Wheat, self rising, or all purpose are variables.. my family only uses one type. I didn’t know there were more until I was 25. Its not just that way with flour either….
Flour
I can bake, create.
Flour.
I might make a mistake.
Flour.
Cooking so that I can strive
to survive
this world that outputs
flour.
Add flour and mix. What an easy instruction in the recipe, even I can’t mess that up. I did. I left lumps and made a mess and realized I’m not meant to bake. But I couldn’t complain because she was there to fix my mistakes, make sure it worked out. She makes me a better person and is all I ever need in life. 3 more years I must wait. But its a wait more than worth making.
Spilled flour, patting down your clothes with signs of untidiness and the pleasure of baked goods. The little things always get me more than anything that means- the little things are left behind, the clouds to roll the dough in, when the life is flushed away.
Flour. The essesntial of all baking, cooking. What would we be if not flour. I wonder.
I like flour, i use it to make food . i have never wrote about flour but i like the concept. I miss Jeff, i doubt he even know i am here -but i am. He is in the Philippians .. i think that’s how you spell it , im not sure. Im in the United States. it makes me sad
flour is used to make cakes. yummy yummy ass cakes LOL ugh that picture killed me okay. flour rhymes with flower. flowers are pretty. ohlalala i wished a guy gave me flowers. um actually no they’ll die in my presense LOL.
Flour spilled all over the floor. My jaw hung as low as the ripped bag as I stared in disbelief at the view in front of me. My best friend and my boyfriend. Kissing. What high school soap did I just walk into?
The honeysuckle pollen floated on the sweet scented breeze,…like a yellow pollen flour for the bees making their bee bread.
The texture makes me think of comfort and I try to think of passing it on to people through my baked goods, but the texture turns hard and sometimes too soft. It makes me wonder how people taste it through their tongues.
The flowers in the field were stunning. Gold surrounded by emerald and saphire jewels, all swaying in the light spring breeze. small butterflys fluttered among the foliage, dancing with the breeze to a song only they could hear. except I could hear it too.
i dont know what flour means but it sound like something easy going, goes with the flow, oh now i know it’s to cook, the basis of everything, what makes the meals delicious, what gives it life. You cannot live without flour in your kitchen, you have to buy two packages when there is no more.
powder
white
1
2
3
pour
relax
1
2
3
stir
my mind unwinds
1
2
3
finally
He walked into the kitchen and stood there looking at her. She had a touch of flour on her cheek and her fingertips were covered as and were resting on her hips as she looked in a cookbook reading. She took his breath away.
Fog drifted through the fields, settling on the remains of the mill, where a few hours ago a fire had destroyed every last bit of the families existence. Flour the was left drifting aimlessly through the air mixed in with the wintery fog.
something so white and powdery, might be accidentally inhaled thus causing death with what makes you think of home the most. ironic.
It is amazing how fast we forget about the times we share with those around us. One day we are pouring flour into cake batter with our parents and the next we are doing so with our own.
Flour reminds me of making bread with my Nonni. I imagine the flour, powdery and pure white, sprinkled all about the kitchen counter with more than intended spilled over onto the floor and other areas of the kitchen that were to remained untouched. I remember rolling out the dough over a bed of flour at the age of five. Pushing the rolling pin hard enough to flatten the dough took my strength away for an entire day.
ok
“Enjolras, could you pass me that flour?” Jehan asked before catching himself, blinking for a moment, and then giving a delighted little laugh. “Oh, that’s quite poetic, isn’t it? On a normal day I certainly might ask for you to pass me a given flower, and today, too, I do so, but with different meaning! Ah, the poetry of homonyms!”
Enjolras, meanwhile, was kneading his own dough with revolutionary fervor, tongue pressed between his lips in concentration while he blatantly ignored his housemate. “I have a feeling this dough isn’t going to rise,” he muttered. Without missing a beat, Courfeyrac poked his head around the doorframe to deliver his punchline: /”Much like the people!”/
“An exceptional metaphor, Courfeyrac!” Jehan cheered while Enjolras shot Courfeyrac a glare that would have sent anyone quivering if not for the flour in his golden hair and the gingham apron tied around his waist.
The baker’s daughter was a flour child.
If you can’t learn to spill flour
or grease the floor with shortening
and pirouette until you fall
If you can’t sing in the shower
drip mud down the stairs
or tear holes in a few thousand pairs of pants
Then you lack the basic human power
of laughing at mistakes
A cloud of flour exploded from the mixer he turned it on. I watched from the door amused, as he quickly attempted to turn it off, only succeeding in speeding it up.
Flour cascaded into bright white dust over her hair. The fruits of her labours stood before her, flat failures. No rising sunflower seed crowns. Just sad dollops of sunken bread.
Flour is what you put in bread. It reminds me of olden days flour mills, with windmills creaking…kind of Dutch…and the flour being produced. Spots of flour on cooks’ noses. Clogging up your lungs. A table laden with cakes, cookies, pastries. Wheat belly?
I still remember that summer afternoon
when we were trying a new recipe
we were both covered in flour
and then you surprised me
with a bunch of flowers
and a simple question
“will you marry me?”
White. White dust everywhere. I looked around feverishly, looking for anything NOT covered by this powdery substance. Alas, nothing could be found.
“I picked the wrong day to quit doing drugs,” I said, the irony of my current predicament not lost on me at all.
Standing there, with her face and hands covered in flour, I couldn’t help but laugh. She looked over at me, her face aghast, at least until she caught sight of her reflection in the toaster and doubled over with the force of her own laughter.