Decadence - Blog Posts

Interesting piece… ☝🏻

The Witching Hour by Andrew Wyeth (ca. 1977).

Desserts - Zesty Lemon Loaf This dressed-up lemon loaf has a subtle ginger undertone, similar to pound cake. Grand Marnier's decadence elevates this lemon loaf to a higher level. Excellent with ice wine or Earl Grey tea.

Confidence

My heart is beating, still I’m feeling

as if my heart was pulled out so hard

my warm blood is teeming in my veins

how can she be so sweet and innocent

but still break my heart apart so fast

I felt that she had a heart of gold

She sure has, but the brightest light

as for now creates the darkest shades

Brownie - Flourless Brownies These chocolate brownies, which are made with black beans, cocoa powder, eggs, and additional chocolate, don't require any flour.

Bittersweet Chocolate Mousse Brownies - Brownie Brownies topped with chocolate mousse and whipped cream. The height of decadence! Garnish with chocolate covered espresso beans if available.

Fragments

The art of love In an artist's realm where colors blend, A tale unfolds, a heart's lament. A student of art, brush in hand, Dreamt in hues across canvas spanned. In the midst of learning and creative flare, He met a beauty beyond compare. A model, a student of the mind's deep maze, Her chestnut eyes set his heart ablaze. Her hair, a cascade of autumn's gold, Like Ginkgo leaves, in nature's hold. Together they wandered, under maple red, Shared silent looks, unspoken words said. In the studio, where light softly fell, He painted her essence, a captivating spell. Each stroke, a testament to love's tender grace, On canvas, her image, time couldn't erase. Beneath the maples, they played their game, Chess pieces moved, as feelings became. In each move, a dance of minds and heart, A perfect picture, a living art. But time, like tides, ebbs and flows, And with it, a change, as the north wind blows. She traveled to Italy, for heart's integration, Leaving behind, more than a nation. Under Tuscan sun, her heart found another, Leaving the artist, her love to smother. A letter arrived, with words so cold, Telling of a new love, bold. The artist, with heart in shattered display, Felt the colors of his world turn gray. Under the maples, where once they stood, He mourned a love, misunderstood. Now, the chessboard lies empty, pieces alone, Under the maples, where red leaves have flown. His brush strokes the canvas, but missing the light, Of her eyes, her smile, now out of sight. In every line, a whisper of her, In every shade, memories stir. Of a love that bloomed, then slipped away, In the heart of Italy, where she chose to stay. The maples still stand, witnesses to sorrow, To a love that promised, but couldn't borrow, Time from fate, from destiny's hand, Leaving the artist in a lonely land. So, he paints, under skies less bright, Capturing memories in fading light. Under the maples, he stands alone, With only echoes of a love once known. In his heart, a melancholy song, For a love that felt so right, yet went so wrong. Under the maples, with leaves of red, He treasures the love, in his heart and head.

Sunday evening In Sunday's dusk, a youthful poet's scorn, Where childhood's Sabbath stretched a timeless span, Now traps me in its melancholic yawn, Awaiting Friday's eve as life began. The twilight of the week, so gray and stark, Where even crows lament on leafless boughs, My spirit echoes 'longside bark so dark, For Sunday's charm has turned to wrinkle brows. How swift the hours flee, from dawn till night, The clock's hand whirls, Monday's upon the stage, No pause to savor moments of delight, Each Sunday, a prelude to workweek's cage. The heavens weep, in fog their sorrows shroud, A blurry veil that hides the sky's deep blue, Each week I claim unready, speaking loud, Yet life, it seems, just shrugs and passes through. Here in the smoke, a cigarette alight, Awaiting time to snatch me in its dance, To whirl through days and spit me out of sight, By Friday's eve, a carcass left to chance.

The Library In the shadowed halls of the library, I tread, Echoes of wisdom, whispers of dread. A known stranger here I stand, Greeted coldly, by the guardian of this land. In my heart, a whirl of woes, Long shadows, the mind they enclose. Seeking comfort, I reach for a tome, Goethe's "The Sorrows of Young Werther" finds a home. In a chair, I sink, weary and forlorn, Turning pages, my heart is torn. Lost in Werther's torments of love, Seeking respite from the heavens above. As time in silent flight did pass, I beheld a maiden, alas. Dark hair flowing, eyes like the night, Lips crimson, a breathtaking sight. Clad in white, simple yet divine, Pink ribbons at her breast and shoulders intertwine. In her hands, a book, an escape, In this gloomy world, a marvelous shape. I watched, enchanted, as she read, Astonished how such grace, darkness could shed. How can such a delicate creature, Bring light and joy, such a liberating feature? Suddenly, she looked up, a smile she bore, Calling my name, my heart did soar. But then, a jolt, sharp and real, The illusion shattered, the dream did peel. The irritated librarian stood by, "It's time to leave," his tone was dry. Back to the grey, the life I despise, To my cold, empty dwelling. Again, I'll drown in vice to sleep, In the night's embrace, silently weep. For in that fleeting, dreamy sphere, I found solace, now disappeared.

The Man by the Window In a world so stark and dreary, Sat a man, eyes wet and weary, Staring through the pane so clear, At a realm that seemed so eerie. His thoughts a constant echo, Of the horrors down below, "World's so cruel, so full of woe, Does happiness still have a go?" But then one day, in a window yonder, Sat a girl, making him ponder, With a smile, like magic, fonder, Amidst this world, how does she wander? Day by day, he'd watch her grace, Lost in thought, her peaceful face, How does she, in this rat race, Hold her own, keep up her pace? But as days turned into nights, Her bright spark saw fewer lights, Her once joyous, carefree flights, Now mired in internal fights. He wondered, as he saw her wane, What caused her this growing pain? In her eyes, the weight of rain, A silent scream, a hidden chain. On a day, when the skies did weep, He saw her tears, the hurt so deep, She opened the window, took the leap, And silence reigned, making hearts skip a beat. But did she survive that fall so steep? Was there someone her soul to keep? Or did she succumb to life's cruel sweep? The answers, my friend, are buried deep. It's for you to decide her fate, For life's stories can twist and gyrate, Hold yours tight, before it's too late, For we master our own slate. And as the night began to wane, He closed the curtains, hiding the pain, Life moves on, it's never the same, But memories, forever remain.