Here you'll learn Golf Tip Four and ask "Whatever Ever Happened To Golf Tip Number Three and Golf Tip Number Two?" We also offer the history of Eggs Benedict—not invented by Benedict Arnold—give you a poem and remind you of that time you were happy just driving along and that certain song came on the radio to ruin it all. Here's the poem:
Peeled Onion Dream Pie
“Just peel the onion,” you told me. “Peel back the
layers and see what you find.” “Nothing,” I replied,
but I was wrong. Nothing was just what I found
there at that very particular point in time.
Now I know an onion is full of space, and space
of course is full of stars. So let’s talk about
observation, seeing time move, and wondering when
and how simple viewing snaked its way through
the amygdala to turn itself into critical thinking.
To make this pie, I suggest you start out with one
perfectly large, unfathomably sweet Vidalia onion.
Peel it back until you all you can see is stars, motion,
and mathematics. Opine to your heart’s desire.
Percolate. Steep overnight. Reflect. And finally
inject just a drop or two of raw emotion to give it
that special zip. Spread this filling warm over a thick
skin of bread dough and caramelized minced onion.
Bake in a wood-fired adobe oven in the darkest heart
of night just north of Nogales while you sing arias with
wild coyotes and breathe in the same stars that I
alone could not see inside the onion.
Serve in a paper bag.
Try to think your way out of it.
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