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Ultimate Umami

Not pesto and pasta, but savory foods nonetheless.

Garlic fluffed her cloves inside her papery skin. 
She missed her green tops, ruthlessly whacked away when she was pulled from the ground.
Still, when she sniffed, she could smell her own glorious fragrance. She sighed in delight.

Basil sat in a pot on the window sill. He looked at Garlic with concern.
He was a fine plant, basking in the sun every morning.
The woman had plucked a number of leaves today, but no whacking off his stem at the dirt.
Reassured, he sniffed in his own delightful fragrance, savored it and smiled enouragingly at his beloved, now-chopped leaves.

Parmesan noticed the carton of milk in the refrigerator. She remembered being milk. Was that milk going to become cheese like her? Can American milk become cheese?

Olive oil was also an immigrant. She was Greek. She ended up in a bottle, sold in a grocery store, and surrounded by English speakers. She looked at Parmesan. Not her BFF Feta, but more like Feta’s cousin Kefalotyri. A cheese is a cheese, she thought.

The shelled sunflower seeds sat in a bowl.
They just heard a strange voice say she thought pine nuts had a touch of floor cleaner in their flavor, and she preferred sunflower seeds anyway because they were cheaper.
Infuriated, about half of the seeds muttered under their breath about how they were fine nuts; it was the woman who was cheap.
The others tried to determine whether sitting naked on a countertop was a better fate than sitting clothed on a bird feeder.
Or in the middle of a sunflower. With a bird, you had a better chance of falling to the ground and becoming a flower.
Here, there was just the trash or whatever the woman was doing with that plastic pitcher.

One by one, a woman added each of the counter mates to the plastic pitcher. It had a spindle in its center on which sat a blade shaped like one of those thick twirly mustaches silent film villains used to twirl.

The woman closed the top, pressed a button, and all the ingredients fell into a trance as a tremendous noise engulfed the pitcher, while they were spun together in tiny slices.

As they came to, the noise and spinning ceased.
They -- now acting, hearing as one -- heard the woman say “Pesto’s done.”
Is that what they had become? Pesto?
Comparatively painless – no cooking, baking, or frying involved.
And oh, did they smell heavenly! Better than Garlic or Basil! All the ingredients sampled the fragrant air and felt that they had reached a kind of perfection.

But what was that pot of boiling water on the stove with steam heaving out of it?.
Also, a box labeled orecchiette (Basil had learned to read while hanging out on the windowsill) .
The woman picked up the pot, and dumped the water and steam into the sink.
Then, from the sink, she picked up a holey bowl with little feet and handles. It dripped, but the steam kept swirling around it.
From this container, she dumped soft, cooked, cream-colored dough into a serving bowl, and after that, the pesto.
The pesto swam in the orecchiette; the orecchiette swam in the pesto.
Pool party! At least until dinner began.

For April 20, write a poem that anthropomorphizes some kind of food.

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