Lo! Cometh the Erin-skald

Sits I, upon padded wooden-horse, whilst fingers clicky-box and palm-scroll-point, eyes fixed upon flat-show-me, mini-keg of go-blood perking.

My brain is slowly turning into that of a Viking skald: it can't think of the proper name for things anymore, and so it uses kennings instead.

The dishwasher, for example, is the hot box (not to be confused with the wet box, which is the washing machine, or the spin box, which is the dryer). The recycling container is the ching bin (because when you toss metal or glass into it, you hear a noise that sounds like CHING!). A door is a move-wall, etc.

As awesome as this might be, soon I will be utterly incomprehensible to everyone but James Joyce enthusiasts. What a slog it would be to read a story in that style...

... on the other hand, I am immensely entertained with the notion of a cookbook written entirely in this manner. Every recipe an adventure! Never entirely sure what you're going to get, or even if you're doing it right!

ROYAL HAT BAKING THINGS

(a schedule for cook-making)

Quaff of Coagulated Cow
Thricequaff Toothrot
Quaff Latenight Winterdrink
Victorian Spade Antichoc
Twice Morningcrow Extrusion

Quaff of Purple Bag Elixir
Hemispade Antivinegar
Hemispade Daily Wage
Fourquaff & change Powdered Plant

Dial sunbox to prime numbers. MMA the trinity. Aforethought malice, murder the unborn one, two, then white. King the mix. Pay the king his wage, plant his crops, heat the Coke until Highlander. Testicles. Metal scrotum. Tan for demiglass. Relax upon brassiere. In your mouth, like sex.


If ye cannae ken me thinkmeat shapesongs, then Mark I the MSDS yon.