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I suddenly woke up in the middle of a very dark and cagey night. Scared. After a cold, bushed February stuffed with several gigantic snowstorms and oh-one-more-bonus-gigantically-gigantic-snowstorm-just-for-you, the sound of midnight rain seemed incomprehensibly monstrous to me. I took an instant shower, fed Tuck & Patti’s scrumptious album Tears of Joy to my auditory hungriness, and began to grill asparaguses with Italian seasonings in order to maintain a civilized relationship with my stomach.

Grilling asparaguses, to me, was an art form.

Straight from Pooh the Bear’s little shoulder, most of my cooking procedures can be roughly summarized as “blab, blab, and blab.” But, grilling asparaguses in the middle of the night, my friend-my muse-and-my-American-augmented-seventh-chord, was my Mass in B Minor and my La Gioconda. It called for concentration. It demanded absolute.

Eating grilled asparaguses, to me, however, was not nearly an art form as expected. It was more like a diminished “blab” in consort with “oh-it-could-use-a-bit-more-garlic-pepper” kind of deal. I possessed the sole and burned aroma of grilled-and-somewhat-over-cooked asparaguses and began to chew on ideas of Aura series.