Bread are balloons - they can even stomach anything from sausages to grated cheese. It heaves up like a dwarf beating its strong chest, you could almost hear Jane echoing from afar. Yet it's soft like a pillow (really, you must try!), plump!, it goes down in a sturdy, tough punchbag. The sweat of flour splattering on the marble, the bulldozer drive of the rolling pin, the flip and dust and knead of a versatile scumbag. The cackle of bread fresh from the oven and the spray of the shortening play in ears that match with noses to sniff .... the unusually uncommon (6am) aroma of country loaves that just washed themselves in the golden morning dews.
Tarts. Like them sweet more than tart. But they are sinful and decadent as tarts under the sleazy red neon lights. When a tart is nicely cut into a slick slice (takes a lot of effort), topped with a mushroom of whipped cream browned by fire, it gives this sense of bliss - that for every tart that exists, there is a heart that pumps with it, that races with every bite and every munch. Hard crust with soft filling (coconut, green tea, custard, fruits). On a white plate (must be white), and never forget the tickle of a trickle of chocolate fondant, generously but enticingly dripped over the tart.
Tarts. Like them sweet more than tart. But they are sinful and decadent as tarts under the sleazy red neon lights. When a tart is nicely cut into a slick slice (takes a lot of effort), topped with a mushroom of whipped cream browned by fire, it gives this sense of bliss - that for every tart that exists, there is a heart that pumps with it, that races with every bite and every munch. Hard crust with soft filling (coconut, green tea, custard, fruits). On a white plate (must be white), and never forget the tickle of a trickle of chocolate fondant, generously but enticingly dripped over the tart.