If farts are funny and laughter is an aphrodisiac, why aren’t farts sexy?
–– MC Lemony Fresh

My mom made a pretty authentic goulash in certain respects. In certain other respects it wasn’t really goulash at all. I’m now making something somewhere in between.
The Hungarians would make a sort of soup called goulash and serve that with or over cubed boiled potatoes. The Germans like a thicker version and serve that over spaetzle. My mom used elbow macaroni. I have a spaetzle maker but usually just reach for a nice orzo lately.
My mom used a combination of tomato juice and tomatoes. I skip the juice. Feel free to include some to make a thinner version. You could also add chicken stock to take it more into the soup dimension. My mom used stewed tomatoes but I use just diced.
My mom used ground beef, but I’ve gone more traditional here and cube nice beef and brown that.
Finally, my mom didn’t use paprika (I know!) and I use a lot. If I can brown the beef and saute the onions over fire I use Hungarian sweet, but if I can’t I use Spanish smoked paprika instead. Or maybe a combination. I’m not too picky about this detail.
Ingredients:
Directions:
That’s it. Basic. Easy. Fucking delicious.
This article, written by a christian, outlines all of the different methods currently used to age geological phenomena as well as how they are used in conjunction with one another.
It is all one needs presently to understand that the Earth is very much older than what young Earth creationists are likely to contend. Read it and carry this knowledge with you into your future.
i fell into a field of flowers
and lingered here for ten long hours
because on every petaled face
caressly lips i could retrace;
my swiftly simple soul was spilt
as i watched one flower wilt:
as each petal soft as felt
fell to the Earth where i was knelt,
i realized how cruel time
steams up the ridge of pantomime
whereby the tracks, upon the lip
of the hill, we toil and somewhen slip
and fall off the trecherous tracks
into the languid flowers. on our backs,
yawning exhaustly from the fall,
too timidly tired to utter a call,
we stare into the freckled blue
sky high above this flowered view-
ing bed; we listen to the distant whistles
with ourselves amidst the stamen and the pistils
as now here i nestle, sitting
with the empty stem of love spitting
hard, dry petals at my hand,
holding my body to the land
again i will not rise un-
til the face of the luminous sun
crests the western rise of pine
and oak, until her eyes shine
on my precarious body
against this sod. me,
with what memory whispers
¡ah, crescendo! in lead-lined slippers,
i left my work, my hammer
i left the cracked tracks clamor
to sift memory from the day
to knead the bread of heart; i say,
i fell into a field of flowers
and lingered here for ten long hours
because on every petaled face
caressly lips i could retrace.