mantra

Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him.

- friedrich nietzsche

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zefrank
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these are the picture of the ispahan:

more closeups; the little clump of white 'growth'on the top shell is from another dessert that stuck to it on the journey back to the workplace, due to improper handling. the top raspberry and bits of lychees were displaced. i loved the rose petal, it's delicious too.

after i ate the top half of the ispahan. the rose buttercream was delicious.

half eaten bottom half. there's even a few bits of pomegranate seeds:

i must have more ispahan.

posted by frau frump.

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