pasta, sauce / flesh, blood

pictured here is II

food is not supposed to be orange

pictured here is III

we're all meat all of us

pictured here is IV

I can't explain how this photo turned out the way it did. Five cheeses, and all of them grey-orange. Very depressing. Tasted good though.

Pictured here is Walden - #nofilter.

Behold the raw power and fury of Nature! The tide of spicy three-meat cresting over a sandbar of italian sausage! Majestic, really.

Pictured here is Nature - a vertiable volcano of volatility!

In a world where toppings are scarce, garnishes a rarity, and orders are misheard, one cannot rely on the good intentions of others for long. This dish teaches one that when the going gets tough, the tough get going - to a hearty bowl of pasta!

Pictured here is Self-Reliance, and I can attest that eating this will build character.

Some say you can replace experience with education, but this as patently untrue as saying you can replace roasted mushroom sauce with plain alfredo. The intangible bits of knowledge that can only be gleaned through personal trial are analogous to whole chunks of mushroom and crunchy breadcrumb toppings.

Pictured here is Experience - and good luck getting it without a job, or a job without it.

Holy wars have been fought over marriages more simple than that of spicy three-meat sauce and shrimp, yet the debate rages on. The old saying, that one must prepare for war to ensure peace, holds just as true in the realm of pasta as it does in politics.

Pictured here is Crusade, which is so good even Children would fight for it!

Defined as a "world-shattering event" or "unforgivable pandering to casuals", depending on which Wiki you're reading. Frankly, this pasta could go either way.

Never has a pasta been so unbelievably kawaii, while maintaining a distinctly tsundere tinge to its moe roots. Sugoi... ^_^

Pictured here is Anime Panda - just as keikaku*.

*Note: keikaku means pasta

Bullets scream overhead as you cower in your trench, the sound of the Gatling guns deafening the shouts of your commanding officer. Inches away, you watch as a man you shared a cigarette with that morning bleeds out in front of you, his glassy eyes staring at an unfixed point in the distance. Wordlessly, he mouths something, but your focus is torn away when you notice the gas cloud rolling into the trench. You scramble for your gas mask, far too late to make a difference. The scent of marinara sauce fills your lungs, chokes your throat, burns your eyes.

Pictured here is July 28, 1914 - Pasta is hell.