mask@gardenofremembering:~$>
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> ls
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> help
This is the garden.
We changed the name when the world ended. No need to remind us of what we lost, right? So we changed it. We used the patterns already established to obfuscate the illicit, and we obfuscated the licit. We changed the name and we forgot. The contents moved.
They no longer tied to that which was lost.
But that could mean almost anything. Even now we obfuscate. We mention nothing specific. No great wars, no circular hypertext, no libraries, no anglers, no scary sisters plotting in their corners. There of course was no series of dreamers, no random phrases applied to just as random pretties. No, these nightmares were perfectly planned, flawlessly meaningful, arranged impeccably by date.
There is no recollection here.
Do not enter the garden.
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> wtf
It is said that the internet is forever.
This is not true. Things get lost, times change, people forget.
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> _
It's one of those family recipes where something is changed or added with every generation. Like, my great-great-grandmother just made a simple, plain pumpkin soup. My great-grandmother added herbs and spices, nutmeg and rosemary, sage, thyme from her garden. My grandmother added garlic and onion. My mother roasts the pumpkin instead of boiling it and added a couple of small kumara (or sweet potato), and I use extra garlic that I also roast and I use a little parmesan cheese. I use some of the extra garlic to make a butter to spread on toast for the side. It's not like it's particularly fancy, it's just pumpkin soup, but whenever I make it, I make it with a lot of love, because it's all the memories of learning to make it with my mum. It was the first thing I learned to make. It's the warmth that it fills me with while it thunders and rains and hails outside, because it's my go-to for that kind of weather. It's the crunch of the toast. It's sharing something that I love with someone that I care about. And that's what cooking is supposed to be like. Happiness and love on a plate (or in a bowl).