Yellow melting butter. Nearly all the way, so I pour in two sticky bags of pink and white marshmallows, and stir them as they start to melt. How pastel. A puffy mixture swirls, kept from sticking by the fat of the butter, it lifts away from the sides as I stir. Little lumps of mallow circle, constellation-like.
Bovine gelatin. Hmm, this guilty vegetarian liked it better when it just said gelatin, not so specific or revolting as bovine gelatin, pig gelatin - easier to ignore for the sake of a rice crispie treat, a surreptitious cola bottle.
The rice crispies are slow to soak up the hot, pink goo. They tumble willingly, trustingly out of the box, then squeal softly, snap, crackle pop as they meet the sugary lava beneath. I turn them slowly through, round and round, listening to their little cries. I look down and some of them have crawled up the spatula, crept onto my hand, creeping towards safety. I feel them sweetly, lightly cling.
In the box they misbehave, following the spatula I cram them down with, until they cool a little, and start get denser. They let me push them down, smooth the surface, a sudden shift to a more fluid, malleable substance. It's lovely, like glacier ice that bends - neige? I want to sculpt with it - I'm sure it's been done.
I love them, but my sense of smell has gone weird recently. I sniff them, and all I can smell is... bovine gelatin.
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