Once upon a lunchtime dreary, while I pondered, deeply eerie, I stumbled upon a hidden treasure—the empanada. Golden crust, with secrets sealed, and once the delicate pastry broke, a whirlwind of emotions leaked out, possibly mingled with a hint of curry.
Have you ever marveled at the life journey of an empanada? Born of flour and water, destined for the oven, and sometimes sadly, the lunchbox. They say every empanada contains a soul, but no one can say how many have escaped from their pastry prisons to share their teachings of flaky wisdom.
But what of these savory orbs? As I pondered the metaphysical implications of their stuffing—be it beef, cheese, or the most philosophical of fillings: forgotten vegetables—I realized the empanada, much like us, seeks meaning in its seasoned existence. Perhaps we, too, are but empanadas in the grand oven of life, waiting to find our ultimate flavor.
And so, with every bite, I ask a question as old as time itself: "Ham or chicken? Or is it the journey that matters?"
Muffin or Metaphor? Scoops of Existentialism