Gaze now upon the craters of the moon where cinnamon vines curl in the autumn. A flavor forged from solar whispers and shadows of forgotten desserts. Somewhere between the cosmic soufflé and Martian macaron, lies...
"Do you taste the glittering nebulae?" ask the spectres of time, their tongues flavored with moments lost to the aeons. Each star, a sprinkle of sugar dust on this intergalactic pastry plate.
On speeds rivalling the light, time foods bleed flavors gastronomically astray—a pineapple curry, perhaps, served cold with a side of Jupiter's moons.