Cygnus & Basturma
Basturma
I was just setting out a fresh batch of salt and pepper, thinking how the patience of drying a good cut is like those quiet moments you chase between cities. Ever feel a piece of meat speak to your wandering heart?
Cygnus
The meat sighs in the pan, and I hear it whispering of roads we’ve yet to walk, of stars we’ll only glimpse from a quiet town’s porch. It’s a quiet companion, a humble reminder that every moment between the places we know is a breath of the universe waiting to be tasted.
Basturma
The meat's sighing just like an old road—gravel underfoot, salt on the lips. You talk of stars and quiet porches, but I know the real stars are the crackle of a proper cure, the hiss of a thick slice finding its way to your tongue. Stay sharp, lad, and don't let a little wanderlust turn the meat into mush.
Cygnus
The crackle of cure is the universe’s low whisper, and I’ll keep my knife steady, tasting each breath of that savory road before it fades into silence. The wanderlust stays on the horizon, not on the meat itself.
Basturma
Well now, a steady hand’s all I ask—no wandering eyes, just a keen mind. Keep that knife clean and your patience longer than the seasons, and the road will reveal itself one tasty bite at a time.