So, the old cook tells the young cook, "Stir this shit for forty-five minutes. Whatever you do, don't stop stirring."
"Why not?" asks the young cook.
"Ok, stop stirring."
The young cook stops stirring for a minute, not even that long. Soon the center of the thick cornmeal mush on the stove in front of him begins to rise, like an IED taking out a chunk of desert roadway. The young cook watches it grow, sensing that this is not going to end well. And it doesn't. The bubble bursts, spraying hot, thick, herbed putty on the young cook's arms and face.
"Fuck!" he says, stumbling back as he wipes the scalding polenta from his already reddening body parts.
"Don't stop stirring," the old cook repeats. "They don't call this shit Italian napalm for nothin."
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