Cthulhu in the Kitchen
In a previous experiment, I let a neural network trained on the complete works of H. P. Lovecraft finish phrases from cookbook recipes. Now, I tried it the other way around, in which I gave phrases from Lovecraftian horror to an innocent neural network trained on 30MB of cookbook recipes.
There was thunder in the air on the night I went to the deserted mansion atop Tempest Mountain to find the cake cooked.
I was not alone, for foolhardiness was not then mixed with the ham slices.
Now and then, beneath the brown pall of leaves that rotted and festered in the antediluvian forest darkness, I could trace the sinister outlines of some of the cooking pancakes.
For I, and I only, know what manner of fear lurked on a cookie cutter.
The pitiful throngs of natives shrieked and whined of the unnamable powder served with the flour and red pepper.
Everything seemed to me tainted with a loathsome contagion, and inspired by a noxious alliance with the steamed chicken.
All was in vain; the death that had come had left no trace save the steamed red peppers and chicken broth.
Sometimes, in the throes of a nightmare when unseen powers whirl one over the roofs of strange dead cities toward the grinning chasm of Nis, it is a relief and even a delight to make the soup.