Something old to drown the gap:

Trenton Trenton Robespierre, the ill-faced boy, with the pallid complexion, was in the manufacturing biz, specializing in the systematic manufacturing of religious icons and tupperwares. At ole’ PS 217, they were eating from the Shroud of Soup Tureen, a collected residue of various culinary oddities, spiced with salt and tomato paste from plastic, bottled by mechanical arms, hands and digits, crusted at the bottom, looking like maps of the European coasts. In the realms of reds and yellows and greens, splotches intermittently scattered, there could very easily be discerned a face, resplendent albeit slightly moldy.

They said it had been there since the beginning of time, when it was pieced together to their most exacting specifications which was, oh, about 4 years ago, to the day, barring those damned leap years and other temporal variations that are the bane of teachers, Savior to the ecclesiastical education classes with the tired drawls and vapid eyes.

All had been just peaches and cream till tricky Tommy Twotoes hop-skoped right in the Tureen, swimming in the veggies and beef broth and diced celery (added to give it just the right ZING of sabor, said the old Spanish chef with his lilting lisp and half a tongue, blown from his mouth during the war), whose entry went unbeknownst to the chef who promptly placed the flaky golden crust over the pot, (it was a pot-pie, you see) and in went little Tommy Twotoes who came out just a bit less tricky though especially more crispy.

T.T. Robespierre came and sampled the pot, two days after, to the day, and he said it tasted just fine. Took another look and saw the face of God, phoned his brand-spankin’ new agent, and said, “I do believe, Henry, that we have the opportunity here to make ourselves quite a prophet.