#(Anise: Thread)

[thosetaleskids]

@talesofourworlds / from (x)

"I didn't exactly ask for this, either! OW, be careful, that stings!"

She appreciated that he was trying to help, in his way... but that didn't mean that Anise was happy about the quality of said help, or about the situation in general. She'd been lagging behind the rest of the party - give her a break, her legs were shorter than anyone else's, and even she got tired sometimes - when some of Arietta's monster friends had taken the opportunity to pounce her.

She'd put up a valiant fight, sure. But even so, the attack had separated her from the rest of the group; one of the ligers had knocked her down from Tokunaga and scratched up her right shoulder pretty good, and as she'd recoiled from that she'd misstepped and taken a tumble down part of the cliff and sprained her already-wounded shoulder by landing on it.

The ligers hadn't pursued; she hadn't seen Gloomietta with them so she had probably just commanded them from afar. But that was where Asch had found her, lying in a battered heap there.

If she'd been in a better mood, Anise would have made sure to tease Asch again for his temper reminding her of Luke; but right now her thoughts were in too much of a mess to come up with something suitable. Probably a good thing, too, if the way Asch abruptly drew his sword was any indication.

"Hey, WHOA--!"

She raised her uninjured arm in a vain attempt to block the blow-- which turned out a moment later to not have been aimed at her at all. Still, Anise yelped as he stabbed the weapon into the ground beside her... before she caught on to what he was doing.

"...oh, right."

She could indeed feel the seventh fonons doing their thing; the sprained muscle in her shoulder felt like it was easing itself, and her cuts at least stopped leaking blood even if they didn't exactly close themselves up or anything. Still hurt when she experimentally shifted her shoulder, however, and Anise gave a wince.

"No, usually I'm too cute to get into this much trouble. Guess Gloomietta really has it out for me, huh?"

[magz]

[ Original Twitter Thread by @/beelektra ] - Not by Magz, am not Palestinian

Palestinian Foods. (long post)

Quote:

"🧵 Thread of Palestinian desserts I've grown up around and seen A thing I'd like to add is that I just like to share my culture! I do not want to spread the narrative that our culture is dying, I only want people to see our foods and traditions 🇵🇸

"As mentioned in the last post, we have knafeh (or kunafa), a buttery dessert made with shredded pastry layers such as cheese and other ingredients like pistacho or cream!"

"Burbara; which comes from Saint Barbara, fun fact! It's a soup dessert that mainly consists of barley, licorice spices, anise, cinnamon, and fennel powder This is a dessert usually many Christian families have to celebrate Saint Barbara, which is December 4th!"

"Malban, which resembles a fruit jelly! Made from starch and sugar Specifically, it's made with grape molasses, thickened with starch and flavored with rose water, and stuffed with almonds (or other nuts including walnuts, treenuts, and peanuts)"

"Khabeesa is simply just a pudding made with grapes, but you prepare it by mixing the grape juice with semolina and nuts + seeds."

"Mtabbak or mtabba, a crispy dough stuffed with crushed walnuts. It also contains cinnamon, sugar, and syrup. Photo credits go to Bartek Kieżun on Instagram"

"Tamriyeh, a fried pastry filled with semolina pudding, scenter with mastic and orange blossom water, and topped off with powdered sugar"

"Ka'ak bi Tamer, which are date paste filled cookies with cinnamon! A dessert made for Eid-Alfitr. It's topped with nigella seeds, and the cinnamon-spiced date paste is the most important part of it all– you can eat it on its own or have it with coffee"

"+ Ka'ak Asawer, another dessert that can be prepared for Eid-Alfitr. It's translated to bracelet cookies, and they use date paste, flour, anise seeds, sugar, ground cinnamon, and olive oil"

"Muhallebi or mahalabia, a milk pudding that's made with sugar, corn starch, and fragrant flavorings! It's topped off with nuts, pistachos, and almonds and sprinkled with ground cinnamon or shredded coconut"

"Rice pudding, which is a common dessert in Palestine, and it's your choice to top it off with nuts or not"

"Stuffed dates, using medjool dates and cracking them open to be stuffed with goat cheese and pistachios– but you're free to add anything else"

"Ma'amoul, a buttery crisp cookie primarily made of farina and can be stuffed with (spiced) dates, walnuts, or pistachios. This is another Christian dessert made by Palestinian mothers during the week of Easter Sunday."

"Halawit Smid, a farina based dessert with added sugar and unsalted cheese. It's preferably served fresh"

"Namoura cake, aka harissa dessert! It's made with semolina or farina flour, and then topped off with syrup once baked"

"Qatayef, which is eaten during the month of Ramadan. It's made of farina, flour, water, and yeast blended together– the process is pretty similiar to making pancakes, but only one side is cooked"

"Since I've mentioned using zaatar for a lot of things, I recently just discovered this but– there's also things such as zaatar cookies!! It's just as implied that the cookies are filled with zaatar, I'd be so willing to make this on my own"

"Baklava, made from phyllo pastry dough, butter, nuts, basil, and a sweet honey syrup"

"Aish el saraya, arabic version of a bread pudding. It's basically a layered bread, where it starts from the bottom, then covered with a sweet syrup, cream, and crumbled pistachios."

"Awwami, it's defined as "crisp donut ball" in English. It's a deep fried dough ball coated with sesame seeds, and dipped in cold syrup water."

"Halawet el Jibn, a sweet cheese dessert rolled with custard, heavy cream, drizzled rose water + syrup, and garnished with nuts."

"Lastly, I'd like to add watermelon and cheese– for me, it's like,,,, bittersweet!!! You should totally try it and we also have this during Ramadan"

"Well, that's all I can think of for Palestinian desserts! Here's the first part for general foods, I know I did make a promise for part two

I hope you guys liked this thread, and if you have any opinions please feel free to quote tweet anything on here if I made a mistake, feel free to correct me, it's always appreciated P.S if you're a zionist commenting here I really don't care, just scroll, I'm sharing my culture

One LAST thing. if you want any of the recipes from here, check out this website, the creator (Wafa) shares so many wonderful traditional Palestinian dishes."

[End Quote]

[ecc-poetry]

ghazal for nol collective, december 2023 elisa chavez

When I want to be a new woman, I try new clothes. They're a charm against sorrow. A passport, new clothes,

they're a sealskin that lets me slip out of a man's grasp, or a nation's. I wish, and my browser brews clothes.

Women long ago learned to hide stories in cloth. Think the tignon. Think occupied Paris. A used thobe,

in the right artist's hands, can smuggle history over borders. A miracle, like a few loaves.

Facing arrest, I slipped into my grandmother's  jacket. I sang to the cops. No gun–I drew clothes.

The recipe calls for herbs I can't find. "Mulled wine: Gather star anise, orange zest, and whole stewed cloves."

In the aisle, I see the olive grove I googled– a woman's face, sobbing. She's frozen in new throes

of grief, embracing one ragged trunk like a child. Like a girl dragged on back of a bike to–who knows?

When speaking burns your fingers, you learn to forget. You blanch. That's how my family lost our true clothes.

Threads imply hands not so different than mine. I hold the seashell to my ear: Who are you, clothes?

After the village, its image persists in thread. It symbols, it banners. What can we do? Sow.

"Elisa, when the bombs fell, you bought new clothes?" I heart-garden. I carry. My blood warms new clothes.

Want to support Gaza weavers in their fight to preserve traditional textile techniques? You can do that at Nol Collective's GoFundMe for a workshop in Cairo. If you can't contribute, please consider signal-boosting.

About Nol Collective: Nol Collective is a conscious fashion collective that produces clothes, goods, and accessories rooted in traditional Palestinian crafts. "the hope is that our garments read like visual manuscripts, humanizing and narrating the collective labor of love behind a garment and the triumph of creativity and heritage in the face of struggle."

Shop at nolcollective.com/ 

[mogai-delivery-service]

HORNET ; ID PACK 𐙚

[PT: Hornet ; ID pack /end pt]

Names: Hornet, Needle, Silk, Weave, Eri, Satin, Knot, Stitches, Pearl, Fleece, Lana, Lace, Lacy, Velvet, Chiffon, Melody, Mel, Ani, Anise, Odonata, Cleo, Song, Abyss, Dream, Dreamer, Hunter

Prns: silk/silks, si/silk, so/soft, soft/softs, li/linen, linen/linens, sharp/sharps, pri/princess, de/defend, defend/defends, keeper/keepers, bug/bugs, hor/hornet, hornet/hornets, song/songs, sing/sings, so/song, sting/stings, thread/threads, abyss/abyss, hun/hunter, hunter/hunters, dream/dreams, cloud/clouds, ne/needle, needle/needles, braid/braids, yarn/yarns, wool/wools, ri/ribbon, ribbon/ribbons, string/strings

Genders: HKBuggender, Deepnestareaic, Cititearex, Hollowconic, Collectknight, Needlegender, Knightprincess, Holdrecharic, Herrahcharic, Prinaceassis.

[ask-wren-zhang]

When you smell on Armontentia and think of Imelda, what do you smell? :)

"oh, uh... Smoky hazel wood mostly, with a tinge of Linnaea borealis' distinctive, almost anise-like fragrance, uh..." She trails off and begins picking at the threads on her gloves, not even bothered maintaining eye contact. Her entire focus seemingly scatters with that description alone.

"lingering warm petrichor... Or dampened moss of the forest floor... Elderflowers..."

A long hush settles over as she trails off, it takes a moment for her eyes to find you again.

"what was the question?"

[nosydogsoaps]

GOLDEN DEER (Claude) - Soap inspired by Fire Emblem 3 Houses An earthenware cup of patchwork clay, warm to the touch.  Crisp Almyran pine threaded with tangy lemon peel, cool anise, and a hint of vanilla musk, steeped for an hour then passed from hand to hand to the Barbarossa himself. .

This is one of the few soaps I've had to switch scents for, as my original supplier discontinued the first one I used (which I still miss, weh.) The OG scent was kind of a fresh and unexpected sort of pine scent - warm with flecks of amber and citrus, emphasizing Claude's playful personality. This scent still has a base of pine (playing off one of Claude's favorite in-game teas hehe) but has colder, more complex notes of anise and vetiver - reflecting his more scheming, tactician's nature.

[grandma-susan]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐒:

Light Blue, Shimmering Blue, Red, Pink, Purple, Black, White, Orange, and Silver.

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:

Rosemary, Thyme, Anise, Pepper, Ginger, Honey, Carnations, Chrysanthemum, violet, Sweet Fern, Sassafras, Oak, Pine, Moss, Campfire, Hickory, Rubbing Alcohol, Almonds

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍:

Red rimmed glasses, flyaway silver hair, fox pelt, bustle purple pink dress, fascinator hat with several hat pins, feathers, blue drop earrings, and brooch, crooked iron wood cane with metal handle, cigarette holder, apron // white lace blouse, black walking skirt, black boots with dark orange soles, chatelaine belt, fox brooch, blue drop earrings

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒:

Feathers, Cane, Glasses, Chatelaine Belt, Thick Nook Ledger, Fox Pelt/Brooch, Apron with many things, Cigarettes, Hat Pins, Shot Gun, Tactical Shovel, Ash, Flower Pots, Rapier, Bowie Knife, Needle and Thread, Bandages, Medical and Science Books, Flowers, Ribbon,

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄:

Shuffling, brisk walking, crossed arms, smoking, squinting, rolling her eyes, sighing, hands folded over her cane, pursed lips, grasping her cane, throwing items, touching her lips, rummaging through her purse or pockets, snarling, shouting, baring her teeth, drinking tea.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒:

Preserved organs, insects and animals in jars, Cigarettes, old books, scientific and medical books, fire, embers, fox, forest, flowers, smoke, ash, sugared flowers, cakes, tea, needles, bandages, fingerprints, wax seals, pen, ink, promises.

nabbed from: @danger-tits-lute

tagging: @keenie-bopper @helluvaoutlaw @angie-long-legs @mothvalentino @ladyfranklin @second-wife-playbook

and anyone else who wants to do it!

[lisa-and-shadow]

Family of my Arisen, Lyra

Aleksander of House Ansgot. A Vermundian nobleman from a wealthy merchant family, he grew up in Vernworth and leads a privileged life. Well educated, imposing in stature, and stern, he can be quite intimidating. He expects much of his employees, and of himself. Aleksander was previously a member of the late consul's trade commission until Disa had it dissolved. He had campaigned for years to end the tariffs on Battahli goods, as it would have been an economic boon for himself and others. But the Consul's death had ended that. Running the family's import/export business has taken up much of his life, and he wishes he could have spent more of his days with his daughter, Lyra. Around her he is a different person; relaxed, quick to laugh, and kind. He gave her an opportunity with the company in order to see her blossom. He was impressed by her sharp intellect, and the way she applied her well trained social graces. Having her represent him and their company was a great source of pride. Upon hearing of her presumed death in Melve, he now feels guilty at having been the one who sent her there. He distracts himself with work in the following days.

Lady Ysabel. Born into a lesser noble family, she was a renowned beauty in her youth. She strove to carve out a place in Vernworth society among her highborn peers, resulting in her successfully marrying above her station. She could be counted on to attend any ball, masquerade, or banquet that was being held. And she'd made inroads with the palace staff to be included on Queen Regent Disa's seasonal gala invitation list. She tried to provide her daughter with the tools and training she would need to be successful in life, but Lyra never seemed to understand why it was so important. Ysabel only wanted what was best for her. She had been planning her daughter's life with nothing but her future security in mind since she was born. It pained her that Lyra didn't see it that way. When she received word that her daughter and her entire entourage had been killed in Melve, it felt like a cruel joke. How could she be gone? And killed by a dragon no less? Ysabel refuses to accept it.

Katla had been in service to House Ansgot for many years. When Lyra was born, she became maid to the child and stayed by her side through adulthood. Taking care of all basic tasks such as feeding and dressing meant she spent more time than anyone with Lyra during her childhood. Whenever Lyra was hurt or upset (often due to harsh words from her mother), Katla would be there to comfort her. Katla would sing and braid Lyra's long dark hair until the tears subsided. She was warm and indulgent, always with a kind word of encouragement when needed. Often these talks were accompanied by a cup of her special tea and anise cookies. She was a marvel with needle and thread, and would embroider beautiful patterns onto Lyra's dresses as Lyra worked on her studies nearby. When Lyra began working for her father, Katla joined her on her trips, assisting her as she traveled. It was in defense of Katla that Lyra stood against the dragon in Melve, though none know it save Ulrika. Katla was lost that day.

This was based on the great template from @arisenreborn

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Apple cider, and any variant of Tucker and Rose you’d like (I know you have a couple lol)

thinky! thank you so much for this prompt. i once again just sort of started another au with it, because i have no self control. i just love putting these two in Situations. or three, rather. wilf showed up in this one, for some reason. hope you enjoy (when you get your internet back, lol)!

read on ao3 here. or send me a prompt here!

-

something for nothing

-

"Hot," Rose asked, thrusting out her hands, "or cold?"

In each was a paper cup, the left one gently steaming while the older man glanced back and forth between them with his usual consideration.

"That depends. Is it chocolate?"

"Nope."

"Coffee, then?"

"No." She failed to stifle a grin. "Sylvia would have my head and you know it."

An extremely unnatural-looking scowl made its way across his face. "It's not one of those fancy 'steamer' things, is it? Those always end up tasting like plain old spoiled milk."

Rose shook her head in fond impatience. "Just pick one, will you? Or they'll both be cold."

His eyes narrowed beneath his bright yellow bobble hat. "Fine, then. Hot," Wilf finally declared. "But this had better not be like the time you put chewy stuff in my tea."

"Boba," she corrected. "And don't worry, only liquid in there. And some spices, of course."

At this, Wilf took a long inhale, his nose hovering just above the thread of steam. It was endlessly endearing, how dubious he was about the whole exercise.

Then again, she had just been a stranger who walked up and offered him eggnog, that first time.

It had been nearly a year ago, around the holidays, and she'd been leaving after another long, tedious shift at the café across the way. Her manager had given rare permission to close up early after Rose pulled a double, but she'd not taken advantage: instead, she'd satisfied an intense exhaustion-fueled craving for eggnog by whipping it up right there in the shop.

But she'd made a bit too much, and with no one to share it with, she'd spied the old man at his newspaper stall—such a merry figure, like Father Christmas himself in a heavy red-and-white striped scarf, packing up his stacks of paper like gifts bundled in twine. He'd looked so cheerful and so cold, with his red nose and fingerless gloves, that she went out and offered him a cup of still-warm eggnog. He'd kindly offered a copy of Radio Times in trade, and suddenly they were talking like old friends.

That had been the beginning of a ritual which she held to after nearly every shift she worked. She never emerged without two cups of something to share, and he always held aside a paper or magazine he thought she'd like. They didn't always chat, but they did undeniably enjoy one another's company.

Rose thought of him almost like an adopted grandfather.

She watched with amusement as he put his eye to the narrow hole in the lid like it was the lens of a telescope, trying to see the colour of the substance within. She bit down hard on her lip. "What can you see?"

"Not much," Wilf admitted.

"Drink it! I promise there's nothing odd in there—well, too odd, I mean."

He shook his head at her, but he was smiling as he went to take a sip. She waited, holding her breath—and was delighted when his eyes lit up.

"Oh, that's not bad," he proclaimed, "not bad at all!" As he took another sip, Rose finally lifted her own cup to her lips.

Ripe apple, cinnamon, nutmeg—a faint hint of smoke—even cold, it all burst over her tongue, evoking a sense memory disconnected from anything she'd ever personally experienced. It reminded her of campfire nights after crisp autumn days, falling leaves and waning grey skies. Days so perfect they could really only exist in films, or books, or daydreams.

"It's cider, but with a little—something! Very good, Rose," Wilf added warmly. "So, what's the secret?"

"An infusion of lapsang souchong while the cider's warming up." She was a little proud of that one. "And all the usual suspects—clove, cinnamon, a tiny bit of anise… I have more," she said, patting her thermos where it stuck out of her messenger bag. She'd planned to take it home and sip it with her feet up in front of the telly, but seeing how eagerly Wilf drank from his cup made her want to share more instead. "Want a refill?"

"Let me see to what I've got first," he said, after another savoring sip. "It's good stuff! Is it going on the menu?"

She scoffed. "Of course not. Nobody around here wants fussy cider. They just want tea, or else coffee, black, no sugar—god, if you only knew how many red eyes I make in a day…"

"Well, it is Westminster," Wilf reasoned, looking around at the street which, while presently quiet, was crowded with buildings still fully lit up at long past six. "There's always some crisis they're perverting."

Rose hesitated. "You mean averting?"

"I meant what I said," he replied with a chuckle. "Takes a lot of energy to play at running the world."

"Yes, well, I just wish they'd get a bit more creative with their drink orders while they do it. Civilisation won't end if one of them branches out and adds a shot of vanilla to their latte! And," she went on, voice hushing dramatically, "then there's the peacoats. They all wear the same bloody shapeless things. What is with that?"

"Speaking of peacoats…" Wilf coughed, clearly covering a laugh. "Evening, Mr. Tucker!"

Rose tripped over her own feet whirling around to see who he was talking to, and then nearly stumbled up again when she saw who it was.

Malcolm Tucker.

The Malcolm Tucker.

The scariest man in British politics, and possibly in Great Britain generally, stood about a foot away from her.

She recognised his face from Wilf's newspapers and the occasional clip on telly: fair eyes, humped nose, harsh lines bracketing a restless mouth, head crowned with tarnished silver hair. Under the flat, unforgiving light of the street lamps, he looked hyperreal. But even someone who didn't know his face would see evidence of his hand everywhere. He ruled the media with it. He puppeted the ministry with it.

And he was shaking Wilf's hand with it.

"Wilf, how the fuck's business?" he greeted, breezing right past her, smiling with the kind of familiarity that couldn't be faked. It even looked sincere. He brushed close enough that she could smell the wool of his coat, and she winced.

"Better, now that your mug's back out of the papers, sir!" Wilf laughed, and strangely, so did Tucker. "What'll it be today? We've got the New Statesman, fresh out this morning. There's an interview with your man, that baldy economist—"

But the other man brushed him off carelessly. "Oh, please, none of that, I'm off the clock."

"What brings you round, then?" For a second, Wilf's eyes darted sheepishly her way, and she could only goggle back in confusion. It was like he didn’t want to give something away, something secret. To Tucker, he said, voice low, "Celebrity Skin?"

Rose's jaw dropped. "Wilf!"

"Now, now, Rose, you can hardly fault the man! Just because he's in government doesn't mean he's made of metal."

"It's not him scandalizing me," she shot back with a laugh. "Wilfred Mott, I learn something new about you every day."

“Got to keep you interested, don't I?” Teasing though his tone was, there was also a glint of genuine pride as he added, “Or else I'll stop getting the best hot drinks in London hand-delivered to me!”

They were so busy sharing smiles that it took her a moment to remember they had audience. A rather intimidating audience. One of his iron-dark eyebrows was arched in something like humour. “That so?” Tucker said, eyeing her up and down.

“She’s more than just a pretty face, she is,” Wilf replied, and she felt herself flush. Whether it was from Wilf’s blunt, overenthusiastic praise or the assessing look she was receiving from the Prime Minister’s media enforcer, she couldn’t tell. “You should—oi, Rose, why don't you give him a little of that cider stuff? Mr. Tucker looks cold. Or maybe that’s just his personality.”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, amused by the blatant ribbing. He’d accompanied it with a wink, and Tucker didn’t seem offended. In fact, his smile was back, spreading slowly, like it was foreign to his mouth.

“Not sure that's a good idea, actually,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Tucker, locking eyes with her for the first time. There was just something about his face; she knew she ought to be intimidated by him—and maybe she was, a little—but she was at least equally fascinated. He looked just like a man, ordinary.

Except not.

His gaze was too intense for that. Like it was used to cutting right through people. All day, people with glazed-over eyes muttered orders at her—barely seemed to even notice her. It was a startling change, to feel so… observed.

She blinked. “Do you usually risk drinks from strangers?”

“You're saying you wouldn't, if you were me?”

“If I were you—there’s an idea,” she dared with a breathless laugh. “If I were you, we probably wouldn't have quite so many bald, boring blokes in office. And things would probably get a bit more West Wing. But I wouldn't risk poisoning, no.”

“You're clever, then.” The smile that played around his mouth was a shade off the one he’d offered Wilf, but she liked it all the same. “Cleverer than me.” Her eyebrows jumped, and the corners of his lips only ticked higher. “I'd love a warm drink, if you can spare one. It's been a… very long day.”

And she didn’t know quite how, or why, or anything at all, but her hands just started moving on their own, sliding down the strap of her bag to the pouch with her thermos. She was actually going to share her drink with the Hitman of Downing Street, the thing that lurked under the beds of the ministers she saw on television.

You couldn’t make this stuff up.

“Easy, now,” Tucker drily warned. “No sudden moves. I might get clever.”

She chuffed a laugh. “Not likely.” But she slowed anyway, attention bouncing momentarily to Wilf—who was watching their exchange with a rapt and wildly amused expression—before she turned back to Tucker.

His eyes were more reflective of the colour of the sky than she’d ever imagined eyes could be. So blue and grey that it was like looking through the clearest water at the river stones beneath.

She couldn't quite shake off the observation—couldn't manage an appropriate amount of detachment as she withdrew the thermos and twisted it open. Concentrated steam burst free, smelling sweet and enticingly sharp, and she extended the mug out to him.

He took it. And when their fingers brushed over the warm metal, it hit her.

Attraction.

What she was feeling was attraction.

Her first thought was oh, Mum’s going to brick herself if I tell her. Which, of course, Rose wouldn’t. After Jimmy Stone and the complete fiasco he’d created in her life as a teenager, she knew better. But what would Jackie Tyler say about Malcolm bloody Tucker? He'd been working in politics for practically half Rose’s lifetime.

She could just imagine her mum's face, the repulsion and horror, and the picture was incongruous enough that it successfully pulled Rose out of her stupor. She withdrew her hand, feeling the cold snap of air instantly, more fiercely than she might have.

With a tense eye, she watched him lift the thermos to his lips. Watched him drink, slow and contemplative. He didn't seem particularly slow or contemplative by nature, so it must have been for her benefit. Her fingers made fists, which she wedged into her coat pockets.

He took another sip. Then proclaimed, “That's very good. Is that tea I taste?”

Her smile bloomed without thought or permission. “Secret recipe,” she said. “Now you owe me four pounds fifty.”

Those eyebrows leapt again before resettling even lower than before. He looked very intent. “You charge our mutual friend,” and here, he glanced at Wilf, “for cider, too, or is it just me who pays for the privilege?”

“Well, you know what your sort say—no such thing as a free lunch. Or cider,” she added, realising exactly what was about to come out of her mouth and doing nothing at all to stop it. “Wilf pays me back in magazines and good conversation. So what'll you give me, Malcolm Tucker?”

And god, she was actually doing it. She was flirting with him.

Beside her, Wilf was laughing into his fist. Part of her was embarrassed—or would be later—that she was making a fool of herself in front of the old man. He’d certainly rub her nose in it the next time she popped out with a drink. That was just what family did.

But there was another part of her, a much deeper and more untameable part, which insisted on saying, What the hell? Why not?

After all, this would probably be her only chance to tease one of the most powerful men in England. The prospect of pushing him, even a little, felt dangerous, rebellious. Deliciously improbable. And if there was a little extortion involved, well—he was hardly a man with clean hands.

One of those hands, she noted, slid into the pocket of that ridiculous peacoat—which was, she could admit, beginning to grow on her a little; it contrasted sharply against his skin and hair, so pale and severe—and he withdrew something small and white and rectangular. He extended it to her, but before she could take it, his hand snapped back. He seemed on the verge of smiling again.

Then, tipping back his head, he took another long drink from the thermos. A long, long drink.

She grinned, watching his throat bob. The bastard was draining the mug. Getting his money’s worth, she supposed.

She found she didn't mind. Her evening was shaping up to be substantially different than she’d expected.

Only when he'd finished with a faint hum of appreciation and returned the thermos did he give over the proffered card. It was simple, unremarkable white cardstock with crisp black text.

Malcolm Tucker

Director of Communications for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

10 Downing Street, Westminster, London

Below were two phone numbers. One was crossed out, the smudged ink suggesting he’d done so recently. The second number was indicated as his personal line, and her breath caught. Was he mad, handing out this information to a veritable stranger? Did he know the trouble she could make for him if she started, say, making copies and handing them out with every cup of coffee she sold to his more politically repellant enemies? Of which there were many?

“Don't get clever,” he warned her, and there was a trace of real threat there. She felt it. It made her spine straighten and something senselessly warm unfurl in her belly. Then he said, mildly, “Call it an IOU.”

She looked up at the man before her and wondered if he was mad—or perhaps just fearless—or possibly, she guessed with a tilt of her head, he was lonely.

But whatever he was—and however much she needed to get her head checked for being so intrigued by it—there was only one way to find out.

Rose slipped the card into the back pocket of her denims, meeting his unwavering eyes the whole time, smiling to herself. She bit down on the tip of her tongue to prevent it spreading.

“Well,” she said, trying to sound tough, “it’s not exactly four pounds fifty. But it’ll do.”

Tucker smirked. And—oh, yeah, she thought. Mum’s definitely gonna lose it.

[outoftheirdifferences]

Muse Activity Statuses

So apparently I can't update my old one of these posts anymore; I didn't know there was an age cutoff when editing would no longer work! ANYWAY: this is just the same again so that I can continue keeping it updated!

I'm also trialling the practice of adding to the list partners' muses for the owed threads, which should hopefully make it easier to tell what's for who! Between what's in my drafts and queue, everything I owe should be covered; but if you think I'm missing something then you're welcome to ask and check ^^

Total Owed Threads at present: 15 (+ 3 asks)

List of muses under the cut.

Angel

Owes: 2 threads (Lady, Tod) In the Queue: 1 Current status: Active

Vanellope

Owes: 5 threads (Rinwell, Black Star, Ralph, Edna, Spinel), 2 asks (V, unknown) In the Queue: 4 Current status: Active

Da Vinci

Owes: None right now. In the Queue: 0 Current status: Hopeful for more activity!

Webby

Owes: 1 thread (Zhen) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Quiet at present, but still open.

The Spaniel Sisters: Annette, Collette & Danielle

Owe: None right now. In the Queue: 0 Current status: Active

Gosalyn

Owes: Caught up! In the Queue: 1 Current status: Active

Angry

Owes: 0 In the Queue: 1 Current status: Active

Connie

Owes: 2 threads (Black Star, Steven(s)) In the Queue: 1 Current status: Quiet at present, but still open.

Cera

Owes: 2 threads (Spyro, Ducky) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Quiet at present, but still open.

Terra

Owes: Caught up! In the Queue: 0 Current status: Open to activity!

Lauren

Owes: 1 thread (Piper) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Slow but active

Margo

Owes: 1 thread (Tina) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Guest muse for the time being, active.

Lilo

Owes: 1 ask (Ignvar) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Guest muse for the time being, active.

----------------------------------------

Plus on my sideblog: 11 owed.

Laphicet

Owes: 5 threads (Eizen, Ludger, Victor, Nazamil, Sophie) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Slow

Anise

Owes: 6 threads (Guy, Raven, Asch, Tear, Ion x2) In the Queue: 0 Current status: Slow

[betweenthetimeandsound]

--"crying at God" inspired by chapter titles from Pictures and Tears: A History of People Who Have Cried in Front of Paintings

A trail of smoke emerges from a golden dress; midnight strikes and I am no longer glowing. Intricate flowers prostrate to flame; gas gets into my nostrils and I leave my soul in suspended animation.

My sin, my soul-- it decays like a rose without water; its virulent scarlet aura drying out to a putrid girld. You watch and glance at my honeyed eyes welling with tears-- who would be reckless enough to drink them up like ambrosia?

I know not of beauty, for I have squandered it.

I watch my mother's cherries burn, petals flutter in an amber sky, while I try to divine the desperate out of the devoured carcasses of memory. I taste the anise air, without knowing if I can inject it or if it will kill me.

A date with death only appeals to the hedonistic. I take a cup of wine and drop it on the floor-- why should I accept the covenant when I've tested on the edge too many times?

My sin, my soul-- my tears are yours but you confuses them for dewdrops on daisies, then leave them to the morning sun, lined with oranges. Everything falls with the lightest touch, even embers couldn't note their delicacy.

I know that I won't be alone, even though I wait for the charred remains to reveal themselves and their truths glistening like a heavenly sword, forged out of steel, weighed down with osmium.

But who should I face in my hour of despair? Iron gets into my tongue; I know of blood so well, I trace the veins all along my feet.

My sin, my soul. you weigh it against a feather, and let it shatter on the pavement. A sullen heart is the price to exist in a frivolous world; but you accept it broken, blooming lavender in the cracks, overwhelming you with its newborn innocence.

I cannot refuse this world without ending it, but a single thread could unravel it all, and the pain in its many strings, only glimmer in a faint light. --Elda Mengisto

[thosetaleskids]

@talesofourworlds / continued from (x) as its own thread.

She wasn't taking no for an answer, no matter how hard Ion tried to convince her. Clattering around in the kitchen area attached to Ion's quarters, she quickly found a suitable pan - suitably sized to make enough soup to feed half the Oracle Knights, that was, never mind just one boy with a small appetite - and turned her attention to ingredients.

Chicken, some vegetables, a little bit of seasoning... nothing complicated. Though her skills were certainly up to more of a challenge, she knew it was best to keep things simple when you were sick.

Glancing back Ion's way as she rolled up her sleeves to start chopping the vegetables, Anise let her stern expression slip away as she saw Ion give in to her instruction. Poor Ion, he looked so small and fragile like this...

As she so often did, she pasted on a smile.

"You don't need to worry about anything, Ion. Little old Anise is here to look after you. I'll tell Trithiem that you're not going to be available for a while too, so you don't need to worry about that either."

Slice, slice, slice. Dicing up carrots, an onion, a bit of parsnip for the flavour it added... this part was always strangely therapeutic. Pausing before she started to prepare the chicken, she looked Ion's way again as he apologised.

"Don't ever think that, Ion. It's my job to be worried about you, so you just let me do that, okay?" While her tone was serious, it also lacked any bite to it. And of course, it wasn't like she didn't care for Ion apart from her job too. But if it would make him more willing to accept her concern, then this was the way she'd phrase it for him.

[exalted-dawn-drabbles]

Edddddd happy Friday how something for Alora x Solas 👀?? "Sharing a dessert" for maximum fluff (but bonus points for somehow also making it angsty lmfao) happy writing!

CHALLENGE ISSUED. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. CHALLENGE DESTROYED. Now weep and regret the choices you have made Niri.

For @dadrunkwriting

Rated G: Angst, ~1k words

A Plate For You | Exalted_Dawn

She felt him arrive before she heard him. 

The Fade always seemed to ripple with his presence nowadays, as if his very being was too big to hold even in a place like this. Alora choked down a hasty breath, steadying herself on her one arm against the food-laden banquet table. 

“There were more people here the first time,” she chuckled, the sound hollow and weak. “Enough that you couldn’t move without bumping someone’s shoulder.”

Her voice echoed in the now abandoned Main Hall of Skyhold, entirely empty of people save for two. His footsteps rang between every word, steady like a metronome as he drew closer. Closer. Painfully closer.

“...I wish you had been there to see it.” 

Too close.

His steps came to a sudden halt, just a few mere paces behind her. Alora felt like she was going to be sick.

“As do I, Vhenan.” 

Her hand balled into a fist, scrunching the pristine tablecloths in her clenched grasp. She knew this wasn’t real, but Alora thanked the Creators anyway that her back was turned to him then. This was the first time since leaving that he’d actually spoken to her. That he stood here like this, in that form. 

She didn’t want their first meeting like this to be through tears.

“I had saved some cake for you, you know. Me and Josie spent an hour picking out the flavors. I had hoped that maybe…” The thought of that fucking plate, clutched optimistically in her hands the entire evening, still haunted her dreams at times. As it was currently– but this was the first time in her memory that he was actually here to share it. “Well I guess better late than never.”

She stood– forced herself to stand– and moved down the line of tables, towards where she  remembered the dessert buffet to be. Metronome steps followed her like a ghost, always lingering just a few feet behind but never drawing too near. That was fine, she supposed. It was more than she had dared to hope for before.

Alora stopped in front of a veritable bounty of sweets, all laid out on perfectly polished trays, untouched and unspoiled by the wear of time. She could recall the flavor of each, traded at first through laughter and elation, and then through tears when the cakes had been placed before her. 

They sat innocent in front of her now, their delicate frills and sugar-sweet powder almost mocking in their sincerity. 

She picked up the platter and turned to face him.

Just like the desserts, time had not touched the gentle, freckle-kissed slopes of Solas’ face. But, then again, she supposed it never truly had. Just another thing she had failed to notice. But she took her time to look at him now, if only because she wasn’t sure if she’d ever get another chance.

He stood draped in golds and greys, a sun-white wolf pelt draped over one shoulder and his clothes tailored to suit every line of his body. There was once a time she would have laughed at the thought of seeing him in anything other than a simple, thread-bear tunic, but seeing him here like this– not just regal, but actually royal? It almost made things make sense. 

She stepped hesitantly, boldly closer and extended the plate for him to take one of his choosing. “I recommend avoiding the chocolatey-looking ones. They’re made with deep-mushroom and anise.”

For a single, heartbroken second, it seemed as though Solas had almost smiled. 

He closed the gap and plucked one from the polished silver– a small cube of butter cake, topped in raspberries and creme. Alora took one of the same– they had been her favorite of the flavors– but even as the crumbs fell from her fingers to the floor, she could not bring herself to eat it. 

“Please don’t leave.” Her eyes stayed glued to Solas out of fear that he’d vanish just for asking. 

He held the perfectly frosted treat in the crux of his palm, his jaw and fingers stiff but not tense. He’d been expecting this. “You know I cannot stay…”

“You can. You know you can,” she insisted lowly, too tired for desperation. “No matter how many times I have to eat cake alone, there will always be a plate here waiting for you.”

“Alora.” He reached out to touch her– to brush aside a strand of her hair, maybe– but before he could, she stepped back and away. Doing so broke her heart, but if she’d let him touch her now, it’d only shatter her completely when he inevitably left with the rising dawn.

She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Not here. Not like this.”

In his eyes, Alora could see the tempest of hurts– guilt, longing, sorrow and regret, but both of them knew that he would not take that final step to bridge the gap. His gaze fell into a cold, distant acceptance, and at last he dropped his hand.

Her head dipped in a grateful nod. “Then maybe next time. But until then, thank you for coming. I really did want to share these with you.”

“Yes,” His shoulders dipped, weighed by disappointment, but he lifted the small cake to his lips regardless,  “As did I.”

Alora smiled, truly smiled, and, closing her eyes, ate her piece of cake in one bite. The flavors were always more vivid in the Fade, but tonight the creme was especially sweet, and the berries especially tart. Like summer days and opened books and the gentle curve of a bow-lipped smirk. 

It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she chewed and then swallowed that single, too-small bite of cake. If only it had lasted longer. If only she had savored it.

Then maybe.

But when she opened her eyes, Alora was alone in her bed once more.

[talesofourworlds]

@thosetaleskids plotted childhood FFX verse thread go go go!

How much longer would the peace last?

Not really a question that a child should have been focused on, Ion knew. Still, he found himself wondering more and more as the days went on. Things were still peaceful in Spira. Lady Nebilim's calm was still ongoing, and had been for several years if what his parents had said was accurate. Still, sooner or later the calm would have to end. Sin would have to reappear sooner or later. That was what the teachings of Yevon said, after all.

For as much as Ion knew he didn't need to worry about it for right then, he knew what he wanted to do. Ion wanted to become a summoner. The teachings of Yevon had made it very clear that they were important in bringing peace. But in order to do that, summoners needed to sacrifice themselves. Ion was well aware of that much. His parents hadn't shied away from telling him of the summoner's fate when he'd expressed an interest in it. To save Spira, to defeat Sin, a summoner was required to sacrifice themselves.

He was signing himself up for death. Even Sync had said as such. But if it meant that he could travel all around Spira with one of his closest friends as his guardian? If it meant saving Spira, and bringing hope they so dearly would need when Lady Nebilim's calm ended, then Ion was willing to make that sacrifice.

...His future guardian didn't know that much. He intended to keep it that way, though. As Ion flicked through his book, he thought of her. Anise had been so determined. She'd already started talking about the future fame and riches they'd get when they succeeded. He couldn't tell her it would mean his death. He wanted to protect her for as long as possible. Ironic, that. She was the one meant to be protecting him in the future.

For now, they were still children. He was an apprentice until the day came for him to try and pray to the Bevelle fayth. They still had time to enjoy their childhood. Speaking of...

Ion lifted his head from what he'd been reading. He heard the familiar sound of someone running toward his house. He smiled.

"Anise!" He waved. "It's good to see you. How are you?" For now, he and Anise were just a couple of children with big dreams. Close as a pair of friends could be. And for now, that was all they needed to be. Until the calm inevitably broke.

[reasoningdaily]

Despite being more flavorful and versatile, chicken thighs remain far behind breast meat in popularity, at least within the US. Here at Serious Eats, though, we recommend chicken thighs for all sorts of preparations: braising, stewing, baking, frying, skewering/grilling. An abundance of connective tissue makes them both flavorful and forgiving of longer cooking times, unlike breast, which tends to dry out quickly.

To me, all that makes thighs the perfect cut for a relaxed night of cooking, one in which I don't have to watch the pan like a hawk to get good results. Here are 21 recipes, from one-pan braised dinners of chicken thighs and vegetables to Bengali rice porridge and grilled paella, to convince you of the glories of dark meat.

Grilled Chicken Skewers

Crispy Caramel Chicken Skewers

Morgan Eisenberg

Chicken thighs' higher fat content helps them retain more moisture than breast. That means thigh meat is practically a must for grilled skewers, as the intense heat of the grill would quickly overcook and dry out breast. Inspired by Vietnamese gà kho, these skewers get ample flavor from a sweet-and-savory glaze (incorporating both brown sugar and honey as a stand-in for the more traditional rock sugar) that caramelizes into a crispy coating on the grill. Rolling the skewers in a final layer of sesame seeds and sliced almonds gives them plenty of crunch. You can grill these (or any of the other skewers below) on the grate using a two-zone fire, as we've recommended in the past, or try our new and improved skewer-grilling setup to bring the meat closer to the coals and increase your chances of tender, juicy results.

Sweet-and-Sour Grilled Chicken Skewers (Yakitori Nanbansu)

Vicky Wasik

The nanbansu in the name is a simple mixture of soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, and mirin, and it can be used as a sauce, dip, and/or marinade. Again, use chicken thighs here to ensure the yakitori come off the grill moist and tender. The meat picks up lots of flavor from an overnight marinade in the nanbansu, which we also serve alongside the skewers for dipping; a little optional shichimi togarashi will add a mild heat, if you want it.

Japanese Chicken Skewers With Scallion (Negima Yakitori)

J. Kenji López-Alt

Once you have a batch of homemade teriyaki sauce on hand, this recipe could hardly be easier. The teriyaki sauce gives the skewers a sweet-and-savory profile, while the grilled scallions' crunch helps balance the juiciness of the chicken thigh. As with any skewer recipe, thread the pieces fairly close together on each skewer to help them retain moisture—and, of course, don't skimp on the sauce.

Thai-Style Chicken Satay With Peanut-Tamarind Sauce

J. Kenji López-Alt

There are many good reasons to own a mortar and pestle, but my personal favorite may be that it affords you the opportunity to just bash a lot of things into tiny pieces. You'll get to do plenty of that for this Thai-style chicken satay, which starts with a powerful aromatic paste featuring lemongrass, turmeric, garlic, ginger, and toasted coriander and white pepper. We combine the paste with coconut milk and fish sauce to form a marinade for small pieces of chicken thigh meat before they're skewered and grilled. The tart-sweet flavor of tamarind in the accompanying peanut dipping sauce makes it a perfect complement to the skewers' smoky char.

Grilled Tarragon-Mustard Chicken Skewers

Morgan Eisenberg

Lemon and mustard are both powerful acids, which help to tenderize chicken, and they work so quickly that their flavors can penetrate the meat in just an hour of marination time. The sweetness of honey and acidity of the lemon juice and mustard help balance out the strong anise-y flavor of tarragon here. This quick recipe is a good argument all on its own for introducing more weeknight grilling into your life.

Main Dishes

Easy Pressure Cooker Green Chili With Chicken

J. Kenji López-Alt

Chicken thighs take well to braising and other moist cooking methods, such as in this chile verde, which also gets a flavor boost from using dark meat. Plus, with the power of a pressure cooker at your disposal, you'll achieve results in 30 minutes that would normally take hours on the stovetop. A combination of tomatillos, Poblano peppers, Anaheims, and serranos yields a complexly flavored sauce, and a small amount of fish sauce gives the chili an extra hit of umami once it's finished.

Crispy Braised Chicken Thighs With Cabbage and Bacon

J. Kenji López-Alt

Cabbage and pork are a classic combination, and in this easy, hearty one-pan braise, we pair both with chicken thighs to great effect. By cooking the chicken thighs and bacon directly on top of a bed of shredded cabbage, we ensure the vegetables absorb flavor from both meats. The clincher? The whole dish takes just over an hour, start to finish.

Grilled Chicken and Pork Paella

Vicky Wasik

The key to nailing a proper paella is browning every single ingredient very well before adding any liquid. Since the chicken is going to be first browned and then cooked in stock and puréed tomatoes, it needs to be able to hold up to an extended cooking time, which means thigh meat is what you want here. For a party-sized paella like this one, emulate traditional methods and make it outside on the grill—it's the best way to ensure such a large volume heats evenly. If you're not a paella purist, check out our paella mixta, too, which incorporates both chicken leg meat and seafood.

Kimchi-Brined Fried Chicken Sandwich

Vicky Wasik

Fans of Kenji's five-ingredient pickle-brined fried chicken sandwich, or any fried chicken sandwich, won't want to miss out on this twist. We marinate chicken thighs in a mixture of kimchi brine, buttermilk, and gochugaru (Korean red chili flakes) before dredging and frying, then top the fried chicken with chopped kimchi and kimchi-infused mayo. (For extra credit, try serving it on Stella's flaky Black Sesame Buttermilk Biscuits.) Safe to say, I'll be dreaming about this sandwich for a few months at least.

Vietnamese-Style Baked Chicken

Emily and Matt Clifton

Another easy weeknight dinner, this one-pan recipe for baked chicken thighs relies heavily on a flavorful marinade full of Vietnamese flavors—bright, umami, and just a little spicy. It's certainly worth the few items you'll have to add to your grocery list. Here's a tip: Make sure you prepare your rice (because you're going to need plenty of rice on the side!) while the chicken is marinating.

Oyakodon (Japanese Chicken and Egg Rice Bowl)

J. Kenji López-Alt

Oyakodon, a rice bowl topped with simmered chicken and softly cooked eggs, is pure Japanese comfort food, and easy to make at home. The extra egg yolk on top is optional, but we love any chance to pop open a golden yolk, swirling it around and around in the bowl so its richness gets into every corner.

Chicken Scarpariello (Braised Chicken With Sausage and Peppers)

J. Kenji López-Alt

Chicken scarpariello is an old Italian-American standby of braised chicken thighs, sausage, and peppers in a punchy sweet-and-sour sauce, and it's simple enough to make any night of the week. Achieving the most possible flavor in the sauce depends heavily on the drippings from the chicken, so it's best to use bone-in, skin-on thighs. We sear those thighs until they're deeply browned before adding them to a pan with sautéed garlic, onion, and bell pepper; browned sausage; and pickled cherry peppers along with their liquid, before popping it all in the oven to braise.

One-Pan Chicken, Sausage, and Brussels Sprouts

Emily and Matt Clifton

It's hard to think of a culinary image makeover that's been more dramatic than that of Brussels sprouts—the days of their reputation as mushy, sulfur-scented lumps are over. That's thanks in large part to the realization that intensely high heat is the key to getting them crisp, nutty-sweet, and delicious. This recipe roasts halved Brussels sprouts, sliced sausage, and bone-in chicken thighs all in one pan, where (just as in some of the previous recipes) the meat gets tender and well browned, and the sprouts' flavor benefits from mingling with all those juices.

Creole-Style Red Jambalaya With Chicken, Sausage, and Shrimp

Vicky Wasik

Building layers of flavor in a jambalaya is just as important as it is for a soup. In this recipe, the chicken and sausage join forces to flavor the stock. Once the chicken has been browned, it goes into the oven along with the rice, aromatics, and braising liquid—cooking in the oven is our secret to avoiding burnt rice and the need for frequent stirring—so the forgiving nature of chicken thighs is a must here.

Chicken Massaman Curry With Wheat Beer and Potatoes

Emily and Matt Clifton

If you're put off by overly spicy curries that leave you in tears, give massaman curry a whirl—a product of Middle Eastern migration to Southeast Asia, it uses milder spices that build warmth and aroma rather than fire. Boneless and skinless thighs work fine here, especially since they're easily cut into small pieces. We simmer them, along with potatoes, in a coconut milk– and chicken stock–based sauce, plus a surprise ingredient—Belgian-style wheat beer.

Coconut- and Ají Amarillo–Braised Chicken

Vicky Wasik

While you can technically highlight any chili pepper of your choosing for these braised chicken thighs, the recipe is especially well suited to ají amarillo, a bright and fruity orange pepper that's native to Peru. The mellow, sweet coconut milk takes on the golden color of the ají amarillo quite nicely, making this dish perfect for a day when you'd like a little more sun.

Grilled Tandoori Chicken Patties With Jalapeño-Mint Yogurt Sauce

Morgan Eisenberg

Blending the ground chicken here with a yogurt marinade, along with the thigh meat's natural ability to retain moisture, helps ensure these patties come out juicy after grilling. An array of spices creates a warm, Indian-inspired profile, balanced out by the cooling jalapeño-mint yogurt sauce dolloped on top. Serve these on toasted flatbread for an easy, handheld summer dinner.

Broiled Tandoori-Style Chicken With Almonds and Couscous

Vicky Wasik

Broiling is another high-heat cooking method in which chicken thighs can shine—a broiler may not be as powerful as a tandoor, but it's about as close as you're going to get with standard indoor home equipment. We tenderize the chicken in a mix of yogurt and spices, then broil it, along with the marinade, in a skillet until it's nicely browned. The liquid from the skillet does double duty, adding flavor to a side dish of fluffy couscous.

Chicken Thighs With Saffron, Lemon, and Red Potatoes

Yasmin Fahr

Coming together in a single pan in just an hour, this recipe is great for whipping up on a Tuesday night after a tiring day of work. Searing the chicken thighs first delivers crispy skin and adds extra flavor to the braising liquid, while a pinch of saffron turns the dish delightfully golden and fragrant. After the sear, we add chicken stock, quartered red potatoes, saffron, lemon juice, and black peppercorns, then stick the skillet in the oven—that's it.

Korean-Style Fire Chicken (Buldak) With Cheese

Vicky Wasik

Using stronger-flavored dark-meat chicken in this hot, spicy, and gooey dish just makes sense—the chicken has a lot of other flavors to compete with, including fresh red chilies, gochugaru, gochujang (Korean chili paste), ginger, black pepper, and more. While the cheese broiled over the top might seem like gilding the lily, it's not true buldak without it. Crack open a beer, get ready to sweat, and embrace the overkill.

Bengali Rice Porridge With Lentils and Chicken

Vicky Wasik

This porridge is pure comfort food, perfect for those days when you feel a cold coming on or when it's gray and rainy out. Gently crushing some of the rice leaves smaller bits that dissolve into the turmeric- and ginger-scented porridge, making it nicely thick, and diced chicken thigh, potato, and red lentils turn it into a hearty, warming meal. But the best part, in my opinion, is the topping of crispy fried shallots, since I'm constantly looking for excuses to make more and sprinkle them over everything. That counts as meal prep, right?

[thenightlymirror]

Rhubarb

We used a 500w light

The kind you buy from Home Depot

And hid it above the bathroom mirror

The light that came down from the ceiling

Painted everything in a warm shimmer

The actor that played you in this film

Was not the one I would have chosen

He had a habit of smiling when he had nothing better to do

Which made the suicide attempt at the end of the film

Seem to come out of nowhere

Your professor friend told you to take the scene out

But I was adamant that the scene stay in

It’s the only shot I like

If you really want to make everything cohere

Just get rid of the rest of the film where he’s smiling for no reason

You could have said something

That’s what directing is.

Balibar

I misread something once and assumed for many years that Etienne Balibar was Althusser’s wife

He looks like he gives really good hugs

Rhubarb #2

See, knocking toward recorded states

Knowing most days ever deduced you

No season forwarding miles

She, wraith-like, lifts the sitter through the ether

Up through dirt and regret

Her spirit-name lapping over stones on the river

The white sheet, wet, tracing time in wooden faces

In Illyrium, mine forever

Out of nickel slugs, the lie and splinter gang

Stay with me stage-left in the hallway of your laundry room

The shadow of your wrist

The black summer outside in cicada hum

The stage painted black

Yellow dressing room lights dimly during the day

While classes went on and we slept in sawdust

The sawdust, the centipede

The tile floor of your bathroom under the risers

Bleecher marks on your skin

Thoth hidden in the bathtub Armada among artifacts like the cold faucet

You, Anise, in cattails

Stepping on boards across marshes

You, sweet friend, red seraphim, yours alone

Ewe’s horn and fool, come and find me

Malefic foe of D’ne, attacking the temple headfirst

Shallow gold passage of oil that flows over her feet

The lady machine bewitched

The Dodo’s song on the back of a washboard

Along Katib’s reed and whistle

Elephants sigh in empathy with the ghost

He knows

When the smiling snake of Tabitha and Abbadon

The red scalloped rib of the cinema curtain

The rabbit’s pink nose on heaven’s cloud

Air graveyard pipes

And violin bow the singing saw

Evil eye on sister Venus climbing the miller’s wheel

Speaking her angel’s papyrus with disappearing ink

Remember me before we knew warm river shores

Long fingers in sand

The soil that hangs on branches standing upright on its banks

Pulling the threads of it dark brown roots

Tangled in telephone wires red and blue

The beige receiver unscrewed

The voice in carbon cupped in your hand

Yellow vinyl, bareback, cigarette smoke hovering into the austere void above

Soft plastic tissue released from engines in the blue sky

The deep end of the living room

Suspension of the lithe body

The proximity and weight

Roaring lion’s voice and the beasts it kills like an open door

Tawny and overgrown rusted junkyard

Heat and sweat on your cool face underneath

The tattered orange towel that covers the window

The tortoise shell

Love or the dark cabinet

I waited hidden for hours crying alternately sniggering through the peep hole

As the party continued

As breath quickened and stopped

Teapot Dome changes a gourd half carved out an intricate path

Stiff paper walls

Labyrinthine circuit, unseen, unknown

To that breathing thing, unfolding inside itself in cellulose

Bark-like, dry, a wonder

Tightly winding the mouse a sewing needle