#(some of the sourdough I baked yesterday with some really really good cheese)

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

hi lea baby <3 i am sending u love and kissing u through the interweb <3

well well well, good fucking morning to me 🥰

[clatterbane]

Commencing Project Cinnamon Roll!

IIRC, this is my first try at a proper yeasted gluten free cinnamon rolls. I actually made the dough and turned it into rolls last night, and stashed the pan in the fridge to proof most of the way. This is after I pulled it out to finish rising at (very warm) room temperature. Temporarily uncovered, since it's hard to see much through buttered plastic wrap.

The original plan was to get them ready and in the oven yesterday evening, but that's not how things worked out. Ah well, the slow cold treatment should only help with flavor! I did finally get my ass in gear, and it's all good.

(I couldn't resist letting the raggedy end pieces finish rising last night, for a little chef's snack. Not at all bad then!)

That greasy baking paper is one of the sheets I used to roll the dough out and form them, btw. Didn't see any good reason not to just plonk them back on there.

I decided to use basically a mashup of these two recipes--with part my quasi-sourdough Nerd Cider Yeast Starter for a little flavor, and part dry commercial Kronjäst for sweet doughs because I was not feeling patient. (That was before the little overnight delay, yeah. 🙄)

https://translate.google.com/translate?sl=auto&tl=en&hl=en-US&u=https://victoriasprovkok.se/2020/10/glutenfria-kanelbullar.html

(Autotranslated link, obviously. For some reason, the preview isn't working for that or the original site.)

Those recipes are pretty similar anyway. I just used my own judgment where things did diverge, and definitely added the cardamom into the dough Swedish styley. The extra hint of spice can be subtle, but it really does add a nice touch to basically any type of sweet bread. These also got the softened butter filling from that recipe, but using a mix of white and brown sugar for extra yum.

The original plan was to go for a compromise approach with finishing touches, too: half with the crunchy pearl sugar the Household Swede prefers (and I have texture problems with 😬), half barbarian style with glaze.

But, it turned out that the box of pearl sugar I thought we had was really more brown sugar. So, it's Food Crimes all the way! 🤠

This is not necessarily the best place to have texture issues with pearl sugar, btw. It's actually pretty easy to get otherwise good commercial GF cinnamon rolls here, but honestly? One of the reasons I decided to try making some at home was to get glaze instead.

This rather fundamental international difference in cinnamon bun philosophy is actually a bit of a running gag. To the point of someone feeling a need to set up a joke subreddit a while back--and also some ridiculous recent drama involving certain segments of Sweddit brigading food subs to make rude comments on other people's cinnamon roll pics (a.k.a. "cum buns"), earning some pretty heavy use of the banhammer.

But, now those food crimes are cumming from inside the house! 😅

(Not pictured: a pinch of salt and a little vanilla. For a very basic sour cream glaze.)

OK, I couldn't help but get immoderately amused.

[tricktster]

so i’ve been baking bread pretty regularly since sayyyy april 2020. you know, when we were waiting for this whole kooky covid thing to die down in a few weeks, but in the meantime some people had taken the very rational step of buying out every store’s supply of EXTREMELY PERISHABLE goods, including the extremely sad 100 calorie sandwich rounds favored by my parents.

now me? I’d read enough zombie very serious survival books to have ventured to the co-op on March 10 to stock up on dry bulk ingredients, and I’d included yeast and bread flour among the necessities - not because I thought that they’d ever get used, really, it just seemed practical if things got a lot worse than anticipated. And then? Well. You know.

So I joined the club of the tens of thousands of americans who had always viewed leavened dough with a healthy skepticism and the deep sense that these things were best left to the professionals. With the circumstances now unimaginably altered, we were now very cautiously dumping yeast into bowls of warm water, all the while doubting that this would actually work. So, obviously, that sense of accomplishment I felt when, after all the proofing and kneading and rising and punching down and rising again and venting and egg washing and etc etc etc, I actually pulled two relatively respectable loaves of bread out of the oven? Fucking intoxicating.

I’ve gotten medium good at bread over the intervening years, insofar as I can produce a sandwich loaf without needing to find a recipe, I’m pretty comfortable with adding cheese or garlic or raisins and nuts or whatever if I’m feeling like an Interesting Bread, i’ve forced a few loaves of sourdough into existence (though both I and the dough were kicking and screaming the whole way), and I recieved the ultimate tool of convenience for my birthday last year, when my parents gave me the dutch oven that finally permitted me to finally skip kneading altogether (if I so desired).

Except like.,. I didn’t ask for a dutch oven. I actually asked for something much cheaper and by all accounts more convenient: A bread machine. When I did, though, my mom (who has baked precisely 0 loaves of bread in her life) said “oh, you don’t want a bread machine.”

“I don’t?” I asked, already halfway swayed by her confidence on the matter.

“oh, no, nobody ever actually uses bread machines, they just take up space on the counter.” my mom, a woman who owns two instapots, assured me.

I considered her reasoning, and very firmly replied with a defiant “oh, okay, yeah. that makes sense, and I guess I’ve gotten this far without one, so like, it’s silly to get one now.”

I know. I have a will of steel.

So like, another year has passed since that exchange, and a week or two ago i finally decided that since counter space is no longer at a premium at my new place, i could at least try out a cheap bread machine? I went on ebay, got an open box deal on a decent entry level model, and took it for a spin yesterday.

And, for what it’s worth, uhhhhhhh HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT COULD HAVE BEEN THIS LOW EFFORT THE WHOLE TIME?????

LIKE I COULD HAVE BEEN JUST DUMPING INGREDIENTS IN A PAN AND WALKING AWAY THIS WHOLE TIME?????!?!?!?

it’s making brioche for me right now. It’s almost too easy. I’m actively furious.

This feels exactly like the day I finally bought a game genie so i could get Mew to finish out my red dex. I’ve been grinding and learning helpful strats from youtube and there was a fucking cheat code that would have let me skip the bread making side quest while still gaining xp this whole goddamn time.

[bigmammallama5]

I've been wanting to make a sourdough starter ('cause that seems to be the thing you do in a worldwide quarantine) but I've read recipes that conflict each other; throw out half every day, don't do that but keep adding flour and water, leave it open to the air, cover it with a cloth, stir it every day, leave it alone. What the hell do you do?

disclaimer: im not a trained baker and all my info is based off of my own trial and error and research, so if something i say doesnt work for you dont worry!

Okay so the biggest thing about a starter is you need equal amounts of flour and water. I used 60 grams of flour and water for mine bc I’m not planning to bake that much and didn’t want to make a massive starter. When you’re first starting out, you do need to pour off half-ish to make room in your jar. If you keep adding flour and water and don’t get rid of some of it you’re gonna run out of room lol. On slow days when I was starting mine I would sometimes feed twice a day and pour off half before the second feeding. That’s up to you. Now that mine is started, I have a schedule to feed her every Monday, but I might still feed her in between if I think she’s lookin sad.

I only stirred mine when halving and feeding, I didn’t want to disturb my starter lose that CO2 from the fermentation. It was the easiest way for me to tell that it was actively growing and maturing!

I covered my jar with a clean coffee filter and left it on the counter because my dog’s hair is super fine and literally floats in the air. I didn’t want Sam Hair in my starter lol. You can cover it with a cloth or napkin if you don’t want any large objects getting into your starter, but leaving it out on your counter is a good way to introduce local microbes into it. If you wanna get wild and crazy and have a back yard or little patio with a shaded spot, stick it out there with a strainer or piece of cheese cloth over it. I wanted to do that since I have really nice wide window sills, but we’re peak tree pollen season right now and that just sounded gross lol.

This is the basic starter guide that I’ve followed a couple times (that finally got me to my current starter).

Claire Saffitz from BA did an awesome How To Make Sourdough Bread for the Cooking NYTimes! I followed her guidance yesterday for the dough, but at the bottom she has a little section on how to maintain your starter.

I found Mike from the Youtube channel Pro Home Cooks earlier this year when I was doing some reading, and he shows you how he does his starter at the beginning of this video. He even explains some good visual signs to look for to know your starter is ready.

Since this mess started, people on twitter have been sharing their bread journeys and helping others with yeast and starters. Here are two, a new one and an old one:

For if you can’t find active yeast to buy but you have some fruit or dried fruit or the dregs of a dark beer or bottle of wine, have fun!

Or if you’re feeling wild west here’s 2019 thread on capturing wild yeast:

Which looks super fun, I wanna try this but I wonder where I could find some wild barley...

I hope some of this helps!

Also shout out to @deadbiwrites for letting me bother her with questions. True mvp. Find you a friend that can calm your baking fears.

[sparrowsingsstories]

Preview of next chapter of Glömma:

“Well hello. Welcome to Genevieve’s Bakery. I’m Genevieve. What can I get you two fine gentlemen today? Just pulled some fresh loaves of sourdough and wheat. Will have cracked corn cakes in a few hours. The honey cakes are leftover from yesterday but still soft. And the fruit I got fresh today was sour cherries. They’re baked into a shortcrust coffyn with a dainty crumb on the top.”

Anders’ eyes grew at the sight of all the baked goods. Small, round pies filled with luscious cherries and topped with a crumbly almond crust; tarts filled with creamy goat cheese, figs, and honey; dainty circles of apple resting on flakey pastry and shimmering with sugar and spice; delicate cakes filled with dried fruit and dusted with sugar; and large round biscuits dotted with chocolate sat next to hearty loaves of wheat and sourdough breads, tall scones, long baguettes, salted soft pretzels, and the sweet rounds of honey cakes. He stared at the pies and felt his mouth water.

**Fun fact - in England, Corn used to mean wheat. So a cracked corn cake would be a cracked wheat cake - and these would be lightly sweetened with sugar. I watch a lot of historical cooking videos.

**A Coffyn was the medieval term for a crust used to bake things in - like stew...or fruit...sometimes they weren't edible and sometimes they weren't. These are a shortcrust - almost like a cookie. Sometimes, coffyns were made from the really hard wheat and it would be like eating the world's worst sea biscuit.

[waldenweave]

It does not seem like I last posted only two weeks ago. It seems like maybe six weeks ago. Staying at home…working from home…not leaving the house…all this seems to be playing with my sense of time. Which might not be a bad thing? I like routine, to be sure, and schedules are important so that I actually get things done, so I am so grateful to be able to work from home. But not having the same routine I’ve had for years is making me pay more attention to the detail of the overall shape of my day. It’s interesting.

In any case, I’m still on the Bread Experiment. Guys, I have baked some really awful bread. The first couple loaves were okay. The third loaf was pretty good. The fourth loaf had holes so large, not even cheese stayed on. There was more empty space than bread in that one. The fifth loaf was so bad, I think I’ve eaten maybe two slices from it, and it’s still on the counter and no one else has touched it. (It’s going out for the birds tomorrow.) And then….!

Yesterday, after a few days of No Bread and Extreme Frustration at Baking, I decided to try again. I had mixed some leaven the night before and I left it until late morning to use any of it for a new loaf. This time, I replaced 50g of AP flour with some coarse ground rye, because…I dunno. I’ve heard that rye is good at promoting starter growth, it’s got good microbial stuff. So, okay. I thought maybe this would help my dough and the finished crumb. The result was a very, very wet dough, because, I suspect, the rye didn’t absorb as much moisture as the AP flour, and I didn’t know this would happen because I am a Bread Baking Newbie. I stretched and folded, but not really according to any set schedule, just as I thought of it. And when about 7:00pm rolled around, I decided it was time to bake it. I very gently folded and shaped the loaf. OMG so carefully and gently. And because it was so very soft, I put it in a Dutch oven and ended up having to snip the dough with shears rather than score it. A razor blade won’t even do it. This dough was so wet, I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to amount to an edible loaf at all.

BEHOLD! Pretty liquid-like dough. And the resulting loaf was not at all what I had expected. This time, the holes are small enough to not let much Nutella or brie drip through!

I tell you, I was so surprised. My housemates have practically showered me with compliments.

This is today’s loaf. So, because the last one was so wet and I have not been able to score any of the loaves properly even with a razor blade, I thought about adding more flour or reducing the water. For this one, I reduced the water by 50g, and boy was it dry. But this one was started last night with leaven I had started yesterday morning. I think I managed to stretch and fold once before bed (so. dry.), and then I just put it in the fridge until this morning. Miraculously, the dough was so much nicer and Not Dry. (Not sopping wet either, though.) Then, sometime this morning late, I started stretching and folding, again without any set schedule. I think there might have been an hour or so in between S&Fs, and after four times, I just stopped. About 4:30ish, I shaped it very gently, preheated the oven, and put it in the Dutch oven. Still unable to score it – argh! I wanted a firmer loaf so I could score it! Why is it not firm enough? – I snipped with kitchen shears and put it in to bake. Today’s loaf is on the left in the picture above, compared with yesterday’s loaf on the right. It’s a little lighter, but still looks gorgeous, doesn’t it? I suspect it’ll also be tangier due to the longer proofing time (overnight). The dough certainly smelled tangy when I put it in the oven.

The moral of the story is: neglected sourdough probably results in pretty good bread.

In other news, I am still spinning that grey fleece.

I plied those two bobbins I talked about last time. I have no idea how many yards I have – I still need to measure – but there’s a lot. I’m okay with how this turned out, except there’s a lot of energy in one of the skeins, which I think means I put too much twist in the singles. Sigh. Probably it’ll be fine, but the next two bobbins I’m spinning with slightly less twist in the hopes that the resulting yarn will be a bit fluffier – maybe not too fluffy because I want to weave with it. I think. (I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m mostly considering this fleece to be practice yarn. But we’ll see.)

The spinning guild is going up to the farm in Northfield where I got this fleece to get more fleeces in May, so I need to make ROOM.

I’ve been cooking, too! I don’t know why, but I wanted Spätzle so badly, and I wanted to share it with the house. I ate Käsespätzle so often when I lived in Germany. The noodles are available for basically pennies there, but the last time I looked, the same bag of noodles is sold here for $8 at the grocery store. The sad part is that it’s dead easy to make from scratch. SO EASY.

When I was in Germany last visiting my dear friends Eva and Martin, I asked Eva if she had a good recipe for Spätzle as I hadn’t made it before, and she ended up pressing a whole book of Spätzle recipes into my hands with the promise that I’d use it. I picked up a Spätzle press at the grocery store there, too.

Yup. So easy. So delicious. I cooked up a huge amount, and it was enjoyed by all. Of course, to be more authentic to my college days, I also opened a bottle of cheap red wine, and we all had a little with supper. (It was really awful wine – I mulled it later and it’s much improved as well as being without alcohol now. Woo!) Anyone who wants to know how to make Spätzle from scratch, let me know. I can send you a recipe, and if you’re nearby, we can get together and I’ll show you how it’s done (when we’re not all under quarantine, of course). These noodles were made with AP flour and duck eggs. I think I want to try it with a little semolina flour and put some fresh herbs in too. YUM.

And of course, I am making masks so that my housemates and I are as safe as we can be when we are out shopping for groceries. The New York Times had an article on which fabrics have been shown to be adequate. The suggestion was good quality quilter’s flannel and heavy quilting cotton. I chose batik – it’s a fairly high thread count, and it seemed to be the only cotton I had that (gulp, I hate to admit it) I felt I could sacrifice. (Yes, much of my cotton is earmarked for projects.)

Flannel on the left, batik and some other quilter’s cotton on the right.

I haven’t quite finished them yet. I still have a couple with the swirly green fabric and blue flannel to sew up. I did cut elastic for them, but I’m thinking I’ll just make bias strips and make ties.

But I’m trying not to think about making masks and why too much right now. The news as well as the certain level of ignorance and not-critical thinking in people online right now have made me angry, so I’m trying hard to spend a little while concentrating on crafty stuff. Stuff that makes me happier. And Nutella. There’s not a lot that chocolate + hazelnuts cannot help.

I am prepared for so much bread in my life.

(I understand there are people who dislike hazelnuts and/or chocolate. I am not one of those people. Not even a little.)

How are you? What have you been making?

Bread, yarn, German cuisine…and Nutella. It does not seem like I last posted only two weeks ago. It seems like maybe six weeks ago.

[tipotatimes]

Bread

Dear C.,

There’s a crumb of chocolate cake between the alt key and the one next to it, the right facing arrow one, I can’t figure out how to reproduce it on my foreign keyboard to show you.

There’s other crumbs all over the wooden table, currently hosting 2 lit candles, spoon, empty tupperware, a jug of spring flowers culled yesterday from the park that includes tall, beautiful chamomile, a cutting board, knife, empty coffee cup, wine glass with 8 drops in it, spoon, and another knife resting atop a bowl with feta and yoghurt stuffed peppers. My 2 phones. The crumbs are varied in colour and texture, some are quite large, fluffy and bleached, these belong to the local Easter bread, milk puffed white, sugared flour. Others are denser, even sharp, and some mere dust on the grain; these belong to the sourdough loaf I baked this morning.

On the floor leading to the kitchen, other crumbs suggest a trail, this is mostly repetition, bread, cake, Easter loaf. Maybe there’s also a bit of cheese here, some smears of lamb fat (or is it goat? My meat eating companions couldn’t tell one from the other on the plate), some cigarette ash, a splash or two of wine or beer, olive oil of course, coffee from the morning spent chatting and planning and gently, but relentlessly, doing the cooking.

It’s half past midnight, I’m recently home from a period of out: first a sunset walk to the rhythm of tree picking – neroli flowers, then a couple hours at E’s house, dancing, drinking, prancing on her roof. Very cinematic and beautiful, she projected video onto the buildings behind, played the music loud.

Today I almost got drunk twice, and I’m drinking some wine now. Accompanied by pieces of cake, Easter bread, and samples of the two sourdoughs I baked, the second, just cut, a wonderful porous sponge. Re-beginner’s luck.

What do I have to say? Have I conveyed a sense of faint melancholy, of dull detachment? Today I wore an extremely tight, belly showing fluorescent yellow top. Sleeveless and polo-necked, with a zip up the back. On top of a short, black skirt. E wore bright blue trousers with the same yellow for a top – when she arrived I changed to match (or catch?) her energy.

The sun shone loudly, the meat was delicious, and grilled and baked with joyful enthusiasm. The many times mentioned breads, the salads, the peppers and Asian spiced broccoli, all really were enjoyed. There was music, a sprinkle of dance, there was laughter and some silly.  Shared delight in being all in the kitchen or its narrow balcony, bathing in the scape created by the neighbours at the western back of the flat (migrants like me), whose men, hidden in the shade of the lift shaft, yelped whiskey’d whoo hoo’s to their loud eastern music, while their daughters, in pink summer tops, rode their bikes around the newly painted roof top, or sat in small, water filled tubs.

These are the ingredients of sweetness, warmth and company. Yet something today was stuck in me, and wouldn’t flower to meet the surrounding enthusiasm and lightness. I could not enter the feast’s flow. There’s many a reason, some can be identified in the relational, some in the hormonal. Somewhere too though, there is a dose of the conjunctural: this fucking weird moment we are living. In the morning, after rising early to knead and proof the bread, I remembered the action I saw (on the internet) that a friend had participated in yesterday. It was to redistribute the crumbs we have now, and grow our collective share. Against Their ever more evil moves to strangle into oblivion apparently disposable sections of the population. This lingered. So there was no laugh in me for the tableside jokes about contagion or illegal gathering, or hosting the strangest Easter in the country’s history.

p.s. That’s venus, from another roof.

Good night! I hope your dreams are salty, not sour :)

[xsmom2000]

Our lives have been turned upside down and we don’t know what’s normal anymore. In fact, we are all having to adapt to a new normal.

In December 2019, Covid -19 and coronavirus, were words bandied about in reference to what was going on in China. For many of us, it was a news story from another part of the world, one that didn’t touch us directly unless we were watching the stock market.  The facts were unsettling, and people were dying, but like all events that take place thousands of miles away from our first world couches and our 9 to 5 jobs, it wasn’t about us and it probably wouldn’t make it this far. For that moment, it was interesting and gripping, but still just news.

How quickly things change.  Today Covid-19 is affecting the entire world and no matter where you live in this great big world of ours, your lives, by now, are in various stages of upheaval. Our normal lives have changed dramatically and most of us are desperately trying to adapt to our new routines.

Today marks 14 days of a government-sanctioned lock-down here in Spain. This meant staying home unless there was an essential or imperative reason to be out:  Essentials – having to work; to purchase food, medicine or fuel; transportation to airports to return home or driving home; to walk the dog within a short distance from home. Imperatives – immediate health emergencies; ongoing medical appointments such as dialysis and cancer treatments; country-wide delivery of essentials to stores and medical facilities.  Initially, the lock-down was slated for two weeks but has since been extended until April 13th – I won’t be making bets on it. The number of new infections, hospitalizations and fatalities are still rising, and until the curve flattens, I know the lockdown will continue.

Here in Nerja, all levels of the police force and some military have been called upon to monitor peoples’ compliance with the regulations and to help out wherever they are needed.  Police cars constantly patrol the streets, loudspeakers are used to tell us (in Spanish, English and German) to stay inside, to not leave our homes unless absolutely necessary.  Fines are handed out for breaking the rules.  Woe unto to those who slip out to get a pack of smokes, a 6-pack and a bag of chips, go for a walk day after day with the same rock hard loaf of bread in your back-pack or walk your dog 3 kilometres from home because it takes her a while to find the perfect place to relieve herself – it will cost you big bucks or worse.  There are few tales of non-compliance and most people in this town of 21,000 are doing their best to keep ‘un bicho (the bug)’ away.

The strict precautions seem to be working in Nerja because as of yesterday, there had not been one reported case of Covid-19, which means no deaths resulting from it either. Such amazing news in light of what’s happening in other parts of Spain.

So, amidst the lockdown procedures, we have adapted to a new normal.

First of all, my partner and I decided that I be the one to venture out into the public spaces for shopping and such, and he would bring out the trash and recycling.  I go out every six days to pick up fresh vegetables, buy food and other essentials (including toilet paper we haven’t stockpiled).

An organic bounty – how we manage to eat it all, I don’t know.

This once a week food excursion is my social event of the week. First on the list is to pick up a box of fresh organic vegetables. Money is exchanged in a plastic baggie slipped out through a half-opened car window and the freshly picked vegetables are placed in the trunk. I can smell the onions right away! After a smile, a thank you and a brief conversation, I am off to the supermarket.

Once inside the store, I sanitize my hands, don my plastic gloves, grab a cart and away I go pick up according to my list.   I keep my distance from others, step back, move aside and with a grand sweep of my plastic gloved hand, give leeway to others when they venture too close – my Covid-19 waltz of the supermarket aisles.

Supersol is the closest supermarket to my home and their employees are fabulous.  Plastic gloves and hand sanitizer are provided upon entering the store.  The employees themselves are masked, gloved and aproned, but are still helpful and engaging.  The numbers shopping at one time are closely monitored.  Lines 1-meter x 1-meter are taped off in front of the meat, cheese and fish counters and at the check-out, making it easy and safe for us shoppers to self-distance and to not subject the employees to unnecessary risk.    Employees are constantly sanitizing the carts, trolleys and baskets.  Still, they remain kind and helpful and are still laughing and joking with each other- I guess laughter still works in a 1-meter square space.

Groceries are packed when I get out to the car – bags for immediate use and those that can stay in the car until the next day.  Packing this way is really an excuse to climb the 180 steps to the car and back. We have to take exercise wherever we can get it.  As soon as I get home, I change my shoes and wash my hands. I’m done for another week.

At home, I’ve been cooking up a storm in order to use up the bounty in the veggie box and I now bake all of our bread.  Since yeast (fresh or dried) is non-existent, a sour-dough starter is now fermenting, so in 3 days, it will be sourdough bread for us from then on.

I’ve tried to keep my days as close to routine as possible – get up early, shower and dress (no PJ’s allowed), read, write, study Spanish, have online chats with fellow Spanish students (in Spanish), cook, bake, play very competitive games of Scrabble with my partner, keep in touch with friends and family and let’s not forget the never-ending scourge of housework.  Oh yes… I do watch TV, particularly Netflix, because I can’t handle the news anymore.

Sounds great hey? Normal even.  Not even close. For as mundane and ridiculously ordinary as my life sounds right now, it is damned hard not to feel the weight of what is happening in the world.  Just watch news coverage from places like Bergamo, Italy and Madrid and Barcelona, where the number of the sick and dying still rise, where health care workers and political leaders weep at the loss and heartbreak. It is gut-wrenching to think about the numbers of people who are isolated in their suffering, fighting with each shallow breath or taking that final breath alone.  It’s difficult knowing that doctors are making real decisions on who can be taken off a ventilator in order to let someone else live.

It makes me angry seeing stories of queues of people hoarding toilet paper and bottled water, Coca Cola and flour;  of people treating self-isolation and social distancing as if they were obstacles to overcome, searching for some loophole to enable them to thumb their noses at the system in order to live their lives selfishly, without thought for others. Overcrowded parks and beaches; government leaders who deny or downplay what’s happening before their eyes.  Is it ignorance, invincibility, selfishness, the lure of the almighty dollar?

As much as we seek to flood social media with uplifting and positive thoughts, read bedtime stories via Skype or find creative ways to battle boredom, somewhere mixed among it all is the scary reality stemming from this pandemic. We need to do absolutely everything in our power to slow the spread of the virus, to ease the difficulties of those working and fighting on our behalf, to turn our small actions into a massive collective turning point. And if that means simply staying home, then that’s what we need to do.

Thinking and hoping and wishing…

So, for those of you asking how I am doing?  For the most part, I am doing fine – healthy and safe with enough of everything that I need.  I fill my hours by keeping busy and doing things I never seem to find time for. I try and keep in touch with others. I feel good in that I am doing my part by following rules and check on our elderly neighbour every day under the guise of sharing a meal or a loaf of bread food. Physically, I can do no more. I do try to maintain a  positive outlook, but it’s not easy seeing what’s happening in the world without feeling the hurt and uncertainty of the moment.  It’s hard to comprehend what the fall out will be when the tide has turned.  I long for simple things – the company of family and friends, freedom to come and go, physicality of warm hugs and the joys of laughter shared across a table.

The weight of the world does lay heavily on me at the moment- more so regarding the future of our world.  It causes me to think and question everything.  When this is all over, I will return to a new normal…with gratefulness for people who serve me every day – the shop workers, truck drivers, health workers, and teachers to name a few.  I will endeavour to show more patience and kindness to others.  I will express thanks, admiration, and love often  I will speak and live my truth as best I can. I will use my time wisely and be more circumspect with finances. I won’t take my freedom for granted and most of all, I won’t take this life for granted.

Life has never seemed more precious than it does at this very moment.

      NORMAL IS CHANGING Our lives have been turned upside down and we don’t know what’s normal anymore. In fact, we are all having to adapt to a new normal.

[3one3]

The Sequel - 789

Chelsea, England

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea players, and random awesome OC’s

(okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“You know what’s funny? Schü and I went on our first date at the restaurant here, if you don’t count the lunches and dinners we had in Florida when I was 100% positive he was 100% not interested in having sex with me.”

“What, you thought he was interested in having riding lessons with you?”

“No. I don’t know. I just thought he was bored or something.”

“Remarkable.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m getting another drink.”

“Ohmetoo! Same again, please, thank you.”

Juan deliberately bumped into Christina’s arm so her elbow would fall off the table when he got up to go to the bar. Their watering hole of choice for a rainy Monday night was the basement for a trendy Shoreditch boutique hotel. She wanted to see Juan because two weeks of horse showing and visiting André meant two weeks without any friend-dates, and he wanted to go out. Christina rode the horses that weren’t in Zurich with her over the weekend and then took Lukas shopping in the city. Mostly they were out for food. She wanted to visit her favorite market to get some really good meat and produce to cook with while she was home for a few days. Prolonged exposure to hotel food often did that to her. The little boy “helped” her make blueberry and oats muffins. He thought chia seeds were magic. Stirring them in water and watching it turn to gel was so much fun for him. Using magical ingredients in place of others to make her baked goods more healthy was so much fun for his mom. So was experimenting with cocktails in a rather plainly decorated but colorfully lit bar and music venue. Her drink of choice was made from Aperol, Bombay Sapphire, Campari, grapefruit juice, and ginger ale. Juan placed her second one down beside her cheese plate. She forgot to schedule dinner between baking and getting dressed to go out.

“What are you having?” she asked him curiously when the next glass to touch down on the table was not the same as the stemware his first drink was served in.

“Johnnie Walker.”

“Ew.”

“Do you want to stay for whatever the musical act is or do you have a curfew?” the footballer inquired from the relaxed posture immediately resumed upon returning to his seat. Juan was in a pretty good mood. A slight blip at White Hart Lane was wiped away with a win at home against Hull after almost every team in the large chasing pack managed to stumble and distance themselves even further from Chelsea’s heels. They also recovered from some Diego Costa drama. Everything was great. The Spaniard also just took on another marketing project- his father’s restaurant. Perhaps most obviously in terms of reasons for him to be relaxed, was his happiness at Christina being back in town and available to hang out.

“I don’t really care,” she told him with grilled sourdough in one hand and her cocktail in the other. “Espen is staying over to do Lukas in the morning because I have a shoot, so it doesn’t matter when I get home.” The bar under the Ace Hotel was known for its 7-days-a-week live entertainment and late nights. Some nights it was more like a packed club. On Monday at a little after 9 it was just a bar with some people really pushing the limits of “after work drinks”, and a few little conclaves whose lives evidently afforded them the freedom to go out for boozing and lounging on weeknights. If there was a crowd coming specifically to see whomever the scheduled artists were, they weren’t there yet.

“Who or what are you shooting for?”

“A German horse magazine. I did the interview in Leipzig so they’re just coming to do the pictures, which evidently necessitates having some people from adidas come dress me.” Three-to-one he’s saying something like “In that case, you should sleep over and let me UNdress you” in his head, the brunette in leather leggings surmised. She rubbed a square paper napkin between her fingers to get rid of crumbs, and then flipped her hair over its part, removing it from her face.

“What was the last legitimately interesting interview question you were asked? I get the same ones over and over for years.”

“I don’t know.” Her nose wrinkled a little on its own volition, and she paused with her drink on its way to her mouth. “I kind of don’t pay attention anymore. I don’t even think about the answers, let alone the questions. I haven’t given a consciously honest interview in...more than a year, probably. I used to care. I used to always try to be brutally honest. I’m tired of the same questions over and over, as you say, and I think I was tired of having to share so much of myself. I used to like being really transparent. It was important to me. It was also emotionally exhausting. People used to find it novel and fun and refreshing and then after a while they just tried to use it against me all the time, so F that. If you’re going to twist everything I say and make drama, I’m not going to give real answers anymore.”

“I have a very serious and important question for you, cariña.” Juan’s lips stayed flat and un-emotive, but his eyes sparkled with his typical kind of guile. Christina raised a brow to invite him to make his inquiry. “When are you making me fried chicken?”

“Wednesday!” She sat back in her boxy wood chair and smiled like the cat who got the canary, even as she licked spicy cranberry jam off her thumb. “I got a bunch of fresh chicken today. I’ll make the buttermilk up for it tomorrow so it can soak overnight. You can make yourself free for Wednesday dinner, yes?” It was novel to have the ability and opportunity to surprise the player.

“For the fried chicken, yes, absolutely.”

“Good. I’m going to invite Nat and the kids too, and Eden I guess. Otherwise I have too much leftover chicken and not enough days to eat it.”

“Why are you so giggly?” The Chelsea man was skeptical about his ex-girlfriend’s persistent, gaping smile. The giggles were in her eyes too, and even in her skin. She was a little red from her off-the-shoulder sweater all the way up to her cheeks. “You look like you’re keeping a secret. Are you going to use some weird, healthy, disgusting ingredient to bread the chicken and be like “Surprise! It tastes as good but it’s really...seaweed flour”?” She used her newly re-cleaned fingers to shake her hair back where it belonged, and pinched some of the length between her index and pointer fingers to gesture with it at her friend.

“You are as paranoid about food as Schü. I made chunky mashed potatoes while I was in Dortmund and trying to save Stef and Mario’s relationship with an intimate dinner for four, and he was like smell testing the bowl because he was sure I snuck cauliflower in with the potatoes.” Christina used her little cheese knife to get some soft Brie for her next piece of bread, but she hardly broke eye contact to do it, and her smirk remained.

“Seriously. You’ve been borderline giddy all evening, with the exception of talking about interview questions.” The player’s head tilted to his right, like a dog might do when he’s asked a question or wishes to ask one of his human. “Do you have some secret you’re keeping?” She thought absently that he might have assumed she was concealing some seduction plot for later on. That wasn’t the case. She did make her underwear choices with the possibility of that sort of thing in mind, but it wasn’t made up yet as to whether or not she wanted to get into that.

A curious thing happened on her visit to Dortmund. It became apparent that sleeping with someone else a couple of times made sleeping with her husband again way better than usual. There was no telling why, or what was even different about it. It just felt good, physically and emotionally. The parts that were supposed to be special felt special, and the parts that were supposed to make her melt into a warm soup of satisfaction did that too, on a level higher than the equivalent experiences just a week or so earlier. André enjoyed it too. He had that inevitable sense of relief that his girl didn’t seem in any way tainted, or spoiled. Her visit was much too short for his liking but much better than he expected, in part because they stayed in bed for a lot of it. Still, Christina was wary of the concept of rushing to Juan’s bed the minute she had the free time and opportunity. And that definitely wasn’t what had her smiling out of her pores.

“What did you do yesterday again?” she asked back of her friend, with a concerted effort to squeeze her brows discerningly and questioningly- an act to try to suppress the smirking. “Remind me.” The Spaniard was confused.

“I went to Paris with Taylor, to look for a book she wants. And to eat. I told you this.” His burlier brows were pinched too, because he didn’t understand her line of questioning or what it had to do with her cocktail-infused perma-smiles.

“And what didn’t you do, that you otherwise normally would on a Sunday when your BFF is competing?”

“Watch the stream?”

“Nah, more normally than that. I know you don’t always watch,” she laughed.

“I didn’t wish you luck. I was trying to give T my attention all day, and you made it pretty clear last week that you didn’t want to talk about-“

“Relax!” There was persistent, tame laughter in the face of the player’s self defense. “I’m not complaining. I’m not asking what you didn’t do like I’m mad about it. Use your head, Juanin,” Christina challenged. He grew desperate without a clue what she was trying to get him to deduce or conclude. The violent shaking around of the ice in his glass matched the almost perturbed look in his eyes. I’ll put him out of his misery, I suppose. “You didn’t ask me how the qualifier went!”

“Like I said, you made it seem like you didn’t want-“

“I’m not complaining! I’m just trying to tell you that I won! That I’m happy because Dirk was excellent and absolutely perfect and we won the qualifier. Derp.” The rider folded her left leg up to put her platform sneaker flat on her seat, and continued to look devious above the rim of her drink, which she then sipped carefully in hopes that her friend’s face wouldn’t contort in any more comical ways that might make her laugh and thus choke.

“Oh, fantastic. Well why didn’t you just say that from the beginning!” He remained perturbed and appeared even frazzled. This delighted his ex. He looks like someone has done him some injustice, she thought. He’s incredulous but I think it’s actually because he’s upset with himself for not asking me about the horse show. I’m sure he did remember that I said last week not to talk about horse showing because last week was a hellacious nightmare of calamity and it wasn’t even my fault, but I bet he still meant to at least ask how the show went, she worked out in her head while reaching over to shove him in the arm- a teasing gesture. Either way, he is so cute when he’s off his game, or when anything unexpected happens, really.

“I’m trying not to make a big deal out of wins,” she demurred, her own composure regained and her cocktail half gone. “They never used to be a big deal. It was just normal to win. So I’m treating it like a normal thing, in hopes that it actually becomes normal again. Kind of like the US media and Donald Trump. But yes, I am in a good mood, and- Actually, hold up for just a second.” Christina raised one finger and took a deep breath. “I want to amend my previous statement. The winning part isn’t so important, or the normal thing. The performance is. D-Money was uhhmazing. He had wings and turbo boosters and FRIC suspension. But that use-“

“What suspension?”

“FRIC. Front and Rear InterConnected, for F1. Mercedes developed it at the end of the V8 era and Ferrari complained and complained until Charlie decided it was illegal. You know how roll bars link the front right to the front left and the rear right to the rear left? FRIC was a hydraulic system designed to connect front and rear, to work like a roll bar but for pitch, to try to keep ride height stable. I trust I don’t need to explain why that would be advantageous.”

“You’re an insufferable know-it-all at times, cariña. Stop knowing things you have no right to know,” Juan insisted. He also tried somewhat halfheartedly to get the attention of a waitress who was less than halfheartedly committed to doing her job.

“This isn’t even like uber nerd level F1 knowledge. It was discussed on TV. Ted Kravitz probably explained it on his iPad in a phone booth or something.”

“What?”

“Never mind. We should go to a race together this year though.” Christina briefly considered righting her most relaxed posture in the broad chair when the waitress walked up to the table. She felt like she was relaxing on a couch at home, and ordinarily that wasn’t an acceptable state of being for her in a bar, but it was awfully comfortable. She just looked up at the young woman instead, and then over at Juan, since she didn’t know what he summoned her for.

“She needs a piece of cake, or a tart, or something like that.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do. She does,” he nodded at the server.

“I have a pecan tart with vanilla mascarpone and blackcurrants, toffee pudding with ginger ice cream, ice cream by itself, roasted pineapple with fresh passion fruit and coconut sorbet, and chocolate and brioche butter pudding with rum raisin ice cream.”

“You want the thing with the chocolate?” The player looked at Christina with large and innocent, almost childlike eyes. He clearly believed some celebration was necessary despite her explicit wish to downplay her World Cup qualifier result, or the performance that earned it, as it were. She had no interest in dessert of any kind but his expression was too cute and genuine to deny. The idea of seeing his face fall- of disappointment moving in- was too terrible. Instead the rider nodded to the waitress and held up two fingers to request two spoons. If he was making her have bread pudding and ice cream, he was going to have to eat some too, and she was sure he’d have no objections. “You’re already having a fizzy drink so I didn’t think champagne was an adequate celebration,” he explained once the girl left with the empty glasses from their first round. Christina stared at the part of the table freed up. There was a minimalist depiction of a constellation there. All the tables had them- white drawings on the dark gray tabletops, giving a hint of the celestial about the place. Each table had a very melty white candle in the middle too.

“No celebration is necessary, but okay.”

“Good.”

“I’m gonna need to go home after dessert though because food coma. I’m already full of cheese.” Christina reached for another block of semi-hard British cheese in defiance of her own decree.

“My home.”

“Oh you think so?” she chuckled.

“I know so.” The Chelsea midfielder nodded just one time and a clever smirk spread across his jaw, doing away with all the confusion, bafflement, and innocence of before. She looked all around their table to assess who might be looking, and hurled a piece of cheese in the direction of his face. It bounced off his cheek and chin and ended up in his lap.

“You’re so cheesy!”

“You’re so happy you’re drunk even though you’re not drunk,” he told her while he ate her harmless artillery. “It’s a little weird. I forgot what it’s like. I only see you this happy when you’re naked and sweating. And that’s a different kind of happy.”

“Shhhhhhhhh!”

Juan assured her no one was or could be listening, and that was probably true. The tables immediately surrounding them were empty. They were populated slowly over the course of their dessert eating and a third and final round of drinks. The volume of people showing up late for the band was a surprise to both of them, and kind of unwelcome. Juan had picked that spot for its relative emptiness and super relaxed atmosphere. Nobody bothered him there. It was almost like the bar had a regular crowd and they didn’t care what new people popped in as long as they didn’t change that chilled out atmosphere. That changed with the hour. Christina also couldn’t bear to sit still for a minute longer, or wear all her clothes, for that matter. She was a little drunk and a lot full and very tired, and for her that necessitated comfortable and/or minimal clothing and lying down.

The duo of intoxicated friends took a cab back to Juan’s. Christina was committed to hanging there for a while regardless of anything he might have had in mind about her being naked and sweating, purely because she drank too much to drive and needed that recovery period for the food too. There was couch spooning, and she found a triple play of episodes of The Tudors, and spent much of the first one explaining her Henry VIII era fetish- her self-proclaimed strange obsession with kings and other royal folk sleeping with anyone they wanted, by charm, coercion, or brute force, the “boobs in the face” costumes no doubt scandalized by Hollywood, and the idea of having sex in Victorian-draped beds. The player told her she just had a rape fetish, which she vehemently denied. Her rebuttal also included a thesis about women actually having all the power over the king of many wives. The fact that half of them ended up dead didn’t sway her. To her, Henry VIII was just a hopeless romantic, not in that he behaved like a particularly romantic gent, but in that he fell in love or lust with pretty much everybody and couldn’t keep it in his pants. The male heir problem didn’t figure into her theory. She liked The Tudors because it included all the soap opera drama with just enough of the authentic violence to elevate it above actual soap operas. Also, she thought Jonathan Rhys Meyers was really sexy as a brooding, womanizing king.

“Hoooooow can you enjoy this show?” Juan whined to her halfway through the second episode. She’d been quiet for a while and thus afforded him the opportunity to actually pay attention to the program, and to playing with her hair. “All that happens is two or three people have a quiet conversation about another person betraying someone, then clergy members threaten people or get threatened, and a young man in poofy sleeves flirts offensively with a blushing girl with her breasts in his face. It just goes on repeat. Same thing over and over.” He spoke quietly and tiredly, and he was losing motivation to remain upright on his elbow behind the rider, his head beginning to tip backward into the rear cushion.

“I don’t see how that can be a bad thing. Those are all dramatic and interesting things. There’s a trial coming! This is the kind of shit that goes down when you marry your brother’s wife and then want to bang somebody younger and hotter and need permission from the Pope. The Queen has such pretty jewels. I think Dolce ripped off the costume designers for this show.” Christina insisted on silence for the tense trial before some representatives of the Pope, and Juan nearly fell asleep. He did abandon holding his head up, and laid it down on double stacked pillows behind her. The episode finished when the trial didn’t really go as planned for Henry and his treasonous confidant.

“What else happened this weekend that I didn’t remember to ask about?” the Spaniard questioned with a sleepy yawn. He was more interested in playing with her fingers in his hand in front of her chest than he was in whatever would happen in the third and final episode. It was past both of their bedtimes.

“Tim got an offer for a book deal. A publisher wants me to do a book about...me, I guess. He said they have some writers in mind to help with it and I could use the time between now and the Olympics to meet with them and pick one, and then we’d do it after the games. I’m not interested.”

“Your career is too young to be in a book.”

“I agree.”

“Why do you think it went better this time, baby girl? Can I ask that?”

“I have no idea. I was by myself but I doubt that matters. Hey, I have a question for you.” Christina shifted from her side to her back to ask her question, because she wanted to see his face when he answered. It wasn’t going to be an easy question, however. It was one she felt slightly uncomfortable asking, but deeply curious about the response. Juan didn’t seem wont to let go of her hand, which he held loosely by a couple of fingers, so she just moved it to her stomach, over his sweatshirt that she borrowed for coziness’ sake. He sat up on his elbow again. “You’ve slept with Taylor since we were last together, right?” He nodded and his right eyebrow kind of twitched, which she read as confusion about why she was asking that specific question, and maybe what her feelings about the answer were. But that wasn’t the answer she was most curious about. It was just part of the set up. “Was it better than usual, or not as good? Or the same?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she fibbed, averting her eyes from the sleepy blue ones studying her at close range. The ceiling was a fine safe harbor for hers.

“Yes you do.” The Chelsea creator released her fingers to move some hair from her face, in case she was trying to hide under that too. He uncovered her right eye, previously protected by a curtain of pure cacao. She’d parted her root-boosted and very soft, shiny hair far to the left, which meant there was always some hanging in front of her face. Juan’s pointer finger must have liked the way it felt. He continued combing the relocated strands by her temple.

“I’m just wondering.”

“Why are you wondering? “I don’t know”.” A baby smile accompanied his mocking impression.

“Why does it matter? Whatever I say, you’re going to assume I just want reassurance that you like being with me better.”

“Why do you say that? I don’t assume that. I do assume you already know I’d rather be with you. I’ve made that clear to you, cariña, haven’t I?” The faint but authentic little smile morphed into faint consternation. I have bitten off more than I wanted to chew, Christina reflected. It wasn’t that she couldn’t chew her piece. She just didn’t want to have to. She wished she’d gone for something less substantial.

“Can you just answer my question, and maybe I’ll tell you why depending on the answer.”

“It’s not any different.”

“Okay.”

“Now tell me why.”

“No.”

“Is it not good with him anymore?”

He can hardly contain himself, the rider thought when she gave in and peeked to her left- when she made eye contact. There was eagerness looking back at her, and someone on the verge of validation. I didn’t even think of that. He thinks I’m asking because I don’t like sleeping with Schü anymore, and that that means something. Something good for him. Now I have to crush him and tell him it’s the opposite? How do I always get myself into these stupid emotional quandaries? Ever since I got a fox tattooed on my person my cleverness and cunning have steadily waned. Perhaps my baby fox is growing up and he’s stealing my foxy qualities so that he can be a complete, adult fox. Christina reached for the inky fox cub in the top hat on her wrist and inadvertently chewed her lip. The Spaniard gently nudged her toward giving an answer.

“If you spend three minutes before you answer, I know you don’t say the truth, baby girl.”

“It’s better. It’s amazing. I was hoping you’d say the same so that we could talk about it, but now I realize how stupid that is,” she sighed, eyes back on the ceiling and thus with no idea whether her friend’s face registered disappointment or not. “You wanted me to say it’s bad now.”

“It’s not stupid. You can talk to me about anything.”

“I know I can, but that doesn’t mean I should.”  

“Beautiful girl,” Juan mumbled, his gaze still very much trained on her, and her impending dismissive reaction. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Don’t try to get me out of my own stupidity with an empty compliment,” Christina mumbled back.

“I wasn’t, and it’s not empty. You are objectively a beautiful girl, and to me, more than that.” He used his thumb to gently push on her temple and encourage her to turn her head towards him a bit. “Stay tonight,” he implored when she finally looked his way.

“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” The rider let her bent knees tip over against him, and pushed her pout out for a kiss. She got the innocent sort she was after- the kind that punctuates a decision, or seals an agreement. Hollow as her head said his compliments were, her heart disagreed. His face being that close to her and his hand touching her and his voice near enough to vibrate off her instead of just resonate in her ears could give her heart veto power over her head- could let irrationality and romanticism overrule skepticism and reluctance. Christina lived her life through a filter of skepticism and reluctance. They were like guiding principles. They came naturally to her, by instinct. She was dubious about everything and the reluctance came as a consequence of her never wanting to be wrong, and never wanting to disappoint anyone. Everyone in her life that she loved dearly, be it as a partner, a lover, or friend, and including the horses she was closest to, was able to lure her out of skepticism and reluctance and allow her to indulge the irrational and revel in the romantic. To have a close and endeared relationship with Christina required being able to give her a holiday from her own personality. That was why her relationship with herself was often so rocky. Juan made her want to believe in his compliments.

“Ready for bed?”

“Only if you’re gonna carry me there. I’m too tired to move. My body is already sleeping,” she smiled. It would take more than telling her she was beautiful and giving her a smooch to turn off the sarcasm-dependent part of her personality, which relied on humor to save her from overly intense moments.

“You want me to wake it up?” The footballer withdrew his delicate touch from near her temple and placed his palm on her stomach instead, where the borrowed gray, white, and black sweatshirt was all bunched up from her various wiggles and twists. She warned him not to tickle, and he promised that he meant alternative methods of rousing her body from its figurative slumber. That garnered more eye rolling, so then she did get tickled, and when she was about to tip over that well known line between laughing hysterically and suffering a literal fit of giggles, and not being able to breathe, stomach pain, and panic, her scruffy-faced tormenter actually did pick her up to carry her to bed- only Christina was uncooperative. She ended up being carried predominantly by her butt, with her arms around the back of his neck and one bare leg trying desperately to hold around his waist so she wouldn’t fall, is if she were ever in jeopardy. He set her safely down on her feet near his bathroom door so she could make use of her new toothbrush, or wash her face, but the reigning World Cup champion just got into bed and asked for a t-shirt, since there was no chance she was sleeping in the sweatshirt in his already too hot room, engulfed in the too hot featherbed, covered with the too hot comforter, next to his too hot body.

Juan supplied one of his teeny tiny black tees but tried to stop her from actually putting it on. She intended to take the sweatshirt off, put the shirt on, and then unhook her bra and fish it out. He unhooked the two clasps on the strapless lace garment in one go before she even got the shirt over her head, and just rubbed her back when she turned to scold him in the other half of the bed. There was no act or game afoot. She didn’t really feel like cashing in on André’s understanding again that night. She still went pretty willingly when he used that hand on her back to try to pull her close, and she still let him kiss her with more invention than the prior liplock on the couch.

“Beautiful girl,” the player repeated from close enough that his nose was still touching hers.

“Not tonight, okay?” Christina didn’t move to stop him, or even to put some distance between them. She was still but for tilting her head a bit to kiss one side of his mouth apologetically. He closed his left arm around her waist to stop her from moving away anyway.

“Why?” he asked without disappointment. His nose glanced across her smaller one on his way to giving her another kiss, with his whole mouth.

“I’m tired, and I don’t like the optics,” she explained once given autonomy over her lips again.

“What optics?”

“The I don’t see you for a couple of weeks and the first thing I do is go out with you, spoon on your couch, and have sex optics. It’s like I was gone and busy for two weeks and then hurried to have a date or something.”

“Why do you care what it looks like? That’s like telling yourself what you want isn’t right. We’re the only ones who see. Shouldn’t you be more concerned with wanting it than how it looks?”

“But I don’t want it- that’s what I’m saying.” Oof now I feel bad, and awkward, Christina cringed to herself, imagining that her best friend felt as if he put in all the legwork throughout the night- taking her out, getting her drinks and dessert, suffering through her TV shows so they could cuddle and chit-chat, laying on the tender compliments, getting her to agree to spend the night- and wasn’t getting anything for it. “I’m sorry. I can still go home if you want.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Because you asked me to stay so we can fuck, and-“

“When did I say that?” The player reached for the top of her thigh with the hand that wasn’t on her waist. She was sort of half sitting Indian-style and half leaned over on her hands by his lap from his pulling her closer. He kneaded halfway between her knee and hip, and kissed persuasively at her mouth, which still opened a little for him despite her stated disinterest. The hair around his lips scratched and tickled against her skin. I feel almost a little like catnip, like when the cat gets the little bag of it and rubs his face all over it, but Juanin is slightly less intoxicated by it than a kitty gets. “Hmm?”

“What?” the expat managed to get out before his lips were trying to engage hers again. His tongue staying in its confines made communication, with words anyway, easier than it otherwise could have been.

“When did I ask you to stay so I can fuck you?”

“Why are you-“ Her opportunities to speak were still pretty limited by his slow and soft kissing, however. “Kissing me...and squeeze...my butt...if that’s not what you meant?”

“Why are you kissing me back if you meant not tonight?” the Spaniard questioned before poking his head out more to make sure his face stayed pressed to hers one way or another if she was going to sit up or pull back. Because she didn’t do either of those things, his lips hit hers with a bit more force and she read that as willful intent rather than a physical consequence. I should be more careful with what I say to him about liking when he’s in control, and that whole rape fetish thing. She finally checked out mentally on the smooching and Juan noticed. “We don’t have to have sex,” he assured, nonchalant and casual but still face to face- quite literally, really, with his forehead pushed into hers. “I want you to stay. I missed your body, baby girl- touching, holding, watching it. So beautiful. My angel. Come here,” he whispered while pulling her all the way over with him so they both ended up laying down- him on pillows and her on him. Soon she felt his warm and careful palm moving aimlessly around the small of her back, and the bottom of her butt lifted up. The constant kissing actually stopped. The scruffy face was pressed to her left cheek, and she could feel breath on the top of her shoulder in the form of a contented exhale. And she had no idea what she wanted, or if Juan literally meant he just wanted to touch her or if he was alluding to more than that and thought he could turn her on and change her mind by talking about it that way. Her soft and susceptible core could only withstand so many whispered “baby girls” and “my angels” before shifting.

“Why am I so beautiful tonight, hm?” she inquired, just to buy some time to figure out what she wanted. A little part of her conscience was afraid her best friend found her extra attractive that night because she was so obviously happy. When André told her she looked better happy it annoyed her and she counted it as a strike against him. And yet...I have 100% always found Juanin irresistibly hot when he’s really, really happy and smiley.

“You’re always beautiful.”

“Uhhuh.”

“I said already. I missed you, cariña. We sleep together like 4 times and then you don’t let me see you for 17 days.”

“Aww you counted,” Christina chuckled in his loving hold. She lifted her chin off the front of his shoulder to turn and smooch his cheek. “I can’t allow too much access, or demand will diminish.”

“I assure you it will not.”

“Seriously, and I don’t ask out of vanity, but curiosity- what to you is beautiful? Why is my body so beautiful to you? And don’t give me any bullshit about my abs making you think about my orgasms,” she warned while trying to figure out where to put her arms and hands.

“Your hair is beautiful. I love your hair when you do things with it. Every time you touch it. Your eyes are beautiful and you know it. Your nose, and your lips, and your chin- all beautiful together. Your thighs to me are amazing- the shape, the tone, the skin- all about them. The way you do everything is beautiful to me. You exist and I watch and you’re beautiful, cariña.” Juan explained, his delicate touch still roaming around some of her beautiful parts. He was a little bit flippant about his assessment, like he was amused that she wanted specifics. But most of all he sounded appreciative, and casual. He wasn’t trying to make a romantic declaration, or oversell his answer to make her want more.

“Thank you? Is that what a girl is supposed to say when you tell her her existence is beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re pretty too.”

“Thanks,” Juan laughed. He also moved both hands to her waist, spread them wide, and let them massage their way up her torso. She felt his legs circle around her knees too. It was not an unpleasant way to be immobilized. “Do you want your cashmere blanket to sleep with?”

“In lieu of the comforter or in addition?”

“Either.”

“Are you going to sleep in it with me if I choose in lieu?”

“Yes.”

“Is there jizz on it?”

“No,” the player scoffed. He turned to frown and shake his head at her, and took her poking finger prisoner. It had been poking at the dent in the base of his neck. Taking it was just an excuse to engage with her hand, and his digits were laced between hers a couple of seconds later. The whole concept of lying together and just touching and feeling made her curious again, but the second time it was about something that also gave her trepidation. She couldn’t help but wonder if her friend regularly shared the same activity with his girlfriend in that bed, and if he was so enamored with her body too.

“Do you stop Taylor from putting clothes on and hold her hostage atop your body just to...enjoy hers?”

“Why do you always ask me questions you don’t really want answers to, cariña?” Juan used his hold on her hand to bring it to his cheek, to press the back of it into his scruff and keep it there.

“Insatiable curiosity.”

“While I believe with all of my heart that you have insatiable curiosity, you and I both know that has nothing to do with it,” he scolded.

“If I say yes to the sex can I get out of the lecture you’re about to deliver?”

“No lecture. Take your beautiful body over to that chair and get your blanket.” In yet another surprising and impressive demonstration of the Spaniard’s ability to multitask, he simultaneously removed her hand from his cheek so that he could give it a little kiss, and let go of her side to pat her butt encouragingly. She got up to follow instructions and he got up to fold the comforter out of the way. He left it close enough that they could still tuck their feet under it. Christina wrapped herself up in the expansive navy James Perse blanket and then climbed clumsily over his body back to her spot. I kind of want to be held hostage aga- The thought was hardly complete before Juan invaded her blanket and made sure his also beautiful body was as close to hers as it could be. He rubbed his right hand up and down the outside of her left thigh- possessively almost- and then pulled her leg over his hip and let his palm rest further up, on her butt. The rider did her best to get some of her blanket over him.

“I need to set my alarm still,” she reminded while moving her head around to try to figure out where she was in relation to the nearest pillow.

“You need to talk with me more still.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Now I’m a hostage of him AND this blanket and its over my head and I can’t see and I don’t know where my pillow is and he’s making my thong go too far up my ass. Oh, there. Pillow.

“I like talking with you. I like when your voice is the last thing on my mind before I sleep.”

“Have I not been talking to you for the last 5 hours?”  

“Yes.” The Chelsea player who moved one of his large square pillows for her so that they could share it settled in, seemingly for the long haul. He was very close inside the cashmere, and the enshrouding made it possible for Christina to pick up the faintest whiff of Scotch on his breath. It was sweet and woody, in contrast to the citrus and spice of the stuff André liked. It was hard not to think of the German in that situation. She loved that lingering whisky flavor when she kissed him.

“What else do you want to talk about?” Besides sex, my body, and kissing.

“Whatever,” her friend shrugged.

“Let’s talk about how Trump is going to start a war with Iran and we’re all gonna die.”

“Perhaps there is a more...light subject you could come up with for bedtime.”

“Talk to me about football.” Because the only thing mein Schü will tell me about football is how angry he is about it all the time, and I love hearing about football, and I’m annoyed that we’re right back where we were in footballing terms a year ago, only now we’re living in different countries and upending our lives for football. “And I’ll talk about it back. About Chelsea. England.”