#*scraped the ash from the grill

[raycatz]

I've started the coals and my unit still isn't back yet soooo I get to chill -v-

[bookofthegear]

Your trusty Swiss Army knife makes…well, not short work of the grille. It takes awhile and your wrist gets sore, and there’s a dicey moment when it’s only attached to the wall by one screw and starts to twist, but eventually you get the huge metal grille loose. It clangs to the floor and you throw yourself against it, trying to slide it against the wall so you don’t get squished. The loud scraping sound probably alerted anyone in a half-mile radius, so you’ve rather lost the element of surprise, but no one attacks you.

There is indeed a layer of thin black cloth pinned across the opening. You move it aside with your walking stick. No one attacks you.

The alcove is only about two feet deep, just enough for someone to stand and watch. The east side dead-ends against the wall, while the west side opens into a larger space.

Possibly the most unsettling thing about this is that it appears the concrete wall here is all of three inches thick. The architecture here all feels so solid, like huge slabs were just poured in place, and seeing that some of them are nearly hollow…it’s a weird feeling. As if the whole place is a facade over something bigger and emptier. Or as if the walls might be full of silent observers.

Jimmy, unasked, hops down from your shoulder and peeks around the corner into the larger room. He gestures with a wing to let you know it’s clear.

The room is not large, maybe fifteen by fifteen, and clearly has been occupied for some time. There’s a crude firepit made of broken concrete bits, a square smoke hole in the ceiling, and a nest of blankets in the corner. (There’s a drain in the far corner that was probably for more biological concerns.) Perhaps most incongruous of all, there’s a wooden writing desk pushed against the wall that wouldn’t be out of place in any study or or office back home. It’s been swept clean, but there’s still a candle on it.

You touch the wax. It’s still warm. And the firepit is full of soggy ash, as if someone hastily dumped water over the fire.

There is a single bare footprint in the ashes.

[rustedhearts]

the one where steve is a hometown lover from the past that you’ll never outgrow (also mechanic!steve, also the same steve as in asleep)….

moodboard

“hey.”

he’s on the front steps of your trailer with a cigarette between his lips. the afternoon sun has gathered and festered under the weight of thin cotton down your back. it’s glowing bright orange on his bronzed cheeks. he spent a lot of time outside this summer. he spent a lot of time away.

but here he is, at 5:00. just off work. just like you, holding your keys in one hand and an empty lunchbox in the other. holding pulsing aches in your feet, suffocating in a pair of high heels.

“hey.”

one eye shutters closed when he tips his head back to see you. to inspect you the way only he ever does. his lips curl sideways to release a furl of smoke.

“uh…what are you doing here?”

steve pats the rickety wood beside him. his knuckles are scabbed, fingertips dirtied with soil and grease. 5:00. just off work. the navy blue collared shirt hand-stitched with his name.

your lunchbox swings when you step forward, whirl around, and sink down. it clunks with a hollow tupperware container when you set it on the concrete.

steve pulls the cigarette away from his mouth and rests his elbows on his knees. a fleck of ash flings toward the patchy grass near his feet. he reeks of chemical car exhaust. when the wind whispers through the park, it wafts the cheyennes toward your just-washed-hair.

just like old times.

"wanted to see you," he says.

you kick your legs out and cross one over the other. steve's eyes wander their way, hazel mutating into amber in direct sunlight. you haven't seen them this close in ages. haven't felt the solid heat of him in months. longer, if you thought about it.

you aren't sure what to say to him, and the quiet sound of lips latching to paper fill the space. he sighs the next cloud of smoke out. the sheen of sweat on his skin makes it glitter.

"how’s, uh…how’s your mom?”

you glance at him, lip between your teeth. “better. been clean a couple months now.”

he hums, mouthing at the cigarette butt. it’s getting smaller and smaller by the second. the crackle in his lungs feels better than the silence.

“how’s your brother?” you offer.

another bout of ash springing toward the concrete. it lands on the toe of his boot. they must be sweltering cages in this heat.

“back home.” you know that means not good.

using the pointed toe of one, you kick off your heels and wiggle your swollen toes. the cheap, glossy shoes scrape the sidewalk where they fall.

a few rows over, the hiss of charred meat erupts into a stream of smoke. the grill lid slams. a dog yips until someone snaps at it.

“we should’ve gotten outta here.”

it’s steve that says it and he’s shaking his head. head tipped back to the sky like it might be different elsewhere. but it’s always been the same shade of blue above the trailer park.

you watch his bicep spill over his knee. a bead of sweat drip to his elbow. you can’t help but lean forward and drop your head to his shoulder. above you, his head snaps aside with the swiftness of lightning.

the cigarette is gone now. steve stubs it on the porch and flings it toward the grass. you watch it nestle between overgrown blades, just behind a dandelion.

he folds his arms together over his tucked-up knees.

“it wouldn’t have been different,” you tell him.

steve turns away. tufts of hair cling to the back of his neck with sweat. patches grow dark where it’s damp. the chain of a dog tag peeks above the navy collar.

it’s his brother’s. the one who didn’t make it home.

a gust of wind rushes through the park. it flutters through your hair, flaps through the bottom of your skirt. steve tips his head back to feel it. you watch the sun gather and sit glowingly on his nose. he has a new freckle under his jaw.

“i think it would’ve,” he murmurs. it seems like a remark mostly for himself.

you felt your hand sneaking through the warmth under his arm before you knew it. worming through the gap, looping over his forearm until it comes back to you. once intertwined, you feel a relief waiting to be released. balled up for months in your chest, soothed only by steve.

steve drops his head down on yours. the weight of it like a paperclip, holding you together. you let your eyes close and imagine what he always said leaving his mouth right now. i love ya, kid.

you hum against his arm, cheek pressed into soft, slick flesh. in your mind, it mimics the same sounds of your usual response. i love you too.

"wanna stay a bit?" you say instead.

steve shuts his eyes. "okay," he says back.

when the pair of you finally move a few minutes later, you hook your fingers in your heels and steve takes your lunchbox. he kicks his shoes off near the door on the outside, sets the lunchbox on the coffee table.

he takes the hand that reaches for him, angled behind you at the base of your spine. your feet journey toward the bedroom without question.

he forgets the dog tags around your bed post when he leaves.

a familiar excuse to return again.

[myhauntedsalem]

How to Make Black Salt

*Sea Salt

*Black Pepper

*Ash (Fireplace, Sage, Incense, Grill)

*Charcoal

If you want the salt to be for cursing and black magick, add crushed chili seeds or sulfur while stirring ingredients in a counterclockwise motion

If you want salt to be for protection and white magick, add some iron scrapings or ground cinnamon while stirring ingredients in a clockwise motion

Powerful protective charm that absorbs negative energy and curses into itself and will rid you of their harmful influences, sprinkle it around the doors and windows.

To Rid Evil or Negativity from your home, Sprinkle on the floor then sweep it up and out the front door, then off the porch and towards the street.

To Prevent a troublesome person from returning to your home as soon as they leave throw black salt on the porch or sidewalk so they walk across it. Then quickly and vigorously sweep it out to the street while cussing and cursing them. If you are bold throw it at their backs as they are leaving.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Genderbent Thunder Warriors when?

A/N: Some funny crack. Genderbent Ushotan.

Relationships: You'll see :3

The Cast: Valdor(mentioned), Ushotan(genderbent), Kandawire

~~~~

She saw the warriors emerge through the night-blown snow, standing motionless against the dark. For a moment, she thought they were Custodians, though their stature was not quite the same, and their armour not of the same quality. Up closer, and you could see the great differences – the plate was cruder, heavier, more bronze than gold. Much of it was heavily damaged, and individual plates had been replaced with cruder hammered steel. They still wore their crimson plumes, though, and still donned their thick crimson cloaks, all of it sodden in the freezing deluge. They carried their old weapons, the ones that had once been used in the Unity propaganda vids. She remembered seeing the first cuts of those, years ago, and laughing at the absurdity of them. No one was laughing now. They looked as savage as she had ever seen them, bereft of their old chains of command and now fighting out of bitter, wounded pride. Every movement they made brought a snarl of badly maintained servos, and you could smell the stink of atrophying flesh even through the storm’s lash. They did not have long, whatever the outcome here

They said nothing to her. Some, she recognised, were already deep into their pre-combat mania, and were working hard to maintain control of their faculties. Others were merely morose, or fixated on what was to come. Danger hung over them like a fog, creeping out into the frigid night. They had always been designed to cause terror, and that capacity at least had not yet eroded. 

As she walked among them, she could sense a strange sense of…amusement, almost pooling off from their veins. As if they knew something she did not. One leered at her as she passed. She held his gaze, just long enough, before turning away. 

She saw their master last, just as was appropriate. Armor colored a bronze so dark it might have been iron, lined with blood-red lacquer and covered in battle-honours, the finest ornaments encrusted with dust and ash. The Thunder Warrior’s helm was encrusted with heavy decoration, the vox-grille formed into a permanent grimace. A titanic broadsword swung in one gauntlet, a projectile gun in the other. A tabard, scaled like a fish’s flanks, hung from a curved and intricately decorated breast-plate, and the Primarch’s blunt greaves scored with the lightning strikes of the Legio.

Valdor was taller, it was true, but there was something absolutely brutal about the Primarch before her – a kind of amplified viciousness that made her eyes sting.

The High Lord came closer, staring up at the giant. Her lips parted, jaw dropping slowly in a silent gesture of surprise.

‘Lord Primarch Ushotan,’ she said, respectfully, her voice stunned with surprise and shock. ‘It is good to finally meet you.’ she finally managed. 

Amusement glinted behind that helmet. The Primarch of the IVth legion tossed back her ridged helm and laughed. Her laugh was sharp and guttural. 

‘You, too,’ she said, chuckling. The Primarch of the IVth legion steps closer, and Kandawire could see the Primarch’s breath pluming out past her rebreathers. 

Her voice was horrific. What had once been raucous laughter had been turned into a corroded scrape, dragging up from strained vocal cords and strangled by a damaged vox-unit. She laughed again, her chuckles growling and guttural like a wolf unrestrained, but still just about in control. Almost sane. ‘Didn’t know if you had the spine to see this through. Pleased to have my faith confirmed.’

The Primarch of the Iron Lords. The victor of Maulland Sen. Warrior, Primarch, captain, commander, mistress. Ushotan noted her surprised gaze, returning with a chuckle of her own.

‘You look surprised. I don’t blame you.’

‘I meant no offense, Lord…Lady Primarch.’ Kandawire said, looking up at the giantess with what felt like a daze. 

‘There was none taken. Captain-General did not speak much of me, did he?’

Kandawire thought for a moment, then replied. ‘No. He certainly did not.’

‘Serves that bastard right.’ Ushotan huffed, her well-decorated chestplate rising and falling as she growled at the air, hands clenching and unclenching around the pommel of her sword. ‘I’ll kill him either way. Slowly.’

‘I never wanted things to come to this.’ Kandawire did not know how long she had before the Primarch’s attention faded from her. 

‘None of us did.’ Ushotan looks away. Her ridged helm hid her grimace. She instead shakes her head. 

‘I wish to remind you – no more bloodshed than is needed. No anarchy. We are restoring, not destroying.’

Ushotan came closer. Her helm was frosted with ice, her hair a knotted mess that had been hastily cropped so only its ends hung limply from her helmet. Plumes of ragged breaths were vented from the outlets on her rebreather. She remembered how Valdor had described her, up in Maulland Sen at the extremity of the world.

Like the ghost of all murders.

Ushotan was close enough to glare down at her now. The giantess’ eyes were mirthless, her hidden smile a crooked path amid a visage twisted by madness. In a surprisingly graceful motion, she abruptly drops to a kneel before Kandawire, lowering herself until they were nearly eye to eye. Her breath fogged over Kandawire’s face. She smelled blood, the scent of ancient metal and the sterile fumes of combat stims, mixed with what vaguely resembles a scent of old oil. 

‘You want to know.’ Ushotan mused, looking her dead in the eye. ‘It does not matter, but you still want to know.’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t earned it.’ Ushotan doesn’t laugh again, but she makes a chuffing noise, forcing a sound out of her ruined throat. ‘But I’ll tell you anyways.’

Still kneeling in the snow, Ushotan laughs again, and begins. 

‘Constantin. You should’ve seen him then, so glorious in his invincibility. He was the first the Emperor created, and this, you already know. But he was also terrible to behold. The Emperor’s Spear, His finest weapon, and there was none after him, and certainly none before him. The process He used for the first Custodes was never replicated again.’ Ushotan shrugs. ‘He alone, he was unique. The first of the Custodes, greater than the rest of them all. But enough about Constantin. I’m sure you’ve already seen his brothers and sisters, much to your surprise. But you’ve never seen me. The propaganda vids made you think the Cataegis process would only work on males, eh?’ 

‘I suppose so, Lady Primarch.’ Even now, Kandawire was still unsure how to address her. ‘I had not expected…’

‘They lied.’ Ushotan replied bluntly. Almost unconsciously, Ushotan touches her throat, her gorget ringing as the Thunder Warrior digs her fingers into the ruined steel. ‘They lied. It worked on women, certainly, but not…well. The results were horrendous. It was like forcing a creation into what will never be. Even the Custodes struggled sometimes with their candidates, much less speaking of the Thunder Warriors. But the King was desperate. The Imperium took whatever recruits it had, in its earliest years. I was one of the poor bastards chosen, and by some freak of fate, I was one of those that lived. But they weren’t stable, no, even for a Thunder Warrior. They were fanatics. Screaming about the Emperor as their God.’ She chuckled again, mirtlessly.

‘Their god?’ Kandawire had believed it preposterous. The Emperor was a man. A great man, but a man nonetheless.

Ushotan smiled underneath that mask. She does not laugh, however. 

‘Their god.’

‘That’s preposterous.’

‘It is not.’ Ushotan shrugged her massive shoulders. ‘Didn’t affect their combat any. or all their augments, for all their madness, they were still sisters in battle, more or less. Doesn’t matter, does it? Worship never razed a city. Constantin himself never cared much, and it no longer matters. His treachery is all that matters. Whatever we had then, it didn’t matter anymore after Ararat.’

It could, thought Kandawire. Worship absolutely could, in fact, raze a city. But it didn’t matter, of course, the Primarch was already dusting herself off, and preparing to leave. 

‘And why are you telling me this? About…Constantin.’ Valdor’s first name tasted foreign on her tongue. 

‘Why?’ Ushotan almost looks surprised, turning around before she left. 

Kandawire swallowed, and gave the giantess a hesitant nod. ‘About Constantin. You and him.’

‘You really don’t know do you?’ Ushotan had stopped turning away. She was looking at her very intensely now, with a scrutinizing quality not unlike interrogation. Or rage. 

Then a smile, as slow as the rumbling of glaciers, breaks across that jagged expanse of a face, and she keels over, as if struck, her broad frame echoing with spasms. Kandawire, surprised, almost unconsciously takes a step back, before realizing the Thunder Warrior Primarch was laughing. 

She was laughing.

Ushotan howls her ragged laugh, and the chorus was taken up by her men in a horrible, amused symphony. They laughed, like corpses waiting to be put back to their grave, their combined voices not so unlike the rumble of ancient beasts spurred for war, they laughed in some kind of collective, amusing joke that Kandawire was not privy to.

‘He didn’t tell you, did she?’

‘No, Lord Primarch…I’m afraid not.’

‘He didn’t tell you we were lovers, eh?’

[gingerteaonthetardis]

the thing about me is... i will write little vignettes. putting rose tyler in situations and whatnot. via dimension hopper, naturally.

this takes place right before that ending scene in the garden in the giggle. rated g, gen. rose-centric, guest starring the best dad, shaun temple. to read on ao3:

the happy landing

The scrapes and aches of the warzone she left behind—a world falling out of orbit, a catastrophic end after eons of civilisation—are fresh, and so are the smudges around her eyes. Tears still mingle with days-old mascara. And yet, when she jumps again, it's into the most beautiful summer day she can imagine.

She doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t even know where she expects to be. But the sky is scrubbed clean by recent rain, the forgiving soil dark beneath her boots. In her periphery, all is green.

Her first breath is dizzyingly rich, verdant and sultry with growth and flourishing. Not even the lingering taste of ash can taint its wholesomeness. As she sucks in oxygen like she's been starved of it, her legs give way with the force of her headrush, and she manages to catch herself against a nearby stone wall.

She is in a garden, somewhere.

Ivy tickles her fingertips, and she wants to dig her hands into it. Wants to fall to her knees and bury herself in this clean, perfect dirt. Instead, she takes several more measured breaths. She swipes away her tears and stands straight. And when she finally feels she must, Rose moves.

The garden is sprawling, bigger than the kinds she’s seen attached to posh city houses, so she can guess this must be the countryside. A countryside, anyway.

All her senses—even the ones she's only just begun to explore—tingle with the sense that this is right, this is Earth. This is home. But she pins down fledgling hopes before they can take flight. She’s been wrong before. Can’t be too careful.

Her nose pricks with the realisation that there's a fire somewhere close; she mistook it, at first, for the staleness of the world she's just left behind, but this is a warmer, more cheerful fire. It sizzles with a different kind of burning. A barbecue, her nose identifies before her brain can properly catch up. Someone is close, and cooking outside.

Her stomach pangs with hunger. The last thing she can clearly recall eating was a ration bar, guiltily nicked from a bunker on her way to the last human outpost. That was more than a day ago. Possibly longer.

As she walks through the expansive garden, following an emergent trail of smoke, she toys briefly with trying to identify the flowers she sees: there are so many, a vivid patchwork, and they'd certainly tell her something about where she's landed if she knew them. But she never had the chance to become a green thumb, in her past life or this one. She recognises the plants only vaguely, pausing at intervals to tip her nose toward one open bloom or other.

The sweet scents tickle her nose until she sneezes. It's loud, ricocheting all over the stone, echoing in the big open sky.

Rose goes perfectly still.

Over the garden wall, she hears a voice. “Hello?”

Wincing, she follows the curve of the wall for a few more steps, but the path has turned to gravel, and each crunch just makes her more aware of her own noise.

There's a scraping sound, probably tongs or something over a grill. “That you, Mel?” It sounds like a man. “If it is, you've come too early. Sylvia won't let me open the wine ‘til the brisket's done, and I can't get the brisket done ‘til I manage to scrape this infernal tofu off the rack. No idea how you’re s'posed to barbecue the stuff—it's like glue!”

By the time he's done talking, she's had time to round the bend more fully, where she comes upon an open wooden gate, waist high, looking in on another smaller garden.

It's a lovely, sequestered place, more tame and shaded than the relative wilderness she's wandered so far. There's a kind of pergola up overhead, laced through with vines. Grapes hang from them in bunches. And she's never been a particularly religious person, but she is imaginative, and this is not totally unlike how she used to picture the Garden of Eden.

Except for the barbecue, of course.

And the man in an apron that says Kiss the Cook, tongs in hand, staring blankly at her.

“Hello,” she says, giving a little wave. She tries and fails to imagine how she looks to this stranger, with tear tracks still down her face, coated in another planet’s dust.

“Hello.” He doesn't seem particularly suspicious of her. More like… curious. His eyes are dark brown, and kind, and observant, too. He looks like someone's father.

“Sorry, I was just… I was on a walk, and I got a bit turned around. What street is this?”

The man snorts. He looks less like someone's father and more like Mickey when she's bothering him now. “Oh, I dunno, probably la rue Something-or-Other. France, my wife says, she wants a little cottage holiday in the south of France. Mind you, none of us speak a word, and I need a map to find the nearest petrol station, it’s embarrassing! Would never happen to me in London.”

“France,” she repeats, smile blooming in wonder. “This is France?”

“Where exactly did you walk from?” His laugh is less baffled than she might have expected.

“Long way off,” she replies. “I'm on a sort of… journey.”

“Ah,” the man says wisely, with a shake of his tongs at her. “Gap year, is it? You're on walkabout. You lose your duffle?”

She nods. “Fell in the sea.” The lie comes easily, because it’s something she supposes she would do. Or something the Doctor would do, she thinks wistfully. Get caught up in an adventure and lose all his gadgets to the depths of the Mediterranean.

“Oh, that's rough luck. No offense, though, but don't say anything like that too loud near my daughter—it’s my worst fear, honestly, my Rose wandering off with nothing but a pack and a map.” He gives a visible parody of a shudder. “Not that she's exactly the type, you know, but kids change as they grow up, don’t they? You can never tell.”

Her smile only brightens further. So he is a father. And a good one, far as she can tell. She can tell by how his eyes crinkle up.

She asks, “Your daughter's called Rose?” He nods, and really, what are the odds? “So am I!”

The man isn't quite finished in his examination of her, that much is clear, but at the sound of her name, his eyes undergo a further softening. He sets his tongs aside and rubs his hands together.

“That's a funny coincidence,” he says. Then, in another moment, he seems to settle on something. “Look, why don't you join us for dinner? My family's all here, and I don't know how long you've been walking, but you're a pretty long way off from anywhere. I'm Shaun, by the way,” he adds with a self-deprecating smile at his own perceived rudeness. “Shaun Temple.”

Rose doesn't hesitate a bit. She is drawn by the scents of home, by a home more home than home. The effortless clarity of the sky, and the bees buzzing mildly... It’s like paradise.

She begins to feel every moment like the past few days of blood and loss and darkness are really going, gone, slipping off her shoulders, leaving her almost—very nearly—light.

“It's lovely to meet you, Shaun,” she says. It’s true. He is lovely to meet. She’s sure his wife will be just as lovely, and his daughter Rose, and whoever Mel is. “I'm Rose Tyler.”

And she steps into the garden.

[aladaylessecondblog]

Red Mountain Waffle House pt. 19

"And there you go. Enjoy yourself."

Jiub handed over what looked like a rolled-up piece of pumpkin-stamped plastic wrap to a Dunmer that quickly left.

"And what exactly was that?" Nibani spoke up, having just come out of the bathroom and noting this gift.

"It's the Witches Festival. I'm giving things out."

"That wasn't a child asking for sweets OR a beggar asking for alms. Was that moon sugar? Skooma, maybe?"

"It's weed. Half my customers are Urshilaku...I'm not seeing the problem here."

"The problem," Nibani huffed, "Is that you're doing it from behind the counter. Do that outside if you have to do it at all."

"In this weather?" Jiub gestured toward the exit. An ash storm had kicked up, and looked to be turning red. "If Sadara were still here I could have her do it. Girl wouldn't catch anything, what with having corprus and all."

There was a brief rush, and for the next half hour they didn't have the chance to talk.

After a chain of waiters and waitresses, Nibani had finally been unable to find anyone willing to work the night shift and had taken to doing the duty herself. It had her in none too good a mood, despite the drop in Sixth House related customers. Jiub figured she'd be happy about that, but there'd been more ordinators too, and they were a fair sight more troublesome.

"And when are you going to put on a shirt?"

"Huh?"

"I said, when are you going to put on a shirt?"

"It's my costume!" Jiub protested with a laugh, "I'm one of those weird Sixth House dreamers."

"Really? That's not only lazy--"

"But also blasphemous, yada yada yada." Jiub finished his cigarette and went to trying to scrape up a patch of burned in egg on the grill. "It couldn't be less of a problem. Maybe focus on finding someone that actually wants to work at night?"

"Were you always this snotty?" Nibani grumbled. "Nobody wants to work this shift and deal with the ordinators and cultists anymore."

"And the skooma heads, don't forget about them. You chased off the only person that did. Congrats. Could've had the big man in a better mood, and Nerevar too, but--"

"Nerevar?"

"Yeah, he was by looking for..." Jiub stopped as another couple people showed up. One was dressed as a Telvanni mushroom and the other as a guar. He handed them each a little wrapped up chunk of weed, gave them their orders for waffles, and then went back to the grill. "Anyway, I don't think he's doing the prophecy any more than Sadara was, considering he's currently shtupping the Sharmat."

He nearly dropped the spatula when he heard what she said next.

"What is it about this man that makes Nerevar and his incarnates act SO unwise?"

Not for the first time did Jiub thank his lucky stars that the idea of sex had no power over him. If Dagoth Ur was that much a rizzmaster they might all have been in danger if he'd any interest in anyone unconnected to Nerevar.

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

"Dwemernet Executive Support, what's your thousand gold per hour problem?" Sotha Sil paused when there was shouting on the other end. "No, your inability to run a team full of bots in Team Fortress 2 is not my problem - yes, you are paying for service, but your disconnect is your own fault."

Another pause.

"Would you prefer to have no access at all?"

Again the sound of shouting on the other end of the call.

"That's not a threat, Dagon, it's a promise." Sotha Sil finished the sentence and moved over to a monitor to the side of his main and largest one. "Choose your next words carefully."

Incomprehensible shrieking.

"Oh," Sotha Sil's voice was momentarily breathy. "Look at that. You just lost access. I'll be sure to let everyone know of Oblivion's dwemernet outage...which I estimate will last at least a day."

He mistyped when there was a particularly loud shout and his headset went to speakerphone.

"--and AFTER I finish pissing out the fire I set to what's left of Ald Sotha, I'm going to build a NEW shrine on top of it and--"

Sotha Sil typed again, and fixed the speakerphone. "I am ending the call. When you feel as though you can behave with decorum and dignity, I will be available to take your call."

He ended the call, and blocked the number's further attempts to get him back on the line. The extinction burst ended only an hour later, and Sotha Sil amused himself in knowing that the daedric princes' policy of self policing would take care of this problem.

The Coldharbour Compact was very mysterious for a reason - for who would believe that the one thing to keep them from crossing over was the threat of no longer maintaining the labyrinthine complications of running the Dwemernet to all planes of Oblivion?

Sotha Sil set the line to Do Not Disturb and left the room.

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

It seemed to be the one day a year nobody minded people wearing an Indoril helm, so long as they were the designated color that ordinators didn't wear...so that was what Sadara had done, with one slight addition - a Spirit Halloween shirt. It felt appropriate, considering. Nerevar's influence here and then not here, replaced with something else.

No, she just didn't want to spend much time or money on a costume when she was too old to really enjoy it anyway. Or at least, too old to enjoy it the way kids did...well, that and not really knowing anyone who would get her into a good party. There were some here in Mournhold, sure, but...

Eh, do I really WANT to go to a party, though, considering what happened at the last one?

Barenziah was done with her for the day, though, so she went out with a handful of gold pieces and a small bag of candy, handing them out to any beggars or children that asked. The night was a bit chill, so she decided to head down to one of the shops and get a coat.

Wow, she thought. A coat. A NEW coat.

Coat purchased, she went back out and stopped at the newstand. Maybe if Barenziah was so fond of those cigars from Black Marsh, she ought to try them too. A single one wasn't THAT expensive...

...that was her thought, anyway, until she saw her own face on one of the gossip rags and THE DAGOTH DIVORCE.

She huffed. "Divorce, there was barely a marriage to begin with!"

Despite knowing it was probably a bad idea, Sadara decided to buy one and read what was being said inside.

She realized almost immediately that she should've listened to her intuition.

A sad story indeed, this particular marriage. After a courtship that would make most heads spin, a whirlwind romance for the ages, a heart lies in ashes. One can hardly expect the Sharmat to behave decently, but this disloyalty to a bride no doubt in awe of the charisma that won him her hand is a new low.

Sources say that the demon of Dagoth's decision was prompted by Saint Nerevar's revival, being that it was him who held the--

Sadara crumpled up the magazine, threw it into a trashcan next to the newstand, and headed back without even getting the cigar she'd meant to. What in oblivion WAS that, and why was she being portrayed as some sort of lovestruck waif? Why was it she saw or heard about this so often?

New rule, she thought, No more looking at magazine headlines. No looking at Morrowtwitter, not that I was going to anyway. Just go to work and play the lute and maybe pick up another new hobby. Make sure there is never even a remote chance of a thought occurring.

She stayed out a bit longer, though, making sure to hand out the rest of the candy to a couple kids that passed by and on a whim the gold she'd intended to spend on the cigar too, before heading back to the palace.

Sadara practiced in her room with her lute for an hour and, in a turn entirely unlike her, fell asleep at a reasonable time.

At least asleep she didn't have to deal with any of this nonsense.

[subiysu-chan]

Drow food

Drow fish butchering technique: -Traditionally, the fish is killed via quick decapitation and exsanguination (helped with water). The blood is sold immediately, and most Drow housewives who can afford it would have a small hermetic pot for this very purpuse. A fisher shop would usually have an ash and clay paste for their clients to seal the pot. A dish composed of thinly sliced mushrooms and fish blood, baked in a geothermal oven, is considered a delicacy. -The fish is skinned, in as much of a large piece as possible. While the main butcher skin the main body, the assistant would break open the fish head with a rock to remove the brain and eyes, considered both delicacies, and are sold immediately. Clients would stand in a tight line in hopes of being able to purchase those, extremely fresh. -Next, fins and gills are cut off and generally sold to tavern owners, possibly along with the spine. This is mostly used to make the soups. -Organs are removed. The stomach and blader is thrown out, but the liver, main blood vessle, swim bladder, kidneys, reproductive organs and heart are sold as delicacies onced cleaned. They have to be cooked and eaten right away as these parts rot quickly. The intestines are kept to be sold, but to craftspeople (either tanners or housewives) to be used to make threads as opposed to consummed as food. -The bones are removed, by the main butcher. The assistant would busy himself scraping off flesh from the skull, spine and ribs. The small pieces of meat between the ribs are scrapped as much as possible, and usually turned into a paste that is usually sold fresh and consumed geo-baked by particulars. Fish bones are usually used to make needles and pins. The bones that are too small to be useable would later be crushed into a paste with some maggots, and used in good times as pet food, in bad times as emergency food for drow. -The flesh of the fish is cut into manageable pieces, either sold immediately or dry-aged to be sold later. As they only have access to cave fresh water fish, so all fish would be cooked, either usually in a baked geothermal stew, steamed or grilled. Traditional Drow meals are eaten as follow: -Layer mushrooms are the staple food. -Every day, some packed mushrooms allowed to grow edible molds are the main source of food, as usually eaten as is, at breakfast, lunch and supper, with some fresh water as a drink. Meals are consummed with the entire family at very specific hours, as keeping routines across generation is an important part of honoring the dead. Having a messy eating squedule is considered about as unacceptable as to spit on someone's grave. -Once a week, the family a family would go to consume soup at a taberna. The typical dish is some soup, usually made with not the best water and some dried mushrooms and dried maggots, and eaten with rané. If a family can afford it, better, thicker fish broth with cleaner water and more mushrooms, with on special occasion steamed fish brain and liver. Stews are a luxury. In all cases, it's always eaten with rané. -On special occasions, waiting in line to use a public oven would be preferable, usually to cook a kind of half-boudin, half-gravy dish composed of raw fresh mushrooms and fish blood and organs, baked. For those less fortunate, a little bit of fish meat is baked with mushroom "bread". -Lactic acid fermented foods are reserved to royalty, and even them can only eat this once per year. -Drow, because of how salt-dependant the rané they depend for oxygen are, have cultural taboos about the consumption of salt, and refuse to eat it. -Spiders, small brown bats and cats are taboo to eat, as they are held in high regard as sacred animals or useful companions.

-They have no problems with eating magots. -They would occasionally engage in cannibalism and anthropophagy if the individual is a condemned criminal. Typically, those who are sentenced to execution are eaten after their death as part of the sentenced. -Because of how painful rané consumption is, they would out of politeness eat almost anything, even if it directly harms them (up to a certain extent), but they would never, unless absolutely starving, consume taboo things.

[platosshadowpuppet]

Take the letters up up the barrow path

This is a story about the moors, about nature, and post-boxes in unusual places. It’s also a story about John.

John is a postman. He is also a walker, a watcher, a listener, a great consumer of tea, a successful if erratic gardener, and he is different. John lives alone, in a small cottage on the edge of the moors. The cottage has only two rooms, an outdoor toilet, and no electricity. Inside there is a kitchen, with a gasfired range, a potbellied woodburning stove, a deep sink, and a well-scrubbed wooden table. Next door there is a bedroom, with a single bed and a set of shelves for books, interesting stones, egg shells, and feathers.

In the morning it takes John precisely 5 paces to get from his bed to the kitchen sink, where he washes his face and fills a copper pan with water, another two to the range, where he sets his water to boil, and one more to light the stove in winter. He decants the water to a sizable white tea-pot - two teaspoons of assam leaves (not blended), three minutes to steep - and uses the rest for two eggs - softboiled for 6 minutes precisely. Two rounds of bread go under the gas grill and receive a strictly portioned scrape of salted butter. Replete with his repast and ablutions complete, the day now forks in front of John in two very different directions.

On a work day John sets out for the village shop. There, his load for the day will be waiting in the care of Mrs Stonehatch. There you are John, letters from your admirers, she’ll say. And more everyday, he’ll say, before setting out on his rounds.

The village first. Sturdy houses, built of gold coloured sandstone and roofed with slate. Huddled together over narrow snickets and flagstoned yards, they keep close to share their warmth and keep off the cold winds coming down off the hills. Here and there chimney stacks still send up streamers of acrid coal smoke, reaching tenuously for the lowering grey clouds above before being whipped off down into the dale below. Then further out.

The Big House, on the edge of the village. And the Vicarage, off by itself so that the villagers aren’t bothered by religion on a weekday, and then the out-lying farms.

Down rutted tracks, between hawthorn hedgerows. Grass springing up optimistically in the centre, between the hard packed tracks of tractors and battered landrovers. Disturbed by his passing, bull-finches, goldcrests, wrens and robbins call warnings and swoop low across his path. Flashes of colour among the deep green of the pasture land and hardy bark of the few windblown trees. John carefully doesn’t keep track of the species he sees and calls he hears, as he’s on the job. Just as he doesn’t notice the enticing deep blue gleam of sloes in a black thorn patch, or the brown banded feather of a sparrowhawk caught on a briar’s snags.

And sometimes, with no rhyme nor reason he can see, there are letters for the box on the Knowe.

On the days he’s not a postman, John is a scimaunderer. A walker, with no destination or set purpose. He packs a bag, pulls on his boots and departs. The day decides his direction for him.

Sometimes it’s up the moors, among heather and gorse and windworn mountain ash. Sometimes the dales, following deer tracks between copses of beach and oak, splashing through slacks and ings. Others the deep forest, where his feet sink into verdant moss and deadfall and cramble snarl the path. And he walks and listens and watches, until he finds his place.

Never the same place twice and he never knows his place before he finds it. There are some constants, the places are always quiet, always sheltered and always near water. That might be the rust red tarns up in the high places, lonely waters with only the sky for company. It might be the becks, burns and spouts of the upper-course, where water calls out ecstatically as it leaps from rock to rock. It might even be far down the dales, where he’s soothed by sill and keld, deep smooth waters with a voice that’s felt more than it’s heard.

Once in his place he sets down his pack, makes tea on his camping stove, and waits to become. It starts first with the sounds.

In his most recent place, a hollow on the moors between two stands of rasping reeds, it started with a curlew. The mournful, rising cry stilled him and pulled his mind away. His focus widened and found, distantly, the harsh, abrupt alarm call of a pheasant and the keening of a buzzard.

Underpinning everything was the susurration of the wind in the heather. Cresting over the edge of his hollow, the wind brought him the rich earthiness of mud, honeyed scents of heather flower and the sharper tang of bilberries in the sun. He sank deeper.

Beneath him roots reached and coiled in the earth. Around him branches swayed and spread in the sun. Voles and mice and beetles and worms, the desolate moorlands teemed with a myriad tiny lives. He drank it all in and became both less and more than a man.

An unknowable length of time passes. Slowly, he comes back to himself. His legs are cramped and stiff, his hands clumst with cold, and the sky has grown dark. With a groan he rises, packs, and sets out for home. By the time he reaches his front door he once again has a name he answers to, a house he owns, and a job to go to in the morning.

Once, way up in the high places, he became something deeper than he’d ever managed before. That time it began with the feeling of cold stone and warm lichen under his hands. Around him time poured like a force and he watched the lichen wage a terrible war. Battle lines were drawn, armies marshalled and yellow and grey came together in a deadly clinch. From the scrum, separate dramas unfolded. Two combatants duelled on an exposed spur, before both were worn away by the wind. Order broke down and swirling melees formed, wearing down the very surface of the stone as they fought and spun. A brave captain fought a rear-guard action in the face of a grey surge, courageous to the last until he was cut off and cut down.

Back and forth, across geological time, campaigns were waged and the man’s mind spread out and down and away. Finally, some banked ember of consciousness caught the air and flared. He came back to pain and cold. Too long sat cross-legged, he could not stand and had to drag himself upright against the rocks. Bright pain stabbed him as blood returned to his legs and he found himself too dry-mouthed to cry out. The sun shifted a full hands span across the sky before he could gather up his things and start the haik home.

For the first time he felt fear in his aloneness and sought out his peers. Slowly, in the village pub, surrounded by a babble of voices as welcome and meaningless as bird song, he came back to himself. Three pints of best cemented John firmly back in his body, but it was still a while before he went wandering again.

On some days he rises and the air seems different and John knows that there will be letters for the box on the Knowe.

No one else ever comments on these letters and they don’t come addressed. The thick, rich paper of the envelopes is as unbroken and featureless as a down-fall of snow on the upper slopes and the colour of sun bleached bone. On these days he’ll pick up his normal load, more letters from your admirers John, and walk his normal round. But when he’s finished, and only the letters for the Knowe remain, he’ll take the barrow path out past the outlying farms and up into the moors.

The Knowe box doesn’t sit on the Knowe itself, but in its lee. A burn comes splashing down from around the shoulder of the Knowe, through stands of mountain ash, silver birch and wych elm, before breaking on an obstinate rock and splitting in two. Set into the rock is the gleaming red of the Knowe box.

On John’s belt is a ring of keys. Two are for his cottage, one is for the village shop - for emergencies - and another is for the post-boxes on his rounds. All of them are brass and dull and plain. The last key is different. It has the slim ellipse shape of a single rowan leaf, an ornate ring handle in the form of twisting branches, and the bewitching gleam of silver. This key opens the Knowe box. The other keys came with John’s house, or from Mrs. Stonehatch in the village shop, but this one has just always been there. If John thinks too hard about when he got it, or who gave it to him, his mind grows foggy and the day dim, like a land-lash is about to break. So he doesn’t think about it, apart from on the days when he knows to take the barrow path.

The path, only packed earth to begin with, peters out when it reaches the burn. Handy stepping stones lead out to the water-festen box and John can normally keep his feet dry. On blashy days in the winter, though, the burn grows restless and breaks its banks and often John is forced to wade.

On this pleasant day in autumn, the burn obeys its bounds and John’s feet are safe. Letters for the Knowe go into a jaw-hole in the rock, left of the box. Whatever the weather, however strong the wind or heavy the pash, the fissure always remains dry and cool to the touch. Letters from the Knowe are collected from the box. John’s key turns smoothly in the lock and the door opens on oiled hinges. Inside the air is dry and scented with old paper and verbena blossom. It never occurs to John to wonder what’s in the letters, or where they come from or who they’re for. Just as he doesn’t expect to understand the song of the birds, the dance of the bees, or the barking of the foxes. It simply isn’t his place. And somewhere he knows that, should he ever wonder too hard, his mind will fog, the light will fade and the question will disappear like summer geese from the moor.

So he takes the letters, relocks the box, and silently leaves them with Mrs. Stonehatch on the morrow.

Except today the box contains only one letter. The same thick, creamy paper, the same sweet smell of dry decay. Except today, in a jagged hand like the stag-head of an old hawthorn, the letter is addressed. His name, written there. Stark against the whiteness. This time, when he wonders what it means, and why today, and what might be contained within, the fog doesn’t fall and the day keeps its colour.

He turns, letter heavy in his hand, to look back downstream. Beyond the stands of trees the sun is setting and a touch of coal smoke from the village taints the cooling air. Behind him, the Knowes’ presence has taken on a weight, stretching the fabric of the world like a pondskater on the water’s surface. John feels he has reached a fork in the road, forced, like the burn, to choose one path or the other.

Unless, like the burn, he chooses to break his bounds. With a smile John stretches his arm out over the water and lets the letter go. For a moment, it seems like it will refuse. It clings to the calluses on his palm, fighting gravity as John tilts his hand further and further. There is a pregnant moment, when the wind stills and the birds quieten and even the rushing of the burn seems to lessen. And then it falls.

A hand of spray reaches gladly up to take it and John watches as his name whirls and fades and disappears from view.

It occurs to him that this spot, in the lee of the Knowe and sheltered by the rock, would make an excellent place. He crouches and places his hand in the hill cold water and lets his mind run with the stream.

An unknowable length of time passes. Consciousness flares and flickers back to life. Smoothly he stands and stretches, the arch of his back mirroring the hills behind him. It is a pleasant day in autumn, the sun beginning to sink beyond the far side of the valley and a touch of coal smoke taints the air. He thinks he should probably go home, though he doesn’t feel tired, or cold or hungry.

The walk back down the barrow path passes quickly, and he revels in the bright colours of the birds that cross his path. He plucks blackberries from the brambles as he walks and finds a sparrowhawk feather trapped among the thorns.

The village’s snickets and yards are empty, and the light’s off in the shop. The coal smoke is thicker here and it catches in his throat. Further on, and to a cottage at the edge of the moors. His cottage.

Except that electric light burns in the windows and new rooms have sprung up around it like mushrooms after the rain.

A weight hangs heavy on him, that might have been loss, or might just have been the silver key that still sits on his belt. He leaves both on the doorstep and turns to face the moors.

A few steps takes him across the road and into the heather. A few more and he’s beyond the paths he used to take down into the dales. The sun passes beyond the western hills and gloaming takes the valley floor. He takes a deep breath of the night air, clear of coal smoke or the smell of verbena, and finally becomes.

[inparenth]

"Of Last Night's Late Fire" and Other Works by J. D. Lancaster

"Of Last Night's Late Fire" and Other Works by J. D. Lancaster

J. D. Lancaster is a Graphic Designer from North-East England and now lives in Ireland. Of Last Night’s Late Fire I scraped a shovelWith a black handleFrom a silver bowl. A fanged grill was prisedFrom out a surprised;Wide and gormless mouth. I laboured and minedThe ashes and finesOf last night’s late fire; The dust scattered landsAnd rust coloured sandsOf old smokeless coal. I propped a…

[starcook]

Discover an extensive range of high-quality barbecue grill wholesale designed to enhance outdoor cooking experiences. Whether you're seeking innovative barbecue grill designs, diverse barbecue grill types, or the perfect addition to your outdoor kitchen, we've got you covered. Explore our grill selection and elevate your grilling game today!

How to Grill for Beginners?



Step 1

Check the link, gas regulator, gas connector with grill, use your burning torch to check the burners and gas knob, in case the gas leakage.

01



Step 2

Turn on the gas regulator, light the burner with gas knob, put your food on the grill.

02



Step 3

Season your food, check the temperature you want , you can control it, through grill knob.

03



Step 4

After cooking, make sure your gas regulator is close, light the burner, check the gas on the tube will used.

04

The Best Meats for Grilling

Take this as your grilling bucket list. We have some of the staples, such as burgers, hot dogs, and various grilled meats. Get motivated to head outside and start grilling your own recipes. Pork chops, grilled chicken kababs, grilled corn, chipotle chicken and pineapple skewers, grilled shrimp foil packets, grilled potatoes, mediterranean grilled eggplant, cilantro lime grilled salmon, grilled green beans, grilled scallops, grilled pizza, grilled lobster tails.

Barbecue Grill Uses

Grilling: The primary use of outdoor kitchen grill is for grilling food. This involves cooking food directly over an open flame or heat source. Common grilled foods include burgers, steaks, chicken breasts, sausages, vegetables, and seafood. Grilling imparts a smoky flavor and distinctive grill marks on the food.

Smoking: Smoking involves cooking food at low temperatures for an extended period using smoke generated from wood chips or chunks. This imparts a deep smoky flavor to the food. Common smoked foods include ribs, pork shoulder, fish, and even cheeses.

Roasting: You can use an outdoor kitchen grill for roasting foods, similar to an oven. This is particularly useful for cooking larger cuts of meat or whole poultry. Indirect heat is typically used for roasting.

Baking: Some BBQ grill custom come with features that allow you to bake using indirect heat. You can bake items like pizzas, bread, and desserts on a grill equipped with temperature control.

Searing: High heat on a griller for sale is great for quickly searing the surface of meats. Searing locks in juices and creates a flavorful crust on the outside.

Vegetables and Fruits: Grilling isn't limited to just meat. Many vegetables and fruits can be grilled for added flavor. Items like corn on the cob, bell peppers, zucchini, and pineapple can be deliciously prepared on an outdoor portable BBQ grill.

How To Prevent Food From Sticking To The Grill?



Step 1

Before you start to grill each time, assemble these supplies: cooking oil /paper towels/grill brush/tongs.

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Step 2

Heat the grill for 10-15 minutes, and the high heat is help easier to scrape off the charred food ashes.

Step 3

Use a grill brush to scrape the burnt food from the grill. Takes seconds.

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Step 4

Season the grill grates with oil. Wad up a paper towel and grab it with the tongs. Pour a small amount of oil into a bowl, and dip the end of the paper towel in the oil.

Step 5

Quickly brush the grill and drag the oily end of the paper towel over the grill grates. The heat from grill cooks the oil onto the grates to give them a non-stick surface for the food you're about to add.

[lehrerfireplacepatio]

Are BBQ Smokers in Denver More Feature-Rich Than Elsewhere?

Are BBQ Smokers in Denver More Feature-Rich Than Elsewhere? https://lehrerfireplacepatio.com/are-bbq-smokers-in-denver-more-feature-rich-than-elsewhere/ Are you on the hunt for a top-notch BBQ grill and smoker to up your grilling game? If so, you're in for a real treat! Denver has some fantastic options with special features that will get you excited before you even fire up the grill. The best Traeger grills and BBQ smokers in Denver are true masters of temperature control. Whether you're aiming for low and slow smoky goodness or high-heat searing, these well-designed smokers have got your back. Say goodbye to those uneven cooking experiences, and get ready to impress your guests with perfectly smoked and grilled meats every time! Traeger grills and BBQ smokers come with many versatile cooking options, which makes them the ultimate outdoor cooking machines. From smoking tender briskets and ribs to grilling juicy steaks and veggies, these smokers can do it all. You'll have the freedom to experiment with various cooking methods and wow your family and friends with your culinary skills. It’s also worth talking about how easy to clean they are. Forget the hassle of scrubbing and scraping after a delicious BBQ session. Many smokers sold in Denver are designed with easy cleanup and maintenance in mind. Some also come with removable ash pans and grease trays, making cleanup a breeze. Last but definitely not least, quality matters when it comes to BBQ smokers and grills, and Traeger grills Denver BBQ stores promote are built to last through countless enjoyable grilling adventures. With durable materials and solid construction, you can count on Traeger grills and smokers to be your trusty backyard companions for years to come. Originally Posted on: Are BBQ Smokers in Denver More Feature-Rich Than Elsewhere?

[greenleafclean]

7 Pro Tips For How to Clean a BBQ

If you’re a barbecue enthusiast, then you know that a clean BBQ is essential to achieving the best possible flavour and maintaining the longevity of your grill. However, cleaning a BBQ can seem like a daunting task, especially if you’re unsure about where to start. In this article, we’ll walk you through step-by-step instructions on how to clean a BBQ, including tips for preparing the grill, cleaning the grates, removing debris from the firebox, cleaning the burners and venturi tubes, washing the exterior of the BBQ, and providing maintenance tips for keeping your grill clean. By the end of this article, you’ll have all the knowledge you need to clean your BBQ like a pro.

1. Preparing the BBQ for Cleaning

Gathering the Necessary Tools and Materials

Before you begin cleaning your BBQ, make sure you have everything you need. You will need a wire brush, a sponge or rag, dish soap, warm water, a bucket, and gloves. Having a scraper or putty knife on hand for stubborn debris is also a good idea.

Removing the Grates and Burners

Once you have your tools ready, it’s time to remove the grates and burners from the BBQ. This will give you full access to clean all areas of the grill. Use gloves to protect your hands when handling hot grates and burners. Set them aside for cleaning later.

2. Cleaning the Grill Grates

Scraping the Grates

Start cleaning the grates by scraping them with a wire brush. This will remove any large debris or stuck-on food. Be thorough, but gentle, to avoid damaging the grates.

Soaking the Grates

Once you have scraped the grates, it’s time to soak them in warm, soapy water for about 10-15 minutes. This will loosen any remaining grime, making it easier to clean. After soaking, scrub the grates with a sponge or rag and rinse with clean water.

3. Removing Ash and Debris from the Firebox

Emptying the Ash Pan

Next, you’ll want to empty any ash or debris from the firebox. This can be done by removing the ash pan and disposing of the contents. Don’t forget to replace the ash pan when you’re finished.

Cleaning the Firebox Walls and Floor

With the ash removed, it’s time to clean the inside of the firebox. Use a wire brush or scraper to remove any stubborn debris from the walls and floor. Wipe them down with a damp rag or sponge and dry with a towel.

4. Cleaning the Burners and Venturi Tubes

Brushing the Burners

Now you can move on to cleaning the burners and venturi tubes. Start by brushing the burners with a wire brush to remove any debris or build up. Be careful not to damage the burners or bend them out of shape.

Cleaning the Venturi Tubes

Finally, clean the venturi tubes by gently brushing them with a wire brush. These tubes can become clogged with debris, preventing proper gas flow to the burners. Cleaning them regularly will ensure that your BBQ functions properly and efficiently.

And there you have it! Cleaning your BBQ may not be the most exciting task, but it’s essential for keeping your grill in top condition and ensuring that your food tastes great every time.

5. Washing the Exterior of the BBQ

After cleaning the interior of your BBQ, it’s time to tackle the exterior. This step is crucial to prevent the build-up of grease and grime that can attract insects, rodents, and unwanted odours. Here are two easy steps to get it done:

Wiping Down the Exterior Surfaces

Using a damp cloth, wipe down the exterior of the BBQ. Be sure to clean all areas including the lid, side tables, and knobs. If you’re dealing with stubborn spots or stubborn grime, use a non-abrasive cleaner to prevent scratching the surface.

Cleaning the BBQ Cover (If Applicable)

If you have a BBQ cover, remove it and shake off any loose debris. Then, using a cloth and mild soap, gently scrub the cover to remove any dirt or stains. Rinse it off with water and allow it to air dry before returning it to the BBQ.

6. Maintenance Tips for Keeping Your BBQ Clean

Keeping your BBQ clean doesn’t have to be an arduous task. By following these two simple maintenance tips, you’ll keep your BBQ looking and functioning like new!

Brushing the Grates After Each Use

After each use, use a wire brush to remove any food debris from the grates. This prevents the build-up of grime and bacteria that can affect the taste of your food.

Cleaning the BBQ Regularly

It’s essential to clean your BBQ regularly to prevent the build-up of grease and grime. Set a schedule to clean your BBQ every few weeks or after heavy use. Use this guide to guide to make it easy and efficient.

7. Importance of Regular BBQ Cleaning

Cleaning your BBQ regularly is not just about maintaining its appearance, but more importantly, it’s about ensuring safety and prolonging the life of your BBQ. Here’s why:

Preventing Fire Hazards

A build-up of grease and fat on your BBQ can be a fire hazard. Regularly cleaning your BBQ reduces the risk of a fire and protects your home and family.

Prolonging the Life of Your BBQ

Your BBQ is an investment, and regular cleaning ensures it will last for years to come. A well-maintained BBQ also performs better and cooks your food more evenly, allowing you to enjoy delicious BBQ meals for many summers to come! A clean BBQ not only ensures better taste but also extends the life of your grill. With regular cleaning and maintenance, you’ll be able to enjoy delicious barbecue meals for years to come. By following the steps outlined in this article, you���ll be well on your way to maintaining a clean and well-functioning BBQ.

FAQ

How often should I clean my BBQ?

It is important to clean your BBQ after every use. A thorough cleaning should be done at least once a month, depending on how frequently it is used.

What cleaning products should I use?

For cleaning the grates and exterior surfaces, you can use a mixture of warm water and dish soap. For tougher grime, you can use a scraper or a specialized BBQ cleaner. Avoid using abrasive materials or harsh chemicals that can damage the grill.

How can I prevent rust on my BBQ?

Prevent rust on your BBQ by ensuring that it is properly covered when not in use. Removing moisture from the grill, by drying it after cleaning or after it rains, can also help prevent rusting. Additionally, consider investing in a rust-resistant grill.

Can I clean my BBQ with a pressure washer?

While it is possible to clean a BBQ with a pressure washer, it is not recommended. Pressure washing can damage the grill, particularly the heating and ignition systems. Hand-cleaning with warm water, soap and a brush or scraper is the safest and most effective method.

Hiring a professional house cleaning service is a great way to save time and make house cleaning less of a chore. After all, they are professionals and have the necessary tools and equipment that you may not have access to. Plus, they have the time to dedicate to cleaning. If you’d rather spend your time doing something more enjoyable, consider booking an appointment with GreenLeaf Cleaning, the most reliable and efficient house cleaning service in London.

If you require assistance with domestic cleaning, our GreenLeaf London Cleaning Company will be delighted to provide this service, as well as one-off cleaning and spring cleaning. We understand the importance of a clean and healthy home and are committed to providing the highest quality of service. Our experienced team of cleaners will ensure that your home is spotless and sparkling.

Visit our website https://www.greenleaf-cleaning.co.uk/ for more information or call via free phone number: 0800 032 6248

Your Local Domestic Cleaning – Green Leaf Cleaning Services Near You!

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[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

a refectory of fur and carcass

There are dead cats lining the sidewalk in front of his apartment. 

They have started to leak up the stairs, fur and blood and saucer-eyes staring up from chipped concrete. A shudder of cold air washes up and down the stairwell, carry the smell of dust and insect carcasses. He does not look at the silent, motionless AC.

They mewl plaintively at him, from their sandless banks. His eyes rove the wallpaper, unseeing, as he staggers between the metal-slot box with a mass of papers hanging out of his crooked arm. The pages are wondrous in color and determinedly devoid of art.

Their voices beg for swift mercy, for anger and numb and children with mouths half-open; choked to death on starvation and flies willing to get a head-start on the competition.

“But they are simply ghosts,” he tells himself, and it is a lie. It turns his saliva to an ash he cannot swallow around.

“There is nothing that anyone could be expected to do for them,’’ he tells himself, and it is the truth. And he does not believe it.

But they are dead, and he is too much a coward to crouch to his sidewalk; to enforce the sense memory of bent knees and snapped necks and painreliefmercymercy. So the slow tragedy of harmonized meowing fills his apartment windows, and he finds sleep in judging silence.

There are flies in the overhead lights of every subway car he’s ever swam through city traffic for.

The bars rattle against their sweat-rusted scaffolding, seizing between power surges and overhead announcements, but the slow build of hazy black rot is difficult to ignore. 

Because it is not just the lights that buzz, there are wings and eyes and yet-unspilt viscera trapped in that halogen cell, legs and hissing desperation that make the back of his neck crawl in warped, whimpering memory. Because the halo stretched above his head is decorated in bodies, and not all of those corpses are dead yet.

He takes taxis, occasionally. When his eyes are too shot with blood to make out cracking subway maps around the half-eaten twitch of a beetle, interrupted. Around the rumble of the longest graveyard he has ever cared to consider.

The roll of a car beneath him sings different than a subway car. The view affords warped view of concrete and sun and life, and leave him feeling a little like a shattered bird across the grille of a stalled pick up.

The seats press up into his hands like a desperate plea not to die alone, and he pulls them away as if a spider had crawled between the soft fold between fingers.

They stretch and roil under his legs as well, and those he finds harder to keep at distance. They kiss his thighs with rupturing underbelly, pleather pressed seat turned belly up, so that they might die in freshwater, maggots of a moss-less bog, avoided best by the standing strap of a subway, without seat to sleep within.

The maggots will win, in the end.

The maggots will approach in slow understanding, and breach slacks and jacket, shirt and sock for the favor promised in warm meat, and he understands what it is to be stapled to skin he’d rather like to scrape free on the crusted window frame.

He tries not to take taxis.

There are people, scurrying through a lab maze of silent cameras and waist-high cubicles, and he tries not to stare at the passage of suited men who could have him thrown from his apartment with a phone call and a request weaved from a basket of cobras.

They are watched as all superiors are watched, glanced at through lashes and deference, carefully observable under that inscrutable distance.

There is a deep insistent refectory of human instinct that he has taught himself to ignore, even as his hands tighten around staplers and his smile tightens on a passing exposed neck, pre-wrapped in a noose more expensive than his morning train.

But ignored is not unheard, and what breathes can bleed and what bleeds can die and he’s started to look forward to the cats.

His actual coworkers are watched with the trepidation afforded to chimpanzees pressed against zoo exhibits; dangerous, intelligent, and trapped in office jobs with a dress code and stained views of a parking lot of the next building over.

The collar on his neck settles with all the subtly of a cotton-mouth when the panic sets in, terror flooding the waste-bin office of a runt in the litter; sifting through the fangs of monkeys who didn’t know how to use them.

He has glanced over headlines about ethics and zoo gorillas and refused to look further, keeping his mind adamantly blank of the posture and packs encouraged between beige slats of drywall. He does not think about behavior training and nonhuman malice and parasites that tear through exhibits faster than you can clean the glass. He is aware few people in his office are likely to snap his neck for smiling at them wrong. Might even be less than twenty.

He has found himself sitting in a profound sense of trespassing, while taking up space explicitly given to him. There will be something in the water, in the eyes, and suddenly the chatter surrounding him is in no language he recognizes, harsh and slurring and barked at him in assumed understanding.

On nights when human tongues spit out syllable with gouged meaning, and his skin rolls in puncture wound and broken carapace as he trips to his front door, he wonders what material changes there would be if he took up work as a grave-digger, and got rid of the pretense.

He is haunted by the desperate hell of dead cats.

He is haunted by the writhing half-truth of maggots and flies.

He is haunted by the eyes and mouths of his primate fellows, a species he does not relate to, for his inability to see over the corpse piles.

He dreams of being devoured by a German Shepard with intelligent eyes and a mouth that splits on the wrong vertices, mouth stretching between pools of convex judgment. They promise witness, and sin pinned open for consensus, jury and executioner. 

He performs dread, at the idea that he is a spider, in his analogy. 

The ever present watcher, who sees all, and bundles further into its web with an unused throat.

It would make him a coward. He knows there are worse things than cowardice. 

So. He fears he is a spider.

He knows he is a rat.

[thedisneychef]

How to Put Out a Charcoal Grill: Proper Shutdown and Safety Tips

Charcoal grilling is a great way to enjoy delicious outdoor meals, but it's important to know how to properly extinguish your grill when you're done cooking. Improper extinguishing of a charcoal grill can lead to a fire hazard, which is why it's crucial to take the time to put out your grill correctly. In this article, we'll show you how to put out a charcoal grill based on our own experiments and trials. We understand the importance of safety when it comes to outdoor cooking, so we've tested various methods and techniques to find the best ways to extinguish a charcoal grill. Whether you're a seasoned grill master or just starting out, this guide will provide you with the knowledge and skills you need to safely and effectively put out your charcoal grill. By following the steps outlined in this article, you can ensure that your charcoal grill is fully extinguished and ready for storage after use. So, let's dive in and learn how to put out a charcoal grill like a pro. If you're a serious outdoor cook or a grill enthusiast, you may be interested in exploring high-end or specialty charcoal grills. In addition to our guides to the Best High-End Charcoal Grills, Best Japanese Charcoal Grills, and Best Kamado Grills, we also have guides to other specialty grills, such as the Best Argentine Grills and Best Brazilian Grills. These grills offer unique features and cooking styles that are sure to impress your guests and take your outdoor cooking to the next level. With these additional guides, you can explore a range of specialty grills to find the perfect one for your cooking needs and preferences. Shut the grill down Put on heat-resistant oven mitts first, making sure they are sufficiently heat-resistant to keep you from being exposed to high temperatures. Close the grill's lid slowly after removing the rack. Make sure the vents on your grill are closed as well. This makes sure that no oxygen-entry points remain open and stops any further airflow from stoking the flames. I advise leaving the grill closed for up to 48 hours because coals can always take a very long time to cool down and it's not always obvious if they're still burning or not. Even if it might not take this long to extinguish, it is crucial to be assured. Read more: How to turn off charcoal grill Remove ashes and charcoal Now that you have removed the ashes and charcoal, it's time to clean the grill. If your grill has a large surface area, we recommend using a metal brush (for example, a wire brush or steel wool) to clean it. Start from one side of the grate and sweep over to the other side in long strokes. Repeat this process until all areas are thoroughly cleaned. If your grill has a small surface area like an indoor grill pan or portable gas grill, use a metal brush on small areas at once instead of sweeping across from one side to another. This will allow for more efficient cleaning as well as prevent any damage caused by moving too quickly across such a small surface area with too much pressure applied between strokes. Avoid water I don't want to stress this, but using a charcoal grill can be risky in any situation. I strongly advise against drenching your grill with water while it is still hot in any way. Even if it takes 48 hours, always hold off until it has completely cooled down. Dousing coals with water can result in cracks in your barbecue since coals burn at extremely high temperatures. Pouring water straight onto coals can also result in dangerous steam buildup and hot ash fallout, which can lead to painful burns. Clean the grill out You can sweep the remaining ashes from the grill once the larger mess has been removed. Prepare to scrub by grabbing a water bottle and your grill brush. Although using soap is not required, it can be a good idea to do so if it has been a while since your grill was fully cleaned. With the grill brush removed, scrape the grate clean while squeezing any stuck-on food or debris loose with water as necessary. Use the brush to scrub the grill's remaining surface, being cautious to clean thoroughly around the vents because buildup could prevent proper ventilation for the next time you're grilling. After cleaning the grill if you used soap, give it a good rinse. You can now allow it to dry! If you'll be using the grill again soon, throw the rescued charcoal into the grill once it has dried. so they are prepared for when the grill is turned on again. Conclusion In conclusion, properly extinguishing your charcoal grill is an essential step in outdoor cooking that cannot be overlooked. Through our own experiments and trials, we've found that there are several effective methods for putting out a charcoal grill. Our top tips for putting out a charcoal grill include using water or sand to smother the coals, spreading the coals out to cool down naturally, or using a fire extinguisher for larger fires. It's important to take the time to ensure that all the coals are completely extinguished before disposing of them, as hot coals can pose a serious fire hazard. By following the steps outlined in this article, you can safely and effectively put out your charcoal grill after use. Remember to always prioritize safety when it comes to outdoor cooking, and take the time to properly extinguish your grill to prevent any potential fire hazards. With these tips in mind, you can enjoy delicious outdoor meals with peace of mind. Read the full article

[tastesoftamriel]

Go jul!

Hmm... åssen "julemat" trur du de har i Tamriel?

[Translation: Merry Yule! What Christmas foods do you think they have in Tamriel?]

New Life Festival is the big end-of-year holiday celebrated by every race across Tamriel, and they all have their own unique meals and foods to mark the occasion.

Altmer

The High Elves enjoy a special nutty tart for dessert during New Life Festival, a bit like a fancy pecan pie. The tart calls for a blend of smoked and candied pecans, hazelnuts, and almonds, baked into a wonderfully creamy salted, burned caramel custard set into a crisp butter pastry. It's drizzled with caramel sauce, and served with coffee or tea (and, if you still have room, vanilla ice cream).

Argonians

In Black Marsh, fish dishes of all sorts are the sign of the season of Xulomaht, and New Life Festival. While the dishes in question vary between tribes and regions, it is customary to serve a medley of different types of fish and seafood, cooked in every way from curries to soups, be that grilled, fried, baked, and boiled. For example, Black Marsh cucumber, braised with oyster sauce, is a seasonal favourite in the Stormhold region, while the Bright-Throat tribe of Murkmire specialise in a rich seafood soup with grilled lobster tails.

Bosmer

Nothing screams 'festive' quite like timber mammoth raclette in Valenwood, and it's eagerly awaited for by Bosmer old and young every year. Generous amounts of creamy, aged timber mammoth cheese is melted under a grill and scraped over meat to serve. It's paired with rotmeth, and is one of the heartiest, most satisfying meals no matter the season in all of Tamriel.

Bretons

While it seems a bit weird to some (and especially heretical to Wood Elves), a big cake in the shape of a log is the favoured New Life dessert in High Rock. It is simply a rolled chocolate cake filled with cream, fashioned in the shape of a log that signifies the burning wood that lights the way for the year to come. My favourite variant involves soaking the sponge cake in brandy or frangelico before rolling it- brilliantly boozy!

Dunmer

Guar roast is the standard New Life dish for Dunmer regardless of social status. Served with an array of roasted vegetables like ash yams and hackle-lo, saltrice, and wickwheat bread rolls, the roast is tender and flavourful, and served with a rich scuttle-based gravy and comberry jam. Since the guar is hardly a small animal, be prepared to loosen your belt by the end of the meal, or you won't be able to fit dessert...

Imperials

Cyrodiil celebrates New Life with plenty of food, drink, and entertainment, and veal is the favoured meat of the festival. Whether it's served as schnitzel a la Bruma or escalopes with creamy herbed mushrooms, everyone loves delightfully tender veal across the Province. And of course, don't forget the prosecco to go with!

Khajiit

They're a pain in the ass to eat, but deep fried jerboas in moon sugar chili sauce are a classic Khajiiti New Life dish. These tiny rodents are tender and juicy when you get past the annoying mouthful of bones, and are doused in a good amount of sweet chili sauce, and served with steamed pandan rice or fried black bean noodles. Just try not to think about how cute jerboas are when you eat them...

Nords

Aside from mead and lots of roast meats, we in Skyrim also love a type of thin, crepe-like biscuit that's cooked on a griddle and rolled around a piece of wood to make a cone shape. While it's standard to eat these 'krumkaker' plain, it's also common practice to fill them with a thick whipped cream flavoured with snowberries, or vanilla custard.

Orcs

Honeyed wolf pie (yes, made with wolf meat, though beef is usually preferred) served with goat cheese is a traditional New Life dish which originated among the Orsimer of Betnikh many centuries ago. The meat is stewed with herbs and spices in a good amount of wild honey, and baked into a flaky buttery pie crust. It's chased with a few bites of aged, slightly bitter goat's cheese, and washed down with a festive ale brewed specifically for New Life Festival.

Redguards

While tagines are a dish you'll find year-round in Hammerfell, a special spiced lamb tagine with dried figs and apricots is a New Life special due to the pricey ingredients. Fluffy cous-cous is flavoured with a good amount of rare saffron, turning it wonderfully fragrant and surprisingly yellow in colour. It's served with tender spiced lamb, stewed with exotic ingredients like cinnamon and star anise, and tossed with fresh and dried figs and apricots in a sweet-and-savoury gravy.