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there-must-be-a-lock · 5 years ago

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Coming Home

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4980

Warnings: Smut. Relatively vanilla, but decidedly explicit.

A/N: For @impala-dreamer and the “Make Me Feel It” challenge. My prompt was “The Story,” by Brandi Carlile. To me, that song feels like letting your guard down and trusting someone to see you at your worst.

Major thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 and @stunudo for the read-throughs and suggestions, and to @justcallmeasmodeus @thoughtslikeaminefield and @cracksinthewalls for listening to me grumble about this monster all day.

October, 2006

Dean can’t sleep, and what-fucking-else is new? Not like he was Sleeping Beauty to begin with, but it’s harder since Dad died. He tosses and turns on the lumpy motel mattress, listening to Sammy’s snores. His muscles ache and his eyes itch and he can’t stop clenching his jaw. It’s been a couple days since he’s managed more than a catnap at a rest stop.

If he pauses for too long, if he lets himself rest, the grief catches up and chokes him. Dean’s fine, or he will be. He just has to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He gives up around 4am, leaves Sammy a note and trudges down the block to the all-night diner.

Left foot, right foot. Don’t look back. Don’t stop.

All the diners are starting to look alike. On good days, the familiarity is comforting. Today it just feels surreal, like he keeps driving and driving and never really gets anywhere, and the grey fluorescent lights make his vision skip and skitter strangely.

There’s one other guy at a table in the corner, a trucker nursing a cup of coffee; otherwise it’s empty apart from the waitress wiping down glasses at the other end of the counter. He blinks away the disorientation and sits down heavily on one of the cracked vinyl stools.

She sets down her rag and comes over, smiling, and it cuts through the grey and the cold and warms him from the inside.

He orders a coffee and a slice of pie, and he starts eating without really tasting anything. He feels fucking cold, like he brought October into the diner with him.

He watches the waitress tidying up, rolling silverware, cleaning the counter… Dean catches himself staring at her hips, the way she shifts her weight as she stands.

Maybe it’s the way she moves that’s got him distracted, maybe it’s just sleeplessness making his vision blur, but one way or another he misses his mouth entirely when he goes to take a sip of coffee. Blistering-hot liquid sloshes over his hand, and he promptly drops the mug. It shatters at his feet.

He looks down numbly at the splintered pieces as the puddle begins to spread. She’s there with a towel before he can really register what happened.

“Jesus,” Dean spits, finally snapping back into his body. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

She just gives him a little half-smile and shrugs, and Dean slides off the stool to get out of her way. He tiptoes gingerly around the mess and grabs a handful of napkins to get the worst of the coffee off his lap. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

When she’s done, Dean perches back on his stool to shovel down the last few bites, ready to get the hell of her way, but she sets a fresh cup in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says automatically.

She quirks her lips in a tiny smile, and fuck, she’s cute. Dean tries to muster up his most charming grin, but it feels stiff and twisted on his face.

“Long day?” she asks softly. She’s watching him with her head tilted to the side like she actually wants to hear about it.

“I’m fine,” he replies. Smile, shrug, don’t think.

She looks tired, too. She’s got dark circles under her eyes to match Dean’s, but there’s something sweet and open in her expression that makes him feel comfortable, somehow. Something about her is warm, and Dean’s first instinct is to hold out his hands like he’s thawing them over a fire.

Her smile isn’t pitying, just empathetic, a sort of bone-weary been there, done that look.

“My dad died,” Dean blurts out.

He wasn’t planning on telling her that. It’s the first time he’s said the words quite so bluntly, let alone to a stranger. He’s not that guy, he doesn’t go around dumping his problems on other people, but… he looks up, meets her eyes. His chest hurts.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

Fine. Smile, shrug, don’t think. You’re fine.

Dean heaves in a breath. His ribs are being squeezed by some cold iron grip, and his throat is tight.

She reaches out across the counter and puts her hand over his, and she gives it a tiny, gentle squeeze.

“You will be,” she offers.

He’s not that guy, he’s just not, and the ache in his chest is this massive unbearable thing that’s about to split him open, and the longer she looks at him with that warmth, the harder it gets to hold himself together. And he needs to hold himself together. If he lets go, even just a little, he’s going to fucking drown.

Dean yanks his hand back like he’s been burned.

“Sorry,” she says. Her eyes look sad, but she’s giving him a tiny smile, like she understands.

“I gotta -” he chokes out, and he stumbles as he gets off the stool. He throws some bills on the table without really looking, and he turns to go.

Left foot, right foot.

He doesn’t look back.

***

March, 2008

“Fuck, Dean, just take this exit,” Sam says. He’s got that bite in his voice again.

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He burps and puts the cap back on the flask one-handed. He gets in the right lane, though. Time for food.

Signal. Turn. Brake.

Time’s passing strangely. He blinks and there’s another day gone. He hasn’t got that many days left. If he closes his eyes for long they’ll disappear.

He pulls into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Sammy jumps out and slams the door before Dean can even cut the engine, like a petulant fuckin’ kid.

Dean shivers, goosebumps running down his neck. He takes one quick slug from the flask, then another, trying to shake off the chills, before he follows Sam inside.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Better ways to spend his last weeks. He’s crystal-clear, though. He’s fine. Everything is bright and sharp and hard-edged around him. The whiskey just warms him up a little.

“Ordered you a burger,” Sam mumbles, when Dean sits down next to him. “To go, so we can get to a fucking motel.”

“Told you, Sammy, I’m fine,” Dean says breezily, and asks the waitress as she passes, “Could I get a coffee, when you get a sec?”

He ignores Sam’s glare.

The waitress comes over, and Dean gets a quick impression of a soft smile and curious eyes as she passes him a steaming mug. He takes a greedy sip and burns his tongue.

“Hot coffee,” he says hastily, setting the mug down to blow on it, and then he delivers the line with an almost automatic grin. “You know what else is hot?”

“Come on,” Sam mutters.

Dean finishes with a wink: “You.”

“You’re not gonna spill on me again, are you?” she smirks.

He looks up at her, really looks. Something about her smile says come inside, stay a while, like stepping in from the cold to the golden flicker of firelight.

“I remember you,” she says. “You were having a rough night.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Oh.”

He stares as she introduces herself. It feels so far away, now. Feels like he’s lived a few lifetimes since then, but he hasn’t, not really; he won’t even have a chance to live this lifetime.

He shudders and wishes he’d brought his flask inside.

“Sorry,” she says, “Not a good memory to look back at, I guess.”

He shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine, just… took me a second,” he says, and recovers, pasting on a bright smile. “Don’t know how I could forget such a pretty face.”

Sam makes an exasperated noise next to him.

“Smooth,” she says dryly. “What’s your name, butterfingers?”

“Dean.”

“Well, Dean, if you make a mess again because you’re too busy flirting to remember where your mouth is, you can clean it up yourself this time. Okay?”

The words are light and teasing, but her smile looks like an apology, like she knows all too well how hard it is to look back sometimes.

“How ‘bout you let me make it up to you?” Dean offers. “Let me buy you a drink when you’re done here.”

She’s eyeing him up and down, and Dean flashes his most winning smile, even though he has a sudden inexplicable urge to hide his face. There’s a bell from the kitchen window and she turns without answering. Dean’s pretty sure he just struck out, and he’s more bothered by it than he’d like to admit, but then she’s back.

“Yeah, okay,” she says casually, handing over a couple takeout containers. “I’ll be done in fifteen.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Sam grumbles, as he counts out bills.

“Hey, you get your wish,” Dean says, grinning. “You get to sleep in a bed tonight. Motel’s right up the road, if I’m remembering right.”

“Yeah. Great.”

She’s talking to the cook, hands on her hips, and Dean catches a string of profanities. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, trying not to stare.

“I’ll meet you out front,” he says. She gives him a little wave, and he almost trips over his feet on his way to the door.

Sam shoulders his bag, jaw set, eyes tired.

“I can drive you,” Dean offers, guilt slithering through his stomach, but Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll walk. I can see the sign from here.”

“I just - I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.”

“Yeah. I won’t wait up.”

Sam turns to go, and Dean feels panicked, for a second. He’s going to blink and lose another day. He’s spent too many days sniping and snapping and being a shitty fucking brother.

“Sammy,” he says, and Sam looks back, tight-lipped. “Thanks.”

Sam’s expression falters, the bitter mask falling away and leaving sadness in its place.

“It’s okay, Dean, I get it,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost to the wind.

Dean doesn’t watch him go. He gets in the car and fishes his flask out of the glove compartment. Then he leans against the hood of the car and eats his burger.

Chew, swallow. Don’t think about it.

He sees her through the window, coming out from behind the counter. Dean sets the takeout container on the hood and gets to the front door just in time to open it for her.

“So, where to?” he asks.

“Not sure,” she says softly, looking down at her feet and fidgeting with the strap of her purse.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean snorts. “I’ve told that one a few times myself.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs, sheepish. “Yeah, okay. I… I don’t usually do this.”

“Hey, no pressure,” Dean says. He holds his hands up and takes a step back. “If you say the word I’ll leave right now, no harm done. Okay?”

She’s evaluating him, and it feels like an x-ray, the way she stares. He can see the moment she makes a decision.

“I’ve got drinks back at my place,” she says, and adds sharply, “I’ve also got mace, so… don’t get any ideas.”

It’s oddly endearing, for a threat.

Her place is a tiny, cluttered studio apartment in a not-great part of town. When she opens the fridge, he sees a mess of takeout containers and bottles.

“Beer, tequila, whiskey…”

“Whiskey’s good.”

He looks around and realizes there’s nowhere to sit. There’s a single stool at the kitchen table, and an armchair in front of the coffee table; the only place big enough for two people is the bed. He looks at her, and she’s blushing, like she just had the same realization.

“Shit, sorry, this is weird,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t - I’m in a really fucking strange place in my life. Everything is… temporary, I guess.”

“You and me both,” Dean mutters. He sits down on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She gives him a grateful little half-smile and hands him a glass.

“Tell me about it?” She settles on the floor too, cross-legged, rolling her glass between her palms like someone who’s very used to holding a drink.

They skip all the small talk, the flirtation and the easy questions, and they dive right into the things that Dean fucking hates talking about. Somehow he doesn’t mind.

This was supposed to be a simple pickup, one fun night, a distraction, and instead he’s sitting on this chick’s floor asking about her childhood, finding that he actually cares about the answers… this isn’t like any one-night stand he’s ever had. It’s so much more intimate than that.

The rules are different, with her. He doesn’t have to pretend to be fine. She doesn’t seem to pity him, when he talks about some of the fucked-up things in his life. She just accepts it. She accepts him.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, when he finishes his third drink, but he’s starting to go hoarse. She doesn’t ask if he wants another, just takes the empty glass out of his hand. Her knee pops audibly when she gets up, and they both laugh.

“I’m too old to be sitting on the floor, I think,” she says, heading to the fridge. “If I say we should relocate to the bed, are you going to take it as a come-on?”

He smiles up at her, exhaustion and whiskey making his vision blurry around the edges. “Only if you want me to.”

“Jury’s still out.” She looks down, cheeks flushed like that’s not entirely true. “But I think for the sake of my fuckin’ kneecaps… make yourself comfortable.”

He does. He sits back against the pillows, sinking into them. She comes over and passes him a drink, and he looks up at her, feeling oddly vulnerable stretched out on her bed like this.

“Be right back,” she whispers, and sets her own glass on the nightstand before she heads for the bathroom.

Dean closes his eyes, thinking, just for a second.

He wakes all at once. There’s bright gold sunlight streaming through the windows and a quilt on top of him. She’s curled into his chest, nose brushing his collarbone where his henley is unbuttoned. His hand is resting on the curve of her waist, tucked under her thin shirt. She’s just starting to stir; she shifts, settles closer, and he feels her lips on his throat.

Dean can’t remember the last time he felt this rested, or this warm.

He can’t remember the last time he wanted to stay somewhere. He wants to stay right here in this moment, taking in the tickle of her breath on his neck, the cheap pillowcase under his cheek, the sound of a siren in the distance.

She pulls back slowly, sleepy-eyed. Then she smiles. It feels like coming home.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he remembers who he is. He remembers that this isn’t his life.

He digs the phone out of his phone and snaps it open long enough to growl, “Be there soon.”

She’s still smiling, but her eyes are sad. Dean wants to stay, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, and that’s why he makes himself pull away. If he lets himself have this, even for a morning… if this was his life? He’s not sure he could let himself be dragged away from it, hellhounds or no.

She takes the phone out of his hand and enters her number, “Just in case you’re ever passing through.”

“I doubt it’ll happen,” he says roughly. “But… if I’m passing through.”

Stand up. Deep breath.

He feels cold, the warmth leaching from his bones already.

This isn’t your home.

He doesn’t have a home. Now he never will.

She walks him to the door and he hugs her, barely feeling it, barely noticing the feather-light kiss she presses to his cheek.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” he says, and he turns to go.

Right foot, left foot. Don’t look back.

***

October 2008

If Dean doesn’t get out of this fucking motel, he might lose his fucking mind.

He paces the bathroom, back and forth, feeling brittle and edgy and hollowed-out. One more nightmare, one more argument, and he might snap. He’s sick of Sammy’s fucking face, and looking at his own in the mirror is even worse.

He sees hell whenever he closes his eyes.

He dials her number before he can talk himself out of it, and she picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t - I mean, I ended up coming through after all. I don’t know if you remember me, but… this is Dean.”

“I remember you,” she says. He can hear the warmth in her voice, even through the static.

She texts him the address: new place, same town. He tells Sam not to wait up.

He’s not sure why he’s nervous. He’s not sure what it is about her, but there’s something about this chick that he can’t shake. The important thing is that it’ll be fun. It’ll get his mind off things for a night. He rolls down the window and turns the music up.

Don’t think about it.

When she opens the door, Dean’s heart jumps crazily in his chest.

“So, do you want to go out, or...” Dean starts, as she closes the door behind him.

“Can we just pick up where we left off?” she asks, breathless.

Dean can smell the fresh, sweet scent of her hair. He feels dizzy, hot and cold all over, and when he leans in to kiss her it feels like falling. It’s deep, syrupy-slow, her mouth opening easily under his, intimate and familiar.

She lets out a barely-there whimper, deep in her throat.

“Bed,” he chokes out. He’s not sure he’ll make it that far.

He grabs her again, stumbling, as they practically fall through the bedroom door, and she whirls around to face him with this fiery, blazing look that makes him forget how to fucking walk. Her back hits the wall and he crashes into her. She slips her hands under his shirt and drags her nails down his lower back, and Dean gasps, grinding into her helplessly.

“Please,” he pants. He kisses her neck, bites her jaw, whispers it again: “Please.”

She yanks at the hem of his shirt. He almost rips her tank top. She shoves, sends him stumbling backward, and reaches back to unclasp her bra, letting it fall unceremoniously. Dean takes a step backward, still staring, so the edge of the bed against the back of his knees takes him by surprise. He sits down hard and scrambles back.

She pauses at the foot of the bed, letting him look. He rakes his eyes over smooth curves, speechless, as she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her hips, and she crawls up the bed in nothing but plain black panties.

She straddles him, pushing at his shoulders until he falls back against the mattress. He runs his hands over her, up her sides, trying to memorize the lush pillowy swells and dips of her, the velvety feel of her skin. Her mouth is hungry on his.

She’s moving, slow and snakelike, rolling her torso so that he can feel the slight drag of her hard nipples up his chest, then twisting her hips, rubbing herself against him. It’s almost too much even through his jeans, all this hot rough friction. He grips her hips and rocks up against her, and she lets out a tortured little whine as she breaks away from the kiss.

She gets Dean’s zipper down, tugs, and he lifts his hips obligingly so that she can get his pants off. He kicks at them awkwardly, making a face, and she giggles; it’s a nervous giggle, and it dies in her throat when he rolls on top of her. He pauses with his hands braced on either side of her head, and she stares up at him, cheeks flushed.

“What do you -” he starts, and before he can finish the question, she reaches up and brushes the pad of her thumb over the curve of his lower lip. He flicks his tongue over it and watches her eyelids flutter. He ducks his head to kiss the hollow of her throat, then her collarbone.

“Thought about this,” she says. “I was kicking myself, after. For being too scared to make a move, for -”

She gasps when he slips his hand down the front of her panties, dragging two fingers down through silky-slick heat, running them up again, teasing before he pulls the thin fabric down.

“I was wondering,” he confesses. He hooks his hands under her thighs and holds her in place, and she shudders at the first brush of his tongue.

“I don’t do that - don’t invite strangers over,” she pants. “I don’t trust people, but you - fuck, do that again.”

“Taste so good,” he mumbles. It’s barely audible, the way his face is buried between her legs. She squirms, thighs shaking as he gets his lips around her clit.

The words are rushed, high-pitched, spilling out along with tiny gasps and sharp inhales: “Thought about your mouth, fuck. Thought about this. It was - you do a thing, with your tongue, and - right there, oh, fuck, just - you kept licking your lips, and... Dean. Dean.”

He sneaks a glance up at her. She’s arching her back, fingers twisting in the sheets, saying his name over and over in this broken, reverent voice. Dean feels raw and strange, like he’s the one spread-open and vulnerable here. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it.

She practically convulses when he slips two fingers into her, but he’s holding her down with his other hand. He works her with his fingers and sucks in quick little pulses, lost in the way she tastes. She grabs his hair, pulling him down against her, gripping so hard it stings his scalp, and it’s so fucking hot he feels like he could come just from this: her taste on his tongue, her fingers in his hair, her ragged voice as she says his name one more time. She shakes and shudders as she comes.

“Gorgeous,” he can’t help but whisper, pressing a kiss to one of the stretch marks that show like pale tiger stripes on her thighs. The scar tissue doesn’t taste any different than the rest of her skin, but he kisses another to be sure, then drags his mouth up, nipping at the soft skin under her belly-button, licking a drop of sweat from the valley between her breasts.

She’s panting, cheeks stained pink and sheened with sweat, looking up at him with glittering unfocused eyes, and the clench of pure fucking desire in his gut hits him like a freight train. The first slick press of his cock is almost too much. He closes his eyes and sinks in slow, feeling the give where her body opens up and lets him in. Her breath hitches in her chest when he grinds down, as deep inside as he can be.

One of them is shaking, and Dean thinks it might be him.

He kisses the underside of her jaw, mouthing at the soft salty skin there, and rolls his hips, and the wet-hot surge of friction is so fucking good. Part of him wants to move, snap forward and give in, fuck into her hard enough to obliterate the swelling sensation in his ribcage. Part of him wants this to last forever.

He’s present in his skin in a way he hasn’t been in ages, frantic with all the input from his senses, lit up and fizzing with it. The strangled cry that rips from his throat sounds foreign, like an animal, like something wild… she digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, tilts her hips up, and he’s so close to the edge of his control already.

The physical details of it, the actual act, that’s nothing new. It’s this feeling in his chest. It’s the way he feels like he’s about to shatter.

“There,” she groans. He opens his eyes enough to see her, and his vision is blurring, images of her coming through like shots from an unfocused camera: lips parting around his name, eyes rolling back in her head when he hits the right spot, sweat trickling down her temple to soak tendrils of hair.

Dean’s so fucking close, so fucking hard, it’s like his entire universe is narrowing down to the throb of blood pulsing in his cock, the way she’s clamping down around him as she grinds up to meet every thrust, writhing under him, pulling him close, her fingernails fiery points of pain at the small of his back.

This is so much more than he expected. He can’t breathe.

She lets out a gasp and a sweet little sob, arching up, and he can feel her all around him, soaking wet and searing hot, so good it blinds him. His hips jerk forward one last time, as if he could possibly get any closer to her. He gives in and lets himself go under.

The tension bleeds from his muscles, leaves him wrung-out and quiet. He keeps rocking into her, soft shivers of pleasure rippling through them both, as she reaches up and cups his face between her hands, tugging him down for a kiss. He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, close enough that their breath mingles in the damp thick air between them. He kisses the tip of her nose, then her eyelids. He moves back to pull out.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she whispers. “Stay.”

“Can I go like six inches to either side?” Dean asks, and she makes a face, giggling, as they shift over together, trying to move without putting any real space between their bodies.

Dean settles in between her sprawled legs, resting his head on her chest. Her heartbeat is slowing, gradually. He focuses on the sound of it, the feel of her ribs rising and falling under his cheek as she breathes, and she runs her fingers through the short damp hair at the nape of his neck.

He wants to stay right here, just like this.

He could pretend, for one night. He could pretend to be someone else, someone who gets what they want.

“If I fall asleep, wake me up in half an hour,” she says dreamily. “Let’s do that again.”

He can feel the waves closing in over his head.

Her fingers slow and then stop. Her heartbeat goes low and even.

When he’s sure she’s asleep, Dean shifts, doing his best not to disturb her. She doesn’t stir. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed silently.

She looks so peaceful: hair tangled, skin glowing, lips curled up in a smile. She looks warm. Dean’s chest aches. He sneaks one last glance at her before switching off the light and turning to go.

He doesn’t look back.

***

February 2010

Dean waits for a moment, staring up at the dark sky, but there’s no answer. He wasn’t really expecting one.

Deep breath. Drink. Swallow.

He wipes away the tears, steeling himself to go back inside and pretend that nothing’s wrong.

The wheezy voice echoes in his ears: going through the motions.

Deep, dark… nothing.

He wants to deny it, is the thing. He wants to deny it, but he can’t, even to himself, even to the quiet nighttime sky. But that dark nothing is easier than letting himself feel. When he slows down, when he rests, when he allows himself to feel anything, it all crashes over him, swamps him, fills his lungs and makes him choke.

Inside, you’re already dead.

When was the last time he felt alive?

He sees her clearly: head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted, saying his name like a prayer. If he lets himself remember, he feels a ghost of her warmth and a swelling, fluttering fullness in his chest.

Something inside him snaps.

He practically runs to Baby, flings himself blindly into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with trembling fingers. He hits the gas and the tires squeal.

The cold air slaps against his face, and his heart pounds, and he almost turns around five times before he hits the right exit. It’s not hard to find her place again, but it doesn’t occur to him until he’s knocking that she might’ve moved. She might not be home. She might have a fucking boyfriend who’s going to punch him in the face.

She opens the door.

He can see hurt and shock and something bright (hope?) flickering across her face, and then she looks him up and down.

“Dean,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m -”

“If you say ‘fine’ right now I’ll punch you in the mouth,” she says matter-of-factly. There’s no judgement in her eyes, just familiar wide-open warmth. “It’s three in the morning. You snuck out, like a fucking asshole, and then I didn’t hear from you in over a fucking year. So. Are you okay, Dean?”

He has to force the words out; it feels like they’re scorching his throat.

“No. I’m not.”

He sways on his feet and sags against the doorframe. It’s pulling him under, one wave after another.

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, holding him close, right there in the doorway. He runs his hands up her back and buries his face in her hair, taking deep heaving breaths that burn his lungs. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

She presses her lips to his pulse and whispers against his skin: “Come inside, Dean. Stay a while.”

She pulls the door closed behind him as he takes one shaky step, then another.

He doesn’t look back.

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batomarbo · 5 years ago

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Why We Hunger for Novels About Food

While putting imaginary meals on the page, I have thought a great deal about the central role that food plays in our lives. Food is love. Food is conviviality. Food is politics. Food is religion. Food is history. Food is consolation. Food is fuel. Food identifies us and who we are. It can even help us make sense of our world. We live in a culture where food porn is one of the hottest hashtags and seeking out the best new ramen or avocado toast trend is a more popular hobby than collecting stamps. And the “culinary enthusiasts” among us can’t get our fill of books about food.

But what about authors of food fiction? What compels them to write about what—and how—we eat?

Louise Miller, author of The Late Bloomer’s Club “Food is the great equalizer—everyone eats—and what we eat and how we eat it can be so emotional and can carry deep meaning. Food can also be so revealing. I remember an old New Yorker cartoon that pictured a mother and her young daughter sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu. The mother responds to her daughter’s question: ‘Chocolate pudding? I think you would like it. It’s a lot like chocolate mousse.’ That one line tells us so much!”

Phillip Kazan, author of Appetite “Food for me is very tied up with memories of my Greek grandmother, whose tiny kitchen in London was a treasure-house of tastes and smells in the grey, flavorless world of ‘60s and ‘70s England, where olive oil was something you had to buy from a pharmacist as a cure for earache. Presumably the pharmacist in our village thought our family had appalling ear problems, because my mother bought hundreds of his tiny bottles of oil for her cooking. I remember cookbooks as this wonderful escape route to exotic, warm, generous places: Greece, from where relatives would visit with huge tins of olives and bags of sugared almonds; or India, where my father was born. Writing, in a way, is an extension of my cooking, and vice versa. Cooking taught me how to create, that I needed to create.”

Randy Susan Myer, author of Waisted “I grew up in a family where food was the comforting evil (or the evil comfort). My mother—for whom dress size was the holy grail—watched every bite I took. When in a restaurant, first she’d not order what she wanted and then she’d steal bites from my plate. If I protested, she’d say, ‘If you love me, you’ll share your food.’ Often, we barely had food in the house and meals were haphazard at best. My sister snacked on raw Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. I ate uncooked matzo meal. We lived on cold cereal—which to this day is my top comfort food. My mother hid cookies and cake inside our giant pressure cooker and then put the pot on the very top of our already high cabinets. My sister and I were under ten, but a pressure cooker was no match for us. I’m surprised we didn’t become mountain climbers for how often we scampered up the peaks leading to buried sweets.”

Ramin Ganeshram, author of The General’s Cook “I’m from an immigrant family. My parents were from two countries that, at the time, had little representation here in the U.S.—even in New York City where I was born and raised. My dad was from Trinidad and Tobago and my mother was from Iran. I was also brought up in a time where people still really tried to assimilate so they downplayed their native culture with their kids. The one thing that remained a solid connection was the food we ate. I realized from a young age that I could get my parents to talk about their homes when we were eating the foods they had prepared from their respective cultures. My father, particularly, was a born storyteller and if you could talk with him while he was cooking you would get the best stories.”

Whitney Scharer, author of The Age of Light “The main character in my novel is based on Lee Miller, a woman who reinvented herself multiple times in her life—first as a model, then a photographer, and finally as a gourmet chef who wrote for Vogue and other women’s magazines of the day. In all my research about her, there was never any mention of her love of food prior to her becoming a chef. This makes no sense to me. Of course, she must have loved food—and she moved to Paris in 1929, where she would have enjoyed meals quite different—and presumably more delicious—than what she ate growing up in Poughkeepsie. I wanted her love of food to be palpable throughout the novel, both to foreshadow her shift to cooking later in life, but also because I think enjoying food—enjoying the pleasures of the body—is integral to who she is as a character. I see Lee Miller as a woman of voracious appetites: she was hugely ambitious and adventurous, and very sexual. Food seemed like another way to understand her overall hungers.”

Charlie Holmberg, author of Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet “In writing, I think food is an excellent method of transportation. If I were to detail a table setting with food you’ve never heard of, but I describe a flaky crust, the way a gelatin gives underneath a knife, and the smell of burnt sugar, you are there. You smell and taste and see that meal. It gives a story, ancient magical tales included, a sense of realness.”

David Baker, author of Vintage “A dish is a story . . . it’s the story of the culture that created it, the person who made it, the story of the ingredients and where they’re from, the tale of the meal’s creation—successful or otherwise—and then of sharing it. The whole process is a form of narrative. The same goes for wine . . . it’s the story of millions of years of geology that created the region where the fines grow. It’s the story of the culture of the region and then a time capsule of what happened weather-wise the year in which the grapes ripened, and finally what the winemaker did during that year. There are so many layers of narrative in food and wine that it’s a rich field for exploration in writing.”

Amy Reichert, author of The Coincidence of Coconut Cake “I didn’t realize I was a food writer until after people responded to my novels, and I’ve embraced it. One of my favorite parts of writing has become sharing my regional cuisine with them—writing about Wisconsin culinary delights like a Door County fish boil or our classic brandy old-fashioneds. It’s one of the ways I share my love of Wisconsin.”

Marjan Kamali, author of The Stationery Shop “It happened quite organically—pardon the pun. But it’s impossible for me to write about Iran and Iranians without including a lot of food because the preparation of huge meals is an integral part of the culture, and sharing those meals at feast-like parties is common across the classes. Food takes on added significance for my characters because they are displaced from their original home. They are Iranians living in America. There is a longing for the familiar foods they know and a constant search for ingredients they love. Cooking Persian meals links my characters to their past and heritage. Sharing Persian food with Americans is a way for them to create and deepen new relationships.”

Jenna Blum, author of The Lost Family “While I was writing The Lost Family, I cooked a lot—to meditate on the day’s writing as well as to kitchen-test all the recipes I then featured on the book’s menu. Some of my favorite lines for the book would bubble up that way, as if from a Magic 8-Ball, and one of them was ‘vegetables have no language.’ I revised this slightly for the novel, but it means that food is universal. The produce and spices will vary from country to country and cuisine to cuisine, but if you love food, you have a vast family out there. We can all communicate about how our beloved dishes are different—and how they are the same.”

I myself have been smitten with books about food since a friend of mine recommended that I read M.F.K. Fisher decades ago. I devoured The Art of Eating and everything else she had written. In her books I found both the exotic and the comfortable. I had never been to France or eaten escargot, but I reveled in her descriptions of food, in her use of simple phrases to evoke such specific sensations: “The air tastes like mead in our throats,” she writes in The Art of Eating. I hope to stir the same feelings and create the same sensory pleasures in others with my novels about famous culinary figures in Italian history.

Now this is a book I can really sink my teeth into, I thought as I once read the opening paragraph of The Flounder by Nobel prizewinner Gunter Grass.

Ilsebill put on more salt. Before the impregnation there was shoulder of mutton with string beans and pears, the season being early October. Still at table, still with her mouth full, she asked, “Should we go to bed right away, or do you first want to tell me how when where our story began?”

The rest of the novel, which tells the story of an immortal fish who meets an immortal man who falls in love with cooks over and over through the centuries, is just as delicious and delightful in its descriptions of food. To this day, it’s one of my favorite novels.

In reading The Flounder and other sumptuous works of culinary fiction, I’m reminded of something dramatist George Bernard Shaw once said: “There is no love sincerer than the love of food.” It’s a statement to which I think we could all gladly raise a glass.

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schmidtchristmasmarket · 5 years ago

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Christmas is magical the world over, but Christmas in London is a treat for all your senses. Pack your skates, don't forget your hat and glove, and enjoy a city that thrives on tradition.

1) Go Ice Skating

Make plans to spend a day at the open air rink at Somerset. The tree is breathtaking, the company is excited to be there, and if you stop for a cocktail after your visit, the experience is remarkably British. Make sure you stop by the Fortnum Arcade for a bit of shopping. If skating isn't your favorite thing, remember that there's a viewing area where you can watch others perform while you stay snuggly warm.

2) View the Lights

A trip to the Royal Botanic Gardens will put you in the Christmas spirit with over a million bulbs. In addition to the lights, there's a special holiday breakfast with the Claus Family for the kids, and a train display. Once the sun goes down, take a stroll through the Rock Garden. A weekend visit will give you the chance to hear any number of musical groups perform the sweetest music, that of an English Christmas. Be sure to stroll through the shops as well, as many places put up light displays to rival their neighbors, and the winner of this contest will be you!

3) Have Dessert

There are any number of delicious cakes, cookies, puddings and pies that will serve the Christmas spirit, but if you're looking for a true British Christmas treat, seek out

mince pies

Christmas pudding

trifle, and a

yule log

If you've never prepared any of these foods before, seek out a shop or restaurant that offers a traditional tea and treat yourself to dessert before dinner. One of the challenges of these dishes is that they can take a great deal of time. For example, the British Christmas cake can actually be baked in September and fed or marinated in brandy until Christmas Eve. You're on holiday, so let the professionals handle it.

4) Hit a Pub

While you're walking the city of London, don't forget to stop for a pint at a local pub. It may be cold outside, but London pub life doesn't stop for winter. Take a stroll through Hyde Park, study the displays and the beautiful lights, and treat yourself to a pint of British ale. You can enjoy a building covered in Christmas trees with a trip to the Churchill Arms in Kensington, or snuggle into a warm chair over at Little Nan's on Deptford Market Yard for a cup of mulled cider with a dash of spiced rum. The whole city is getting their Christmas on, so cuddle in and enjoy yours, too!

5) Take a Carriage Ride

Your exploration of London's Christmas traditions must include a carriage ride through Richmond Park. Savor all of the sensory portions of the experience; the jingling of the horses, the clopping of hooves on cobblestones and the sights of old London. Make sure you dress warmly; London is cold in December and the wind off the water can be quite damp. In addition to your hat and gloves, make sure you invest in good gloves and warm boots for your carriage ride across Richmond Park. Special thanks to Charles the 1st for creating this remarkable park!

6) Bring an Empty Suitcase to Fill!

You must shop during your Christmas in London. Consider packing a small suitcase inside a bigger one so you can enjoy some space for treats from the Schmidt Christmas market. Treat yourself to Christmas Decorations bought directly from London so you can create true British Christmas Decor in your own space when you get home. No matter what, treat yourself to some tree decorations to remember this remarkable visit.

7) Poppers

Christmas poppers, or crackers, are loaded with silliness to raise your spirits and get you in the holiday spirit. Why visit London if you don't plan to wear a crown, even if it is just a paper one? Even strangers, seated side by side, can pull a popper and have some fun together, thanks to the crowns and silly jokes.

8) Receive the Greetings of the Season from Her Highness

The Queen's yearly address is a tradition that continues, no matter the state of the world. It was begun by her grandfather in 1932 on the radio, and her uncle continued the tradition. Fix yourself a slice of Christmas cake, light a fire, put up your new Christmas Decorations and turn on the telly to celebrate the season with Queen Elizabeth the 2nd. This remarkable woman has guided her nation through many ups and downs, but a London Christmas isn't complete without her best wishes.

9) Christmas Dinner

If you just had turkey in the states for Thanksgiving, make sure you save room for your British Christmas Turkey. This dish will be prepared with all the fixings, including stuffing, cranberry sauce, and Brussel sprouts. Also, keep an eye out for roast parsnips. This delicious veggie is a common side dish for a Christmas dinner. They may be served with a drizzle of honey, but really good parsnips need nothing but butter, heat, and a bit of salt and pepper. Consider a trip to the Schmidt Christmas market for a hostess gift to give when you arrive for your London Christmas feast.

10) Take a Cruise

Visit the West End and cruise the Thames so you can enjoy all the Christmas lights visible from the river. You'll find plenty of places for a nosh before and after your cruise, and the staff will do their best to provide unbeatable service. Your Thames cruise will feature champagne, poppers or crackers, and the best British snacks, including rich golden cheeses. As ever, the Christmas Decor will be plentiful on the cruise, from tiny trees to sparkling icicles.

Shop Now at Schmidt Christmas Market for all your Christmas Decor

// <![CDATA[ (function () { var scriptURL = 'https://sdks.shopifycdn.com/buy-button/latest/buy-button-storefront.min.js'; if (window.ShopifyBuy) { if (window.ShopifyBuy.UI) { ShopifyBuyInit(); } else { loadScript(); } } else { loadScript(); } function loadScript() { var script = document.createElement('script'); script.async = true; script.src = scriptURL; (document.getElementsByTagName('head')[0] || document.getElementsByTagName('body')[0]).appendChild(script); script.onload = ShopifyBuyInit; } function ShopifyBuyInit() { var client = ShopifyBuy.buildClient({ domain: 'schmidt-christmas-market.myshopify.com', storefrontAccessToken: '8da8053f14f7461bffb06356749da939', }); ShopifyBuy.UI.onReady(client).then(function (ui) { ui.createComponent('collection', { id: '186084294701', node: document.getElementById('collection-component-1595191567599'), moneyFormat: '%24%7B%7Bamount%7D%7D', options: { "product": { "styles": { "product": { "@media (min-width: 601px)": { "max-width": "calc(25% - 20px)", "margin-left": "20px", "margin-bottom": "50px", "width": "calc(25% - 20px)" }, "img": { "height": "calc(100% - 15px)", "position": "absolute", "left": "0", "right": "0", "top": "0" }, "imgWrapper": { "padding-top": "calc(75% + 15px)", "position": "relative", "height": "0" } }, "button": { ":hover": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" }, "background-color": "#f70c0c", ":focus": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" } } }, "buttonDestination": "modal", "contents": { "options": false }, "text": { "button": "View product" } }, "productSet": { "styles": { "products": { "@media (min-width: 601px)": { "margin-left": "-20px" } } } }, "modalProduct": { "contents": { "img": false, "imgWithCarousel": true, "button": false, "buttonWithQuantity": true }, "styles": { "product": { "@media (min-width: 601px)": { "max-width": "100%", "margin-left": "0px", "margin-bottom": "0px" } }, "button": { ":hover": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" }, "background-color": "#f70c0c", ":focus": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" } } }, "text": { "button": "Add to cart" } }, "cart": { "styles": { "button": { ":hover": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" }, "background-color": "#f70c0c", ":focus": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" } } }, "text": { "total": "Subtotal", "button": "Checkout" } }, "toggle": { "styles": { "toggle": { "background-color": "#f70c0c", ":hover": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" }, ":focus": { "background-color": "#de0b0b" } } } } }, }); }); } })(); // ]]>

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enigmog · 8 years ago

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Hiring the Vagabond

This is all @samijen��s fault. It also got way out of hand. Enjoy!

Okay so, You know how there’s the whole vagabond is a fucking Disney Princess that animals just inherently trust. Ala Vagabond family farm? (that’s something else I need to neaten up and post at some point!)

Well it works with young kids too. None of the fakes are ever likely to settle down and have a family and they know that. Not like many of them are interested in that (the fear of becoming like their own parents is strong). But for some reason, despite the terrifying mask and steel gaze that, rumour has it, killed a man all on its own (surprisingly one of the more true rumours, the guy was old and had a heart attack) a little girl, no more than 8, walks up to the Vagabond when he’s readying up in an alley for the start of a heist. She offers him the contents of her hand, a quarter, shiny skull bead and pink candy wrapper.

"This is all I have, can... can I get you?"

“Get me?”

"You do stuff for... for stuff in return?"

“You want to me hire me.”

The child nods furiously.

“What for kid?”

"Mama died, Greg killed her. Now he hurts me and i’m scared. Mama died because of me and-” she sniffles, rubbing at her eyes, “I’m scared!"

Ryan calls off the heist, says he has something more important to do. He takes the skull bead from the little girl and she giggles, "I thought you'd like that!" On his knees so he’s at her eye level he promises to take care of her. And take care of Greg so he can’t hurt her again.

He takes the child to a safe house. Tells her to wait there for him and don't answer the door to anyone. She nods, perfectly at ease, like this isn't new to her. And that breaks Ryan’s heart all over again.

He makes Greg disappear. Makes him suffer first though. Washes the blood off and looks the same as when he left before walking back in the safe house.

“Greg can't hurt you any more.” And then the girl is launching at him, hugging him tight, tiny hands clinging to the leather of his jacket. He pats her awkwardly on the head, so unused to dealing with the absence of fear, so unused to children.

"My names Thalia, mama used to say it meant blossom... can- can you bring my mama back?"

He shakes his head at that, “there are some things even I can't do.”

Ryan sends her off to a private boarding school. Like hell is she going into the Los santos foster system.

Like hell.

He dresses nicely, suit and tie, hair dye long since faded after having joined the fakes permanently. Still has a pony tail though. Thalia looks at him as if he's a stranger, doesn't recognise him now he's no longer the Big Scary Vagabond.

She gets a place at the school easily enough. Ryan referring to her as "his ward". His groomed appearance and well spoken mannerisms get Thalia a place with little questioning. And with many "yes Mr Haywoods," and "is the school to your liking Mr James, sir?"

Money helps. Money talks

When he leaves her there, he gets down to her eye level again, firm hand on her shoulder. "Write to me, every week if you can. If you ever need me, I will be right here okay?" She nods and hugs him. She has the number to a burner phone and a PO box she can post letters to.

He enjoys reading her letters. She signs her name with a little flower next to it

Then the letters stop coming for a few weeks

Then he gets a hastily scrawled note that simply says "Mrs Haversham says I'm not allowed to write to you. Says you can't know how the school works."

And ryan is at the school the next morning.

All cold fury and steely eyes.

He walks in to the principal’s office, a flustered secretary chasing after him.

"Who is Mrs Haversham and why is my ch- ward scared of her?"

There’s apologies all round from the staff. The principal trying to assure him it is simply because "Nora" is a little old school, just a little strict. It can be quite a shock for children coming from a more... pampered lifestyle such as Thalia’s.

That's not good enough for ryan, he demands to see thalia now.

She’s brought in and immediately latches onto his leg, burying her face in the fabric of his trousers, voice muffled as she sighs out "you came".

“I promised I would, why didn't you call?”

"Mrs Haversham tore up the piece of paper. She... she's scary... she reminds me of greg"

And Ryan sees red.

Turns back to the principal, just his glare making the lady shiver, "i think you'd best bring Nora in here for a discussion, don't you?"

She’s brought in, an old woman the epitome of battle axe, takes one look at ryan and the cowering thalia and sniffs disdainfully.

“I see someone has gone crying to her father!"

“And I see someone who should not be allowed anywhere near children.”

"Their care is my utmost priority! Some children simply do not understand manners due to their upbringing having taught them none"

“And what do you do to teach them these manners?”

”She hits us…” Thalia whispers.

"Don’t lie child!"

Ryan’s voice turns deadly as Thalia pushes further into his side, trying to hide. “If you speak to her like that again it will be the last thing you ever do.”

And Haversham goes stiff at that, Ryan still appears completely at ease, only the danger in his voice alerting those in the room to how true a threat that last sentence was. "I do not... hit them, they simply get tapped with my walking cane. Over the knuckles for a first offence, back of the legs for a second. Simple as that"

“And what sort of offence results in punishment?”

“Greediness, slothful behaviour, pride, inattention"

“So being a child.”

"Being insolent! Insolence always requires retribution!"

“You are fired. If you do not leave the school voluntarily by tonight, I will make sure you are removed.”

"You can't do that! You have no say in how this school runs!"

“Actually, I do. When thalia came to this school I donated a significant sum of money to it on top of her schooling fees, they get to keep it, upon the condition that if anything negative occurs to my da- ward, I get the final say in how it is dealt with. In this case, how it will be dealt with is your termination.”

"And if I refuse to leave?! I suppose you think have enough friends in high places that it will not matter hmm? Well you underestimate me! Trust fund babies will not move me!"

“Then it is a good job I'm no trust fund baby as you seem to think. And it's not the friends in high places you should worry about, it's the ones in low places that are truly terrifying.”

Haversham storms out, shouting over her shoulder that they can't scare her off so easily. The principal apologises again, saying Ryan’s request will be granted.

“It’s Thalia you should be apologising to. Who lets a woman like that take care of children?”

He leaves then. Hugs thalia goodbye and promises Haversham will be gone by the morning. Gives her his number again and more paper and stamps to write to him with. Praises her for remembering the address. She’s beaming at that but doesn't want him to go.

"Nothing will change once you're gone"

“They will, don't worry, the vagabond will make sure she leaves.”

Thalia nods solemnly at that, already scarily at ease with what Ryan does. He’s glad yet again he didn't let her stay with him. God what kind of monster would that create? Something more terrifying than the Vagabond certainly

And at midnight, when Haversham is still ranting in her room, settling down for the night with an empty bottle of brandy by her chair.

The vagabond walks in.

Well... more appears out of her closet. Always one for the dramatic entrance, he was a theatre major, sue him.

She shrieks.

And the Vagabond merely stares her down.

“Insolence requires retribution I’ve been told?”

Haversham is gone by the next morning. She left some time in the night. Hobbling out the front driveway suitcase in tow.

Seems she learnt her lesson.

And so Thalia tells all her friends they don't have to be afraid. That they have a protector in the Vagabond, man who adults call monster. And of course some of these children go back to their homes during the holiday, they tell their friends at home what Thalia told them.

Soon the Vagabond is getting more letters than just Thalia’s (he always reads her's first though) asking for his help with relatives or even total strangers. One young boy merely begging for help against "the bad man who hides under my bed.” He answers as many as he can, even the one scared of someone under his bed. Especially that one. The "bad man" turning out to be an abusive father who waited until his wife was asleep to "punish" their son.

And as with many playground legends and stories, like ring a rosie and how to make daisy chains, every school child in Los santos knows:

If you need help?

Write to the Vagabond.

He just might answer...

#rooster #fahc #the vagabond #fic #i wholeheartedly blame samijen :D #achievement hunter

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allineednow · 7 years ago

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<p>Our Greatest family Christmas survival guide</p>

Christmas is almost upon us and that can only mean 1 thing - household time is looming.

From long-winded games of Monopoly to pops over the remote, it may be a testing period for many.

But we've produced this guide to try and calm any tensions which may arise, so put your feet up, grab a mince pie, and let attempt to enjoy this special time of year.

Blended families: Keeping the peace

Christmas can be a difficult time with exes if there are children involved, and the potential to argue with your former partner over childcare arrangements is huge. However, according to Relate's Christine Northam, it also creates an opportunity for you to work together for the good of the children.

"Careful planning is everything when it comes to combined families, and it reduces a whole lot of stress," she says.

"Make arrangements well beforehand so that everyone knows where they are, as opposed to leaving it until last minute. And it's important to be as even-handed and honest as possible when it comes to dividing up the time you each spend with the children."

Julia Cole says attempt to avoid all the arrangements being left to one person to avoid resentment brewing.

"Driving around the nation with children is exhausting so, if you have a long journey to make, arrange to meet halfway," she suggests. Try to do anything you can to compromise to make things simpler.

"And don't let any resentments which have been bubbling up throughout the year blow up over Christmas -- for example, issues over maintenance or accessibility.

"If you're a step-parent, try to have empathy with your spouse's children. I've heard some painful stories about a child not getting the exact same type of presents as their stepbrother or sister. Try to imagine what it would be like to be that child and what will make them feel loved and comfortable."

More Christmas 2017 stories

Happy kids, happy parents

The problem with the long Christmas vacation is there is no routine and kids get bored. And if they play up, then it's likely to trigger rows between you and your partner.

"Make plans for the following week," states Christine Northam. "Have some ideas of what you can do to keep the kids entertained, even if it's a loose structure.

And consult the kids about it, especially if they're somewhat older, so they don't feel they're being scheduled -- it's their vacation, too.

"Older kids can also help with some of the arrangements and preparation for Christmas itself."

For younger children, stick to their routine as much as possible guides Julia Cole. "Keep their nap times and give them food in the time they usually have it.

"It's tempting to have a more relaxed routine and have the kids fit around your schedule, but they generally can't cope with this. They don't want to behave badly but they will if they're hungry or tired," she says.

"Christmas can be overwhelming for young children and they often can't deal with the deluge of presents.

"Stagger the present opening or put some aside for Boxing Day and let them a while, when they can sit quietly with the presents and enjoy it before moving on to another item.

"It's a good idea to have a quiet space in the house for them that is not jam-packed with things and people."

How to deal with moody teens

For those who have an uncooperative, hormonal teenager at home, it's quite likely the wonder and awe of Christmas is going to be replaced by door slamming, lie-ins until lunchtime and being glued non-stop to their smartphone . Why don't you try these suggestions...

Let them have some input

Get adolescents on board by listening to their ideas and start some new traditions together. You may not be able to put a carrot out for Rudolph any more, but how about doing a 'Bad Santa' secret Santa at which you each wrap one silly, tacky present, baking a Christmas cake or biscuits and letting them stay up until midnight on Christmas Eve?

And when they have younger sisters, why not give them the responsibility for the mischievous Elf on the Shelf?

Something for the parents

Do not rise to the bait

Christmas lunch is the best time for your teen to suddenly blurt out that they "don't believe in God" in front of the grandparents or that "Christmas is too commercialised" so they won't be joining in this season. They are just pushing boundaries and are trying to start a debate -- or even an argument.

Do not rise to it. Stay calm and say, "That is an interesting point," then move the conversation on. If they want to stamp upstairs and spend the next hour in their room, let them.

Allow them some downtime

If you're feeling the strain of being cooped up at home entertaining relatives, the odds are your teen is, also.

Let them go off and see their mates for a couple hours, or why not suggest they have a movie night with popcorn or a tiny festive party at home with their friends?

And plan teen-friendly actions for after Christmas -- ice-skating, a trip to the trampoline park, sales tickets or shopping to the cinema to see the latest blockbuster.

Pick your battles

Some things are worth letting go if you want harmony at home. It's important they sit at the table with you for Christmas lunch -- and insist on no phones -- but if they want to vanish with their Xbox for a few hours in the day or have a big lie in on Christmas morning, don't sweat it.

Enjoy the fact you're not being woken up at 5am any more to find out what Father Christmas has left!

Do not expect too much

There is bound to be at least one flare up over the holidays. Do not put too much stress on yourself or them for everything to be perfect. If you struggle over something, kiss and make up quickly, and then proceed.

Remember, it's supposed to be fun!

In-laws and how to cope with them

Honesty is the best policy when it comes to spending some time with the in-laws over Christmas, according to Isabelle Hung.

"Instead of agreeing to spend three days together with your spouse's family, be honest and say you can only manage 1 day if that's the case," she advises.

"And if you know you're likely to locate spending time with them hard, then tell your partner you'll have to get up and stretch your legs now and again. Plan for those potential flashpoints."

Julia Cole says it's important to have realistic expectations about what might happen when you're all together over the festive period.

She states: "Do not fantasise about sitting around the table, getting on like a house on fire if that has never happened before.

"Talk to your partner about what to do in certain circumstances. If you know his Uncle Fred consistently drinks half a bottle of brandy on Boxing Day and then insults everyone, then subtly put the drink away.

"Or if your brother is likely to turn up for lunch two hours, then have a plan for what to do if that happens rather than arguing when it does.

"Pre-empting these situations is really important and you need to be on the same page when it comes to coping with things.

"And if you have family staying for a few days, then plan time for you as a couple, even if it means making an excuse to nip to the shops because you've forgotten something. Then sneak in a coffee so that you can have some alone time to talk without everyone listening"

Unmissable videos - have you seen them?

Single this Xmas?

Christmas is all about spending time with loved ones but if you're facing the festive season without a partner it may seem like the loneliest time. Try these suggestions to help:

Prevent (smug) social media posts

Says psychologist Isabelle Hung: "If you're without a partner at Christmas, it may feel like a lonely time -- especially if you're bombarded with Facebook and Instagram photographs of happy couples putting up their decorations. If you're not relating to those pictures, stop looking at them."

Don't hide yourself away

"If you've only been through a break-up, there is nothing worse than being on your own, so get yourself out there and see friends," says relationship coach James Preece.

"It won't prevent you missing your ex, but seeing people and keeping busy is a good distraction."

Do not rule out a new relationship (or just some fun)

This time of year is actually a excellent time for sparking new connections, says James.

"At the beginning of January, plenty of people makes resolutions to meet someone, go to parties and boost your online profile, also.

"People are more likely to be at home with spare time to look at dating sites and apps . There are opportunities available if you're ready for them."

Make memories

"If you're newly single due to a break-up or bereavement, try to avoid doing the exact same thing you've done every other Christmas," says psychotherapist Julia Cole.

"Try to work on your despair in a different way by making new traditions and memories.

"And don't think people are inviting you for Christmas because they feel sorry for you and don't really want you there -- if they're offering, they mean it and they're doing it out of love.

"Seize the chance, even if it's for a few hours on Christmas Day."

Stories which will put a smile on your face

Do not be a Christmas martyr

Are you going to be wrapping the kids' presents while stuffing the turkey and making sure Good Aunt Joan gets her Dubonnet and lemonade? Then stop at the moment. Do not attempt to do everything yourself delegate! It makes for happier families... and a happier you. Instead:

Put the kids to work

Older kids can help with everything from card writing to wrapping gifts.

On the day, ask them to place the table and assist with easy food prep like putting out nibbles for guests. The majority of them enjoy the obligation.

Ask guests to bring a plate

If you're hosting large numbers, ask guests to bring the starter and pudding, leaving you to focus on the primary course.

It's enjoyable and cuts down on the job, so you don't spend the whole day frazzled in the kitchen while everyone else is having fun.

Play to people's strengths

Flattery can get you a long way! If your mum-in-law makes mean roast spuds, then ask her to cook them on the day.

If your dad cooks a excellent curry, then why don't you get him to make it on Boxing Day with the leftover turkey? But plan who is doing what well ahead -- don't suddenly spring it on them on the day.

Leave it to the professionals

If it feels like too much, abandon ship and book Christmas lunch at a pub. Cheers!

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isaiahrippinus · 5 years ago

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The Armagnac That’s Sneaking Into ‘Bourbon Porn’

It was early 2018 when the orange-waxed necks, with wooden placards on twine hanging from them, first started appearing on social media. If you spend any time trolling bourbon geek accounts on Instagram, or private groups on Facebook, you’ll recognize the repetitive set of images continually populating your feed: Pappy and the Buffalo Trace Antique Collection, of course; Weller, Willett, and Blanton’s, too, and maybe even dusty vintages of Wild Turkey.

Over the last couple years, however, distinct orange-waxed bottles of L’Encantada Armagnac — yes, Armagnac — have begun edging their way into these #bourbonporn posts. How did they get here?

“This stuff tastes more bourbony than other brandies,” explains Steve Ury, who runs the Serious Brandy group on Facebook. “But, of course, once it became popular it sort of developed its own hype.”

Neither Armagnac nor the more prevalent Cognac have ever really been able to capture the modern bourbon drinker’s imagination. Many enthusiasts find them a bit bland, or overly “grape-y.” That’s because both are, of course, grape-based brandies from their eponymous regions in France.

Armagnac has been produced in Gascony, in southwest France, since at least the 13th century. Notably, compared to Cognac, it’s an “earthier”-tasting spirit, as its producers are often much smaller, less technology-advanced grape growers and winemakers who distill their excess fruit via a traveling alembic still that bounces from farm to farm.

That’s especially true in the case of L’Encantada — “The Enchanted One” — which isn’t an Armagnac producer per se, but instead a label that bottles Armagnac from around a half-dozen very tiny estates. At first, it hardly even planned to be a legit business — in 2012, Vincent Cornu, a local caterer and Armagnac nut, was approached by a widow who wondered if he wanted to buy her late husband’s casks.

He did, and Cornu, his wife Christelle, and friend Frédéric Chappe thus formed the “L’Encantada Social Club,” as they jokingly dubbed themselves. They soon started knocking on farmhouse doors throughout the region looking for more Armagnac casks to buy. Many of these “estates,” like The Bidets, a family-owned property that grows grapes and grain while also breeding animals, are run by humble farmers who might distill only a few barrels of Armagnac per year, aging it in their barns, basements, or garages. For many of them, the casks act as a bit of a “retirement fund,” but they were certainly never meant to become an international sensation.

“But as bourbon became more and more difficult to buy — most of us are ‘old hat’ bourbon guys with huge collections from back when it was readily available — we started exploring other spirits,” says Paul Schurman, a Canadian spirits collector living in Switzerland.

When he says “us,” he’s referring to the private, online whiskey group known as 1789b of which he is a longtime member. In 2015, Ury, a fellow member, turned Schurman onto more whiskey-like Armagnac and he began seeking them out. Schurman ordered a couple of bottles of L’Encantada Domaine Lous Pibous 1994 online from Paris’s acclaimed Maison du Whisky, and immediately realized he’d found a big winner.

When he sent one to Ury, he was likewise blown away. A lawyer by day, then living in the Los Angeles area, Ury might have been the first American to really fall for L’Encantada, writing about it on his blog in the summer of 2016. He particularly loved its unique flavor profile, which he knew was atypical for Armagnac.

Photo credit: L’Encantada Armagnac

“Most Armagnac is aged in used oak and then re-racked and such during aging,” Ury explains. “The Pibous is aged in new oak and then they just let it sit. The result is an oaky, high-proof Armagnac that tastes a lot like… bourbon, really good bourbon.”

Both he and Schurman couldn’t help but compare it to the 17- and 18-year-old Bernheim “wheaters” that Willett had released in the mid-2000s, “the kind you don’t get any more,” Ury wrote on his blog at the time. If those Willett bourbons were now selling on the secondary market for thousands of dollars, here was an unexpected replacement, for a mere €90 a bottle.

“After tasting this, I had one thought,” Ury wrote of the Lous Pibous 1994. “We have to get more.”

Unfortunately, L’Encantada wasn’t distributed to the U.S. So, Schurman and Ury decided to try to import a few L’Encantada casks themselves, partnering with two other whiskey enthusiasts, Daniel Walbrun and Steve Neese, and dubbing themselves “The Brandy Brothers.” It wouldn’t be easy at first; Cornu spoke spotty English, and had never actually sold an entire cask. In fact, he’d never been able to penetrate the American market whatsoever. His problem was, he was trying to sell atypical Armagnac to typical brandy drinkers — not bourbon geeks.

“It was so off-profile to what Armagnac people liked,” explains Schurman. “But anyone who liked a George T. Stagg or a Weller [bourbon] would love it. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even know it was an Armagnac.”

Still, Schurman knew that even if he was keen on this spirit, it was still quite a financial risk to buy three entire Lous Pibous barrels — a 1993 vintage (Cask 124) and two 1996s (Casks 187 and Cask 188) — or around 1,000 bottles-worth.

He shouldn’t have been concerned. Fellow 1789b group members would snap up almost all of the bottles before they ever hit store shelves at K&L Wines, the local California retailer they had to use to get L’Encantada imported into the States. Word of L’Encantada quickly spread within the insular bourbon community.

“We knew these were special, but they were still Armagnac, a spirit which I love but which has limited appeal in the U.S.,” wrote Ury.

Ury never expected “the enchanted one” to blow up the way it has, but maybe he should have. L’Encantada bottlings check all the boxes for the American bourbon geek: single casks, barrel-strength, unfiltered and unadulterated; and lavishly packaged with wax-dipped necks, wooden hang tags (listing vintage year), and the requisite, dignified boxes. They are also exceedingly rare, with around 300 bottles per release; and, as for now, they are relatively cheap, especially compared to still-booming bourbon. (Ury doesn’t quite agree with my assessment, saying, “Maybe, but other brandies have those things.”)

L’Encantada bottlings quickly became a cult phenomenon among the bourbon community. A feeding frenzy followed. As demand begat supply, more releases entered the market. The Brandy Brothers brought in three more casks, K&L purchased two more for the store, and other retailers across the country began grabbing any barrels they could. Notably, Astor Wines & Spirits in Manhattan, and the esteemed Lincoln Road Package store in Hattiesburg, Miss., long famous for astute single barrel offerings, were among those to snatch up barrels.

“We weren’t selling much Armagnac at all — one or two in the store. But those were usually 80 proof and mellow,” says Jamie Farris, the owner of the Lincoln Road, whose first two L’Encantada casks were a Domaine Le Frêche and a Lous Pibous. He’s since acquired three more. “[The L’Encantada] are bigger, bolder brandies than you’re used to.”

As early as the summer of 2018, the Manhattan Wine Company’s newsletter, in lauding L’Encantada, purported that Your New Favorite Brown Spirit is Not from Kentucky. Around the same time, the acclaimed PM Spirits teamed up with L’Encantada to release XO, a blend of four L’Encantada casks (two Lous Pibous, as well as Del Cassou and Bellair estate), and up to that point, their most widely accessible release. In announcing the release, PM Spirits founder Nicolas Palazzi explained:

“L’Encantada is the darling of bourbon whiskey clubs, offering power, richness, and excitement for whiskey drinkers looking to explore.” While Astor Wines, in introducing the XO, cheekily noted: “Bourbon what? Pappy who?”

Nevertheless, while the online cognoscenti will surely be pissed I’ve blown up their latest love, for the most part L’Encantada still hasn’t fully made it into the mainstream of moneyed bourbon neophytes calling around to stores looking for “the Pappies.” PM released a Lot 2.0 of XO last summer, and I still see bottles of it on shelves. Likewise, single cask bottlings of L’Encantada can still be found in certain stores as well, though the prices have steadily been creeping up, with most selling for around $200 to $250 these days, double or triple what they were just a few years ago.

But, of course, those prices still aren’t at bourbon levels where new bottles of Pappy Van Winkle 23 Year Old hit the market at an asking price of around $2,000. Nonetheless, if most bourbon drinkers had never even tasted an Armagnac a year ago, now a good number are obsessed with at least one brand of it. A year or two from now, we all might be kicking ourselves for not capitalizing on it.

“The bourbon guys wanted something different,” Farris says. “And it filled that void. Something different, but a better value. You can’t find a 23-year-old bourbon for 200 bucks these days.”

The article The Armagnac That’s Sneaking Into ‘Bourbon Porn’ appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/lencantada-armagnac-bourbon-bros/ source https://vinology1.tumblr.com/post/616112472775081984

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johnboothus · 5 years ago

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The Armagnac Thats Sneaking Into Bourbon Porn

Over the last couple years, however, distinct orange-waxed bottles of L’Encantada Armagnac — yes, Armagnac — have begun edging their way into these #bourbonporn posts. How did they get here?

Photo credit: L’Encantada Armagnac

“After tasting this, I had one thought,” Ury wrote of the Lous Pibous 1994. “We have to get more.”

“We knew these were special, but they were still Armagnac, a spirit which I love but which has limited appeal in the U.S.,” wrote Ury.

The article The Armagnac That’s Sneaking Into ‘Bourbon Porn’ appeared first on VinePair.

Via https://vinepair.com/articles/lencantada-armagnac-bourbon-bros/

source https://vinology1.weebly.com/blog/the-armagnac-thats-sneaking-into-bourbon-porn

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olwog · 6 years ago

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Today we learn that walking alone isn’t lonely, little people are affected hugely by big decisions and even at 80, you’re never too old to walk 500 miles.

The morning sees blue skies and a sunny day but not too warm, perfect for walking. I walk to the cafe where Carlos is doing a wonderful job welcoming all for breakfast or just a drink. All of the pastries that have been carefully baked since four o’clock this morning are on display as people entering the lovely dining area have to walk past them. They’re still putting the chairs out on the pavement which overlooks the bay. It’s still a bit chilly for sitting out so only the smokers are there most with a coffee although it’s entirely proper in Spain to start the day with brandy or a large glass of white, after all, it’s gone five!

A coffee and a couple of stashed bananas later I’m looking for the shell and the yellow arrow that designates the Camino and with a little bit of GPS help, I find it. The first one is embedded into the pavement with an unambiguous arrow pointing the route.

I thought I’d managed to avoid a return to the castle and cathedral by walking that part of the route last night but this takes me there once more and I accept it but it does get the heart rate up as it’s a fairly vicious climb about 200 feet but better early and it does brace me for the numerous ups and downs that follow.

Out of San Vicente and another ‘up’ but then I have a view of the Picos Mountains still with snow on the peaks and looking back I have the whole of the bay area and mud flats festooned with birds. It’s early morning with a blue sky above and verdant green all around. This part of Spain does get a prevailing wind off the Bay of Biscay so the weather can be exciting at times and does include a fair amount of rain but the result is stunning when it’s sunny, as it is today.

At the top there is a seat carefully surrounded by a low hedge, it’s looking back towards the bay and I take off the rucksack and sit for a while, it’s wonderful. After a few minutes and a drink from the bottle I’d acquired from the fruit shop I reassemble my bags and set off again refreshed but this time it’s down. Gentle down is kind and enjoyable, this is gentle down and I take my time to walk into the valley, over the bridge that enables a safe crossing of the motorway into La Acebosa. This is a beautiful little village with all kinds of things for the family and I stop at the sports ground to readjust and decide on the route as it split between the woods and the original route which is a little longer, I decide on the original and take the extra 3 km on the chin. They’re both well signed so if you come this way either is going to be good.

Waiting to be canonised!

The next kilometre is quite seriously up and I have to step aside to allow a very smelly Discovery to crawl up the hill in a cloud of diesel smoke. The up-side is that it’s the only vehicle I see and at the top, there’s a wonderful steady down that enables me to take in the priceless view of the Picos Mountain Range complete with snow.

The only person that I pass smiles and says, “Buenos, que tal”.

It seems the way of the Northern Spanish, they only utter the first word of what is normally a two word greeting, at this time of the day it would be ‘Buenos Dias’ and I answer “Bien, gracias” (Good, thanks) and only then realise that it’s the first time that I’ve uttered any Spanish without having to either think it through or write it down – I’m really chuffed and begin to think I’ve cracked it. As the days progress I’ll realise that this was a one off and I’ll be back to normal but I bathe in glory for the moment.

The track takes me along relatively flat contours at about two or three hundred feet and the land below me is rolling meadows and woods with the odd stream. The flowers at this time of year are exquisite.

I pass through farms and small hamlets some with antique farm machinery discarded at the side of the road and looking like one-off’s designed by the farmer and knocked together by the local blacksmith. They’re ingenious and often simple and I sit on one for my banana break to the delight of some children playing in a tiny playground.

“Hey, perigrino”, they call, initially I don’t pick up the words then one of them, very hesitatingly, said, “Are – you – having – a – nice – day?”, she pronounces the words slowly with a gap between each one and the others laugh.

“A very good day, thank you, gracias”, I reply then add, “Bien dia, Gracias”.

Their mums are sitting on a bench seat smiling. One of them said something in Spanish to the little girl that had spoken to me and she says, “I – am…”, then broke off and looks at her mum who says something that I can’t hear.

The little girl picks up again, she’d clearly been given a bit of coaching from her mum, “ Soy Anna, I – am – going – to – Leeds, mi papá esté alli.”, she’s excited and adopts her native tongue; I recognise the first two words as “I’m Anna” and the last bit as, “…my dad is there”.

So, in full, “I’m Anna, I am going to Leeds, my dad is there”

I tell her that’s wonderful and mum quickly translates and Anna goes back to her friends.

I ask Mum if she is going to live in Leeds or just visiting and tell her I live in Yorkshire. She tells me that everything is up-in-the-air because of Brexit, she is a Biology teacher and he is a specialist nurse, for the first time on any of these walks I am seriously pissed-off that we’re putting up artificial barriers to valuable and skilful people but try not to show it and wish them all well.

“Have a nice day with your friends Anna”. She’s gone back to playing some kind of skipping game and she stops and gives me a lovely vigorous girly wave and combines it with a smile that would stop traffic. I wish Anna’s mum lots of luck and walk back on the track slightly misty-eyed at the thought of all of the innocent families caught up in this senseless debacle.

I walk another hour under-a-cloud but this slowly resolves itself as the challenges of the trail push me a little bit. There had been a couple of serious ‘ups’ followed by walking on loose shale then back to summer meadows and I begin to think of my wonderful childhood in pastures like these.

I’d lingered in Hortigal and Grave, both tiny hamlets of half-a-dozen houses and just a farm but always a smile and a “Buen Camino” as I pass. Sergio is a little bit bigger and I look for a coffee shop where I’m rewarded by La Gloria. There’s a rack of four rucksacks sitting on a bench outside and I marvel at the thought of leaving all of my worldly goods sitting outside a cafe but this is the Camino and whilst it would be ludicrous to say there is no theft it remains that there is significant trust so I put mine on the end and go in.

*Just for clarity – there is a huge difference between trust and recklessness, my passport, insurance and money is in a bumbag on my belt

La Gloria – a nice watering hole in Serdio

A small reminder that many folks do this as a pilgrimage

It’s good to get the boots off and spend some time with a tortilla, baguette and orange drink. It’s a powerful combination of energy without bloating and the tortilla especially is composed of little more than egg and potato with some seasoning and when coupled with a banana it can and does keep me going all day.

There’s the usual banter between the peregrinos, ‘Where have you been?’, ‘Where’d you start?’, ‘How far are you going today?’ It’s usually conducted in broken English which tends to be the intermediate language of the Camino. Some have finished their day and stopping here, others like me, have another hour or two to go and then we get a couple who’re real athletes, they’ve been doing 35 to 45km per day and this is no exception. They have my admiration but it’s not the way I do it, I like to stop from time-to-time, make a photo and write this stuff at the end-of-the-day so I need a bit of headroom for that. When I see them leave; however, they’re travelling light i.e. someone has been hired to take their stuff to the next hostel or albergue and then I see them set off and understand why – they’re running – wow!

I leave Serdio and within a couple of hundred metres bump into Ignatius and he tells me that his friends and family pronounce it the Basque way ‘Inyaki’. He’s spent a year in Australia learning English and he’s certainly been successful. We walk about five kilometres together then bump into a wonderful bunch of multi-national retired folks in a loop road off a byway. There’s a Vietnamese/Canadian; a Japanese/American; a guy from the UK (I’ll come to him), and others but I don’t have enough time on this leg to talk to them all.

We stop for a while and share a few jokes. There’s a tiny guy from Japan called Akida with good English and he proudly tells me he’s eighty years old and he’s doing this particular Camino, (The Norte) ‘because it is 800km and it is the hard one’, well I hope I’m still walking at eighty, that really will do me! The natural dynamics of a walking group apply to this one and within five minutes I’m walking with someone else when I tell him I’m from Northallerton he looks surprised and asks me if I know Bailey Place. I tell him it’s been fifty years since I saw him and he responds with the fact that he’d been his boss in Leeds.

I’ve travelled all over the world to conduct seminars and lectures and never been tempted to ‘play away from home!’. I was once in a nightclub after some work in Klang, a port town in Malaysia to which tourists would never dream of going. I leaned across the bar to ask for a beer and got a tap on my shoulder, “Get me a beer too”, said a familiar voice. It was a friend from Hartlepool. These events just prove I wouldn’t have got away with it anyway!!

My new found friends are stopping at various points along the way and my hostel is here in Pésues so I take my leave. I’ve only known them five minutes but there’s still a slight regret when we part and I make my way up the steep hill to the Hostel Baviera and it turns out it’s not bad.

I’m up on the hill looking across the valley, I’m with some lovely people and the restaurant is sporting some tasty meals for tonight so, yet again, I’m smiling.

Enjoy the snaps…G..x

Feel free to share and comment, I love comments.

Camino – San Vicente de la Barquera to Pésues Today we learn that walking alone isn’t lonely, little people are affected hugely by big decisions and even at 80, you’re never too old to walk 500 miles.

#Camino #Camino del Norte #Pésues

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londonlanded · 7 years ago

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Week 33

Alright folks, rolling two weeks into one here since not a ton happened the first one.

Monday rolled in, and so did a true winter storm? I've seen London reduced to rubble by weather before, but this was some next level disruption. The tube stops when there's so much as a leaf on the tracks, so when you factor in an entire 'blizzard' by English standards, the world stops. Amusing how something as simple as frozen water can paralyze an entire country that's previously withstood everything from guns, germs, chemicals and everyhing in between. I was the only one whose shoes weren't seeing me slide across the pavement uncontrollably, my seasoned snow-walking ways allowed me at least a giggle as I passed my somewhat less-fortunate comrades who, well, looked kinda drunk walking on ice for the first time in, likely, a very long time. Maybe even ever?

Anyway, I made the mistake of taking the tube one morning (instead of the bus which is significantly more weather-worthy), and found myself listening to the most profoundly annoying train operator I have yet come across. We found ourselves stuck between Baron's and Earl's Court stations, and instead of just leaving us to suffer in peaceful silence, our conductor decided that telling us over and over that 'we will be moving AT SOME POINT' was much more comforting??? It was the most vague and simultaneously amusing and frustrating 10 minutes of my time in London. It also led me to think I might die underground more than it encouraged me that I wouldn’t. Anyway, I wouldn’t be much of a Londoner if I didn’t complain about the tube right?

Still, barring my one moment of train frustration, my week went by as smoothly as any second week of a job could go. I woke up Saturday morning to find a strange chocolate bar in my cupboard, and decided to make it my breakfast (#cleaneating). I tasted what could only have been alcohol, and I heard from my Hungarian flatmate later that morning that it was actually an old-fashioned chocolate bar flavoured with brandy. As sweet of her as it was to give me something from her home, I wasn't counting on tasting liquor that early on a Saturday morning!

By the way, not sure when I actually received these, but ready for something hilarious?

If someone could enlighten me as to how I’m meant to get rid of 250 of these I’d be hugely appreciative thank you. I only have like...30 family members, not sure who’s going to be on the receiving end of these cards but I’ll let you know if anyone ever actually takes one off me! Amusingly a friend of mine likes to take her friends’ business cards to dole out when she’s tipsy and gets asked out by boys she doesn’t want to give her number to, so at this rate the only call this card’s going to earn me is from one or two very disappointed gentlemen...

Monday, I spent my day wishing it away since that evening after work, I headed out to Hammersmith Apollo to see my hands-down favourite artist play the last of a series of 8 sold out shows he played in London. I've been a Bon Iver fan for years, but the only other time I've seen him live, I was in the wrong company and it was in the wrong venue (drunk and loud, open air aka the concert wasn't loud enough amazingly enough). This time, I didn't make the same mistake, I set out on my real-life clothes from work (much to the amused surprise of my colleagues who had never seen me out of a dress), and took the same bus that I usually take home.

As expected, the opener's become the most played artist on my itunes since the show, and unsurprisingly, Justin swept us all off our feet the second he took to the stage for his short but phenomenally good set. I walked the 20 minutes home with a smile on my face and a quiet thrum in my chest from the music that had just finished reverberating through it.This is the calm before the storm, but I was too distracted to take many good photos during the show. In any case, you can’t capture sound on camera anyway, it’s safe to say that my eyes didn’t really need to work for me to be fully and wholly consumed by what I could have been looking at.

Wednesday, met up with Paris after work to go to his new favourite place in the city, which happens to be feet from where I work. The top of the Picturehouse Central cinema holds a members-only seating area that allows you a view over all of Picadilly circus, and we stopped there for a drink and a chat. If you know me at all, you know I've seen a total of 3 movies in the past decade probably, so buying a membership to a movie theatre is probably the last thing you'd expect from me, but hey, I'm full of surprises what can I say. And for this view?? Worth it I think.

Thursday March 8th meant happy international women's day! I learned that it's a massive deal in Eastern Europe, so much so that 4 bouquets of flowers were delivered to our office for the director of the Russian Worldwide Sales Office (based in our building). I always thought it was something created in the West, but evidently not. My way of celebrating was with a few friends for dinner, but soon after arriving I found out that I couldn’t escape my past as a pad-lady since there’s truly nothing more empowering than being the face of sanitary napkins apparently... They forced me into it, here for your viewing pleasure.

Friday after work, I met Paris at the very same place he’d shown me the week before - we’ve had to have a lot of marathon catch-ups recently to make up for the time we’ve lost together in the office, and I have a feeling I’ll be visiting this theatre overlooking Picadilly Circus a lot over the coming weeks to do just that.

Saturday, came across this funny little street sign that reminded me of home. Even more amusing was the fact that I was in a neighbourhood near one called Forest Hill. I always gave the people who named my area a bit of flack for having been so unoriginal, but perhaps they were inspired by someone even less innovative than them. To make things worse, I was visiting someone named Emily. Too many parallels thank you. And yes, under the sign is a box of Yorkshire tea, in case you needed any more proof that I’m in England.

Saturday night, headed to a vegan restaurant called Chloe where we celebrated one of my ex-colleagues birthdays under a sign that displayed how my generation looks at the monarchy.

Sunday morning, I finally headed to one of the markets I’ve been most desperate to go see, with the most fantastic company I could have imagined of course! I met Paris and Giulia at the entrance to Liverpool Street station, and from there, we walked to the first of our two markets of the day.

Spitalfields market is a mix of food and clothing, textiles, wares and art and trinkets, anything you can imagine wanting you can probably find there. It’s not somewhere you want to go if you’re tight on your budget or bad with temptation, the three of us had to resist the urge to empty our pockets at least half a dozen times. Didn’t take too many photos since my iphone wasn’t giving me what I wanted in terms of photographic standard, but I did manage to snap this photo of a legit wood-fire stone pizza oven contained inside a food truck, which I found quite impressive I must say.

Thanks to my mom’s recommendation, the three of us knew exactly what to order when we finally made it to the mouth of Brick Lane market. Dark Sugars is a chocolatier that’s more than just a storefront. Staff walk around with trays of samples, there’s a fantastic soundtrack, and they sell truffles in every flavour under the sun, including some that have tiny liqueurs that you inject into the truffle just before digging in.

As cool as all that is, the reason we came was for their famous hot chocolate. They don’t use powders or syrups - instead, they take chunks of milk, white, and dark chocolate and shave them in front of you, displaying them in a tasty rainbow on top of steamed whole milk.

It’s your daily requirement for sugar and everything else no doubt, but it was worth the inevitable sugar high as well as the small dent on my wallet.

From there, we walked along to the second spot we were adamant on hitting that morning - the Beigel Bake is one of Brick Lane’s most well known and longest-standing attractions.

Opened in 1974, they serve classic ‘Jewish-style’ Beigels and salt beef for a relatively paltry price tag. They’re open 24 hours, though walking into the place at high noon made it hard to imagine in any state other than packed to the brim busy. If any of you are familiar with the soup nazi from Seinfeld, that’s the vibe you get when you walk in. The line was out the door and almost to the corner, though it moved at a decent pace thanks to the no-funny-business, military-efficiency being demonstrated by the staff.

Even though my body doesn’t agree with bread, I ordered the classic salt-beef beigel with gherkins, and though my body must have taken issue with something else I had consumed that day, it was entirely worth it. Paris added to his meal a 99p piece of cheesecake that honestly blew my mind when he offered me a bite, I swear if anyone you know is down to their last few pence and needs to feed themselves for a week, stocking up on that dense and perfect cheesecake might do the trick to keep them going.

Brick lane really is all about the food though - there are a number of warehouses that you pass while hopping between stalls, and they’re all filled to the brim with stalls of vendors selling food from all around the world. From italy to the Netherlands, you can find your country - there’s even a poutine stand being run by some Canadian ex-pats! Of course, there are thousands of other things available like any market, and I went home with a map of England and Wales from 1900 that cost me a grand total of £5. See, it pays to be into things no one else wants!

And with that, I headed home with a happy belly and happier heart.

Next week, my last week of training, the beginning of some real sales work, and some blasts from my PBX past!

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viralhottopics · 8 years ago

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A morning with ‘adorable deplorables’: why Trump supporters are optimistic

On a bus bound for the inauguration in Washington, backers of the new president explain their views: He isnt putting people down

On the bus, in the morning darkness, Steph and Brandi put on their makeup, using a phone as a mirror.

Stephanie Friess and Brandi Tillman have been friends since high school, and now they were on their way from Wilmington, Delaware, to Washington to celebrate the man who had given them a brand new country.

On election night, Steph stayed up past 3am to see Trumps victory being announced. The next morning, remembering the night before while driving her car, the 24-year-old felt jubilant to be living in Trumps America.

The two women made matching Trump caps blue and black decorated with sequins and the slogan Adorable Deplorable in honor of the inauguration. Hillary Clinton had tried to attack Trump for lifting up the most deplorable among his followers: the racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamaphobic you name it. Trumps followers had proudly reclaimed the term, and now Brandi and Steph bedazzled it.

Two friends on an early bus to Trumps inauguration apply their makeup. Photograph: Lois Beckett for the Guardian

On Saturday, hundreds of thousands of women will be marching in Washington in protest of Trumps presidency in a demonstration called the Womens March.

While large majorities of black and Latina women voted against Trump and for Hillary Clinton, white women didnt. Brandi and Steph are part of the majority: early exit polls showed that 53% of white women voted for Trump, including 45% of women with college degrees.

The two women, both college students, were not entirely convinced by Donald Trump at first. But, Steph said, he definitely grows on you. Both friends say they appreciate Trumps bluntness, his toughness, his lack of greed, and what seems like a genuine love for America.

He wants everyone to be successful, Stephanie said. He isnt putting people down.

Brandi liked Mitt Romney, but he wasnt strong enough, the 25-year-old said. He wasnt empowering us enough. He plays that innocent politician role that all politicians play. Trump doesnt do that.

A cake cant be racist

On the bus to Washington, many of the womens fellow white Trump supporters expressed frustration at constantly being labeled racist. It was a term, some argued, that liberals just threw around whenever they were losing an argument.

A local bakery in Pennsylvania had just produced tiny hat-shaped Make America Great Again cakes in honor of the inauguration, and a short post about the themed cakes on Facebook had sparked a long debate, with some commenters labelling the bakery racist, or saying they would not longer patronize it. Why not a grab em by the p*ssy cake? one commenter asked. Or a deport all immigrants cake?

Laura Ann bought two Make America Great Again cakes. Photograph: Lois Beckett for the Guardian

The bus supporters were indignant. They had won. It was supposed to be a day to celebrate. And yet the news was full of protests and threatened disruption, and even a bakery making an inauguration dessert had somehow become divisive.

A cake cant be racist, Dave DeFries, a longtime Trump supporter from Delaware County, Pennsylvania, said in exasperation.

In the seat behind Brandi and Steph, Laura Ann, 34, who asked that her last name not be used, had bought two of them. She sliced them and handed them out. The cake was moist, the frosting tasting faintly of marshmallow.

Laura Ann had voted for Obama twice. She worked in healthcare, and had wanted the president to fix the health insurance system. He had failed. She was still kicking herself for voting for him. As a gun owner with several AR-15 rifles she found them light and easy to handle as a female shooter she had also been frustrated by the constant attacks on the so-called assault rifle.

Id really like to see [Trump] help the inner cities more, she said. She thought Ben Carson, who grew up in Detroit and went on to become a surgeon, would be a great force in helping urban America.

Eileen, at 46, had cast her first ballot ever for Trump. I want the jobs to come back to America, she said. Her brother, a systems analyst, had lost his job to workers in India and had been forced to personally train the Indian worker who was taking his place, under threat of losing his pension.

Eileen also felt Obama had failed to bring insurance companies in line to bring healthcare costs down. Worried that her high school friends who voted for Clinton would attack her, she asked not to publish her last name.

Many of the supporters said they had never been politically involved before Trump ran for president. Several had voted for Obama at least once. Some of the new activists said they were amazed by the energy of Trumps movement. It doesnt seem like a political environment, Dave Ennis said. It seems like were going to a football game.

Some said that their friends or family were worried that something might happen on inauguration day, that the protests might make DC dangerous. One man mentioned that he had seen a video produced by the conservative provocateur James OKeefe about activists discussing a plan to throw acid on Trump supporters.

Its like, I get it, I get it, slavery was bad. I didnt do it

At the back of the bus, Dave sat opposite his wife and 16 year-old son, Brian, who he called a liberal snowflake. The two of them argued constantly, the father said, especially about Black Lives Matter.

Brian said he believed that the Black Lives Matter protesters and the Boston Tea Party rebels were identical except for their race. Protesters had to be loud to make themselves noticed. His father was more skeptical that black Americans were being unfairly victimized. His own interactions with the police when he was younger had taught him that when people chose a certain lifestyle, the police would target them and there was nothing wrong with that.

Inauguration buttons on sale in Washington DC on Friday. Photograph: Lois Beckett for the Guardian

Brandi and Steph said that felt that racism toward black Americans had been given a disproportionate platform compared with other kinds of racism. They disapproved of Obama supporting the Black Lives Matter movement, which they saw as racist.

Why is it Black Lives Matter, not all lives? Stephanie asked.

I just dont think most cops are out to get black people, Brandi replied.

The media blows a lot of this out of proportion, Stephanie said.

I didnt think its bad that we had a first black president. Thats not bad. Thats great, Brandi opined. But Obama should not have been elected to a second term. I think his color had a lot to do with that.

In school, Brandi said, some black girls had bullied her, and when she complained, my teacher told me to grow a thicker skin.

Asked about the systemic inequality black Americans face in the criminal justice system, or in education Brandi said that, because shes been living in Delaware, a relatively liberal state, maybe I havent seen that as much.

I, like, see the opposite. Black people get free college, she said. My moms a single mom. Im not white privileged, and Im sick of being told I am.

Both said that felt they had grown up and gone to school while constantly being told things trying to make us feel bad for being white. Slavery was a topic of discussion again and again, the schools focused on black authors, its always black history month.

Its like, I get it, I get it, slavery was bad. I didnt do it, Brandi said.

Brandi said she felt bad for her other minority friends Hispanic, Asian, Indian who also faced racism, but seemed to get less attention. Her Indian American friends faced job discrimination, she believed, by people who might not think they fit the look they wanted, or who bought into the stereotype that they might be terrorists.

Im a little bit worried about the tweeting

Both friends also had some concerns about Trump. Stephanie didnt believe for a long time that Trump could really pull off a presidential demeanor. Thats why she thought Clinton would win. Brandi said she did not believe new environmental protections should be rolled back, and her stepmother had serious concerns about Trumps pick for education secretary, Betsy DeVos, a billionaire philanthropist and school choice advocate whose understanding of basic educational concepts and laws came under question during her confirmation hearing. I know teachers arent very happy about that, she said.

Brandi Tillman, 25, and Stephanie Friess, 24, display their homemade Adorable Deplorable hats on the way to Trumps inauguration. Photograph: Lois Beckett for the Guardian

Im a little bit worried about the tweeting, Brandi added. She was concerned, she said, that he might say something

That he cant take back, Steph broke in.

But for the most part, the two friends were optimistic that Trump would tackle the economy, create jobs, address cyber-attacks, and make America stronger. Brandi, who was waitressing as she went through college, said: Id like to see more money. Id like to see more tips.

Neither of the friends had been concerned about his comments about grabbing women by the pussy. That was 10 years ago, and people change, Brandi said.

Brandi said if a famous billionaire had tried to grope her, she would have sued immediately, not stayed silent for years until the man ran for president. Damn straight, if someone gropes me, I would want to sue, she said. Steph disagreed. She probably would have stayed quiet, she said.

A Belgian journalist who was also on the bus then took his turn and interviewed the two women about their support for Trump, and asked them to comment on the fears many Americans have about the coming months.

Brandi said her faith as a Christian kept her from being too anxious, and that Americans should calm down. Trump, after all, was just the president.

Hes not God. Hes not Hitler. Its not the end of the world, she said.