#Chutney you little devil

[callmearcturus]

the au everyone but me is sick of

so while i was super depressed and sad, i did the Extremely Predictable and wrote more fallout AU to comfort myself. someone left a comment suggesting i write out the full epilogue so I started doing that just to ensure I was writing SOMETHING.

i have no idea if I will finish, so here is what I have so far for your amusement.

this will make literally no sense if you haven't read out here the good girls die.

Even now, Karkat had never learned how to be a morning person, and so assumed he was just never going to make that switch. Here in the late California summer, the mornings were blessedly cool and forgiving while his beloved nights were balmy until the moon was high in the sky. For comfort's sake alone, he should have adapted.

But no. Like clockwork, every morning found him here, sitting at the kitchen table with his eyes mostly shut, his head heavy on his neck in a way that let him doze for a while, yes, but also ensured he was going to get a knot lodged right at the top of his spine. This was the devil's bargain he took Monday to Friday, except for the Fridays where he decided the office could just open later, he didn't care.

"Are you conscious, ranger?" 

"No," Karkat said, managing to make one syllable into a vehicle conveying his ire.

"Poor baby," another voice said, and something was set down in front of Karkat. He blurrily opened his eyes and looked at the plate. A nice little pile of roti with a generous scoop of chutney. 

Karkat smiled to himself at the sight. He'd missed his father's breakfast as soon as he left home some ten years ago. Getting to have it again as Dave picked up on a few recipes was heartwarming in a way that threatened to cause a brush fire in his chest.

Tearing one roti, he dabbed it through the chutney. "The lemons came in?"

"They're, like, almost oranges? I dunno, your dad says citrus crossbreeds a bunch." Dave knuckled his hip and looked across the kitchen at Rose.

She shook her head silently; Rose didn't eat breakfast most days. Apparently that was the default for her, divorced from her life in the Mojave where everyone ate whenever they could, unsure of when their next meal would be. "The free lovers of the produce world," she offered in bemusement.

"Ugh," Dave said, nose wrinkling.

"Contain your prudishness."

"M'not a prude, I just don't want to think 'bout the orchard orgies this early, it's perfectly fuckin' reasonable." He held out a spoon to her. "Will you just try this, it's the first one pops let me do on my own without hoverin'."

"It's good," Karkat confirmed as he ate.

"Your constant need for approval is truly your greatest failing," Rose told him sternly as she bent to taste the chutney. Dave tried to swat her; she dodged nimbly. "Don't, I just did my hair." Swallowing, she gave him one brisk, prescribed nod. "Tart. Anise?"

"Yeah, I don't dig anise, but baba fucking insists on it."

"It's good," Karkat said again.

"What is his name?" Rose asked suddenly. 

"Who?" Dave picked up a roti for himself and spooned in some chutney, rolling it like a little burrito.

"The elder Vantas."

"Dunno. At this point, I'm playin' the long game, seeing if I can go the my entire life without knowing."

Rose crossed her arms and looked at Karkat, eyebrow lifted.

Shrugging, Karkat chewed slowly and offered no answer.

"Fine, please yourself," Rose said. She always referred to Karkat's father with dignified appellations, Father Vantas and Monsieur Vantas and such. Karkat was pretty sure her mouth refused to form diminutive sounds like *baba.* It was fun to watch her verbally dodge each one while Dave tacked more on.

He wasn't about to spoil that for them.

"You have an appointment with the teacher's union in an hour," Rose announced. "When you have sated yourself, let's be off, councilor."

"And who's your meetin' with?" Dave asked sunnily.

"What could you mean, brother-mine, I'm just the secretary." She opened the fridge and took out a nuka. Cracking the top of with a precise strike against the counter, she took a swig. "Hurry up, Karkat."

If working with the military had taught Karkat anything, it was how to march.

=

As of the last regional election, Karkat worked out of the council house. Vineyard wasn't such a political foothold in the Republic that it had been contentious, and there were enough other former military people peeled off the Navarro base that Karkat's commendation had actually meant something.

It hadn't been how Karkat intended to spend his retirement, but also Rose was right; he was civic-minded and liable to go fucking stir-crazy if he didn't have something to do. So in the end, he let the whole thing happen.

And here he was, his schedule peppered liberally with meetings, trying to figure out how to not piss off too many people, and to really piss off very specific people.

But on some level, he never stopped being a ranger and probably never would.

The representative of the teacher's union talked about their back order of textbooks from the closest press, how they'd put in the order two years ago and there was still nothing to show for it. It wasn't fair that children around Shady Sands had whatever materials they wanted while anyone even slightly off the highway had to make do.

Karkat asked what kind of books they needed, and took notes.

"Are we going somewhere," Rose asked when she caught Karkat in the living room with a map on the table.

"Another errand," Karkat muttered, walking his fingers from Vineyard to the spot on the map he needed. "You two can stay, it'll only be a few days."

"What sob story tugged at your overflowing bouquet of heartstrings this time?"

"School needs more books. Press is taking its sweet fucking time and kids are having to share texts."

"Sounds like the work of a strongly worded letter to the capital."

"Already sent one. Now it sounds like I can cut out the middle man and just hit this old vault for what they have."

"You hate vaults," Dave said from down the hall. "Why are we talkin' about vaults?"

"It's not really a vault," Karkat said. "Old Brotherhood bunker, remnants from a chapter that folded some fifty years back. All the tech got claimed by the Followers, but they'll let me have extra books for if its for education."

"And this something that must fall squarely on your own shoulders?" Rose asked, dropping herself into the armchair as she observed Karkat's manual cartography. As she did, Dave wandered in, his hair curling around the nape of his neck, damp from a shower, walking around barefoot with a towel around his hips.

"It's just…" Karkat frowned at them. "I know where to go, who to talk to, what to say. Why would I rope in some daytripper who doesn't know their ass from their elbow when I can just do it myself, the point is eliminating the middleman. I'm not going to add in another middleman for kicks."

Rose sighed loudly, leaning her cheek on her hand, as if Karkat was being disappointing in a predictable way. 

"You're staying here, I don't know what your issue is," Karkat said. "If I didn't know better, and I fucking do, I'd say you were concerned and were going to miss me."

"Luckily we do know better," Rose said dryly. "No, but Dave will, and I will have to deal with his longing looks and whimpering in your absence."

"Oh, fuck you," Dave said, turning right back around and leaving the room. "Bye, California, try not to step on a deathclaw's foot while you're out."

Pointing over her shoulder, Rose said, "See? He'll be like that the entire time you're away, and I will have to deal with it."

"Shut up, Rose," Dave called down the hall.

"I'm not even leaving yet, can you both relax," Karkat said with a sigh.

"Do try not to abandon us for too long," Rose said.

=

He didn't mean to abandon the twins for very long at all. The trip down southeast to the Follower operation was a two-book journey at most.

Karkat tended to estimate his time in that way. When he first was stationed in the Mojave, he got stopped at the Outpost. A security officer had gone through his stuff because generally speaking new people were only supposed to have one gear bag and Ranger Cancer had two.

"Is this thing just books," the officer had asked after awkwardly shifting the books around without removing them from the bag. They were very precisely arranged and stacked inside to maximize space, and the officer didn't seem like she wanted to fuck up the careful engineering.

"I'm on a two year tour," Karkat had said.

"This bag probably weighs more than a bodybag."

"Yeah." Karkat had already had this argument with his superiors back east. If Karkat was willing to carry the fucking thing, he could do what he wanted. However, if he dropped dead of exhaustion from carrying an extra bag through a goddamn desert, they'd leave him behind and write his cause of death as Stupidity.

Karkat hadn't dropped dead, and he'd read through his entire bag during his tour. He'd even given some books out to First Recon as gifts; he knew sniper work was a whole lot of waiting around in boring places.

But now, in California, Karkat took two books with him. They were perfect for passing time before nightfall; the perfect barometer of when he needed to get moving was the necessary light level for reading a yellowed Old World novel. As soon as he started to squint at the words, it was time to go.

Walking through California was different than the desolate quiet of the Mojave. Back in Vegas, Karkat had walked with his rifle in hand. The sight of anyone or anything moving on the horizon was a possible threat; raiders, mutated animals, motherfucking cazadors.

And there was still danger in California, but things were less…. ornery, as Dave would say. People were less willing to tempt death by ambushing a guy in ranger gear.

At Olompali, Karkat checked into an cabin. After cleaning up, he deliberated exactly how he wanted to handle this one. The Followers of the Apocalypse were not fans of the New California Republic, but generally they respected the rangers as a self-managing volunteer group. If the Followers believed in anything, it was anarchic altruism.

Karkat left his helmet and his mantle, keeping his armor light, with his patch on his shoulder. After more deliberation, he left his service pistol and kept his rifle on his back, hoping that would be a sign he was here to be useful but not a threat.

Rose was mortifyingly right about him, Karkat thought with a scowl. The careful picking and choosing of himself to make sure he got the reaction he wanted, it was all very political of him. Thank fuck she wasn't around to see it, to needle him and ask him to explain his precise choices.

Sighing, Karkat went to the old bunker.

The whole ordeal was familiar; the Followers were very sympathetic to Karkat's plight and were openly interested in providing assistance to educational efforts. And what a coincidence, they did have most of the hoarded library the Brotherhood had collected.

But there were just a few things they'd appreciate help with, if Karkat had some time. After all, he did bring a rifle.

Karkat liked the Followers but for fuck's sake, this wasn't his job anymore.

Dave and Rose:

Made it to the Followers safely. Stuck with their honey-do list before they'll give up the books. Will be a little longer than expected. Please remember to actually go shopping and pick up food so you don't starve.

Love you, see you as soon as I can.

California

For ten minutes, Karkat deliberated on the sign off. He'd been witness so many times to the particular distaste the twins had to outright shows of affection and emotional statements.

But it was a letter and he wouldn't be there when they got it, and thus would dodge all of their sarcasm and irritated hissing.

Sealing the letter, he found a courier on the way to Navarro and asked him to detour to Vineyard.

With that handled, Karkat geared up and stormed out on the trail of the raiders the Followers wanted to disappear.

=

The little venture out to the Followers took a few weeks, which was both longer than Karkat intended and shorter than he feared.

These things usually wound up being worth it in his experience. There were times when he showed up in the name of the NCR, carrying some kind of orders from on high, and knew the way people bristled at him, at the way that kind of control chafed against them.

He also knew if he showed up and did shit like this, crossing out items from the honey-do list with blood and dust under his nails, he'd usually luck into a more longterm relationship. People who actually did shit were the truest currency of the New World, more than caps and dollars.

So with a lingering sense of satisfaction, Karkat talked to the doctor running the outpost and verified there would be a caravanner up to Vineyard soon with all the books a brahmin could haul. And just as a bonus, they'd send one of their own instructors along to give a few lectures on science and medicine.

Perfect. With that promise secured, Karkat put his back to the camp and headed home.

By now, he'd traded his books for new ones. He barely read them, eager to get home and traveling straight through one night and into the next day.

Karkat enjoyed being a ranger, but he also enjoyed being home. Having a home still carried its own novelty bias.

With the accelerated pace, Karkat had the good fortune to return to Vineyard at night. As he walked through the streets, one watchmen wandered his way, suitably concerned about someone in full armor with a rifle just out and about in the city.

Karkat waved to him, and got a thumbs up. Just the local ranger, nothing to see here.

Well, ex-ranger.

Arriving home quiet as he could, Karkat divested of his gear in the living room. It was much easier to walk quietly without the extra tonnage weighing him down, less of a risk of waking the twins when the house was dark and quiet like this.

Drinking a full glass of water and washing up briefly, Karkat wandered down the hallway. Checking the double bedroom, he found both beds empty.

Frowning silently, Karkat walked over to his own bedroom, and nudged the door open further. To his relief, someone was sleeping there. The covers were pulled up high enough that he could only see the curve of an ear and some cornsilk white hair, so saying definitively who was impossible.

He could hazard a guess and slipped inside.

When he finally put a knee on the bed, there was a sleepy mumble from under the blankets, but nothing else. Which felt a bit like dousing the warmth in Karkat's heart with moonshine. He was prepared for the usual consequence of disturbing the sleep of a New Vegas citizen, the flash of a knife, the viper's strike. But all he got was a muffled slur of consonants that might've been Rose's name with a question mark attached.

Moving over Dave, Karkat dropped himself down behind, his body fitting into the space under the windowsill, back against the wall. He couldn't help the deep sigh loosened from him at the feeling of finally being off his feet.

For a few moments, he assumed that was that, and it was time to sleep. He certainly could just fall the fuck asleep now, the weeks of work and travel coming up from behind him to smother him into slumber.

Then, Dave shifted, and the back of his hand thumped against Karkat's chest, turning to let his fingers coast over his clavicle. "Not Rose," he muttered, turning more and opening his eyes, pale little wet crescents in the dark. "Look what blew in with the tumbleweeds."

Karkat closed his hand around Dave's, pulling it up to press his lips against the knuckles. "Hey."

"Been a while." His fingertips touched Karkat's jaw. "Mammillaria."

What? "What?"

"They don't got razors in the F-O-T-A?" There was a huff of laughter. "You are so prickly."

"Was kind of busy doing their goddamn busywork," Karkat grumbled. "Didn't have time between the raiders and setting up gecko traps and investigating their water filter theft thing."

"Fuckin' itinerant do-gooder." Dave pressed his thumb against Karkat's scratchy jaw, eyes shutting again.

"Shit got done." Karkat was perfectly fine with the little touches, the point of connection stretching across the gap between them, a soft landing after so much time away. "Where's Rose?"

Dave sounded drowsily amused. "Prob'ly shouldn't tell you."

"Why?"

"Think she's, uh. Having a sleepover with the hospitality guild. Talking about… plans."

Karkat's eyes popped open as he considered that. Rose out for a clandestine 2AM meeting with the local sex workers. Which, he would probably be supportive of whatever the fuck that was about, but also he needed some plausible deniability. Karkat was a terrible fucking liar. "Yeah, don't tell me that."

"Sorry, councilor," Dave chuckled. His fingers were still skating idly around. A little considering noise escaped his mouth.

"What's wrong?"

There was enough of a pause that when Dave said, "Nuthin'," Karkat knew he was lying. Squinting at him in the dark, Karkat watched Dave press his head further into the pillow. "You know how the dust out there can make someone's skin all shiny? You're rockin' that look pretty nicely, California."

He did know it pretty well, how there was that grace period between fresh-washed to grime where it was almost like every speck of dust caught some ephemeral light and shone, making someone look like they were carved by some lost Old World master. Many times, Karkat had seen that sheen over Dave's skin and had stared for way too long, wanting to touch but certain he'd smudge it, ruin it.

Also, that was back when touching Dave was less of an inevitability.

Closing his eyes and soaking up the attention, Karkat hummed quietly.  Curling his hand around Dave's arm, he thought he could definitely sleep like this. It had the possibility of being the best sleep of his life.

"Are you for real tired?" Dave asked. "You, mister sun hater? Mister night tripper?"

"I've been traveling for almost two days straight," Karkat pointed out mulishly. "I wanted to get back to you."

"Oh. Well." Dave blew out a breath, and sounded almost a little disappointed, which made Karkat squint at him. "If you are going to conk out then you at least gotta give me somethin'."

Bracing with his elbow, Dave slid in closer to Karkat and kissed him, hands curling around his neck, thumbs stroking Karkat's cheeks.

[annefic]

Ok so

I made that devilled pheasant recipe that was reported to be Anne's favorite in the issue of Country Life she guest edited (but with chicken rather than pheasant as it's a difficult bird to find around here out of season and expensive any time of year, and I didn't want to waste "shipping it in" money on something I might not even like)

Some thoughts:

I kinda had to guess my way through this because the recipe is super vague. No oven temperatures, very little indication of how long things should be allowed to cook, and based on the video I'm pretty sure the British are working with rather different definitions of "casserole" and "tender" than we are in the US

The spices the bird is boiled in smell divine by themselves, and I've saved the stock because I think it will make a great soup base. I about quintupled the garlic used because northern European recipes and especially British ones never use enough garlic. "One clove" is either a joke or like. Eating whole like a candy once it's dried or roasted amounts, not flavoring a dish to feed four amounts. I used three and also rubbed the meat in garlic powder before I did anything else with the recipe.

By the same token, I think it would materially improve the outcome if the meat were dry rubbed in all the spices (+extra garlic) and allowed to soak them in overnight before beginning the cooking process.

Included in the vagueness - it didn't say whether to keep or chuck the carrot and onions when you drain the meat. I chose to keep and I'm glad I did; the carrot in particular adds a lot to the final product

The only double cream available here comes already stiff... Not paying 15 fucking dollars for enough to have a full metric cup so I used one 6 oz jar and made up the difference with heavy whipping cream. They blended together quickly and easily.

The mango chutney-whipped cream-worcestershire mix used to dress it is... It tastes. It's very fruity and very strong. I think it would be more enjoyable if stood up against the gamey flavor of a pheasant; as it is it's very rich and rather overpowering. Definitely better evenly mixed in rather than slopped on top as the recipe asks, and I think it could stand either more heat or more time in the oven once the meat and cream are added together. (Due to the lack of a temperature in either real or fake units I assumed they meant to heat it in what Americans would call a "warm oven" - 175 to 200°F, not enough for further cooking to really occur just enough to get everything to a warm temperature.)

Overall thoughts: It's more positive than negative for me, but I don't think this is going to be the kind of dish just anyone would instantly fall in love with after the first bite. It's a very unique taste and uses fruit in a way I don't normally see it used with poultry. As I said already, I think the gamier taste of pheasant would probably help this considerably but I don't think that alone is going to make it a perennial favorite. The pheasant crumble pie in the issue Charles guest edited seems to have a more traditional flavor profile and I think that would fall more along my lines of preference - perhaps I shall make it later.

Uhhh, I don't know how to end this soooo

Bird

Frankly, it also looks more appealing mixed together. This has none of the darker more vibrant oranges showing in the picture of the finished dish on the website which is another reason I'm suspicious I didn't get the right idea of what "heat it in the oven for 10 minutes" was actually supposed to mean

[gutwrenchingguilt]

a little life on the east coast- an unabridged essay

I would’ve found my own way home that night, stumbling and carrying that beery air around me. And much to my chagrin, I had been so shrill; lip locking bleacher ornaments (of which you had to pry their wrinkled hands off) and emptying my limey stomach. By the end of the night, I had felt vile… bathed in red and blue lights, broken and American with lipstick mouth cuts peppering my porcelain cheeks. And I followed the train tracks for a somber moment, wishing I could just lay my dizzy head down on them. I remembered the seductiveness of death allured me- and the enormity of peace it would bring me. It was scary, and dark- the way I lived. And you galloped onward, racing up to me. God, I remembered. Here I am- simmering and drunk on the side of the road in a ditch, looking up at these tracks. And you stood in front of me like a god, shining and muscled. I was pretending (and I’m not sure if I succeeded or not) to be sultry, almost masculine for you, a little devil of the night. I’m glad you found me, I needed you to take me home and send me to bed. And when you climbed into bed with me, all I could do was melt into the thick of your arms like magma. You pressed your nose to the nape of my neck and I smiled as your fingers curled around mine; the knotted cluster serpentining right up to my heart. Maybe I’m getting somewhere with you. Maybe this is the concrescence of a long happiness where we’d reside in the East Coast. I wondered what it might be like. What might transpire… oh I can hear the violins flourishing now. 

We bought a little peace and quiet on the northern shores of the Chesapeake Bay. I loved the idea of a gray, shingled house like the ones they had in Nantucket or maybe Martha’s Vineyard, but the brick colonial stood as our little Monticello. I planted the hydrangeas and you painted the shutters an Old Ironsides navy blue, our windows hazily frosted and peppery. We had a crimson door and little white dormers. And in our sprawling lawn, your two black labradors chased each other and ran around the nautical flagpole, towering over our turpentined souls the American flag waving in the painted-blue wind. I loved our languid little parlor, the crown jewel being a Steinway and Sons grand piano. I’d strike those base chords down like I was digging my own grave as the melodies fluttered around our wing-backed chairs. That’s the same parlor we danced to Miles Davis barefoot on the hardwood floor; drinks, and liquor, and love in front of the bay windows. And those wispy curtains veiling the broken sunlight that slashed the room. And my two kitties (though they’re fully adult cats…I will always remember when they were babies) stretch on our Turkish rugs and luxuriate in those little golden lakes of sun. April roses and baby’s breath in each room, maybe on some antique our mothers gave to us; and Marseille paintings or mirrors or tapestries hanging above our hand carved mantles. Oh and the dinner parties we would throw. We would all gather, the wine always flowing, and eat our Maine lobster stew with sourdough bread and chutney- all on our fine china. Everyone’s cheeks are flushed as I tell some outrageous story about my strange interaction with the hostess at the ski resort in Jeffersonville, Vermont. She double booked us with the three stooges who were definitely planning a three-way! The hearty laughs, the dinner plates clanking, I’m spilling my wine on my cashmere sweater (you tell me not to worry about it as we can get a new one) and my heart is full. 

You were an academic angel, flying through universities that staggered above me. I contemplate how the city loved you, and how it chewed me up and spit me out a completely new person. I look at you. And I feel myself. How tenuous I am. How wayward and how magnanimous I am. And with that came the precariousness. I was so uncertain and scared that this life wouldn’t pan out to be everything I wanted. I glanced back at you with your Hollywood smile and I see that I am alive in you. Perennially it seems. We lay in our bedroom together after the day simmers to a darkness and it takes me back to that very first night. I’m still melting in those arms. Our hands are still interlaced and it stays like that the whole night. I wake up and peer out the window to our manicured garden with little Adirondack chairs that face the cold shore. We planned brunch at Chick and Ruth’s and strolled the docks and marveled at all the sailboats. Oh, the marina, and the masts, and the salt, it was all so divine. The opulence you had given me doesn’t even compare to the love that washes over me every day. They can think that I’m rich for all I care, for I am rich when you hold my hand. I am rich when your passional kisses press my forehead. And when I’m down, I am lifted up by your prosodic magnetism. Everything makes me rich when I am with you. 

[moos-cow]

Soulmate Prompt #20 (Wounds are shared)

Pairing: Luka Clemence / Reader Fandom: Ikemen Revolution Genre: Chutney-- (yes the raccoon deserves her own genre.) Word Count: 902 Warning: Mentions of blood and guns

She was an athlete, and he was a soldier.

“Shooter, are you ready? Standby--” 

BEEP.

You run the course under the heat of the sun. Eyes darting towards the targets and aligning them with your sights as you deliberately pull on the trigger twice each time. BANG BANG. Smoke slightly clouds your vision at the end of it all, and the scent of burnt gunpowder fills your lungs.

“Shooter, are you finished? Unload, and show clear!”

You remove the magazine from the pistol, and pull the slide back with your other hand to unload the chambered bullet. ‘What the-’ Your eyes shift to the large red streak on your forearm. Blood slowly trickling down to your elbow.

You don’t know where it came from or how it came to be. But, it all started there. 

Your then, flawless skin soon began to be marked by other mysterious wounds. No matter how cautious you were in and out of training, the wounds somehow kept on appearing. Some were as light as a paper cut on the finger, and others... Well, that rare one to the thigh almost sent you to the emergency room for stitches.

If you had to be honest, yes, it bothered you not knowing how and why you kept on getting them. But, as time passed, you noticed the immediate decrease in your then frequent injuries. From cuts and grazes, the severity bubbled down to a simple burn to the back of your hand, a tiny bruise, and the occasional papercut.

It really meant nothing until you fell into Cradle.

And until you sought refuge with the Black Army.

“AHH! Alice!” Seth squealed right off the bat at the sight of the marks left by your previous scars as you tried on the dress he got for you. “What happened?! Who did this to you?!”

You explained-- or at least tried to. It was all a blur, nothing about them really seemed to make sense. You unconsciously blamed yourself sometimes, thinking you were just too clumsy and maybe too careless to notice.

Then he told you a famous little story from when he was young. One that had to do with strange wounds and being someone’s soulmate. “Maybe it was from your soulmate?” Seth shrugged, then gushed at the mere idea of you meeting your soulmate. You laughed hard, immediately dismissing it as impossible. 

You amused yourself that evening, thinking of those little burns you get from the ejected shells that get caught up in your clothes, and the cuts and bruises you get from both training and competitions. ‘If I got their wounds, well then HAHA- that poor soul, they’re getting mine as well.’

But your uneventful days in Cradle took a 180 on a perfectly normal afternoon at the Black Army Headquarters.

“LUKA! GET DOWN!” You screamed to the unwary Jack from across the courtyard, alarming him of the charging presence of the Queen’s wet and wild pet raccoon, “CHUTNEY! COME BACK HERE!”

You promised Sirius earlier that day that you’d give Chutney a bath while he was gone. But alas, without warning, the young raccoon decided to storm off and terrorize anyone and everyone she could find, including the soldiers who were practicing their marksmanship with Fenrir and Seth. 

“GUNS DOWN! UNLOAD, AND SHOW CLEAR!” You shouted and instantly ordered the soldiers to lower their weapons as Chutney darted to the center of their field. You followed right after her, panting for dear life. 

She stayed there for a few good moments until you and the three present officers slowly had her completely surrounded.

“Easy. Easy. Atta girl, Chutney.” Fenrir slowly approached the raccoon from the side with a large towel in hand. All was actually looking well and going smoothly until--

BANG.

A soldier accidentally fired his gun to the ground and scared Chutney once again. She squeaked and frantically charged towards your direction, climbing up your leg and up to nestle at your shoulders, scratching your arm with her sharp claws in the process.

“OWW!” You and Luka yelled in unison, gripping the exact same area of your injured arms.

The courtyard fell silent. Deafeningly silent.

Chutney jumped off your shoulders and ran up to the approaching Sirius. “What happened here?” He asked, his voice was all too relaxed for the situation at hand, but no one batted an eye towards him.

The soldiers began exchanging looks and whispers. Seth and Fenrir stood there, agape, as you and Luka checked on your respective wounds.

"No way.” Fenrir spoke from under his breath. “No freakin’ way!”

You looked at Fenrir questioningly, then turned to Seth who had both hands on his cheeks and was on the brink of screaming. Then you turned to Luka, who just looked at you with widened eyes. His amber irises stood out beneath his completely flushed face as he held that same spot on his arm that you were holding too.

“Alice, remember that famous little story I mentioned to you before?” Seth spoke to you with a lowered voice.

“What? That soulmate thing?” you ask nonchalantly. A moment later, everything started to process in your mind. “Wasn’t that just- What? How?” You stuttered  and were at a loss for words.

“Alright, you two.” Sirius laid his hands on yours and Luka’s shoulder, lightly nudging you two towards the back door with a wide and satisfied grin on his face. “Infirmary. Now.”

[grandmaster-anne]

PRINCESS ANNE’S FAVOURITE RECIPE: The Ritz’s executive chef cooks devilled pheasant

Country Life | Published 29 July 2020

The Princess says: ‘Most people think you just roast pheasant, but there are lots of other things you can do  with game and it’s worth eating!’ 

THE pheasant may not be worth the expense of rearing from the sportsman’s point of view,’ thunders P. Morton Shand inA Book of Food. ‘But it is worth almost any sacrifice from that of an epicure.’ Shand published his trenchant tome (‘This is frankly a book of prejudices, for all food is a question of likes and dislikes’) nearly a century ago, but how times have changed.

Because, although the keen shot, standing deep in some Devon or Yorkshire valley, may marvel at birds soaring stratospherically overhead, they’re rather less thrilled by the eating. A dowdy dowager aunt, if you like, to the more glamorous grouse, teal or woodcock. Too lean, they say, too dry and—unless you favour the Victorian method of hanging the bird until the flesh decays and the maggots plop heavily to the floor—a touch too dull.

Sure, we’re happy to shoot them by the hundred. And take a brace at the end of the day. If we don’t eat the game we bring down, there’s simply no justification for the sport. Too often, however, the pheasant has been condemned to chest-freezer Siberia, lonely, lost and unloved. I’m guilty of this myself. A brace of partridge barely makes it to the fridge before being transformed into some fragrant Indian curry. A young grouse is always swiftly roasted. But the pheasant? In culinary terms, this is a bird more sinned against than sinning.

‘The correct cooking of pheasant is of paramount importance,’ declares John Williams, the quietly brilliant executive chef of The Ritz in London. ‘It’s a lean bird and you have to get it just right.’ Under normal circumstances, I’d be at his side, in those vast and gleaming kitchens that stretch out beneath Piccadilly. Today—for obvious reasons—we’re talking by telephone about The Princess Royal’s favourite recipe, devilled pheasant (see box, page 136).

‘It’s a very simple recipe,’ he continues in his soft Geordie burr. ‘Basically, a couple of whole pheasants are poached, then taken off the bone, shredded and kept warm in the poaching juices. You just add freshly whipped cream, left in the fridge for an hour to stiffen, mixed with a good amount of Green Label mango chutney. Ithas to be Sharwood’s Green Label, nothing else. I went out and found that specially.’ Mr Williams may be one of our country’s great chefs, yet it would be a brave man indeed who decided to ‘reinterpret’ a recipe from The Princess Royal. ‘Add in a little Worcestershire sauce, remove the pheasant from its juice, cover with the cream mixture and put it in the oven for 10 minutes to heat through. That’s it, very, very simple, but it tastes great.’

So this is not exactly ‘devilled’ in the traditional sense. I was expecting a sprinkle of English mustard powder, a flurry of cayenne. At the very least, a decent jig of Tabasco. However, having ventured deep into those wilder reaches of my freezer, retrieved a pheasant, defrosted it and cooked the recipe myself, I have to agree with my teacher. It’s a damned fine dish, splendidly succulent and robust in flavour. And one that has now been firmly etched onto my (admittedly short) list of pheasant classics.

Devilled pheasant

Method

Put the pheasants in a casserole with carrot, onion, garlic, parsley and herbs. Cover the birds with water and then cover the casserole. Bring to the boil and simmer gently until tender.

Remove the meat from the bones and pour back the juices in which the birds were cooked. Heat the meat very slowly in the juices, so it does not become dry. Meanwhile, whip the double cream into a stiff consistency. Leave it in the refrigerator for about an hour until it becomes quite hard, then beat the mango chutney and Worcestershire sauce into it. Keep it cool in the fridge until ready to be used. Place the flaked meat, thoroughly drained of cooking juices, into the dish in which it is to be served, cover it with the cream mixture and put it in the oven for 10 minutes to heat through.

Hint: the birds can be cooked in the morning and the rest of the preparation done about 1½ hours before dinner, but remember to keep the stock in which the birds were first cooked for reheating.

Ingredients

Mr Williams loves game ‘in every sense’. However, as we discuss the relative unpopularity of the pheasant, he does wonder why it doesn’t enjoy the adulation that other game birds enjoy. ‘Perhaps the modern, reared pheasant has lost a bit of its flavour,’ he muses. ‘I’d love to try a truly wild one. Still, I use them every now and again. If I roast one, I always bard the bird with bacon or lardo fat, cover it totally. I brown it first in the pan with lots of butter and cook it at 200˚C for 15 minutes, then rest it for another 15 minutes before carving.’

2 pheasants

1 large carrot

1 large onion

1 clove garlic

1 sprig parsley

1 sprig thyme

2 bay leaves

250ml (½ pint) double cream

1 large jar Green Label mango chutney

4tbspn Worcestershire sauce

He pauses, lost in gamey reverie. ‘Oh, and when you make the gravy, add a good lump ofbeurre noisette [‘hazelnut’ or browned butter] to the hot pan. It makes all the difference.’ He serves it with sauerkraut or cabbage studded with crisp bacon lardons.

Are there any other recipes he loves? ‘My favourite dish is when you stuff truffle andfoie gras under the pheasant’s skin.’ Now we’re talking. ‘Then flambé it with Cognac, Madeira and more truffle. Then add a truffle sauce, seal it in a dough cocotte and cook for 15 minutes, no more.’ It’s not exactly the most simple of kitchen supper dishes. Or the cheapest. But this is the sort of feast that would make most serious eaters (Shand included) weep tears of greedy glee.

My children will happily devour the breasts, battered thin and breaded like a schnitzel, although I do have to admit I pass it off as chicken. In this case, ignorance (and an empty plate) is bliss. Thighs and breast make a decent curry, too, and I’ve finely chopped the meat to use in a fiery Northern Thailarb , although it does need a handful of minced pork for extra fat. A classic Frenchsalmi is another reliable standby, albeit one that requires a little work.

My friend and fellow food writer Matthew Fort has adapted a classic Michel Guérard duck-ham recipe, using pheasant breasts instead. Simply bury in salt—spiced with coriander seeds, allspice, juniper berries, black pepper and star anise, crushed in the pestle and mortar—for 36 hours. Rinse off the salt and slice thinly. They’re a revelation. The rest of the carcass is used for stock.

If cooking seems too much of a chore, worry not. I was lately dazzled by a pheasant sausage roll from Wild & Game (www.wildandgame. co.uk), the pastry burnished, the filling rich and gently gamey. Their pheasant and venison sausages are pretty fine, too. It’s time to give these cheap, lean and sadly under-rated birds a second chance. Come shooting season, there’s an awful lot of pheasant about. The very least we can do is enjoy them.

[recentanimenews]

FEATURE: 7 Anime-Inspired Burgers Of The Day Bob Belcher Could Add To The Menu

  Bob Belcher and his family have finally made it to the big screen, and what could go better with a family-friendly movie than family-friendly food fare? If you’re not ordering a juicy burger to nosh on while watching The Bob’s Burgers Movie, you’re doing it wrong.

  Bob, of course, is known for his burger of the day — a special burger with unique ingredients and a pun-based name. And so many are total hits, like the “Pepper Don’t Preach” and “Last of the Mo-Jicama.”

  Naturally, this leads to the question: What if Bob based his burger of the day on different anime? Keep reading to find out, but just a warning: you may get hungry.

  The Bourbon & Buu Burger - Dragon Ball Super

    If there’s one thing the Belcher kids love, it’s Halloween. If there are two things, they're Halloween and fantastical stories in which heroes come in the clutch to save the world. The Bourbon & Buu Burger combines both of these things with one of anime’s biggest villains, and, well, ghosts.

  It’s made of a mix of bison and ox meat stuffed with Buu cheese (bleu cheese), topped with bourbon-glazed bacon, and crunchy Piccolos (pickles). The buns are buttered and lightly toasted in a pan to add additional flavor. The finishing touch? A napkin with two eyeholes cut out, carefully draped over the top.

  The Double Deku Burger - My Hero Academia

    With great power (and glasses) comes great responsibility. Heroes give their whole selves to those in need. Flying through the clouds, doing helpful things or, you know, finding kitchen stuff. Why not celebrate their hard work with a super special burger? This one features not one, but two beef patties with lettuce, tomatoes, red onions and Bob’s house-made Kacchan Ketchup!

  Served with an icy cold beverage and hot fries, what a refreshing clash! This burger is so good y’all might have to go back for more. Maybe Bob can even get his own personal hero, Torpedo Jones, to say he likes it!

  RELATED: Cooking With Anime - Giant Burger And Fries From "ACCA: 13-Territory Inspection Dept."

  The Turkey Club Sandwich - Ouran High School Host Club

    Listen, if Bob Belcher were ever going to make a burger that didn’t include some kind of red meat, it would be turkey. The man loves his Thanksgiving dinners, so pass the cranberry sauce, we’re havin’ mashed potatoes!

  This one features a fried turkey breast with lettuce, a delicate tomato bacon jam, ranch dressing, and toasted bread cut into four with no crusts. And don’t worry, the turkey can easily be swapped out for chicken every other day of the year. The perfect burger for a smart, and strong woman who’s definitely old enough to sit at the adults’ table.

  The Spicy Dattemayo Burger - Naruto/BORUTO: NARUTO NEXT GENERATIONS

  Leftover from Bob’s foray into the food truck industry, this delightfully weird concoction starts with a 6oz wagyu (Hokwagyu? Is that anything?) patty stuffed with habanero pimento cheese and chopped up naruto. This is topped with spicy mustard aioli, crispy kale, and two Ichiraku ramen buns. Is it a little strange? Sure. Too spicy? Maybe. But is it good? You better BELIEVE IT!

RELATED: Does Boruto Eat More Burgers Than Naruto Eats Ramen?

  The Meatball Head - Sailor Moon  

Image via Toei Animation

  Don’t ever say Bob is a one-note chef. He can take a simple bowl of ground meat and transform it into anything, whether it be a patty or a … ball. This burger comes with a large meatball made with a blend of beef and pork, glazed in a teriyaki sauce, topped with wilted bok choy, and crystallized ginger on a sesame seed bun.

  Not only is Bob versatile, but this sandwich is also. It can be served anywhere from a school cafeteria to a formal event. Tuxedo mask optional.

The Blue-Finned Elephant Tunami Burger - One Piece

    No way would Bob even allow tuna to be served in his restaurant! This burger features a sea salt and pink peppercorn crusted tuna patty topped with a chutney of grilled devil fruits, one piece of cheese, and sprinkles of gold leaf. But you’ll have to be quick — this limited-edition burger is only available until Bob finds his way out of the wall.

  It’d be great to pack along for a ride in Teddy’s boat. Just a regular boat ride, not a murderous one.  Results may vary from consuming devil fruits.

  RELATED: This Surprising Technique Can Help You Achieve The Perfect WdDonald's Burger

  Don’t Burn The ‘Wich - BURN THE WITCH

    Can vegan food be good? Witch, Please! This vegan burger is so good, that you’ll think it was magic enough to take on a powerful witch like Mr. Ambrose. It’s a black bean patty blended with mushrooms and carrots. It is then topped with caramelized onions, sunflower seeds for crunch, and dragonfruit ketchup.

  What would possess Bob to serve vegan burgers? Especially after the debacle that was sweet potato fries? Maybe he’s just looking out for his not-friend Teddy’s heart. Aww.

  Does this menu of anime-pun-based burgers have you starving? Which one will you be ordering up? Let us know in the comments below!

    By: Yali Perez

[hoseas-angry-ghost]

YES YES YES I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR UR THEORIES

Hello anon! I am very surprised anyone wants to hear my chutney but here's my Strange Man Hot Take with some hopefully interesting info for curious parties:

To be honest, R* included so much misdirection around the Strange Man's identity (especially in RDR1) that I'm not *totally* convinced they're married to any one idea. RDR2 also complicated things by introducing new religions into Red Dead's world (Voodoo, Old Norse, etc.): he's no longer limited to just Christian / Western interpretations, as in RDR1, and it's possible R* might try to syncretise him with figures from other faiths (they did place Bayall Edge in Bayou Nwa, where most of the Voodoo stuff is).

At the same time, though, I think RDR2 actually narrowed things down somewhat in terms of the direction R* chose to take his character, and what we were shown of that. There's still a level of misdirection in RDR2, but IMO, it almost comes off as half-hearted in comparison to what was basically trolling in RDR1 -- it seems like they were a lot more focused on playing the "bad news" angle the second time round.

Based on what we know, and on the balance of things, I'm not convinced that the Strange Man is necessarily meant to be any one thing or figure, but I do think he's meant to fulfil some type of Satanic role within Red Dead's world, either in main or in part.

I won't compare and dissect other theories or anything, I just thought I'd list off some things that people might find interesting:

Armadillo. The deal between the Strange Man and Herbert Moon seems to be a pretty textbook Faustian bargain: Moon is offered earthly rewards ("happiness or two generations"), and although the price was (tellingly?) never specified, it seems like the recent Blood Money update for RDO all but confirmed that the cost was probably his soul. Although it's left ambiguous what Moon actually chose, the Armadillo curse was possibly an unforeseen (for Moon) consequence of the deal's terms, which would fit with similar tales of the devil or demon in question taking liberties with their end of the bargain.

In the files, there's some great audio of Moon off the shits and straight-up saying "I've made a deal with the devil, and I will never truly die!" It's possible this was cut for its own reasons (too overt?), but as a lot of stuff was apparently cut from Armadillo, I'm guessing it was either cut when Arthur in New Austin got cut, or it was part of something that R* didn't have time to implement in the epilogue. Either way, if it's not actually in the game then it's not technically canon, but it is an indication of what R* was thinking during development.

There's a lot of audio from the Armadillo townsfolk in general about devils and "devil curses," but the only thing I know of that definitely made it into the game is a line from the town crier ("Devil has the town in his hand").

There's audio of the Armadillo bartender saying "I heard the Tillworths made a deal with the devil to keep from gettin' sick! I don't wanna die any more than the next man, but ain't no safety worth a man's soul." Possibly idle gossip, but given Moon, possibly not.

RDO seemed to flirt with the idea of soul-selling a little bit with Old Man Jones' line "Well, this is America, so anything can be bought -- even souls," but then RDO pretty much just came right out and said it with Bluewater John in the Blood Money update. Bluewater John also apparently made a deal, almost definitely with the Strange Man (given the Moon deal and how close Bayall Edge is to all the drama); he was based on blues musician Robert Johnson and the myth that he sold his soul to the devil for mastery of the guitar. It's basically a rehash of the Moon deal, except it's... not subtle in its dialogue about deals, devils and souls.

"I GAVE EVERYTHING FOR ART, AND I LEARNED TOO MUCH AND NOTHING AT ALL" written on the wall at Bayall Edge also sounds like a reference to another one of these deals to me ("everything" being their soul, and "I learned too much and nothing at all" the foolishness of accepting eternal damnation for temporary knowledge). I think Bayall Edge might have originally belonged to a painter who struck a deal with the Strange Man for artistic skill, but then the Strange Man slowly possessed him or something -- which could be why some of the landscapes depict RDR1's I Know You locations, and why the writings on the wall kind of look like they deteriorate in quality. The puddle of blood at the foot of the portrait might also be linked to this somehow (whose is it?).

It's the deal-making for souls that really pushed the "devil" theory over the edge for me, because I can't think of whose wheelhouse that would be in except a devil's, or someone similarly malevolent.

Alternative name. The Strange Man's character model is called cs_mysteriousstranger in RDR2, and he's referred to as "the mysterious stranger" at least once in RDR1's in-game text. This could be a reference to The Mysterious Stranger, written by Mark Twain between 1897-1908, in which the stranger is a supernatural being called Satan. (At the end of the last version written, he tells the protagonist that nothing really exists and their lives are just a dream.)

Bayall Edge. Bayall Edge was possibly based on a Louisiana urban myth called the Devil's Toy Box, which is "described as a shack. From the outside, it is unappealing and average. ...The inside of the shack consists of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, including the walls. No one can last more than five minutes in this room. ...According to the legend, if you stood inside this mirror-room alone for too long, supposedly the devil would show up and steal your soul." The Strange Man does show up in the mirror eventually, and it's kind of curious that the paintings that change depending on your Honour act as metaphorical mirrors. This was also cut, but in the files, Arthur's drawing of the interior of Bayall Edge is unusually sloppy, like his faculties were impaired or something.

"Awful, fascinating and seductive". John writes this about Bayall Edge after the portrait is finished, and I think that's as good a description of something like the / a devil as any, but "seductive" is a big red flag for me, because it's such an odd choice of word and, from a Christian perspective, it's so loaded with connotations of evil and sin and temptation.

I Know You. Some have pointed out that I Know You in RDR1 resembles the Temptation of Christ, as it also takes place in three separate locations in the desert, and John is given moral tests in which he must choose between higher virtue or worldly vice. John is also, in a weird way, a kind of Christ-like figure in that he ultimately sacrifices his life for others. I do think the "temptation" in these encounters is very surreptitious but very much there ("Or rob her yourself" -- excuse me??), but they may also be operating on a Biblical definition of the word, i.e. a test or trial with the free choice of committing sin.

RDR1 dialogue. I don't want to get *too* much into this because I feel like we're all just getting punked in RDR1, but I think the Strange Man's dialogue broadly fits with something like a "devil" interpretation, or at least doesn't contradict it.

I'm thinking particularly of lines like "Damn you!" / "Yes, many have" (which would work metaphorically but also literally, given that the devil was thrown from heaven by God and his angels), and "I hope my boy turns out just like you" (of all the leading theories, I think Satan is the only figure who's popularly conceptualised as having a son, or prophesied to have a son -- God obviously had a son, but that ship kinda sailed).

I think the "accountant" line refers to Honour (which even uses an invisible numerical system), and how John's fate depends on the number of both good and bad acts he's committed throughout his life, and how these weigh against each other. If the Strange Man likes to collect souls, then he would have a vested interest in auditing you and seeing if your accounts are in the black or the red, as it were (and providing you with opportunities to push yourself further into the latter...), because if you're bankrupt, you're his.

Blind Man Cassidy. Interestingly, Cassidy seems to distinguish between "Death" and the Strange Man, implying that he's something else beyond his understanding: in one of Arthur's fortunes, after his TB diagnosis, he says "the man with no nose [Death] is coming for you," but in one of John's fortunes, he says "Two strangers seek thee: one from this world, perhaps one from another. One brings hatred; I'm not so sure what the other brings."

Arthur's cut dialogue. In the files, there's audio of Arthur having the exact same conversation with Herbert Moon as John in the epilogue, asking about the Strange Man picture because he "just seemed familiar". I think it's interesting that, like John, Arthur also would have apparently recognised the Strange Man despite (presumably) never seeing him before. Given how strong a theme morality is in Red Dead -- and how much both John and Arthur struggle with it -- my theory is that they find the Strange Man vaguely familiar because they're both familiar with the evil within themselves, or the potential for evil; and likewise, the Strange Man "knows" John because he embodies evil in some sense, so is aware of John's worst sins (like his involvement at Blackwater), or possibly even all of his sins (which would be, like, a lot).

Honourable mention: There's such a greater emphasis on conspiracies, myths, etc. in RDR2 that I half-wonder if the Strange Man's RDR2 incarnation was partly inspired by Hat Man (~excuse the link~ but often it's hard to find good sources for the kind of weird shit R* includes in their games).

ANYWAY, this got a little long but I hope someone found all this at least passably interesting. Thanks again for letting me ramble about the video game man, anon!

[chain-unchained]

July 11

Summer was well and truly upon the valley by the time of the Luau, making the escape to the beach for the festival a welcome relief from what would be the hottest day of the year; the salty breeze coming off of the ocean helped to cool the festival area down to manageable levels, but it was still hot enough to be quite uncomfortable. Still, that didn’t stop Pelican Town’s inhabitants from flocking towards the delicious scent of food wafting up from the shores. 

Carrying a platter of stuffed tomatoes, Ashe nervously made his way there himself; even though he thought he was an okay cook he’d never had other people try something he’d made before. The fact that this was the first time he’d attended a Luau only compounded his anxiety, even though he kept telling himself it was going to be fine and he would have a good time. If things got to be too much, he could always just hang out with Shane, since Shane tended to stay away from everyone anyway.

The beach was lively, decorated with a sort of tiki theme to give it a tropical vibe. The star of the whole affair, the massive potluck, was being lovingly tended to by Marnie in the middle of the beach, with Mayor Lewis and an unfamiliar, portly man standing nearby, watching and chatting with one another. Off to the left, a makeshift dance floor had been set up south of Elliot’s hut, with a pair of massive speakers pumping out some beachy dance numbers; there were several people enjoying the setup, including Jas and Vincent who were doing a very cute little dance together—but they were almost completely overshadowed by Emily, who was performing such an elaborate jig that it was hard to tell if she was just having fun, completely drunk off her rocker, or was in the middle of a strange seizure.

Off to the right, meanwhile, was the buffet, setup in a series of long tables covered in pristine white tableclothes and laden with delicious looking food. Just from a quick glance, it was clear to see what was home-cooked food from the likes of Marnie, Jodi and Caroline, and what was prepared by arguably the best cook in town, Gus. That wasn’t to say that the food made by everyone else wasn’t good, but Gus’ cooking was in a league of its own—in fact, he’d once told Ashe that he’d had a few cooking competition wins under his belt. Just as Ashe had anticipated, Shane was getting all up in the foodie offerings, following the trend of the rest of the townsfolk in wearing warm-weather clothing and trading in his hoodie for a loose fitting shirt to go with his stretchy shorts.

Almost as if he could tell that Ashe had been looking at him, Shane tore his eyes off of the deviled eggs he had been eying, waving a little to indicate he’d seen him. Relaxing a little at the sight of his best friend, Ashe began towards the buffet—

“Ah, Ashe! Ashe!” Lewis called, noticing Ashe before the farmboy had a chance to take more than three steps; hearing his name, Ashe immediately froze in place, visibly tensing up. ‘Drat.’ He thought with an internal sigh as he turned on his heel and started towards the mayor who was gesturing him over. “This is the newcomer I was telling you about, Mr. Abbott. Ashe, this is Mr. Abbott, Stardew Valley’s governer.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Abbott.” Ashe greeted with a friendly smile, as every cell in his body yelled at him to get his happy butt over to the buffet where there weren’t so many people around. He knew that would be extremely rude to do, though, and kept his feet firmly planted where they were.

“The pleasure is all mine.” At least the governer seemed like a friendly enough man, sweeping off his purple bowler hat to bow courteously to Ashe. “It certainly is good to have a face to put to the name, though I can’t say that you look at all how I expected.”

“What’s even more unexpected is just how much he resembles his grandfather when he was that age.” Lewis commented with a laugh. “Sometimes I forget what year it is and think that I’m speaking with Yogi again. But the boy’s got his old man’s green thumb. You really should swing by the farm before you leave today and see for yourself the kind of products that Ashe is putting out—”

The sound of a throat being cleared cut off Lewis’ enthusiastic gushing. “Pardon me for interrupting,” Percy spoke with a smug smile as he strode over, bearing a platter of fancy-looking drinks, “but I would be doing Pelican Town a huge disservice if I let the governer believe that Muhinyi’s farm is the best that we can offer. I think you would be quite pleased if you stopped by my ranch and got a first-hand experience there, Mr. Abbott.”

As he spoke, Percy offered the men the drinks on the tray, all smiles and charming charisma. “Oh? And who might this be, Lewis?” Abbott inquired, graciously accepting the offered beverage.

“Ah, yes, forgive me for not introducing our other newcomer as well.” Lewis too accepted a drink from Percy. “This is—”

“Percy Wellington III, at your service.” Percy placed his hand against his chest and bowed deeply to the governer. “Truly, it is a pleasure to make your esteemed acquaintance.”

“There was a…. minor dispute over the farmland.” Lewis explained to Abbott as Percy practically blocked Ashe from their view. “Percy and Ashe decided to settle it with a friendly little wager to see who could make the best use of the land in three years’ time.”

“I see, I see.” Abbott nodded his head. “I daresay that was a brilliant solution to the problem. May the better man win.”

Realizing that nobody was even talking to him at that point, Ashe gave up and silently left, sneaking over to the potluck to deliver a half-dozen of the tomatoes he hadn’t used for his dish before finally getting over to the buffet table. By the time he got there, he felt completely exhausted, even though the day wasn’t even half-over yet.

“Oh, there you are.” Shane commented as Ashe practically dropped his platter onto an empty spot on the buffet. “… Yeah, that’s how I feel too bud.” He looked over to where Percy was effortlessly schmoozing with the mayor and governer. “That guy really knows how to kiss ass, huh? I bet that silver tongue of his can convince the governer to actually donate this year.”

As Shane had been talking, Ashe poured himself a cup of punch; hearing that last bit, however, he paused mid-drink. “Donate?” He asked, coughing a little as a few drops went down the wrong tube.

“Yeah. The only reason Lewis holds the Luau every year is to try and get Abbott to give the town some money.” Shane popped a deviled egg into his mouth and closed his eyes in bliss; half of the reason why he came to the Luau was just to eat Gus’ legendary eggs.

“I… Is the town really that strapped for funding?” Ashe’s brows furrowed together in concern; Lewis had mentioned once or twice that money was a bit tight, but he never made it seem like things were dire.

Shane shrugged his shoulders. “It’s impossible to know since Lewis never gives a straight answer.” He answered simply, setting his plate down to get himself a bowl of hot pepper chutney. “But that’s just the feeling everyone has, considering most of the requests made during town hall meetings never get fulfilled.”

“…. I see…” Ashe gazed down to his punch as he fell quiet. ‘… That’s it.’ He thought, an idea hitting him after several seconds of deep contemplation. ‘When I win grandpa’s farm back, I’ll donate every bit of G I have to Pelican Town.’ He certainly wouldn’t need the money; nearly everything he needed he could get for himself on the farm, after all.

“Mm-MM. Damn, this chutney’s good.” Shane’s ecstatic praise of the food brought Ashe out of his thoughts. “Here, try some.”

He offered a taste to Ashe; seeing the excited look on his friend’s face, Ashe couldn’t bring himself to turn down the offer, despite being a huge wuss when it came to spice. “Ah, thank you~” He chimed, happy that Shane was happy and wanting to share with him. He could smell the spice even before the spoon got to his mouth, but that didn’t stop him from popping it right in. “…. Mm!”

It was a mixture of ‘tasty’ and ‘ouch’ that made the ‘mm’ sound; in the brief moment before the spice kicked in, Ashe enjoyed the rich, slightly sweet flavor of the peppers—and then the heat ramped up to 11, making his entire face red. “I-It’s delicious!” He commented with a laugh, as beads of sweat ran down his face. “I’ve never t-tasted anything like this before!”

“Pfft…” Shane saw right through the tough-guy act. “It’s fine if it’s too spicy for you. You don’t gotta pretend like you liked it. That just means there’s more for me, hehe.” He had to admit, though, it was pretty cute, the way Ashe was trying to play tough. “Here, try one of Marnie’s goat cheese poppers. Dairy cuts through the burn like nothing else.”

He grabbed a few of said poppers and set them on a plate for Ashe before handing it to him, taking pity on him since he was quite clearly suffering. “Th-thanks.” Ashe sputtered, wasting no time in gobbling up three of them; Shane could see the exact moment that the dairy cut through the capsaicin, as a blissful expression came onto Ashe’s face and his entire body relaxed. “Mmm…. These are so good~”

“You’re so over the top sometimes.” Shane snorted with a grin. “You better be sure to tell Marnie you liked them.”

“I will~” Ashe helped himself to some more. “… Just not right now. I still need to recharge before I’ll be up to talking with other people again.”

“Man, I get that feeling.” Shane felt that; it was how he felt right then, after all, and how he felt pretty much every day. But talking with Ashe didn’t drain his batteries like it used to; in fact, it was actually kind of nice to be able to bullshit and make jokes with someone during these festivals. “So what is this that you brought?” He asked, finally moving to look at Ashe’s dish.

Having just popped another popper into his mouth, Ashe hastily swallowed it so he could answer. “O-Oh, uh—it’s just some stuffed tomatoes.” He laughed nervously, as Shane stabbed one with his fork and set it onto his plate. “You don’t have to try them. I-I doubt they’re actually any good.”

“Ashe,” Shane looked to his friend with a deadly serious expression, “you should know by now that if it’s on the buffet table, I’m going to eat it. Besides, there’s only one way to find out what it tastes like.” He used his fork to cut into it, making sure to get equal amounts of the roasted tomato and the stuffing inside it before he popped it into his mouth.

“… No good?” Ashe asked meekly as Shane chewed with a contemplative look on his face.

In response, Shane held up a finger as a ‘wait a second’ gesture. “…. What makes you think this isn’t good?” He asked, once he’d swallowed his mouthful. “This isn’t half bad, Ashe. You grew the tomatoes, right?”

“Ah…” Ashe looked completely surprised that Shane liked it. “Y-Yeah, I… actually picked them this morning... It really tastes good?”

“I think so.” Shane took another bite. “You could seriously give Gus a run for his money with this. What’s in the stuffing?”

Bolstered a little by Shane’s praise, Ashe straightened up as his face brightened. “Bread crumbs, some herbs, a tiny little bit of hot peppers, some garlic and some parmesan. It’s one of my mom’s recipes, but I never made it before so I didn’t know how it would turn out.”

“You should tell her that it’s damn good. Marnie would probably kill to get the recipe from her.” Shane went to get another one, unaware of the knife he’d unwittingly stabbed into Ashe’s heart with his comment.

“… I’ll definitely let her know.” Ashe continued to smile despite it, not wanting to ruin the good time. “I’m sure she’d be happy to hear how much you liked it~”

Thankfully, Shane didn’t seem to notice that anything was off with him; before long, Ashe was able to get over it, forgetting about everything as the two of them chatted over good food and mutually kept each other in check about their weaknesses—there was an ample amount of booze available that was continually tempting Shane, and Gus’ signature cornets were present as well, practically calling out to Ashe in their sweet little chocolate-filled voices.

As the Luau began to wind down, Lewis gathered everyone for the main event: the potluck. As with every year, Abbott was given the ‘honor’ of having the first taste, taking his time to let it mull over his tongue before declaring that it was a pleasant soup indeed. Nothing groundbreaking, but he seemed to like it well enough. Whether it would be enough to secure a donation to Pelican Town’s coffers remained to be seen.

When the leftovers had been distributed to everyone, and the party setup was being torn down, Ashe spotted Percy leading the governer off, presumably to give him the ‘grand tour’ of the farms. “….” For some reason, it really ruffled his feathers that Percy was basically using politics to try and get even more of an edge over him, rather than letting his farm work speak for itself.

“Ashe.” Lewis spoke, getting the farmboy’s attention. “If you need to leave, you can. You don’t need to stick around to help with the teardown.” He too had seen what Percy was up to, and was just as perturbed that the man had basically stolen the spotlight from him.

The offer was nice, but… “Uh-uh.” Ashe stubbornly shook his head. “Everyone else is helping to clean up, so I should too. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

No matter how desperately he wanted to win the bet, Ashe refused to let the win come at the expense of others. He would win through his own blood, sweat and tears, even if such a resolve made the task all the more harder. And now, even more than that, he wanted his work on the farm to benefit everyone in town, not just himself.

“….” Lewis smiled a little at Ashe’s insistence on staying. “You’re a good kid, Ashe.” He commented, patting Ashe’s shoulder lightly. “Thank you.”

He sincerely, fervently hoped that Ashe would win. Driving Joja out of town once and for all was his dream, and had been ever since they’d set up that godforsaken supermarket. It weighed heavily on his mind that such a heavy burden rested on such young shoulders, but with every passing day, he found himself believing just that little bit more that Ashe could pull it off.  

[jessiewre]

Day 33

Thurs 6th Feb

Thankfully everyone in our dorm was super quiet getting up early or obviously Phil would have kicked off royal. We went for sharing the spanish omelette and pancake (like having a main and a dessert) and asked the guy where we could fill up our water bottles in this ‘eco camp’. He said NOWHERE MATE, we just have bottles to buy.

Ok so I’m struggling to see how this place is an eco camp. Using solar power for the showers is not enough, thats just how you get hot showers in Africa - EVERYWHERE we’ve been so far has done that. Hmm.

Anyway, we moved our stuff into our new private Garden tent after briefly chatting to a new arrival called John who’d literally just got off a flight from Heathrow and has a flat in Kingston. Random. And we got ourselves ready for the Giraffe Sanctuary.

Ok so I was super excited about this. For years I’ve wanted to go to Giraffe Manor in Nairobi, a luxury hotel with GIRAFFES in the grounds. Well, its around $2000 per night and even though that’s like pocket money for me obviously, I didn’t want to hurt Phil’s ego by booking it. And ALSO it turns out that on the same grounds, there is the giraffe sanctuary where you can visit the very same giraffes. At $15 per person, it sounded like the kind of compromise I was looking for.

Our Uber driver to get there was really nice, but told us she was looking for a white husband after her Kenyan husband left her for a woman with more money. Tricky situation that, but she was hoping Tinder would solve it. Good luck to her and if any white men out there are looking for a wife in Kenya, lemme know.

The Sanctuary was really small but so nice and relaxed and the giraffes were AMAZING. I mean who doesn’t love giraffes anyway (if you don’t love giraffes then get out), but we could feed them little pellets and if you put a pellet in between your lips they would take it out - a Giraffes Kiss. Ok it sounds gross but actually it was gross yeah. ALSO you could totally see the beautiful manor in the background which actually felt like seeing a celebrity. LAME. There were 10 giraffes at the Sanctuary and I think we saw about 8 of them. WAS SO GOOD.

After an hour it got super busy, so time to leave. Bye giraffes, we’ll miss you forever (until we go on safari and see more and forget about you).

We’d heard of a nice place to eat near there called Boho Eatery.

Ok well this place wasn’t just nice, it was like proper nice, like a masala dosa is 14 QUID kind of nice (they are 40p in India btw), but naturally when I’m in those situations, I just think f**k it and want to order everything. So yeah, food to me is like beer to Phil - its hard to resist and like a hippo and water, if someone steps in between us then they might get hurt.

But the place was sooooooooo nice, we had

- fried halloumi with pomegranate & yoghurt

- onion bhaji with mango chutney

- poke bowl with mushroom

- cheese garlic masala dosa

- plus a TAMARIND MARGHERITA & A BEER

- finished by a bloody lovely latte

Ubered back to the camp to our lovely Garden tent. What an upgrade. We chilled out there and I sat in the restaurant typing for a bit. A guy sat on my table and I successfully managed to avoid any conversation by looking directly at my screen, but when Phil joined, they started chatting. Patrick is researcher who is working while travelling (whatever that means) and he ended up joining us for dinner. Haru sushi restaurant was really nice and despite Phil eating the devil food that is tofu, we all thoroughly enjoyed our food. 
Finally managed to get an Uber to J’s Bar that we’d heard about (I massively couldn’t be arsed but was outnumbered) and when we got into the car I noticed that the drivers radio screen was all in Japanese. I asked him if he spoke Japanese and he said No. Turned out he’d bought the car 4 months before and had no idea how to change it. Omg I was obsessed - how could you live with that and not sort it out. Well, we tried very hard to help him, Patrick googled it, we translated the buttons - but it seemed to not have the option to make it English which was sooooooo annoying! I’ll get over the fact we couldn’t fix it soon. Maybe.

J’s bar was huge, so many different areas and DJs, but I was feeling chilled so the best bit was watching the footie game that was on 😃

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 25

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, set 1909. Edwardian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ Prompt found on ​this blog. Link to the imagine(s) that inspired it, here, and here….   Chapter number: Chapter 25 Author: punk-in-docs (Here is my Masterlist for more chapters… Don’t laugh at me cause it’ s so, ridiculously tiny) but do take a look if you feel so inclined… Triggers/warnings: Fluff in this one. Tiny bit of smut. But mostly fluff

Arriving home that night after her day of paying calls and other such labours, Vianne noticed, for the first time - in what felt like an awfully long time - that as the cab pulled up to the familiar stretch of grey pavement outside her house, that she actually felt pleased - giddy even - to be coming back here.

Her heart brimming with golden, sunshine coloured joy, on seeing the merry candlelight filling the windows, as opposed to a dark, silent house. She liked beyond words that there would be a fire in the hearth, crackling away. The rich scent of a wonderful dinner permeating the air from the kitchens below. She found herself idly wondering if Thomas would have the gramophone scratch and softly crooning a warbled melody of some husky voiced songstress. Caressing the air of the parlour like audible silk. She’d walk in, and find him sat, facing away from her, so she could admire the strong profile, and that roguishly long inky hair. He’d be sprawled on the settee like a resting panther, a whiskey night cap already in his clutch, as he flicked idly through a book, waiting upon her return.

Her thoughts drifting evermore over visions of her lover, her small family, her children, as she clambered down from the cab with a stupid grin on her face. She was eager to go and kiss her beautiful children goodnight, stroke the silk of their hair. Watch the rosiness of their cheeks as they settled abed to their dreams. She could almost smell the warm, clean scent of their youthful skin as she would press kisses to each of their foreheads. She realised as she mounted the pavement and sprung up the steps to the front door, that she was smiling like she’d lost her senses. Shuffling her nurses bag into her left, she twisted the doorknob with her right. Stepping into the warm ambience of the warmly lit foyer.

She still found that though her meditations had albeit briefly drifted over her children, her two little menaces, and the one yet to come, in the dark of night, she recognised this now as hers and her ex-husbands time together. With their twins put to bed, Jeanie retired for the night, that the night shifted into being theirs.

Sharing intimacies, touches, sipping port or whiskey in the front parlour, lounging into one another, relaxing. She’d pull off her pinching boots, and unbutton her suffocating collar. Thomas would do the same, propriety was shed, and two lovers fondly relaxed in one another’s presence, watching the fire blaze, and talking. Telling the other about their day. Or saying nothing whatsoever, because they simply didn’t need to. Some nights, more often than not, the torment of being apart all day grew to be too unbearable for her lover, and more than once she found herself ushered into the foyer, greeted with a yearning kiss, as her coat was stripped from her, by hot, greedy hands of his, and before she could speak words of greeting, she was sharply tugged into his arms and whisked away upstairs to bed, as if they were newlyweds making love for the first time. Urgent greediness led them into each other’s arms, and lust and pleasure followed very shortly after.

One night last week, she’d practically been thrown over his shoulder and led merrily away so he could entomb them in their bedchamber and reunite his lips between her thighs before she’d even set foot across the threshold.

She remembered it, vividly. Pressed against the cool wall of her bedroom, he was on his knees before her before she could register it, mouthing greedily up her thighs and taking her hips in his hands, his lips attaching themselves skilfully to her sex. He hooked her ample thigh over his shoulder, and she tangles her hand in strands of that soft, onyx mane. Unable to watch the whites of his eyes glimmer up at her in the dark of the bedroom as he watched her throw her head back to moan his name.

He’d suckled small kisses, love bites, to the silk of her sensitive inner thighs, alternating between sucking her beautiful labia into his mouth, parting down the centre of her sex with his strong tongue, flicking and lapping at her clit, and softly nuzzling her thighs, wet from his mouth. She feels him smile as she stutters for breath. He offered a crude whisper between her legs that seeing her in her nurses uniform always did do things to his ardour. She found herself chuckling before he resumed his ministrations, and all laughter died as was replaced with much lust.

Later, much later on in the evening, as she had been so swiftly gravitated straight from the foyer, into bed, she awoke much later to a groaning gurgling stomach, so loud was it, in fact, that it woke her slumbering bed mate too. There was only one thing for it. Thomas surmised with a sidewards smirk. They threw on their dressing gowns, and snuck down to the kitchens like wayward children wary of getting caught being rowdy past their curfew.

They sat in the parlour that night, drinking wine by candlelight, and eating a midnight feast of cold meats bread, fruit, chutney and cheeses. Drunk, not off the wine, but at the giddiness of being absolutely childish and ridiculously greedy with one another. They fed each other bits of their delightful meal off one another fingers. She felt sure to melt at how he teasingly held her hand up to his mouth, taking the sweet, plump fig between his teeth, licking her fingers with a most salacious wink. Her cheeks flushed up to her hairline, she was sure. She took note of his flirtations, as he held out a plump strawberry to her. She tilted her head. Slowly leaning up and devouring it. Chewing slowly, she mentioned how delicious it was. Watching his eyes darken and he looked like the devil himself the way he smirked. The sickeningly-in-love fools they were, after they ate, they danced, barefoot, in moonlight, on the antique rug, bathed in starlight from the open window.

Swaying to an invisible waltz. Thomas nuzzled his face into his wife’s bare neck, kissing the pools of moonlight that collected in the dip between her clavicle and her shoulder, pulling her nightdress out of his way. He’d have no obstacle standing between his lips and her silken skin. She held the back of his head. Folding a loving hand up under his arm, stroking across his shoulder blade as she lets herself hold onto this man. Her man. The one she couldn’t wait to wake up and see each morning, snoozing on the pillow opposite her own. Thomas breathed in deep the scent of her at her neck. Her perfume, her skin. The essence of her drove him mad with longing. And the fact she was carrying his third child, made him smile like a giddy fool. And this time, he’d part heaven and earth to be by her side. Because he had let her know, as his penance, there was no second of her blossoming motherhood that he would miss, this time.

Tonight, as she steps inside her home, it is not the longing grasp of a lusting lover that greets her. But the gentle greeting of her maid, Jeanie. With stacks of linen folded in her arms. Which she places down on the middle hallway table, to help her Mistress. As Vianne unbuttoned and shrugged off her coat off her shoulders. Jeanie moved to help her. Noticing how tired she looked. But was too polite to say so.

“Busy day, Ma’am?” She asks. Vianne smiled, gently resting her eyes. Jeanie’s soft, north Yorkshire accent was such a calming sound to her. It soothes her, she realised. Her maid folded her coat over her arm, and took her hat. Vianne audibly sighed with relief, sliding the hat pin out from her thick hair. Which was starting to ache with a dull pain at the roots, from being twisted up and off her face so harshly, and for so long.

“Not too. Jeanie.” She smiles. Her maid can see how this makes the bags under eyes lessen a little with the force of her bone weary smile.

She had been on the district round today. Traipsing hither and dither across London, palpating stiff limbs, administering ointment, and changing dressings. Visiting a spectrum of patients, from a stuffy Duke, sat alone, in an absolutely echoing townhouse recovering from knee surgery, to a lowly docker, wounded in an accident at work, requiring dressing changes, and living in poverty and filth, ensconced in a room with five other families, all sharing the same, grubby air. No wonder disease was rife where poverty thrived.

She narrowly missed placing her heel down on a scurrying rat as she left. Unfortunately, she’d seen the like before. Children no more older than her own, batting rats off their younger siblings as they slept. It sometimes astounded her that she could travel so seamlessly between two very different worlds. One, where everything was polished, ordered, and dripping elegance and decorum. And having less than three footmen was seen as the end of the world, and the next thing, she’d be crammed in some room that barely out measured a cupboard, treating someone who belonged to a family of twelve, dosing their children with gin so they didn’t cry out in hunger as they struggled to make ends meet. It amazed her that she kept sane some days. Returning home was her tonic. Stripping herself of her uniform and washing away her day was to put her grievances of her job aside, and to focus solely on those who had missed her all day long.

She peered through to the dining room, seeing the walnut table polished, gleaming. Empty. As was the parlour she peered into. She let herself smile, the gramophone did indeed coo a sultry melody into the air. And on the end table there was a half nursed glass of liquor left unattended. But no sign of her inky hair lover anywhere in sight. Seeing her mistress search, Jeanie put her mind at ease…

“He’s upstairs. M’am. Insisted himself on bath duty and then reading a bedtime story to Master Arthur and Miss Julia.” She explained, hanging up her coat, and hat. And placing her medical bag upon the side table.

Vianne smiled. Every spare moment Thomas could snatch with his children he clamoured for. He couldn’t get enough. He was a besotted man. She rubbed over her eyes, summoning the last fragments in her weary body to go upstairs and kiss her children and their father. She pointed to the linens on the table.

“Allow me, I’m going up. You get yourself off the bed Jeanie. We can manage..” Vianne smiled. Jeanie looked ready to protest as she slowly handed across the stack of freshly laundered bedsheets. Vianne wore her sharpest look. And her maid subsequently offered her thanks’ and bid her a good evening. A waft of clean, warm soap and sun bleached whites wafted over Vianne’s nose as she began her ascent above stairs.

She padded softly along the landing, placed the sheets away, pausing only to let down her hair, so it tumbled down her back, toeing off her impossibly pinching boots, and letting her dress fall undone to her sternum, stripping away the strict formality of her uniform, here, it was unnecessary and unneeded. In her home, she was a mother, and a lover. She then made a beeline straight for the nursery. Coming closer to the door, she could hear no noise come from within, save for the tinkling, twinkling lull of their music box twirling the melody ‘lavenders blue’ to jangle through the air. She pushed open the ajar door, stepping into the unusually tidy space of her children’s nursery. Her feet making no noise, swallowed up into the thick carpets. The scent of clean, bathed skin lingering in the air along with the lullaby music, as a ballerina twirled in place in the wooden music box her lover had made for the both of them, and gifted them with, just yesterday. The walls were a buttercup yellow made softer by the two bedside lamps that cast honey gold pools up each wall, brightening the cosy space. She saw that Jeanie’s influence as a nursemaid was in the way each doll, teddy and game sat dutifully on the top of their toyboxes, at the end of each small bed, as if awaiting further instruction.

Her children weren’t, as she expected to find them, huddled under their eiderdowns, as little snoozing lumps. Merrily warm, ensconced snug, in their little beds, but rather her smile tugged wide, her heart lurching in love as she saw where they were instead. The reason the room was so quiet, was all because the three inhabitants were sleeping peacefully, all heaped into the same rocking chair.

The lean, long, tall body of her lover looked so comically stretched out, legs kicked out, resting, his head tilted all the way to the side, arms clutching his twins. Thomas’s head lolled onto the head of his son, who bore the exact same shade of inky hair, tucked, snoozing softly under his father’s protective arm. Curled onto his lap, his little chubby knees blanketed by the book that they had obviously been enjoying before sleep gently took them all.

Whilst Arthur was cuddled to Thomas’s left arm, clad in his pearly white nightclothes. Julia was snuggled into his right side, she too, fast asleep in her little nightie. Sucking on her thumb, her ginger hair mussed, pushed up against Thomas’s waistcoat, her favourite blue blanket draped between her legs, nuzzled into the shape of her fathers chest. She savours the sight of her small little family for a moment, snoring gently in one sleeping heap. Silently, her stockinged feet pad softly across the small room, and she reached for the forgotten novel of Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit which sat slanted across Thomas’s lap. She gently seized it, placed the bookmark on their discarded page. And placing it back on the dresser. And seeing still, no one had so much as stirred.

Unable to help herself, enchanted with the pale, sleeping face of him. His closed lid casting a spidery shadow down his carved cheek. His hair flopping down his forehead. She reaches a hand across, and gently touches his cheek, cupping it, her hand was cool compared to the hot silk of his unshaven cheek. She lowers her lashes, looking at his lips, before she leans forwards and softly kisses him. There is a second, just a second, of unresponsiveness, before she feels his breath stutter to skip through his chest, and he awakes, grumbling a soft moan into her lips. When she opens her eyes and pulls back, she sees his lip twitch into a sleepy smile, and his eyes, hooded, spring open to see her.

“You’re home…” He mumbles sleepily. His tone warm and pleased. His eyes and smile both loving as they rested on her face. Drinking her in. He moved to take her in his arms, but found them encumbered by his two sleeping toddlers. Then he remembers how he’d been halfway through Peter escaping Mr McGregor’s garden when he’d dozed off.

She smiled at his attempts to move. Wordlessly she helps him. Gently, so as not to wake him, she prizes Arthur from his father’s embrace, feeling him shift, she settled him onto her hip. Kisses his hair. Smelling the warm, pink aroma of his clean, freshly bathed head. He gurgles sleepily, curling into his mother, His fingers tangling in a coil of her hair. Vianne holds him for a second. Closing her eyes, hugging her beautiful son. Before she whispers a soft, ‘sweet dreams my darling’ onto his head. As if her words would sink in, and become true. She lowers him into the cocoon of his bed, seeing that he cuddled at once up to his toy rabbit. Huddled into a little, snoring ball. Snuffling in his sleep. She pulls up his covers to keep him warm, smoothed away any creases in the patchwork blanket at the bottom of his bed. And switches off the light by his head. Throwing his half of the room into soft, gentle darkness, lit from outside by a warming streetlamp. It was smoggy tonight, the moon couldn’t be seen.

She turned back to him, watching him come to his full height, his limbs clicking and stretching back into place. He cradles his gorgeous daughter gently, as if she was made of porcelain, liable to shatter. He pecks a long kiss into her hair, before he too settles her into her own bed, across the room from her twin. Vianne watches Julia’s eyes flutter sleepily open, watching her father as he tucked her into bed. He made sure her blanket that she was never without was tucked into her hold. As he pulled the covers over her.

Her eyes blinked shut again, half her face hidden, nuzzling into her second favourite teddy as she went wordlessly back to sleep. Thomas lingered for a second, sat on the very edge of her bed, his eyes fondly watching her, two long fingers stroking the soft hair back on her head in a repeated motion that Vianne recognised was the same he’d do to her when she couldn’t sleep. Softly stroke over her forehead with those calloused fingers until she stopped thinking, and succumbed to sleep.

She crossed, and kissed her daughter, ushering a sweet goodnight, as she turned off the second bedside light. Plunging the room completely now into comfortable darkness. The only light now coming from the hall outside on the landing. Thomas’s hand found her hip through her dress, and silently, both mother and father crept from the nursery, leaving the lullaby to twinkle away to nothing and leave their treasures to their dreams. Thomas exits first, and Vianne pulls the door almost closed behind her. Thomas insisted most seriously on not shutting them in their room, she knew why, and always ensured she left the door ajar for them. For him too.

Stepping out into the half-light, half dark of the landing, she turns to speak to Thomas, but finds herself – not so rudely – cut off as she is pressed back into the wall by the nursery door and kissed so strongly, she has to clutch onto his arms for support. She wraps herself around him as he does her, revelling in his lover being in his arms after a long day of being parted from her. When he feels her bust press softly into him, something like a growl escapes his lips, swallowed into her mouth as he cups her face. She holds him back just as passionately, frowning, breaking the kiss when her hands find his front, where his waistcoat was soggy in patches, to the touch. She smiles, which makes it difficult for him to continue kissing her. He pulls away, pressing his forehead against her own, arcing down over her.

“Why are you all wet?” She asks in a breathy laugh as his clever fingers rubs her neck. Stealing some of the aching tiredness from her body. His fingers felt magical. Where they touched, leaving nothing but pleasure and tingling skin in his wake. Her palm fell flat to his hard, muscular sternum, feeling the heat from his skin burn through his clothes to her touch. He raised a single, dark brow, arcing it at her.

“I was on bath time duty. And evidently, not content to let me miss out on it, Julia finds it rather hilarious to render me sopping wet also.” He explains. She bit her lip and smiled at the visual of Thomas letting his two years old drench him with bathwater. He’d wear that expression of genteel glare. Water dripping from that elegant scarred face as Julia shrieked with laughter at his ploy. His eyes narrowing as his smile grew. Now, He tilts his head, his hand slinking up to tangle in her hair and his fingers flexed and scraped through her scalp, easing her the aching tip of her roots. It was as if she came with a set of instructions, and he had read them, and she had not, so he could know her by heart. He knew exactly where to touch to ease her aches and pains after a gruelling day. It was uncanny. He head fell back to the wall as she groaned in bliss.

“Night cap?” He asks her wearily, before his eyes grow all the darker, filling with lust, and he lifts her skirts and makes love to her, right here. Rutting against the wall like a primal animal. On the landing three feet away from his sleeping children.

Before he does that, he helps lead her downstairs. Ignoring the clamouring’s of his ardour to take her. When he led her past her open bedroom door, his arousal twinges, wanting to guide her in there throw her to the bed, and deliver upon them both an orgasm that would have them falling sodden, sweaty and exhausted straight to sleep after they reached completion. As they walk down the stairs, his big hand paws at her rounded belly, seven weeks gone now and no one could even tell she was carrying his third.

Only close intimates had the pleasure of knowing she was in the family way once more. It was mad, how he reacted whenever he remembered she was, in time, going to grow curvier, softer, lovelier, with his next baby. She assured him that her body in pregnancy wasn’t quite the rose-tinted, happy, glowing example of motherhood that he may have been led to believe. From what she could remember, past pains and experience aside, it left her sick as a pup and bone weary most days in the first trimester. Thomas had merely smiled meekly and said he’d be there for her every second. Holding the sick bucket if needs be. She was learning quick that he meant it. He took days off work, as he’d never done before, simply to stay with her and read every book on motherhood he could lay his hands on. She had to drag the book out of his hands come some nights, for he was too engrossed in worry, sat up reading til the small hours, bleating at her the worst examples and remedies from over fluffed textbooks. One night she pulled it from his hands and rolled onto him, kissing him just to get him to be quiet with his damned fussing. She couldn’t blame him overmuch, he was doing his best to be involved, with a hands on approach. She could never begrudge him that. Not ever again.

They stumbled into the parlour, Thomas groaning as he heaved himself onto the settee. Flopping back into it, moaning gratefully as he palpated his neck. Having grown stiff, unsupported, from his slumber upstairs in the twins hard rocking chair. Vianne crossed to the side table and poured herself a small glass of weak sherry from the decanter.

Erik had informed her a small tipple every now and then would do no harm to the babe. She was sure as this child was of hers and Thomas’s siring, then it was sure to be made of pretty stern stuff, such stern stuff, that no meagre sip of weak sherry could cause much harm. She sipped it, and it set a merry, buzzing fire down in her weary bones.

Thomas opened his legs, and tugged her down to thump inelegantly down, pressing her back into his chest. Wrapping an arm around her, kissing her neck. His nose landing in the nest of her coppery hair. He wrapped her close, folding her body into his own. They stared into the dwindling flames of the fire, sipping their beverages, and relaxing in the aura of their shared tiredness. The only sounds coming to permeate their loving silence, was the sound of London nightlife chattering and rumbling by on the street outside, and the dripping, drizzling rain that had begun to knife slanted droplets of water down the windowpanes. Thomas necked his drink back in one gulp, wet his lips, and then said the thing that had been lingering on his tongue for a couple of weeks now.

“I’ve been thinking..” He groaned. As Vianne murmured her assent. Sipping her tipple. Feeling his hands come stroking up her neck, gathering her hair, and draping it to the side, so he could better see her pale, sculpted neck. His fingers dancing a stroking, relaxing massage onto her skin as she laid her head back to meet his chest, listening to his heart thump away in his ribs, his hand skimmed over the curve of her shoulder as he continued to speak.

“What would you say to the idea of us, moving away from London?” He began slowly. When he finished speaking she let the words hang for a second in the air, tasting them.

“I’d say, what about your job, the foundry, what about my helping Erik…” She said enquiring as to his answer, testing the waters.

“Surely, Vianne, you’ll be taking maternity leave once this little one grows bigger?” He asks her. When speaking of their third, his hand cupped the rounded swell of her tummy under her clothes.

“Of course.” She stated. The Twins birth had been so painfully traumatic, that as far as was possible, she wanted this one to be as carefree and as relaxed as could be

She’d be flogged by matron were she caught being in the family way, and trying to maintain her meagre assistants role to help Erik. Davis would say she was ‘infecting the young innocence of probationers and nurses. Firstly for being involved with a man, and secondly for living in sin, with said man, and carrying his child,’ Why. She’d be chased from the London with torches and pitchforks for such a heinous misdeed. She’d never gain as much a kind word of a reference, let alone a letter, she’d be dismissed without favour, and would never find work as a nurse whilst she lived and breathed on this earth again. She cursed to the heavens that nurses were strictly to be seen as virginal paragons of virtue. One whiff of flirtation with a man and they were toppled from the pedestal their profession placed on them. She’d first hand seen probationers dismissed for less.

She’d kept her history from her colleagues, save for Erik. So far as they knew, she was a single woman. She had intended to take leave from her position, claiming going abroad to ‘do the continent’ as was deemed fashionable. Returning six months later as if nothing had changed. Except everything would have. They weren’t to know she was going home to a secret lover, and three children. Spending her nights in bed, finding pleasure in the arms of a man, and spending her days off taking her children to the park to play. And she intended to keep it that way. She was wary of Thomas’s reaction to her plan, worried that her keeping him in the dark would offend him in some manner. As if she was ashamed of him. But he understood. Her profession was sacred to her, and he would not rob her of the pleasures of it – as another, certain man, would have done. Keeping her at home instead as a broodmare. No more than a vessel for his heir, and a piggy bank for his black desires to bed half the vain heiresses in London. His mind did flutter to thoughts of him every once in a while. Somewhere rotten in him that had never died, somewhere dark, where he never went, he found himself thinking, of how he ended up. What became of him. But he pushed the revolting thought away. Locking back in the dark place where it had dwelled from. That man didn’t deserve his consideration, not when he had treated Vianne so.

“I don’t want you working like a pack-horse up to your sixth month, my darling. You’ll place undue stress on yourself, and the baby. And I cannot and will not sit idly by allow you to be ordered here and there across London in going into unseemly living conditions.” He warns. She told him about the surroundings of poverty her job took her too. The other week, she told him the story about the rats swarming around a baby’s cot until she shooed them away, and he paled notably. She twists about in his arms. Turning onto her right side, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Curling up into his lean chest. Feeling the hard, hotness of his musculature underneath her cheek.

“I’ve no desire to be traipsing round London in my sixth month. By then I’ll be a waddling, tired old wretch, with aching feet, puffy ankles and mood swings.” She assures him. With a smile, raking a hand through his hair as he lazily looked at her with love.

“Good.” Thomas groans. His arm stroking up over her hip, pressing her body close to his. “Because I’ll want you, at home, feet up. Watching our devious children run rings about their poor, dear, tired father.” He mumbles sleepily. Though he sounded so very happy. She chuckled at him. He couldn’t deny, having her body pressed down onto him was making him want to groan in other ways, too.

“You mentioned moving away..” She brought up. “What did you have in mind, Mr Sharpe?” She asks nicely, shutting her eyes, one hand splayed flat against his sternum. His fingers twined through hers, and he leaned back. One elbow behind his head. He too feeling sleep, and the stupors of a drink making his blood feel hot and lazy as it sluggishly thudded around his body.

“A big, red brick house, covered in wisteria and roses. Surrounded by green, open fields. With a big garden, with tall trees for our little imps to climb up. An orangery for the rainy days where you can hear it patter on the roof. A big garden so I can buy Julia a dog, or a cat, or pony, or that dragon, she’s asked me so doggedly get for her Christmas present. A shed where I can tinker away in until my lovely children drag me outside to play in the evening sunshine. And most importantly, a big fireplace we can all gather round at night, and have a real Christmas tree at Christmas..” He rambled on. His eyelids were shutting as he imagined his perfect family house that he’d share with her, and their beautiful children. And little no-name to come..

Vianne smiled, feeling the warmth from the fireplace dully caress the side of her face. And then, his warm fingers did. Slipping up her cheek, mapping out the soft silk of her cheek. His hooded eyes cracked open, watching her smile in her sleep.

“…and before I forget, a really big, huge, bedroom, with a big soft bed, I can throw you down onto at night, pull your nightdress up, see you perfectly naked, and li-“ He began, but she swiftly cut him off. Though he thought her asleep. She was tempted to clap a hand over his mouth to stop his filthy words tumbling out.

“Thomas!” She grumbles, though he could see her cheeks pinken, so he knows she didn’t truly mind. He smirks that lopsided smile that made her breath skip.

“Big green, open fields…” She repeats dreamily. Away from rats, and tenements, and poverty. Away from dust and smog. Away from the house she never really, truly saw as home. Home, for her, wasn’t a place. Her home was wherever he was. She could almost imagine herself tasting the fresh, untarnished air. Smell the green grass, feel the sun bleach her skin of the impurities that the smog strewn city caused her skin and lungs. She can’t deny the prospect was thrilling.

“Could we afford it?” She asks. And he smiles at her.

“I could afford Buckingham palace for you, ten times over Vianne. And that’s without dipping into a penny of your fortune…” He made clear. She twisted her head and nuzzled her nose into his chest. Smelling the faint tang of old metal, engine oil and essence of peppermint on his clothes. Aswell as soap that was no doubt pelted at him as he bathed their mischievous two year old.

“I can’t deny the appeal of the notion…” She dreamed. “To be out in clean air. Raising the children in the countryside. Surrounded by green and nature in summer. And snow in winter…” she smiles.

“What about our jobs?” She enquires. Thomas smoothed a hand down her upper arm. Loving that this was a dream they could both share.

“The foundry can manage me running it from a distance…” He explains. “Though I know I can’t ask you to so easily give up your patients. And Erik, he’s been a saviour for the both of us…” He explains. She thinks about leaving the London, and though she knows it would sadden her, When she thought about all they had now. She wasn’t a spinster, stood crying in her foyer, at the sight of a dark empty house anymore. She had people who’d missed her when she returned home.

“Though, you must know, I wouldn’t dream of putting you through such upheaval in the midst of a pregnancy.” He informs her. Hugging her close, squeezing her delectable body into him.

“Let’s keep it on our horizons for now…” Vianne asked lovingly. Kissing his chest again. “It can be our something to dream over…” She adds. His eyes slide shut. And he smiles. Picturing that fantasy house behind his eyelids. The green lawn. Vianne strolling in the garden with their new-born in her arms.

“Ours.” He smiles. Holding his love in his arms. Tasting that word, that one small word, that sounded very nice to him, indeed.

~

@frenchfrostpudding @echantedbytwh @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog

[lilibug--xx]

Black Cherry Chutney

this is a little taste of the prompt by @cooperbettycooper, i’m still working on the rest. gonna get pretty dark though.

—

Tell me something, what do you think Betty Cooper has to hide? She’s got a 4.0 GPA, is a cheerleader, editor of the school newspaper, tutors other students 2 days a week, and is always home by curfew. She’s always careful, too careful. Curious? So is Jughead.

In a world where blood runs white and darkens with each sin, only time will tell who runs with the devil.

—

He sat at his booth at Pop’s, laptop opened to a black word document. He stared at the screen, fingers poised above the keys. The sounds of the dinner behind him, low and barely registering as he zoned out. Why couldn’t he think? Why couldn’t he gets the words out? There was this frustration that was bubbling up inside him, hot and clawing it’s way up his throat. His hands slammed against the table, a resounding ‘smack’ ringing out and causing a burst of silence around him. He only brought a fist to his lips, holding back the curses he wanted to scream at everyone who had turned to state at him.

“Everything okay?” a voice sweet as sugar. He wanted to groan.

“Yes, Betty. Everything’s just fine.” His tone was short, words clipped in anger as he stared defiantly out the window, not looking at her. He heard her sigh and he waited for her to walk away. She was still standing close to the table because he could still smell her. She was always this alluring combination of vanilla and honeysuckle that clouded his brain like a thick fog billowing out and drowning him. He fucking loved it.

Instead of leaving, he heard the squelch of the vinyl booth as she sat down. Not across from him, but rather right next to him. She was close enough that their arms were brushing and he could feel her bare skin ghost across his – it was too hot out to wear anything more than a t-shirt. A shiver ran down his spine, gooseflesh rising on his arm. Shifting slightly away from her, he put his arms back on the table, closing his laptop and staring ahead towards the booth in front of him at the back of some woman’s head.

Her fingers closed around one of his hands, small warm fingers squeezing his.

“Jughead,” her voice was close to his ear and he didn’t dare turn his head.

“Yes, Betty?” he questioned, voice aloof as he waited for her to say her peace and then leave.

“I’m worried about you,” he scoffed at her words. When had she ever really paid attention to him? How could she be worried about someone she didn’t really know?

“You haven’t been at school for three days,” her voice was soft, like a whisper blowing in the breeze.

“Did you just come here to state facts Betty? Or..” He trailed off, lips pursing tightly. The hand that wasn’t under her grasp tightening where he had pulled it down to his thigh, fingers digging into the muscle.

“I came here because I saw you this morning, at Sweetwater River.” There was something in his throat that he was trying not to choke on. She had seen him?

“I told you, I was worried about you. Archie had said something about how you’d been going down there lately. And when you hadn’t come to school for the second day in a row I thought something might be wrong.” Oh Archie, you idiot.

“So you took it upon yourself to try and do something about which you have no control over?” he couldn’t help how sharp his words were, biting through the air like a knife. He heard her slump back into the booth, the red vinyl squeaking from the press of her back.

“Jug, I can’t worry about my friend?”

“No, Betty, you can’t. Because we’re not friends.” That probably wasn’t an accurate statement, but Jughead was trying to be mean on purpose now.

“I’m serious Jughead. Stop trying to push me away!” she hissed at him, her voice tucking his ear as her fingers pinched the skin of his hand causing a bite of pain to flame up. He yanked his hand away, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Listen to me, Jughead.” Her voice demanded attention and he barely turned his head the piercing green of her wide eyes at the corner of his vision.

“I understand what you were doing there. You shouldn’t be skipping school though,” he wasn’t expecting her to say that, not really. Well, maybe the skipping school part.

“It’s not like anyone cares, Betty.”

“I care.” He rolled his eyes at her.

“Whatever, Betty. Are we done here? I promise I won’t skip school to go down to Sweetwater River anymore.” Jughead couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Maybe he hadn’t decided yet. He couldn’t help the twinge in his chest at her declaration. He could have sworn she only had Archie-vision.

“You better be at school tomorrow. I didn’t skip today for this to be for nothing, okay? I mean it. Go to Sweetwater River after school if you have to.” She scooted out of the booth, her shoulder knocking into his briefly as she turned. He looked over at her eyes glancing to her hands where they were clenched into tight fists. She left like that and he watched her out the window as she stomped to her car, eventually leaving.

However, he would never know that when Betty got to her car and uncurled her fists that the blood she had brought to the surface with her nails was a deep, rich red. The color of sin.

[hahahumorpics]

Top 10 funny food names which will leave you hungry

There are lots of food out there, be it on the streets or in restaurants. The food industry is one of the most lucrative business next to the stock market. Because of that, people think of very innovative, weird and funny food names, to use as a marketing strategy to attract more customers. Most of these food names, I am convinced, you must have never heard of or eaten before.

But what happens when you hear unexpectedly funny food names, it incites you to go have a bite of it just out of curiosity and hunger. Sometimes the most simple food have very threateningly complex and funny names, which makes us confused on what we are gonna eat. Why not choose something simple? Let us discover some of the funny food names that we have selected for you and I do hope that after reading this post, you will become a foodie expert.

1. Coddled Eggs

Does these eggs like cuddles?

I am not sure how to answer that, but in cooking, coddled eggs are eggs that are gently or lightly cooked in water just below boiling temperature in or out of the shell or other container. They can be partially cooked, mostly cooked, or hardly cooked at all.

2. Bubble & Squeak

Pop a Bubble? Or Squeak like a mouse?

Whether you want a bubble or a squeak, this food has a very original name. This food recipe originates from the United Kingdom and loved by all Brits. It is believed that the name comes from the fact that food bubbles up and squeaks while over the fire.

It is a traditional British breakfast dish made from potatoes and cabbage. In modern times, it is a dish made with the shallow-fried Sunday leftover vegetables from a roast dinner. The main ingredients are potato and cabbage, but carrots, peas, sprouts, or any other leftover vegetables may be added.

3. Witchetty Grub

Food for the Witches?

The name can be quite misleading – it’s almost as if it is food for witches. And if you google image “Grub”, you will be more convinced that this definitely looks like something witches would eat.

This Aussie food comes from the Indigenous Australians — and it’s the larva of a moth — a moth that feeds on the Witchetty bush. It’s a super protein-packed treat that can be eaten raw or cooked. It takes on a sort of almond-y or chicken taste, depending on how it is eaten. The name comes from “witjuri,” given by the Adnyamathanha people of Australia.

4. Clootie Dumpling

Dumplings? Clots? Did I hear right?

Beware! We are not talking about cow dumplings here. In fact, Clootie refers to a ‘piece of cloth, rag or leather’. You can think of it as a strip of fabric which holds within it a “dumpling,” which is actually a dessert pudding made of sweet stuff, like dough, dried fruits, and sugar. In my opinion, it looks more like a chocolate cake, but with a rather bizarre oval-looking shape.

5. Spotted Dick

Did I hear right?

Spotted dick is a British pudding, traditionally made with suet and dried fruit and often served with custard. Non-traditional variants include recipes that replace suet with other fats, or that include eggs to make something similar to a sponge pudding or cake.

The British have really bizarre ideas when it concerns naming their food dishes or desserts. I would not want to tell anyone if ever I have eaten a “Spotted Dick”. Just a little bit of history, in the late 19th century, “dick” was a dialectal term widely used for pudding.

6. Welsh Rabbit

Is that a Rabbit from Wales? No, it’s a dish!

Don’t you worry! There are no rabbits used in making this dish. It is a traditional Welsh dish made with a savoury sauce of melted cheese and various other ingredients and served hot, after being poured over slices of toasted bread or served in a chafing dish like a fondue. The names of the dish originate from 18th-century Britain.

They have even changed the name to “Welsh Rarebit” nowadays – probably because people have been asking too much whether there are rabbits in the dish.

7. Bangers And Mash

Sounds like a cool music band!

We are not waiting to hear some music here. Actually, ‘Bangers’ are sausages and ‘Mash’ is all about potato mash. So basically, this dish is simply a potato and mash food recipe. It is also a British dish and may consist of one of a variety of flavoured sausages made of chicken, lamb, or beef. The dish is sometimes served with onion gravy, fried onions, or peas.

8. Century Eggs

Eggs which are 100 years old.

Yeah you heard it right! These eggs are not exactly 100 years old but have been preserved for a few months in clay and ash and go past the rotten stage. Just imagine the smell before you even try to eat it. This is a very famous dish among the Chinese people.

9. Stinking Bishop

You can smell it from far away

Anyone who’s been within smelling distance of this particular cheese understands the first part of its name: The wheels are said to have an odor that brings to mind dirty socks and wet towels. But the second half is purely coincidental. It’s actually derived from Stinking Bishop pears, whose juice the cheese is immersed in. The pears got their name from their farmer, Mr. Bishop.

10. Devils on Horseback

A tasty treat with an ominous-sounding name, devils on horseback are prunes or dates stuffed with chutney and wrapped in bacon. The name is thought to have been inspired by its contrast to angels on horseback, which are oysters—whose curled edges resemble wings––wrapped in bacon.

The post Top 10 funny food names which will leave you hungry appeared first on Funny pictures, humor memes & comics for your daily dose. and was written by Waseem.

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[englishfooddoesntsuck-blog]

English Food For Thoughts: Best Choices For Your Meal

English Food That Makes You Crave For More

English nourishment has somewhat of a notoriety. Yet, since the abhorrences of the post-war time we have gone far to revive old, conventional formulas like filling soups, marvelous meals and tasty puddings. Also, now English cooks and eateries rank among the best on the planet because of how awesome English food is!

Heston Blumenthal's eatery "The Fat Duck", in the drowsy Berkshire town of Bray, was voted the world's best in 2005! (He was sprinter up in 2006 and 2007).

So tail me into a voyage through disclosure: English nourishment, from breakfast to dinner, from pudding to cake to safeguard, from juice to cheddar as you've never observed it! Here are some of the best English food that you can explore on your own.

English Breakfast

Nothing sets you up for the day, or causes you recuperate from the prior night, similar to a legitimate English breakfast. Furthermore, on these pages you can discover how it turned into a precept, what you should serve and even a little choice of magnificent formulas to attempt when you have room schedule-wise, for example, porridge and frumenty, English Marmalade, crumpets, kedgeree, devilled kidneys or pruned shrimps.

English Afternoon Tea

This is a fantastic custom you should attempt in any event once while going to England. What's more, in this segment you can discover about it. I'll survey my most loved teas, and offer you a couple of thoughts of what to present with it from tea sandwich formulas to sweet treats like Devon Scones, Empire Biscuits or Chelsea Buns. There are formulas for cakes, or gatherings, for children or group ... all reasonable for being presented with a cuppa.

Sandwiches

Created by the Earl of Sandwich's man, in light of the fact that the Earl couldn't stand to leave the gaming table regardless of his thundering stomach, sandwiches have turned into the customary workday lunch for some English. Experiment with customary mixes like meal meat and horseradish or cheddar and pickle, or go for the more surprising tastes of egg and anchovie or devilled chicken and mango.

Sandwiches are similarly incredible for an outing and are a piece of a customary evening tea, all things considered cut into nibble measured pieces with the outsides evacuated, and spread with great fillings that stand spring up to tea.

Lunch and Dinner

In England, lunch is particularly what you make it: a sandwich on the run, excursion on the yard or a comfortable hour spent in the bar viewing the world pass by. Ploughman's, a Cornish pale or a pork pie all fit the bill, as does a rich steak and lager pie, a plate of smoked salmon or cuts cut from a generally cured ham.

Supper, by turn, can be warming and ameliorating, or brisk and simple. Dishes, pies and flavorful puddings fit here alongside hotdogs, steak and hacks. Look at it.

English Desserts

Any gathering of customary English nourishment will contain an extensive determination of puddings and desserts. We basically cherish our puddings. Furthermore, I think just the English could design something as delectable as The Pudding Club! Stressed that customary desserts were dropping out of support, the individuals got together to celebrate and advance them!

We have pudding formulas for the tallness of summer and we have no less than an equivalent number of pudding formulas for the profundity of winter in addition to anything in the middle. Furthermore, here you can discover some of these formulas to make yourself or read surveys of some well known instant ones....

Cakes, Scones and Buns

The English love their tea. Also, nothing runs preferred with a pleasant cuppa over some crisply heated scone or bread. Preparing has in this way a long convention in English nourishment and cookery, and the numerous coffee bars that you can discover in English towns and towns are a radiant ad for this honorable craftsmanship.

It's very far-fetched that you'll just be offered maybe a couple cakes to browse. Regularly, there will be scones, shower buns, organic product bread and short bread laid out nearby various cakes and baked goods. The main issue you'll have is choosing what to have!

Fluid Refreshments

We get a kick out of the chance to drink, how they are made and why we like them. There are different choices which incorporate English Tea, English Beer or rather brew, English Wine, mead, juice and perry, rum, gin and sloe gin, juice schnaps and Pimms.

Jams, Preserves, Pickles and Chutneys

Saving sustenance has dependably been high on individuals' motivation - whether they confronted a long, icy winter or not. Furthermore, the English are the same. From salted or smoked fish to cured pork, from jams to chutneys, from ketchups to pickles... we have a great deal of conventional formulas to browse. Discover here how to make stick and chutney, how to pickle vegetables or make organic product vinegars. Or, on the other hand find customary formulas for things like conventional orange preserves, strawberry stick, blackberry stick, sandwich pickle, Piccalilli, Mushroom Ketchup or Gentleman's Relish.

Christmas Food

Christmas is as yet one of the greatest devours in England and a superb chance to get together with loved ones and celebrate. Most conventional Christmas formulas (and huge numbers of our customs) backpedal to Victorian circumstances, yet some are unequivocally more established. Christmas is especially about sustenance, both sweet and flavorful. Christmas turkey, prepared coated ham, hotdogs and smoked salmon sit next to each other with rich, fruity Christmas cake, Christmas pudding and an overabundance of chocolates.

The change from the customary Christmas goose to a Christmas turkey occurred amid the rule of Elizabeth I, after pioneers from the New World sent turkeys to her court as a present. Christmas pudding and mincemeat have medieval birthplaces, as do thought about wine and juice. Also, a considerable lot of the conventional sauces and backups can be dated to Georgian circumstances.

Amongst breakfast and dinner, English sustenance can be by turns sensitive and healthy, yet not the slightest bit exhausting. And afterward, obviously, there are the numerous provincial specialities that have moved toward becoming works of art all finished England and past: Devonshire cream tea, Lancashire Hotpot, Yorkshire Pudding, Cornish Pasty, Cumberland Sauce, Sussex Pond Pudding or Lincolnshire Plum Bread.

Eat your way around England with these English food meals and have a ton of fun doing as such! Find your most loved English sustenance today with one of these English food choices.

[scramblergirl2-blog]

Prawns, prawns, prawns

Before our trip I had read very various reviews about Sri Lankan food and was prepared for for the worse. In general, I’m very much into Asian cuisines, especially thai-food and the more spicy variants of Chinese kitchen, like Schezuan and Yunan. Indian food and Maldivian cuisine are also on my good to eat -list, but for example indonesian food and many of the Chinese localities have not really been my favourite. So I was really curious to find out about a new style of cuisine that could be either a new favourite or a total miss.

Surprisingly our hotel had the local dishes available only in the buffet which as a setting did not appeal to us too much. Bumping around with German grandpas and other well-fed seniors was a one-time only experience. And the buffet style food is rarely the best anyway. So we headed out in the Sri Lankan night for a proper taste of the local treats.

Luckily our tuk tuk -rider friend had a local habit of taking us wherever HE wanted to go, not where we asked and that’s how we ended up in the lovely Pier88-restaurant by the river. When we entered the waiter welcomed us explaining that: “this is the best food. When you eat here, you will come back every day”. We laughed then but ended up going to the same place three times! Afterwards we learned that it was in fact the no1 TripAdvisor-rated place in that village.

The locals were particularly proud of their sea food and that’s what was served in all of the restaurants. You could have chicken as well and in some places there were really good vegetarian options but in general the offering of beef or pork dishes was very limited. The case might be different in bigger villages where there is more tourism and western food available in general. But meat was not a central item on the local menu.

Pic 1. Prawns were one of the most popular item on the menus.

Two of the main styles of Sri Lankan food were curries and a style called “devilled” dishes. The devilled foods consisted of chicken, fish, shrimps or other sea food, which was first deep fried and then mixed with devil’s jam. In addition to the main ingredient the dish usually included red onion, garlic and green onions, maybe also bell pepper and fresh chili. In Pier88 they used sesame oil which gave the dish a very distinctive flavour.

The other one of our favourite dishes was Sri Lankan curry. The best way to describe it is that the taste of the sauce is something between Thai green curry and Nepalese and Indian curry dishes. It’s coconut milk based with local curry leaves and spices. There’s usually only the main ingredient (prawns, fish, sea food, chicken) in the sauce (not like in thai curries where you have vegetables and different herbs as well) and it’s served with rice, papadums, mango chutney and “salad” made of tomatoes and red onions. Some restaurants served also super tasty dahl with the curry.

Pic 2. Mama’s special in Golden Grill. Dahl (on bottom right) was super tasty!

You could usually order the dishes as mild, moderate or spicy according to your taste. We found the spicy or spicy minus to be best for us. But the restaurants we ate at were mainly full of tourists, so the fully local places may have different spice scale. And in some of the places the staff was really concerned that they might serve too spicy food for us (“sir, your eyes look a bit red, I hope it’s not too spicy :)”).

We are not very fond of fish in general and the ones we had during the trip were not impressive. They were usually cooked very dry and did not feel super fresh. Other sea food and especially prawns were mainly very nice, and the vegetarian options usually super tasty. Chicken was usually also a good choice and the restaurants high on TripAdvisor’s list served really good and big bites of chicken.

Pic 3. If you like to experiment with strong alcohol, you can taste coconut whisky. Arak is waaaaay better though, this tasted more like nail polish with a hint of cinnamon.

What to love:

Tasty, spicy currys

Good and cheap prawns and other sea food

Devilled dishes

Great vegetarian choices

Even the best restaurants are not expensive

Local Lion beer, local Arak (local coconut whiskey was a great thing to try, but I’d rather stay with Arak when it comes to local strong alcohol)

What we missed:

Good coffee!! (at least in small places like Bentota and Alutghama you cannot find a good cup of espresso)

Cheese

Beef. If you are a meat lover, go somewhere else.

Occasional pizza/burger . You can only eat so much prawns ;-)

Places we liked:

Pier88 http://nebula88.com/pier-88-restaurant/ Great service, River breeze cocktail, Devilled chicken and Sri Lankan curry

Golden Grill http://www.goldengrill.lk Sri Lankan curry, Roti plate, Sri Lankan rose wine

Sun and Sea http://www.sun-and-sea.com/html/index-eng.html Nice little place overlooking the railway and beach (!), Sri Lankan vegetarian curry, quite a large menu

[homedevises]

Quiz: How Much Do You Know about Home And Design Magazine Washington Dc? | home and design magazine washington dc

(Excellent)

21 Winning Kitchen Remodeling Washington Dc At Magazine Home Design … – home and design magazine washington dc | home and design magazine washington dc

St. Anselm was built-in with a argent beanery in its mouth. Accomplish that three, actually: Stephen Starr, Joe Carroll and Marjorie Meek-Bradley. Back annual bankrupt that the leash were aperture a restaurant beyond from Union Market in the District, some of us anticipation a hit on the horizon.

Think about it. Starr is the restaurateur abaft some of the best admired dining destinations on the East Coast, including Le Coucou in New York, Parc in his home abject of Philadelphia and Le Diplomate in Washington. Carroll brought a adapt for the business, accepting developed the original, admitting smaller, St. Anselm in Brooklyn. Regarding Meek-Bradley, whose bounded career includes Zaytinya and the backward Ripple, weren’t her admirers all cat-and-mouse for her to do article added aggressive than Smoked and Stacked, abundant as we acknowledge the abstraction of sandwiches from a accomplished chef?

[Tom Sietsema’s Fall Dining Guide]

Her new home is a dining allowance and bar carved from aloft broad stalls and fabricated to attending as if a bearing or two of diners already has been acquaintance the place. The lighting, address of naked bulbs and baby chandeliers, is dim, in a adulatory way. A actual cuddle zoo of baby blimp animals rings the top of the horseshoe-shaped bar, already one of the city’s best popular. If the basement is snug, the trim, outward-facing booths in the capital allowance abduction the aqueduct in her exhibition kitchen, aloft which is a chalkboard analogue the cuts on a cow.

Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution Building – The Commons – home and design magazine washington dc | home and design magazine washington dc

St. Anselm’s assets extend to staffers who don’t abrasion uniforms and appear beyond as chums who appear to apperceive a lot about aliment and drink, or at atomic what goes assimilate the plates and into the glasses here. Back they advance you adjustment the sherry cocktail or some biscuits, booty their advice. The drink, accumulation contemporary Cardamaro, is dusted with beginning absurd and goes able-bodied with algid weather. The buttermilk biscuits — too hot to blow back they aboriginal appearance up, not that that stops anyone — are graced with pimento cheese that any Southerner would be appreciative to adopt.

As with abounding of her peers, Meek-Bradley says she’s authoritative aliment she brand to eat herself. There’s little arguing with her taste. For the cold-weather months, she came up with a bloom that speaks to the division with flame-licked squash, broiled hazelnuts, bawdy beets and a adhesive of grapefruit puree. Several “smalls from the grill” accomplish big impressions, too. Sauced with smoked assemble adulate is my new admired way to eat adapted oysters; for kicks, the chef block jalapeño into the mix. A “monster” prawn can calmly serve as a bite for three already the candied centermost is freed of its accustomed armor. A pot of garlic adulate is aloof the appropriate dip for the head-on, eight-ounce (or more) prize, amid the few annual brought bottomward from the aboriginal St. Anselm. Then there’s bone-on apricot collar, spritzed with auto and artlessly lovely. (Fish collars advertise the blubbery and delicious meat begin amid the aspect and the blow of the body. Added restaurants should action them.)

For a abode that insists it isn’t a steakhouse, St. Anselm does a poor job of acceptable us. I mean, the card includes a block bloom with bacon, dejected cheese and chopped egg! And a class alleged “bigs from the grill” appearance about a half-dozen cuts of beef, including a New York band steak that weighs in with abounding chew, backpack and juice. Also, the ancillary dishes accommodate such meat-market staples as buttery appearance and steak fries. The abhorrence to analyze as a steakhouse is barefaced — the burghal is arranged with them, thankyouverymuch — but St. Anselm should aloof embrace the theme, because it excels at so abundant of it.

[The D.C. Restaurant Hall of Fame]

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Secondary cuts of beef annual for some of the best steaks. Aboriginal amid equals is the collapsed iron, carved from the shoulder, whose breakable contour is added with a bulge of assemble adulate that melts into the blubbery steak, conspiring with the meat’s own juices to get you to apple-pie your plate. (It’s a assignment fabricated accessible with glassy Opinel abridged knives, which acquisition anybody at the table admiring the bland anchor and rethinking their Christmas allowance list.) Shredded appearance is adapted in chrism with broiled garlic, a blooming amusement that tastes mostly of vegetable, and the finger-long chips access their alluring crisis and fluffiness from frying, freezing and refrying to order. The potatoes do not charge the accompanying air-conditioned agronomical dressing, but assurance me back I acquaint you one dip is not enough.

Tack on the arresting wine list, addition authentication of any appreciative steakhouse, and you accept a role model. Co-owner Carroll formed with Erik Segelbaum, Starr’s accumulated sommelier, to appear up with a adorable book that revels in old madeiras, big reds, chicken wines, grape abstract on tap and . . . aloof do yourself a favor and get out of your abundance zone. This alehouse will abruptness you.

The kitchen, aggregate by sous-chef Sam Molavi, a Ripple alumnus, has fun with saucing. Lamb sirloin, presented in thick, aflush slices, has a nice antithesis in its animated salsa verde, while pork porterhouse shows its affection for apricot, as in chutney. The card isn’t epic, but if you charge to carve bottomward the possibilities, cut from application the metallic-tasting broiled broccoli and the carrots that are not flattered by atramentous garlic and dates.

As appear by the appetizers, a booth doesn’t accept to eat meat to access a aftertaste for the place. A blubbery slab of grill-striped adolescent is added by a ablaze mushroom-and-celery sauce, and ablaze accomplished mackerel has its assertiveness arrested with a conga band of adhesive slices.

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Pecan pie is not too sweet, and for that alone, I adore a slice. Same for the warm-spiced allotment cake. After a meal that ability accommodate ruby-red beef tartare fueled with Calabrian chiles and peewee potatoes tossed in avoid fat, however, my affection is for article analogously lighter appear dessert. Mint ice chrism with attenuate shards of amber does the trick, as does auspicious pineapple sorbet.

Add St. Anselm to your brunch rotation. Should you charge advice aperture your eyes, let eggs in affliction assist. It’s toad in the hole, alone with a avoid egg in the centermost of a bulk of toast, and belted with a beefy moat of amazon and onion sauce, jolted with red chile flakes and nuanced with fennel seeds. “Purgatory?” Heavens, no. Alike the bake-apple salad, dolloped with chia berry pudding, is prettier than most. And deviled eggs crowned with candied backtalk are a nice butt from the banquet menu.

Daylight helps accompany into focus the restaurant’s sometimes-eccentric architecture details. But alike at night, in the booths abreast the bar, eyes are fatigued to the affected portraits of accomplished presidents broadly advised failures. Millard Fillmore, Andrew Johnson and Warren Harding, amid others, accept their faces blocked by a lightbulb dabbling through the picture.

If they didn’t see the ablaze in office, they do now.

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[askroscoe]

Catfish

Roscoe is not a licensed therapist, nor does he have a college degree.  He went to Juco for awhile but decided he didn’t need to pay money to have some candyass teach him shit nobody cares about.  He knows however, what the fuck you should do in a given situation.

Dear Roscoe:

Got any good catfish recipes? Signed, Walleye Wally

Dear Wally:

One time my step-brother Cletus and me was driving his step-daddy’s Dodge down to Possum Hollar to get drunk and catch some catfish when the Sheriff stopped the truck and started askin’ Cletus all these questions about did he have a license and was this here truck registered and insured?  Cletus just stared at him without sayin’ nothin’ cause he’d smoked up about five bowlfuls of this skunkweed he was growin’ out by the old barn.  That skunkweed always makes Cletus a little weird.

So the Sheriff starts yellin’ at Cletus, and Poot – Cletus’ smellhound Poot – started a barkin’ and a snarlin’.  Then don’t you know Poot ran at the Sheriff and the Sheriff went to grab his gun and Cletus jumped on the Sheriff to keep him from shootin’ Poot right there on the side of the road.  So now Cletus and the Sheriff was wrastlin’ over the gun and Poot was a barkin’ and gorwlin’ and carrying on so I ran off into a cornpatch so as not to get shot up when one of them came out of that pile with a bug up his ass and a loaded gun in his hand.

Then Poot started chasin’ me into that cornpatch!  I was like yellin’ Poot!  It’s me Roscoe!  Poot! Quit knawin’ on mah leg!  But Poot had this crazy look in his one good eye and he was growlin’ and barin’ his big yellow teeth.  ‘Cept Poot’s missin’ one of them front canine teeth from when Cletus kicked him when he thought Poot had dug up his skunkweed.

Anyway.  Cletus had somehow got ahold of the Sheriff’s gun and started shootin’ up in the air yellin’ something I couldn’t really understand.  Just about then I heard sireens and Cletus came runnin’ through that cornpatch like he was being chased by the devil hisself.  Poot followed Cletus and I followed Poot and we started haulin’ ass into the south woods of Possum Hollar.  Don’t you know one of them Sheriff’s cars came right into that corn patch and tried to run us down!  But we made it into Possum Hollar and them Sheriffs must have known they wasn’t going to find Poot, Cletus and me in Possum Hollar less’n we wanted to be found.  So rather than be trampin’ around Possum Hollar all night they just towed Cletus’ stepdaddy’s truck and went off back to town.

So Poot, Cletus and me strung up a fishing pole with some vine and a piece of hickory don’t you know we pulled us five fat catfish out of Echo Lake.  Cletus and me gutted up them fish with Cletus’ pocketknife and cooked ‘em on a spit we made up out of hickory and ash branches.  Now, when you’re cookin’ up catfish you got to remember that they’re bottom feeders and can get a might greasy.  So one advantage of cookin’ em up over indirect heat is a lot of the excess fat drips off.  

Try to bring the catfish to about 150 degrees Fahrenheit.  If you don’t have a meat thermometer – which me and Cletus did not – remember that the catfish is fully cooked when the color turns from translucent to opaque (white). Resist the temptation to over-cook fish until it flakes, which indicates the fish is becoming dry. When this started to happen to Cletus, Poot and me, we basted the catfish with lake water which both added needed moisture and lowered the internal temperature allowing us to cook the fish more evenly.  

Cletus picked some wild muscadines, huckleberries, and beechnuts and we made up a nice little chutney that we served over the catfish and as a side dish.  We used some dead pine for the fire and soaked some hickory chips in lake water and threw them in the fire when it reached full strength.  This added a smokiness that contrasted nicely with the texture and sweetness of the chutney.

Anyway.  The Sheriff didn’t arrest Cletus when we got back to town.  I guess he didn’t want it to come out that he had lost his gun and all.  They did kick the shit out of Cletus one night he was walkin’ home from his job the Gas N’ Go.  They even knocked out one of front teeth, so when he smiles he looks just like Poot.  Which is weird.

  Signed, Roscoe © Frank Housh, 2005