#Crispy Exterior

[parveens-kitchen]

Air Fried Gulab Jamun

Delightful Twist: Air Fried Gulab Jamun with a Cardamom Infused SyrupIndulging in the sweet symphony of gulab jamun is always a treat, but have you ever tried taking this beloved dessert to the next level by air frying it? In this blog post, we’ll explore a quick and easy recipe for air fried gulab jamun using an instant store-bought mix. The result? Bite-sized pieces of heaven that are light,…

[thebibliosphere]

I’m editing a chapter of Pennyworth where Alfred teaches Richard how to make doughnuts and I realized it’s been seven years since I last had a doughnut and made myself sad then decided: fuck that and made myself gluten free doughnuts.

Several more attempts may be needed to get it right—or as right as I can with my dietary limitations. But for now I have doughnut-shaped cake and that’s good enough.

[hydrangeas-in-fall]

Wind Breaker 153 Spoils below the cut. I’m going feral

I had to make a post about this because I’ve seen a couple of takes being like “poor Sakura, his image of Ume has shattered, he feels lied to” and I just…I don’t agree with that?

Like, I get that he asks Endo “who is that” because of how crazy Ume is fighting rn, which is so diametrically opposed to the fight he had with Choji and how Ume is on the regular—so different he can hardly recognize this Ume. But I don’t think it’s because he feels lied to or because his image is shattered, to me when he asks that and Mr. Bad Judge of Character Endo goes on his little rant about Ume being selfish, Sakura is thinking a lot about what Endo is saying, what he knows about Ume (his past, who he is now, etc.), and what he is seeing. I’m not sure what the conclusion of these thoughts are, but I think it’s definitely in his tortured expression we see in the last few pages.

WHICH I ALSO HAVE THINGS TO SAY ABOUT!!!! Behold! The pages in questions:

Now, this is just how I read this, so everyone else’s opinion is also valid, but I’ve seen a few people talking as if the last sentence is said by Sakura. Saying “he…feels so distant” and I can totally see why they think that. BUT TO ME the way this is written feels like a continuation of Endo’s thoughts. It’s Endo who is saying “why’re you making that face? Confusion? Awe? Or…” and then you get the next page with “he…feels so distant” which to me seems like Endo is projecting how he feels about Takishii to how Sakura feels about Ume, not Sakura’s inner dialogue that Ume feels distant.

Anyway, I’ve rambled a lot and I hope this makes sense, but I personally think that Sakura has this look on his face because he seems himself in Ume rn. Our lil burnt marshmallow has changed so much for the better in Furin, he’s not the same person he was even a few weeks ago, hell he’s not the same person he was a few HOURS ago. Sakura knows what it’s like to change, and he wouldn’t want to revert back to who he was before he changed. So I think him seeing Ume fight like he’s back to being a desperate 16 year old fighting for his “selfish” goals of protecting the town and his loved ones happiness hurts Sakura.

Okay that’s it, I’ll shut up now XD

[overlordleaveshiswife]

The cook time is cut in half and the skin gets extra crispy when cooking pork roast at 500 degrees F. In about an hour, your pork roast will be finished, and it will still be delicious.

[herrfivehead]

i'm a center square kind of guy when it comes to brownies but a corner square when it comes to mac and cheese. dunno what that says about me

[twentysomethingtales]

Recipe for Crispy Tofu Bites The key to making tofu crispy is pressing out all the water; a straightforward coating also increases the recipe's level of crunch. 1 cup self-rising flour, 2 tablespoons cornstarch, 1 teaspoon ground black pepper, 1 package extra-firm tofu, 1 teaspoon salt, 2 tablespoons vegetable oil or as needed

[emptyfingertips]

Recipe for High-Temp Pork Roast Cooking pork roast at 500 degrees F reduces the cook time and makes the skin extra crispy. Your pork roast will be done in about an hour with just as much flavor.

[st4rshiptr00per]

powerful image in my mind of the tardis getting completely nuked and being all burnt and crispy on the outside and everybodys like "oh NO it killed her!" and the doctors like "no no no dont worry about that. see look" and starts peeling off the charred exterior in big chunks to reveal a slightly too pale, slightly too smooth, mucusy but intact police box underneath

[apas-95]

the point of boiling potato wedges in baking soda and shaking them afterwards is actually to mash as much of the potato as possible while still keeping them intact - the baking soda raises the pH of the water, helping break down the potatoes faster, in the opposite way as using vinegar when making french fries. you should try to boil them as long as you feel comfortable without letting them fall apart. when you shake them in the bowl afterwards it should be vigorous and go on until each potato slice's exterior is mashed. by mashing the outside of the potatoes, it results in a very crispy and textured crust, along with a soft and fluffy center. you can add oil and herbs at this time, but that's mainly because youre about to put them in the oven. after removing them from the oven, make sure to salt while they're still hot, so the salt sticks. you can salt the water you boil them in, but it's a bit wasteful and might not have all that much effect unless you use a real lot.

[7-wonders]

All the Debts I Owe

Sith!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Summary: A routine Rebellion meeting goes horribly wrong when the Empire discovers the coordinates, but the Force has other plans for you besides death and chaos. Enter none other than the Sith Lord who's become a perennial thorn in your side.

Word count: 3.8k

A note from the author: Hello there! It's been a while since I've actually written anything (like, six months), so I hope this is good! This fic is a part of my Rebel-verse, where reader is a Rebel and Anakin is Darth Vader, just without the crispiness and chopped-off limbs.

(Also, there are a couple of little Easter eggs in here that you'll hopefully pick up on if you've read my other works in this AU. Let me know when you find them!)

I sincerely hope you enjoy, and if you do, I'd love to hear from you! Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks make my world go round :)

“...and the cost of fighter fuel will be supplemented by our trade alliance with Endor,” General Kessyk finishes reading from the tablet in front of her, and you have to hold in a sigh of relief when you realize that she’s reached the end of her prepared remarks.

The clock ticking loudly on the wall in the meeting room of the Rebel base on Mandalore has been the only thing keeping you from zoning out during the last half hour of the special session called by General Kessyk. When you joined the Rebel Alliance, you pictured your life to be nonstop action, fighting battles and gathering intelligence in the fight against the Galactic Empire. And sure, that’s been a good chunk of your time as a Rebel. But as you’ve climbed the ranks and slowly earned your way into a leadership position, you’ve come to the unfortunate realization that being in charge of the Rebellion involves a lot more administrative duties than you anticipated.

Including sitting through a boring budget meeting, of all things, to discuss how the Rebellion will be funded for the next half rotation.

Oona, your friend and second in command when your crew is out on a mission, nudges your side and slips a piece of paper into your hand. When you open it and look down to read the message, you have to hold in a burst of laughter. “Should I bring up the General’s shiny new robes and ask where the budget for that came from?” it reads.

“I don’t know what would be the worse reaction, her getting upset at your insubordination or her pulling out a detailed expenditure report,” you scribble quickly and hand it back to her.

Oona shoots you a cheeky grin and starts to write her own response, only for you both to be startled out of your merriment by the general calling your name.

“Yes, General?” you ask, pretending like you’ve been listening the entire time and definitely not forcing yourself to count each tick of the clock to keep from dozing off.

“I was inquiring about the status of your requested budget for the Jedi recruitment mission in the Outer Rim, Commander.” Though the Togruta tries to look stern, you can see the way that her lips just barely twitch as she tries to hide the soft spot she has for your antics. Kessyk has a tough exterior, indeed, but she fiercely loves those under her command, and has to often remind herself that she’s in charge.

“Of course.” You begin to pull up your (hastily completed last night) budget request when your heart seizes in your chest. 

The Force screams danger! at you a split second before the unmistakable sounds of TIE fighters overhead ring in your ears. Red sirens alerting the base of adversaries start screeching, and everybody scrambles to well-rehearsed places to try and decipher what’s going on. You unclip your lightsaber and ignite it, as do a couple of other assembled Force users. It’s second nature at this point to assume command of a crisis situation, so you look to your trusted right-hand woman, already at a blaster cannon.

“Oona, set blasters to fire and send out a distress signal to the fleet!” She nods, and you focus on the next order of business: getting out there and fighting whatever it is that’s come to attack.

Unfortunately, bombs drop before you can even take a step, giving way to screaming and smoke and, eventually, silence.

•••

In the years since he eschewed the Jedi Order and turned to the Dark Side, Darth Vader has gotten very good at compartmentalizing. Restoring peace throughout the galaxy and carrying out the Emperor’s wishes could often be brutal and bloody, so he had to make sure that he wouldn’t crack under the strain of the horrors he both witnessed and carried out. It was a little like turning a switch on and off. Before a mission, the humanity that he held within him, that wish for no more death and destruction, was hidden away, instead replaced entirely by Sith values. He was then able to do what must be done without any hesitation. 

(The aftermath of turning that switch back on and being faced with what he had done was horrific, but he secretly felt as though he deserved it—that it was his penance for all of the pain that he caused.)

There were times when compartmentalizing was easier said than done—killing the younglings all those years ago at the Jedi Temple, for example, had truly tested his newfound ability to do so. But there are other times, such as when intelligence points the Galactic Empire to a meeting of the top forces of the Rebel Alliance, that make it easy to shut a more humane part of him down and focus on the victory ahead. And now, as he stands aboard his destroyer and stares down at the smoldering carnage of the Rebellion’s Mandalore base, victory tastes sweet.

“Lord Vader, I have good news.” Admiral Batch, one of the few admirals not petrified of him, sidles up next to him. “The Rebels were caught completely off-guard, and as a result, we can confirm there have been over 20 casualties of high-ranking members of the Rebel Alliance.”

“Good news indeed,” Vader speaks through the modulator of his mask. “Are there any confirmed names that we can take back to the Emperor?”

“None for certain, until we can get down there and see identities for ourselves. We do know that General Kessyk was in the building, as well as a number of Force-sensitive Rebels.”

The moment that last fact actually registers with Darth Vader is the moment that his carefully constructed cruel facade collapses, allowing the Force to finally come screaming at him and tell him of the major mistake he’s made. How could he have not thought of the possibility that you, his Rebel, would be involved in this meeting? Through both Empire intelligence gatherings and the begrudging revelations from you that your responsibilities had been increasing due to your importance in the Rebellion, he should have made the connection that you were now one of those high-ranking members.

Instead, he allowed his anger and his passion to cloud his thinking until the only thing he could focus on was winning. It’s a move that has brought him pain countless times in the past, and now, it seeks to do so again. Vader has to force himself to remain calm, lest he lose control of his emotions and allow his connection to the Force to wreak havoc on his surroundings. 

He takes a couple of deep breaths before feeling like he can speak in a level tone. “Thank you, Admiral Batch.”

The admiral bows his head in respect. “My lord,” he says, turning and heading back to the command center on the destroyer.

There’s not a moment to spare once the panel to the observation deck seals and leaves him alone. He needs to get down to the surface of Mandalore before any Stormtrooper teams can beat him there and start confirming the dead and injured. Darth Vader hurries back to his chambers, where he sheds his bulky uniform and switches into a set of unassuming robes. Clipping his lightsaber to his belt, he pulls his hood up over his head and proceeds to sneak out of the destroyer and into a cruiser—an easy feat when one has the Force on their side.

The Rebel base, once so well hidden in one of the capital’s abandoned industrial districts, is now completely exposed after the barrage of Empire bombs shelled through its defenses. Rubble and detritus are strewn in every direction, making his path to the coordinates of the meeting room that much more difficult to maneuver. Vader takes great care to stay hidden under any outcroppings of the ceiling still standing, hyperaware of the fact that he could be spotted at any moment.

When he finally reaches the room where the Rebellion’s best and brightest were meeting, he pauses as he takes in the carnage in front of him. It’s nowhere near the first time that he’s stood in a room full of bodies, their injuries and deaths partially (sometimes fully) attributed to him. But it is the first time that he’s been so concerned for the welfare of one of the potential bodies. Vader’s frantic eyes scan the faces of the dead and wounded, both hoping and not to see you among them. If he doesn’t see you, it either means that you’re somewhere safe and far away from here or that you’re buried so far under the wreckage that he’ll never be able to find you. Likewise, if he does see you, he’ll have concrete proof that you’re either alive…

…Or dead.

A pit opens up in his stomach at the mental image he’s unconsciously created, and he forces his eyes to work faster, to take in more and more information until there’s no doubt left for his mind to play with. Finally, in the corner of the room, he sees your face peeking out from behind a crumbling column. He has the briefest moment of deliberation, a ghost whispering in his ear that he’s gotten too wrapped up in this whole situation, persuading him to turn back now, cut his losses, and find something else to focus his attention on. Then there’s a pop and a sizzle, a chunk of ceiling breaking off and hitting a pile of embers across the room, and the ghost disappears.

It feels like Vader teleports with how fast he makes it to you, though that is not a skill that the Force grants. Falling to his knees at your side, his hand shakes as he places two fingers on your neck, terrified of the potential outcome when he tries to find a pulse. After a stressful few moments, he’s relieved to feel your pulse beating steadily under your skin. With the knowledge that you’re firmly alive in mind, he takes a moment to actually look you over. 

You’re covered in blood and soot, making it difficult for him to determine where you’re injured. Your right arm is definitely broken, and it looks like your right ankle is, too. The extent of your injuries can be determined later by a medical droid. What matters now is that you’re alive, and that you’re stable. 

Everything else is secondary.

•••

The first thing you realize upon waking up is that you have no memory of how you came to be in a position where you would need to wake up. The last thing you remember, you were trading notes with Oona to pass the time during a budget meeting. Now you’re here…if only you knew where ‘here’ was.

It’s more difficult for you to open your eyes than it normally is, and when you do finally pry them open, your blurry vision prevents you from discerning where you are. Picking a light source in the distance, you focus on that until the room finally comes into focus and you see that you’re surrounded by white. White walls, white floors, white counters. The logical part of your brain says that it could mean you’re in a medbay. But the logical part of your brain feels…fuzzy, almost. Like there’s a blanket of clouds settled over your consciousness and making silly notions like logic and reason fly somewhere far away

“Am I dead?” you ask yourself.

Somebody laughs at you from across the room, and you look to see none other than Darth Vader, sans mask and cape and all other vestments that he wears as a Sith Lord, strolling towards you. “No, thankfully.”

Blinking rapidly doesn’t get him to disappear in a mirage, but it does serve to dry out your already-unreliable eyes. “Well, now I really think that I might be dead.”

“Not if I had anything to say about it. Which, I did, and it’s why you’re not dead.”

A puff of air leaves your nose—it’s meant to come out as a laugh, but parts of your body seem to not want to cooperate today, so a puff of air is all you manage. The action makes your nose begin to itch fiercely, and as you jerkily lift your hand to alleviate the sensation, you’re stopped at the sight of the blue bacta cast that covers your arm from wrist to elbow.

“Oh.”

“The med droids did it,” he explains sheepishly, as though you might be mad at somebody attempting to heal what must be a significant injury. “Your right ankle is in a cast, too, as are your ribs. The report from the droid earlier said that your injuries are healing at the expected rate, so you should only need to be in them for a few more cycles.”

“What happened?” you mumble.

“What do you remember?” Vader asks.

“There was a meeting, and I was getting called out by Kessyk for not paying attention. Then…” you try to think, but the blanket of clouds presses down on you further and makes everything scatter. “Ugh, I feel funny.”

“Pretty sure you’re on some heavy painkillers right now.” He grabs a tablet from the end of your bed and looks at it. “You’re definitely on some heavy painkillers right now,” he amends.

“How did I get injured enough to need enough drugs to take down a bantha?”

“The Empire received intelligence that some high-ranking members of the Rebellion would be meeting on Mandalore, and the decision was made to carry out a bombing mission. I didn’t even begin to think that you were one of those high-ranking members until after the bombs had been dropped.”

“Wow, you don’t think I’m good enough at my job to be a high-ranking Rebel?” If you had full control over yourself right now, you would be slapping a horrified hand over your mouth and begging yourself to shut up. Instead, you giggle (oh, the horror) at Vader’s panicked expression and bat at his hands with your own uninjured one. “I’m just messing with you. We both know that I’m really good at my job.”

“We do,” he agrees before continuing. “I couldn’t just leave without knowing if you were there, so I commandeered a fighter and went down myself. When I saw you laying there, injured…I wouldn't leave you to whatever your fate might have been if I hadn’t interfered. So I brought you here, to my fortress on Mustafar, to recover.”

A med droid interrupts your conversation when it begins to do a routine round through the medbay and sees that you’re awake. You allow it to poke and prod you, checking your vitals and doing whatever scans it needs, aware the whole time of Vader watching you. His stare is unwavering, closely supervising the droid as though it might rebel against its circuitry and try to harm you instead of heal you. When the droid chirps at him, he glares.

“I am letting you do your job, 21-B,” he huffs.

More chirping, followed by a whistle.

“That’s uncalled for.”

“You can understand it?” you ask, watching the scene in front of you with amusement.

“I’ve been able to understand droids since I was a young boy. For better or for worse.”

When 21-B beeps, even you can tell it's displeased. Vader rolls his eyes and proceeds to argue with the droid a bit longer before turning to you.

“Your temperature is starting to rise a little, and 21-B’s worried it’s an early sign of infection. He wants to give you some medicine to combat that. Is that alright?” You’re a little surprised that Vader is both taking the time to explain the droid’s requests to you and making sure that you consent to the care plan.

You nod, and 21-B begins to fiddle with the IV in your hand before injecting what you assume is the needed medicine into your line. There must be a sedative effect to this medication as well, because your body quickly begins to feel like gravity is no longer going to be able to hold you down anymore. You try to fight the way that your eyes flutter, willing yourself to keep focused on Vader. There are still so many questions you have that need answered!

“Do you know who died?” you ask quietly, using the stores of strength you still have within you to speak.

“Not for certain. There was…a lot of carnage when I came to find you. I couldn’t see who was alive and who wasn’t.”

“Oh.” Although such a revelation certainly warrants a better reaction, one syllable is all that you can muster.

Vader smiles just slightly at your struggle. “Focus on resting, and I’ll see if I can find answers for you, okay?”

You think you mutter an affirmative answer, but unconsciousness pulls at you before you can be sure. 

Though it feels like you merely blink, when you open your eyes once more, the shadows in the medbay are much longer than they were when you last saw them. One glance around the room reveals Darth Vader sitting in a chair at the foot of your bed, watching something on a holocron. When he notices you struggle into a sitting position, he powers it off and tosses it on a counter behind him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Better,” you respond truthfully. You feel a little stronger than you did earlier; your mind is markedly clearer, too.

“Good. The droid said that your temperature returned to normal about an hour ago.”

“That’s good.” 

Even though you should be focused on yourself, asking more questions about your own prognosis, your mind is with your team and your fellow Rebels—or, you fear, what’s left of them.

“Did you…learn any of the names of the injured and dead?” you ask.

Vader nods and takes a deep breath (Does his face lose a little color? you wonder as you watch his expression for any clues). “I did. General Kessyk is dead.”

You’re almost expecting that answer, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. And in a normal circumstance, you would hide that hurt until you could break down away from anybody. But this isn’t a normal circumstance. You’re hurt and thankful to be alive and probably still a little high on pain meds, which is why you have to stare intensely down at the cast on your arm to keep the stray tears that hit your blanket from turning into full-on crying in Darth Vader’s presence. To his credit, he is incredibly patient with you, remaining silent and giving you the space to feel your feelings. 

You manage to get yourself under control quicker than expected, sniffling a couple of times before you can meet his eyes again.

“My second in command—my best friend—was there with me.” It’s hard to get the words out, as a selfish part of you wants to not ask, but instead live in this gray area where she’s both alive and not. “Did you hear anything about someone named Oona?”

The control that you had been so proud of yourself for exercising crumbles the moment that you hear him say that Oona’s injured, but alive. Tears that were vanquished mere moments ago return in full force until you’re sobbing.

Not just crying, no. Sobbing. Like, gross, heaving sobs. The type of sobbing that will most definitely leave you feeling embarrassed later for having such an emotional reaction. At the moment, though, sobbing seems like the only way to properly express your feelings. Relief, at Oona being alive. Grief, for your general and likely a number of others who have lost their lives. And something bittersweet—some emotion you can’t truly place—for yourself and the position you’ve found yourself in.

After a few moments of indecision, Vader rises awkwardly from his chair and hovers inches away from you, unsure of what to do.

“I’m so sorry, Anakin,” you try to apologize in between sobs. “Really, I’m just—”

“Please don’t apologize,” he insists uncomfortably as your breath gets caught in your throat, causing you to almost hyperventilate as you try to remember how to breathe.

Darth Vader is a Sith Lord, and you’re a Force-sensitive Rebel; enemies, that much is true. But first and foremost, you’re both human beings who possess human traits and tendencies. Vader can’t help but sympathize with you, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder before he’s even fully aware of the action. Likewise, when your body recognizes another human who’s willing to provide you comfort in a time of need, it acts by taking his hand in your own and beginning to pull him down onto the bed before logic can say otherwise. 

“You don’t want me to hold you,” Vader tries to convince you while he’s climbing onto the bed with you and carefully avoiding your various bacta casts to slide his arms around you, somehow unaware that he’s the one taking the comfort further than just the simple hand-holding and proximity that you initiated. “I–I’m the reason for this. You should be sending me away.”

“Shut up,” you mumble into his chest through hiccuping sobs. 

Already, your breath seems to come a little easier, your tears a little lighter. And the Force, which is always humming around you with something to say, has gone contentedly silent. 

When you find yourself calm enough to dry your eyes and lift your head off of Vader’s chest, you have to fight a sudden bout of shyness to be able to actually look at him. “Sorry for crying on you so much,” you mumble bashfully.

“I promise you, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” Vader assures. “If anything, I’m surprised that you aren’t angry at me.”

“How can I be, when I would have done the exact same thing?”

He doesn’t bother to hide his shock. “Really?”

“Yes,” you admit with a laugh. “I absolutely would have bombed a meeting of Empire officials, and then belatedly realized you were probably there and tried to get you out safely against my better judgment.”

“Judgment seems to not be either of our strong suits right now. None of what’s happening to us follows any rationale,” Vader says.

“No,” you agree. “We should be mortal enemies.”

“Absolutely.” Vader tightens his grip around you. “Once we figure out why the Force keeps doing this to us, we’re right back to trying to kill each other without any qualms.”

“So glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re so on the same page, in fact, that neither you nor Vader let go of the other. Better to keep the Force happy, right?

[tossawary]

I've been making a lot of focaccia bread (no knead, overnight rise, very easy) and bagels recently, and so have combined them into focaccia bagels and discovered perhaps my new favorite kind of bagel.

After the water bath (give it a bit so the bagels aren't boiling hot or your fingers will hurt), you brush both sides of a bagel with olive oil, then top them with chunky salt of your choice and some rosemary, and bake (as per recipe or slightly longer) until slightly golden. You end up with salty bagels that have a slightly crispy exterior! It's delightful. Different but not dissimilar to pretzel bagels. Sometimes, I throw a little olive oil into the dough of the bagels as well, and I often don't bother to put anything besides water in the bath so that no other flavors are competing later with the focaccia stuff.

[2b4st4r]

Oh hi! I hope you're doing! Been enjoying your work a little too much, I thought maybe I could make an ask..

I love katakuri, but there isn't much on him. Could you please write something for him?

Here's a scenario if you'd like to you use one:

The reader is a talented pastry chef who becomes Katakuri's new assistant on Whole Cake Island. As they work together, Katakuri develops strong feelings for the reader, but struggles with jealousy when they receive attention from other family members (cracker, oven, Daifuku etc.)

The Pastries Heart 

Reader x Reader

Words: 4,168

Warnings: implied power imbalance, jealousy, minor injuries, wholesome/romance, use of y/n.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───

The humid air of Whole Cake Island usually felt like a warm hug, but today it was more of a suffocating embrace. You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow, the scent of melting chocolate and simmering fruit clinging to your clothes like a second skin. Most people would find the constant sugary perfume overwhelming, but to you, it was the sweet symphony of your life's work.

Your small corner of the Chateau was a whirlwind of flour, sugar, and artistic chaos. Unlike the mechanical precision of some of the other Big Mom pirates' kitchens, yours hummed with a different kind of energy—one born from passion and an almost obsessive attention to detail. This was where magic happened, where simple ingredients transformed into edible dreams.

You hummed along to the distant clang of a blacksmith, a surprising but not unwelcome sound on an island dedicated to confectionery. Your hands moved with practiced grace, rolling out a delicate sheet of feuilletage so thin you could practically see through it. This wasn't just any puff pastry; it was destined to become the crispy, ethereal layers of a Mille-Feuille aux Fruits Rouges. Each individual fruit—plump raspberries, glistening blueberries, and fragrant wild strawberries—had been personally selected and glazed to perfection, their natural sweetness heightened by a hint of vanilla bean. The crème pâtissière, a silky, golden custard, was cooling in the chiller, infused with just the right amount of Madagascar vanilla.

Your eyes, however, were currently focused on something far more intricate: miniature Mont Blancs. These weren't the rustic, hearty versions you might find in a mountain cafe. Yours were individual works of art, each a delicate mound of sweetened chestnut cream piped into intricate swirls, resembling freshly fallen snow. Hidden beneath the chestnut "snow" was a light-as-air vanilla sponge and a dollop of tart blackcurrant compote, providing a bright counterpoint to the richness. A single candied violet graced the peak of each, a tiny edible crown.

The oven timer chimed, pulling you away from your precise piping. You carefully pulled out a tray of your signature Pain au Chocolat, their golden-brown exteriors gleaming, promising a buttery, flaky interior filled with rich, molten chocolate. You smiled; Katakuri always seemed to appreciate those, despite his usual stoic demeanor.

Working for the second son of the Charlotte Family, Katakuri, was… an experience. He was a man of few words, especially when it came to compliments, but you'd learned to read the subtle signs. The way his shoulders would relax slightly when he took a bite of your latest creation, or the almost imperceptible nod of approval he'd give after finishing a particularly complex dessert. It was enough. Your pastries spoke for you, and they spoke volumes.

As the aroma of freshly baked goods filled the air, a familiar shadow fell across your workstation. You didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent of mochi and strong black coffee preceded him, a strangely comforting combination that had become as much a part of your daily routine as the flour on your apron. You simply smiled, a silent invitation for him to taste the magic you’d created today.

You felt a familiar presence behind you, the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of mochi. It was Katakuri. You didn't even need to turn around anymore; a year of working side-by-side had forged a comfortable, almost silent understanding between you two.

"Just finished the Mont Blancs," you announced, gesturing with a flour-dusted hand. "They're still cooling, but the Pain au Chocolat are fresh out of the oven if you want one."

A large hand reached past you, not for the pastry, but for your arm. Your breath hitched slightly as Katakuri's fingers, surprisingly gentle, closed around your wrist. You’d barely registered the sting, but he clearly had. He turned your hand over, revealing a small, angry red mark just below your thumb – a fresh burn from a moment of distraction near the hot oven rack.

Without a word, he led you to the sink, turning on the cold tap. You winced as the icy water hit your skin, but the immediate relief was undeniable. He held your hand patiently under the stream, his gaze fixed on the burn. This was Katakuri. The formidable second son of Big Mom, a man who faced down pirates and marines without flinching, yet he’d stop everything for a minor kitchen mishap.

It had been like this for months. Your occasional kitchen mishaps, the late nights perfecting a new recipe, the frustrating moments when a soufflé refused to rise – he was always there. Not with grand gestures, but with quiet, steady care. If you were muttering under your breath about a batch of curdled ganache, he’d simply listen, his presence a grounding force. If you accidentally nicked your finger, he’d be there with a bandage before you even thought to look for one.

You’d often find yourself ranting about the humidity affecting your meringues, or the struggle to source the perfect seasonal fruits. You’d talk about your childhood dream of opening your own small bakery, about the joy of seeing someone’s face light up at the first bite of your creations. And he would just listen, his dark eyes seemingly absorbing every word, his silence more comforting than any advice.

Katakuri, for his part, found himself drawn to your vibrant energy, a stark contrast to the often grim reality of his life. He loved the way your eyes would light up when you spoke of a new pastry idea, the almost childlike wonder you possessed when a complex recipe came together perfectly. He loved the genuine passion that fueled you, a fire that burned so brightly it felt like it could melt through his perpetually stoic exterior.

He admired your resilience, how you’d bounce back from every burnt crust or collapsed cake, learning from each mistake with an unwavering determination. He respected your talent, a skill that transcended mere cooking and ventured into artistry. The intricate designs, the perfect balance of flavors, the sheer beauty of everything you created – it was all a reflection of the beautiful, dedicated soul he saw in you.

But more than anything, he loved your kindness. You saw him, truly saw him, beyond his intimidating reputation, beyond his large frame and imposing scar. You treated him with a gentle familiarity that no one else dared to offer. You worried about him, in your own quiet ways, leaving out a special batch of his favorite mochi when he’d had a particularly long day, or simply offering a soft smile that reached his rarely seen depths. He loved the way you made him feel, not just like a formidable warrior, but simply… Katakuri. And that, to him, was everything.

You finally pulled your hand from under the cool water, the sting of the burn already subsiding. Katakuri’s hand lingered for a moment, his thumb gently brushing over the reddened skin before he finally withdrew. "Be more careful," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that always sent a strange shiver down your spine. It wasn't a reprimand, more a statement of concern.

You just nodded, already turning back to your workstation. "I know, I know. My mind was on that new berry compote. It's just not quite hitting the right note yet."

Katakuri, instead of leaving, simply stood beside you, a silent sentinel. You continued your work, pulling out various jars of spices and sniffing them thoughtfully, occasionally holding a small spoon of compote to your nose. He watched, utterly still, as you meticulously added a tiny pinch of cinnamon, then a whisper of star anise, stirring and tasting with intense focus. To him, this was endlessly fascinating. He’d seen you spend hours on a single flavor profile, your brow furrowed in concentration, your tongue darting out to sample, your eyes alight when you finally found that perfect balance. This unwavering dedication to perfection was something he deeply admired, a mirror to his own relentless pursuit of strength.

Later that afternoon, a sudden, torrential downpour lashed against the Chateau windows. You’d been meticulously piping ganache onto a batch of chocolate truffles, a task that required absolute stillness and concentration. The sudden crash of thunder made you jump, and a delicate truffle rolled off the counter, splattering onto the floor.

A sigh escaped your lips. "Oh, for…!" You crouched down, gathering the ruined truffle. Just as you were about to wipe the smudge of ganache from the pristine floor, Katakuri moved. He produced a crisp, white handkerchief from seemingly nowhere and knelt with surprising grace for a man his size, wiping the spot clean himself.

You stared, slightly dumbfounded. "Katakuri, you don't have to—"

"It's fine," he interrupted, rising smoothly. He just handed you the now-stained handkerchief. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was his way of saying, Don't worry about the small things; I've got them. This quiet attentiveness to your struggles, no matter how minor, was a constant source of comfort.

One evening, after a particularly demanding day filled with orders for a special occasion, you found yourself slumped on a stool, nursing a cup of herbal tea. Your feet ached, and your shoulders were stiff from hours of standing over counters. You barely registered Katakuri's presence until a warm, steaming mug of something sweet and aromatic was placed gently in your hands.

It was ginger tea with honey, exactly what you needed for your tired muscles. You looked up to see him standing there, his back to you, looking out over the moonlit ocean. He hadn't said a word, hadn't even looked at you, but he knew. He always seemed to know when you were at your limit. This intuitive understanding of your needs, anticipating them before you even voiced them, was a silent testament to his deep care for you. It was in these quiet, unspoken moments that the true depth of his feelings for you shone brightest.

You were humming a lively tune, a habit you picked up whenever you were particularly pleased with a new creation. Today, it was your new line of fruit tarts, each one a miniature masterpiece of shimmering glaze and perfectly arranged berries. You beamed, holding one up to the light, satisfied with its vibrant colors.

A booming laugh echoed from the doorway, and Oven, his massive frame filling the archway, strode in. "Those look fantastic, Y/N! Sending some over to the main hall?"

"Of course!" you replied, genuinely pleased to see him. "I just finished a batch. Help yourself, Oven. And tell me what you think."

Oven, surprisingly gentle for a man who could boil someone alive with a touch, carefully selected a tart. He took a large bite, his eyes widening. "Magnificent! The crust is perfect, and the berries are so fresh." He flashed you a rare, genuine smile, making you feel a surge of satisfaction.

Just then, the clanking of metal announced Daifuku’s arrival. He peered over Oven's shoulder, his lamp genie hovering nearby. "What's this? Pastries already? Don't tell me you've been slacking, Y/N." His tone was gruff, but you knew him well enough to detect the underlying curiosity.

"Never!" you chirped, playfully flicking a tiny bit of flour at him. "Just perfecting my craft. Try one, Daifuku. I made an extra batch just for you brothers."

Daifuku grunted but took a tart, his genie mimicking the action with an ethereal version. As he bit into it, a flicker of appreciation crossed his usually stern face. "Hmm. Not bad, for you." You simply laughed, knowing that was high praise from him.

A rustle of biscuits preceded Cracker, who, ever the dramatic one, burst in with a flourish. "My dear Y/N! I smelled your artistry from across the hall! Are those my special chocolate ones?"

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. "They're everyone's special chocolate ones, Cracker. But yes, I saved you a few."

Cracker's face, or rather, his biscuit armor, seemed to brighten. He snatched a chocolate tart, taking a theatrical bite. "Exquisite! You truly are the jewel of Whole Cake Island, Y/N!"

You blushed slightly at his effusive praise, secretly pleased. You enjoyed your interactions with them. Oven's straightforwardness, Daifuku's gruff affection, and Cracker's flamboyant charm – they were all part of your daily life here, and you genuinely liked them. They were Katakuri's brothers, after all, and you saw glimpses of him in each of them.

Katakuri, however, did not share your enjoyment.

He stood in the doorway, his usual imposing figure seeming even more rigid. His eyes, normally fixated on you, flickered between you and his brothers. He watched as you laughed at one of Cracker's boasts, as you playfully jabbed Daifuku, as you shared a genuine smile with Oven. Each interaction felt like a small dagger twisting in his gut.

He saw the way Cracker preened under your attention, the way Oven’s stoic face softened when you offered him a fresh pastry, the way Daifuku, for all his bluster, always made a point to seek you out. It was infuriating. Your attention, your smiles, your laughter – they were precious. They were yours. And his brothers, oblivious oafs that they were, were soaking it all up.

He felt a familiar, unpleasant clenching in his chest – jealousy. It was a raw, visceral emotion he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, let alone feel so strongly. He was the most formidable, the most respected, the strongest. Yet, here he was, silently seething because you were being kind to his siblings. He knew it was irrational. You were genuinely friendly, and they were, technically, family. But he couldn't help it. He wanted your undivided attention, your exclusive smiles, your singular focus. He wanted to be the only one who made you laugh, the only one you fretted over, the only one you instinctively cared for. He wanted to be the one you vented to, the one who saw your little mishaps, the one you offered a freshly baked Pain au Chocolat to, first.

He watched you now, handing Cracker another tart, your fingers brushing lightly. His knuckles whitened, and the scent of burnt sugar, not from your oven, but from the heat of his own irritation, began to faintly permeate the air. He cleared his throat, a low, guttural sound that instantly silenced the boisterous room. All three brothers turned, their expressions shifting to wary respect.

Your head snapped up, a bright, welcoming smile gracing your lips as you finally met his gaze. "Katakuri! Perfect timing! I was just about to send some of these over to your quarters. Which one would you like?"

He looked at the array of vibrant tarts, then back at his brothers, who were suddenly very interested in the floor. A low growl rumbled in his chest. "The chocolate," he finally said, his voice flat, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in his eyes. Mine, he thought, you are mine.

Cracker, oblivious to the simmering tension that had just entered the room with Katakuri, took another dramatic bite of his chocolate tart. He leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was still loud enough to carry in the now-silent kitchen. "You know, Y/N, these are so good, they almost make me forget the endless paperwork Mama dumps on us. Perhaps you could join me for a break later? I'm sure you could brighten up even my tedious reports." He punctuated his offer with a charming, if slightly smug, wink.

You, utterly caught up in the warmth of the compliments and the casual banter, simply smiled. "Oh, Cracker, you're always trying to rope me into something! But maybe, if I finish this special order for Brulee, I'll bring some fresh macaroons over." You were just being friendly, completely missing the loaded undertone in his voice, the slight shift in his posture, the way his eyes lingered on your face.

But Katakuri saw it all. He saw the way Cracker’s gaze lingered, the subtle, almost imperceptible lean of his body towards you, the confident smirk playing on his lips. He saw the overt attempt to monopolize your time, to pull you further into Cracker's orbit. And he saw your charmingly oblivious response, your innocent agreement to bring him macaroons.

A low growl, like shifting tectonic plates, vibrated in Katakuri’s chest. His eyes, usually half-lidded, narrowed imperceptibly. He moved.

It wasn't a sudden, aggressive motion, but a deliberate, unhurried stride that brought him to your side. His large hand, the one capable of devastating blows, settled lightly yet possessively on the small of your back. It wasn't a squeeze or a pull, just a firm, undeniable presence that radiated a silent warning. His fingers, calloused from countless battles, were warm against your apron, a silent claim.

The air in the room thickened instantly. Oven stiffened, his eyes darting between you and Katakuri. Daifuku's genie seemed to shrink, and he cleared his throat, suddenly finding the wall immensely interesting. Cracker's smile faltered, his confident posture subtly deflating. His eyes, fixed on Katakuri's hand on your waist, widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of understanding—and perhaps a touch of fear—crossing his features.

You, however, remained blissfully unaware. You merely leaned back instinctively into the warmth at your back, a comfortable acceptance of his presence. "Oh, Katakuri," you said, your voice cheerful, "are you picking out your chocolate tart now?"

Katakuri’s gaze remained fixed on Cracker, his eyes promising swift and unpleasant consequences should the biscuit man dare to push his luck again. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, even rumble that seemed to fill the entire kitchen. "Yes. And I believe Y/N was just about to tell me about her new macaroons." His grip on your waist tightened, just barely, a silent reinforcement of his words.

Cracker coughed awkwardly, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. "Right. Well, I, uh... I just remembered I have pressing matters in the main hall. An urgent report, you see." He backed away slowly, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Oven and Daifuku, sensing the shift in the wind, muttered their goodbyes and followed him out with remarkable speed, leaving the kitchen suddenly quiet.

You blinked, a little surprised by their abrupt departure. "Well, that was fast," you mused, turning back to Katakuri, oblivious to the silent battle that had just been fought and won. "So, about those macaroons..."

You looked up at Katakuri, a bright, questioning look on your face. "So, about those macaroons… I was thinking a new flavor for them. Maybe a salted caramel or a passion fruit? What do you think?"

Katakuri's hand remained firmly on your lower back, a comforting weight that you now barely registered. His gaze, however, had softened considerably, his earlier intensity replaced by his usual thoughtful stillness. "Passion fruit," he rumbled, his voice a deep thrum. "Less sweet."

You chuckled. "Always thinking about balance, aren't you? Alright, passion fruit it is. I'll get started on a test batch after I finish up these tarts." You stretched, a small groan escaping your lips as your back protested. "Whew, long day."

Without a word, Katakuri shifted. His vast presence, usually so imposing, suddenly felt like a solid, warm wall behind you. He didn't pull you, didn't push. He simply… was there, providing an anchor. You, still feeling the lingering fatigue, found yourself leaning back against him.

It was a little awkward at first. His chest was incredibly broad, and your head, even when leaning back, didn't quite reach his shoulder. You were a little taller than average, but he was a giant. Your back pressed against his firm, muscled front, and you could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. The scent of mochi and strong coffee was more pronounced now, warm and comforting.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a more natural position, and he subtly adjusted with you, a silent dance of two bodies finding their fit. Your head eventually found a surprisingly comfortable spot just below his chin, nestled against his chest. His arm, the one that wasn't on your back, slowly, almost imperceptibly, came up to rest lightly on your shoulder, completing the embrace. It wasn’t tight or demanding, just a quiet, protective hold.

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting away. The sheer size of him, which once felt intimidating, now felt incredibly safe. It was like leaning against a mountain, solid and unwavering. You could hear the faint, steady thump of his heart against your ear.

In that moment, a warmth spread through your chest, deeper and more profound than the heat from any oven. It wasn't just comfort; it was something else entirely. You found yourself admiring the quiet strength of him, the way he just was, without needing grand gestures or flowery words. He was always there, always steady, always looking out for you in his own silent way.

You liked the way his large hand felt on your back, the solid presence of him behind you. You liked the way he listened to your rants, the way he cared for your small cuts and burns, the way he silently chased away anyone who dared to annoy you. You liked the way he anticipated your needs, bringing you tea when you were tired, picking the less sweet option for your macaroons.

A realization, warm and bright like fresh-baked bread, bloomed in your heart. You didn't just like him; you really liked him. A lot. It wasn't just comfortable; it was something deeper, something that made your own heart beat a little faster against his vast chest. Resting there, enveloped in his quiet strength, you knew you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You chuckled. "Always thinking about balance, aren't you? Alright, passion fruit it is. I'll get started on a test batch after I finish up these tarts." You stretched, a small groan escaping your lips as your back protested. "Whew, long day."

Without a word, Katakuri shifted. His vast presence, usually so imposing, suddenly felt like a solid, warm wall behind you. He didn't pull you, didn't push. He simply… was there, providing an anchor. You, still feeling the lingering fatigue, found yourself leaning back against him.

It was a little awkward at first. His chest was incredibly broad, and your head, even when leaning back, didn't quite reach his shoulder. You were a little taller than average, but he was a giant. Your back pressed against his firm, muscled front, and you could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. The scent of mochi and strong coffee was more pronounced now, warm and comforting.

You shifted slightly, trying to find a more natural position, and he subtly adjusted with you, a silent dance of two bodies finding their fit. Your head eventually found a surprisingly comfortable spot just below his chin, nestled against his chest. His arm, the one that wasn't on your back, slowly, almost imperceptibly, came up to rest lightly on your shoulder, completing the embrace. It wasn’t tight or demanding, just a quiet, protective hold.

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting away. The sheer size of him, which once felt intimidating, now felt incredibly safe. It was like leaning against a mountain, solid and unwavering. You could hear the faint, steady thump of his heart against your ear.

In that moment, a warmth spread through your chest, deeper and more profound than the heat from any oven. It wasn't just comfort; it was something else entirely. You found yourself admiring the quiet strength of him, the way he just was, without needing grand gestures or flowery words. He was always there, always steady, always looking out for you in his own silent way.

[kcrossvine-art]

Hiiii friendssss! What the FUCK is up. What the fuck is up. What the Fuck is up. On todays cute little cookin excursion we are going to be deep frying things and using a wok. If you dont feel comfortable deep frying, and dont have a wok, im sure theres other ways to do it silly :DDD

I believe in you.

From LotR online we're gonna be making Fried Beetroot Sticks!! 

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes into Fried Beetroot Sticks?” YOU MIGHT ASKSlices of sweet little beated root dipped into a batter with, watch out, special flavors too.

2 Beetroots

Corn flour

Salt 

Red Chilli Powder

Garlic Paste

Baking Soda

Water

Peanut oil

And we'll also be making some horseradish sour cream dip to go along with it;

Sour cream

Prepared horseradish

1 Green onion 

Few splashes of lemon juice

Salt to taste

Ground pepper to taste

"Cooked, tender beetroot sticks are dredged in a light batter and fried to give a crispy exterior and a soft, sweet interior. Served with a bracing horseradish sour cream, this snack is both filling and delicious."- LotRO Tooltip

AND, “what does Fried Beetroot Sticks taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKThis is like homemade fair-food and it sounds like a contradiction but its not

But maybe its just because its fried food? American brained, sorry.

Retains the inherit sweetness to beetroot

And similar to pickled beetroot the sweetness contrasts the spicey of the batter

(which i encourage you to amp up if youd like more spice)

The horseradish sourcream dip is to die for

Measure with your heart for that one, and save some green onion to top it with when you serve

This would pair very well with a lime italian soda or with shaved ice cones

Im always very anxious about deep-frying things, or working with oils at high temperatures, but i didnt run into any complications with this dish. Just make sure to keep best practices and safety precaution in mind, especially with a wok as it can tilt!

. If you dont have corn flour, you can substitute all-purpose flour . If you dont have peanut oil, look up oils with the same smokepoint to decide what else to use

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The recipe stuck out to me, as i was assembling a list of foodstuffs from tolkiens work, for being such a "regular" named food. Also its worth 19 silver 69 copper in the LotR MMO and im immature.

I think the dip has the most room for improvement and tinkering. I've never made horseradish sourcream before, so more practiced tastebuds could perfect a simple thing like this. In the future id also like to try adding red pepper flakes along with the the powder and garlic paste, to give more visual variety and spice. I think cumin in the batter would be a nice midtone flavor too.

I give this recipe a solid 8/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) for its relative simplicity and modularity with things you could add.

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Beetroot Sticks Ingredients:

2 Beetroots

130 grams corn flour

1 tbsp salt 

1 tsp Red Chilli Powder

1 tsp Garlic Paste

1/4 tsp Baking Soda

178 grams Water

432 grams peanut oil

Horseradish Sour Cream Ingredients:

225 grams Sour cream

200 grams Prepared horseradish

1 whole green onion (green and white parts VERY finely chopped)

1 tspn lemon juice

Salt to taste

ground pepper to taste

Beetroot Method:

Peel all beetroots and cut them length-wise into  rectangles.

Combine flour, salt, chilli powder, garlic paste, baking soda, and water in a bowl.

Mix well into a smooth batter.

Heat peanut oil to medium in a wok and dip beet roots into batter. Deep fry until golden brown in color.

Stack beetroots on paper-towel lined plates to cool and dry as you go.

Serve with horseradish sour cream!

Dip Method:

Mix all ingredients

Cover and let stand at room temperature for 1 hour for the flavors to blend.

[heartepub]

with what endures

genre/warnings/wc. fluff, gn! reader. indulgent food and cooking descriptions, some making out, unbeta'd. 0.7k. note. for @chugging-antiseptic-dye, in response to joshua + a pot of red lentils, by peter pereira. part of my 100 followers event !

No matter how spacious your kitchen, Joshua finds a way to touch you every chance he gets. He does it again now, hands resting on your waist as he presses his front to your back, pretending to squeeze past to get to the refrigerator. He can feel your eyeroll without seeing it. There’s a pot of soup bubbling merrily on the stove, which he has reduced to a quiet, but no less jolly, simmer.

You’re making scallion pancakes—in the name of finding another way of using up the bundle of old scallions in the fridge that isn’t pajeon. You roll flattened dough overlaid with a paste of scallions, flour, and oil, forming a log. Eventually Joshua returns, squeezing past you once more, this time with a pack of tofu in hand. The log you rolled out is now transformed into a round disc. With no warning, you thrust your hip backward, stifling a laugh when he lets out a small yelp in surprise.

“Baby,” he whines. “What if I had a knife?” 

You just snort. “You finished prep ages ago, Shua. Also, you don’t need to put the tofu in yet, the dough needs to rest a bit before I can flatten it out and cook.”

At that, his hands are already on your waist. “Really? How long?” He doesn’t need to say anything else, body pressed more insistently against your back.

“Shua, my hands are oily!” Laughing, you extricate yourself from his hold, quickly washing and soaping the residue from your hands before making your way back to him. You greet him with a small, apologetic peck. “Not long, unfortunately.”

He pouts. You sigh, mildly exasperated, “you literally made me rest the dough ten minutes more than I should have a while ago.”

All the best things take time—and it’s best to take advantage of it. That’s Joshua’s philosophy for cooking, which in simplest terms involves dragging you into makeouts any time you didn’t need to be doing something with the food. Whether it was to let the dough rise, the meat marinate, or the cookies bake, lulls in cooking always means kisses. He does it again now, caging you against the counter, making sure to pick a spot where there’s nothing behind you. Joshua leans in, capturing your lips. It certainly has made jointly-cooked weekend meals at least half an hour later than usual.

You indulge in his kisses for a while, until you remind him, mumbling against his mouth, “Your soup, Shua—” he groans lightly, parting with a wet smack. There’s steam rising insistently from the bubbling pot at the corner of his eye. You seem to find his pout amusing, grinning as you lean forward to offer him a gentle kiss. “I’ll start cooking the scallion pancakes.”

Loath as he was to let you go, you end up hip-to-hip by the stove anyway, as Joshua breaks the tofu with a wooden spoon and you coat the pan in a thin layer of oil. The flattened pancake sizzles as you lay it down, and you cover the pan after pressing the pancake firmly into the oil. Joshua ooh’s when you remove the lid and flip the pancake to reveal a gorgeous golden brown crust, bits of scallions peeking out like pockets of spring. Playfully, you scrape your spatula against the top, teasing him with the crisp sound of it as he plays along, cheering. 

Right before you plate up the finished pancakes, he holds a spoonful up for you to sip, relishing your approving grin and nod. You tear off a piece from your most freshly-cooked piece, dipping it in the sauce before holding it up to him. He bites into the crispy exterior into a chewy, layered interior, the perfect mix of scallions and dough. You smile when you see the surprised joy on his face.

The exhaust fan’s lamp casts everything in a warm glow, and the world opens up to this: his mother’s soup that he learned for you all those years ago, shared with a recipe you perfected in the name of changing things up. Your trusty rice cooker pinging in the background. Things both old and new come together, but always with love.

Your shared home smells like scallions, spicy broth, and sesame oil. In this corner of the world, everything is delight.

note. outing myself as a cook/food is my love language. scallion pancake recipe reference

[copperbadge]

My answer was too long for the fried food post. I used to make grilled PB&J, just like you'd make a grilled cheese and my family always thought that was weird. I know, it's not deep fried, but I don't deep fry at home. Weirdest (and BEST) thing I've had was fried tacos, It was a very strange but awesome camping trip, where there was much weird food to be enjoyed. Anyhoo, they took a less sweet kind of donut dough, hollowed out a ball, filled it with meat, cheese and peppers if you wanted them, sealed the hole shut, rolled them in corn flour and dropped them into the kettle. They were served 3 to a bowl, with a scoop of salsa, guac, and/or sour cream. They'd sprinkle with cotija cheese at the end. We also had elote on the side, and hard cider. They took the last of the dough at the end of the meal and stuffed them with marshmallows and chocolate chips, and skipped the corn flour but I was too full of excellent tacos and elote to indulge. Man, the pandemic sucked in so many ways, but my camping group really came together in the spring of 21, and we've had so many awesome trips since then. And lots of deep fried tacos. The person who invented it is trying to do something with tamale batter to make them even more taco-y, but it's still a work in progress. The tamale batter is loose enough that it wants to fall apart in the fryer.

This was sent in response to my "What's the weirdest thing you've fried or weirdest fried thing you've eaten" post and I failed to respond in a timely fashion and was considering deleting it out of shame but then I read the recipe for FRIED TACOS and was like no. The world needs to know. My feelings are as nothing next to the glory of the fried taco.

I realize this is a lot of work for camping but if your friend is still looking for solutions to the tamale issue, I would suggest steaming the "taco balls" in tamale dough first, then cooling and frying -- the masa firms up a lot during the steaming process, and the amount of time it would take to get the exterior crispy and golden should be enough time to reheat the interior. (Or it might explode. Testing is needed.)

I might have to give this a shot -- I can think of a few dough recipes that would work, and I have some fajita seasoning that's going to go stale if I don't use it relatively soon. Hmmm.

[im-gonna-sing-the-doom-song-blog]

---

“Sunrise Delight”

Description: Jason cooks you breakfast

Warnings: None

ASKS AND REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the small kitchen. You rubbed your eyes, still groggy from sleep, and noticed the mouth-watering aroma of cooking food wafting in from the kitchen. Curiosity piqued, you made your way out of bed, following the delicious scent.

To your surprise, you found Jason, the enigmatic and tough-as-nails Red Hood, standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with a surprising amount of skill. He wore a dark t-shirt and jeans, his usual rugged attire and a Wonder Women apron he had tied around his waist—a gift from you that he’d adored.

"Morning," you greeted, leaning against the doorway with a sleepy smile.

Jason turned to you, his expression softening. "Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down, breakfast is almost ready."

You took a seat at the small kitchen table, watching as he expertly navigated the kitchen, pouring freshly brewed coffee into two mugs. Despite his rough exterior, Jason had a hidden talent for cooking, something he rarely showed but always seemed to enjoy.

"What's the occasion?" you asked, taking a sip of the rich, aromatic coffee.

"Do I need an occasion to cook for you?" he replied, a playful glint in his eye. "Maybe I just felt like spoiling you a little today."

He set a plate in front of you, a perfectly golden stack of pancakes accompanied by crispy bacon and scrambled eggs. It was simple but made with care, each detail attended to with precision.

"This looks amazing, Jason," you said, touched by the gesture.

"Only the best for you," he said, sitting down across from you with his own plate. "I know I don't always say it, but... you mean a lot to me."

You reached across the table, your hand finding his. "I know, Jason. And you mean a lot to me, too."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his usual tough demeanor giving way to a rare moment of vulnerability. "Good. Now eat up before it gets cold."

As you dug into the delicious breakfast, you couldn't help but smile at the sight of Jason, the fierce and formidable Red Hood, showing his softer side. It was moments like these that reminded you of the depth of his character and the strength of his love.

And in that cozy kitchen, surrounded by the warmth of good food and even better company, you felt a deep sense of contentment. Breakfast with Jason Todd was more than just a meal—it was a reminder of the simple, beautiful moments that made life with him so special.