#Heritage on a plate

[sarahmapindu]

The Importance of Preserving Traditional Delicacies in an Era of Globalization

In today's rapidly globalizing world, where culinary trends and flavors from various cultures are more accessible than ever, it’s crucial to recognize the importance of preserving traditional delicacies. These dishes are not just about taste; they encapsulate history, identity, and community. Here’s why safeguarding these culinary treasures matters now more than ever.

Cultural Identity

Traditional delicacies serve as a vital link to our cultural roots. They embody the stories, rituals, and values of a community. As globalization promotes a homogenized food culture, preserving these dishes helps maintain our unique identities. Each traditional recipe is a testament to the heritage and history of a people, reminding us of who we are.

Diversity in Cuisine

The world is enriched by its culinary diversity. Traditional delicacies contribute to this variety, offering unique flavors, ingredients, and cooking methods. By preserving these foods, we celebrate the tapestry of global cuisine, ensuring that future generations can experience the richness of different cultures and their culinary practices.

Sustainable Practices

Many traditional recipes emphasize the use of local, seasonal ingredients and sustainable cooking methods. By focusing on these practices, we can promote environmental sustainability. Traditional cooking often reduces reliance on processed foods, encouraging healthier eating habits that benefit both individuals and the planet.

Community Bonds

Food has an incredible power to bring people together. Traditional delicacies often involve communal preparation and sharing, fostering connections within families and communities. In an age where individualism is on the rise, these shared experiences can strengthen social ties and create a sense of belonging.

Educational Opportunities

Preserving traditional delicacies provides an opportunity for education about cultural heritage and history. Cooking classes, food festivals, and culinary workshops can teach younger generations about their culinary ancestry, instilling pride and appreciation for their cultural background.

Resistance to Cultural Erosion

Globalization can lead to the erosion of local cultures, as fast food and mass-produced items dominate the market. By actively preserving traditional delicacies, we resist this cultural dilution, ensuring that local customs and flavors remain vibrant and respected.

Innovation through Tradition

Preserving traditional foods doesn’t mean resisting change. On the contrary, it opens the door to innovation. Chefs can reinterpret traditional recipes, blending them with contemporary techniques and flavors while respecting their origins. This fusion not only honors tradition but also keeps it relevant in a modern culinary landscape.

Conclusion

In an era of globalization, the importance of preserving traditional delicacies cannot be overstated. These foods are vital to our cultural identity, community bonds, and sustainable practices. By valuing and safeguarding our culinary heritage, we ensure that future generations can experience the rich flavors and stories that shape our world. Let’s celebrate and preserve these culinary treasures, allowing them to thrive amid the ever-changing global landscape.

[agentc0rn]

Love it when there's cool™ folks with extensive historical knowledge of lore and ancient lineages who have gone through losses and sought questionable ways of achieving their goals + having indirect connection to their respective beings of worship

[arthistoryanimalia]

#FrogFriday 🐸:

"Pond Life" - frontispiece to Historia naturalis ranarum nostratium by August Johann Rösel von Rosenhof (German, 1705-1759), Nuremberg, 1758. British Library collection

More about this work on the BHL blog: An Illustrated Natural History of German Frogs: Rösel’s Historia Naturalis Ranarum Nostratium

[jepretanjanet]

/kajoetangan/

[worstjourney]

112 years ago today (28 Nov) the Terra Nova Expedition was treated to a farewell ball in Dundein, NZ. It was fun imagining what that was like, and throwing in one last burst of ladies and plant life!

[mushroom-through-the-stargate]

does anyone else ever have that weird but definitely bad feeling that theyre appropriating... their own culture?

like you're only one or two generations removed but you weren't raised in that culture so when you try to take it back and make it part of your identity you feel like a huge faker?

because I certainly do. I was raised American but my mum is a first gen citizen and her genetic testing could not be more Irish if she tried. my dad's ethnicity is literally all over the place, and he was full American and embraced it. I dont like being American. I dont like being in America. but it's almost all i know, so when I "act Irish" I feel like a disrespectful faker even though I'm mostly Irish and lived in Ireland with family for over a year so I know what I'm doing but it's really weighing down on me. is this an overcomplicated form of imposter syndrome? am I just being weird? I don't really know what to think anymore

like I call chips "fries" most of the time but I call crisps "crisps" almost all the time and I "braid" my hair not "plait" it but I add the "u" to flavour and colour and favourite because they look incomplete without it and I can never tell if I should pronounce the "h" in herb or if I should say "day-ta" or "dah-ta" unless I'm talking about the character so in both those instances I just interchange pronunciations to whatever makes the sentence flow better and saying the word "schedule" is the bane of my existence because if I say it the European way it sounds like I'm stumbling over the word (because hello speech impediment) but if I say "ske-ju-ahl" like Americans do I can't get my mouth around it and it sounds like I'm mocking so I really can't win so I just say "plan" or "calendar" and I'm just a mess of cultural differences and feeling like I don't fit in either and some days it makes me want to cry because I desperately want to go home to Ireland because I DO see Ireland as home but I'm terrified of sticking out like a sore thumb and them knowing I was raised American and thinking I'm just a dumb American who took a 23 and me test that showed I'm 2% Irish and therefore I gotta go look for leprechauns when I'm actually over 50% Irish and just want to be home and relearn how to be Irish

[thefrontierfacade]

slowly-adding-plate-armor-to-ones-person-and-going-to-incrementally increasingly-precarious-,and deep,-bodies-of-water-(not drown proofed ⬆️ clueless)-until-your-ex’s-miraculously-take-you-back challenge: day 438

Just kidding. This is probably an ai image. Plate armor be like: I can fix him.

boss level is the full 14th century plate harness, mail hauberk, quilted gambeson, and all accoutrements, wading into the sinky sedimentary sands of terror bay to explore he H.M.S. terror. Maybe with like a old-timey hand pumped diving helm (that is also somehow a visor’d bascinet). pure terror

[blackstarising]

does ego nwodim know that the way she said "cook my meat 😤" with so much conviction has changed the trajectory of my entire life. babygirl. what have you done

[banukai]

chat why are we trending (this is about dp)

[arthistoryanimalia]

2-8 April is both #BatAppreciationWeek🦇 AND #BeKindToSpidersWeek🕷️! As I love both bats & spiders expect lots of art featuring both all week long 😎

Ernst Haeckel, Kunstformen der Natur (1904), Plate 66 Arachnida & Plate 67 Chiroptera, BHL.

[adragonprinceswhore]

One Whore Is As Good As Another

Aemond x Brothel worker x (drunk) Aegon

Summary: Desperate to prove he's no mere boy, Prince Aemond leaves his taunting brother and seeks out another conquest. Momentarily, he feels back in control, until his brother reappears.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, reader is a brothel worker and has Valyrian features, targcest, rough sex, oral (m. receiving), face fuccin', P in V, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, titty slapping, humiliation, degradation, dysfunctional brothers

Word Count: 2000

A/N: I had this idea when I read the leaks for episode 3, and let's just say Aegon's awfulness worked great as inspiration. Filthy drabble ahead!

You've seen Prince Aemond's long, silver hair flash by in the corner of your eye countless times in the past weeks.

You never get the chance to observe the prince up close. He only appears fleetingly, confidently striding through the Blue Pearl towards the room where Madame Sylvie awaits him.

She seems to be his favourite; the only one allowed to touch the imposing young man. Sometimes he spends hours with her, though you are not privy to the details. All you know is that most men entering your place of employment conduct much shorter visits.

You do not envy your madame. Entertaining a Targaryen prince is no easy feat, from what you've heard.

Still, you do wonder what it would be like to catch his eye. For him to choose you, like he had chosen the madame.

Had he ever caught sight of you, like you did him? Had he ever seen the shimmer of your silver hair reflect in the corner of his eye?

Does you Valyrian heritage look as alluring as that of the statuesque prince, despite being born a bastard?

These thoughts had merely been fugitive, indulgent fantasies.

Until tonight.

Prince Aemond stands naked in the middle of the vast space in the heart of the Blue Pearl, seeing eye gazing out over the intertwined bodies moving in differing rhythms.

No one had asked for your services as of yet, and you'd therefore been tasked with refilling chalices and plates for the patrons.

The prince's gaze settles on you as you pour wine into a few cups scattered around, ensuring no one chases pleasure parched.

He walks towards you in slow, confident steps, seemingly uncaring that he is fully nude.

'Tis a brothel after all.

Placing the decanter back on the table, you curtsey as he draws near; trembling fingers fumbling with the thin material of your gown,

"Wine, your grace?"

"Do you work here?"

'Tis not the wine that caught his attention.

"Yes. How may I be of service?"

His eye scans the place, searching for a more secluded spot. He gestures towards a plush settee tucked away in a corner with a nod, prompting you to follow him there.

Walking next to the prince, you can truly admire the sharp features of his face. His hair is as fetching up close, and his skin resembles milk; so clear and smooth.

Clean.

Not fit for the filthy surroundings you'd been brought up in.

"Are you my uncle's bastard?"

His query catches you off guard,

"I-, I do not know, your grace. Mayhaps"

You could be his cousin.

Or his sister.

It matters little here; the gods had decided both of your fates when they ruled it fair he be born a prince and you a bastard to a whore in Flea Bottom.

Despite the evident uncertainty, your answer seems to please him.

Prince Aemond's hums, seeing eye narrowing and the right corner of his mouth twitching briefly, perhaps nearly breaking into a smile.

The possibility of you being his uncle's daughter excites him.

"Lay down"

You do as told, reclining on the settee. The corner the two of you occupy is fairly out of sight, yet there is no curtain hindering wandering eyes from seeing your act. It surprises you that the otherwise secretive prince would chose such an exposed place for your coupling, yet you say nothing.

The choice is his.

He inspects your form as you lie down; gaze traveling from the round softness of your breasts to the smooth skin of your inner thighs. The gown you wear leaves little hidden, and the prince's searing stare causes your heart to drum quicker in your chest.

The unpredictability of what he'll do next; of what he wants from you, causes as much unease within you as the determined look in his eye elicits.

He hums, head nodding faintly to himself, before he moves towards you, lifting one long, lean leg so he may straddle your chest.

His cock is right by your mouth, already growing larger as he gazes down at your face underneath him.

Perhaps 'tis the gaining of control that arouses the prince so; seeing you laid out for him with nothing but obedience to offer.

He feeds you his half-hard cock; not too brutish to force it all in your mouth at once. A prince still keeps his manners, you suppose.

Taking him in, you feel the skin of his member; hot and with a taste like salt. It's heavy in your mouth, and the awkward position the prince has you in does not allow you much movement.

He looks down at you; one eye stoney and unmoving, with shadows and light dancing in it. The other expressive and fierce.

Hungry.

Both his hands grab the back of the seat as he leans forward, forcing more of his cock down your throat. It prevents you from breathing, yet you do your best to appease him, sucking and swallowing him to the best of your ability.

You feel his balls slap your chin as he rocks into your mouth, pleased grunts escaping his lips.

A few more thrusts and you start to feel dizzy, not receiving enough air with the prince's manhood in your mouth and his lower belly pressed up against your nose.

You gently tap his leg and he abruptly pulls away from you, hurriedly moving off of you to stand next to the settee.

You cough as you inhale air once again, looking up at him with glassy eyes and wet lips, shining with spit.

His face is still harsh and demanding, and your gaze flickers down to his cock.

Decorated in your spit, it has grown double in size and is now red; like vexed skin after a beating.

You lay still, breathing rapidly to regain your senses. After giving you a moment to calm, Prince Aemond gestures for you to stand, and sits down on the settee.

He grabs your hips, dragging you towards his lap, and so 'tis your time to straddle him, take his cock in hand and sink down on it.

You know how to play these games. You know how to appease the men seeking your touch. Still, the moan you emit as you take in the prince is not solely performative; the stretch of his member fills you to the point of pain.

You bite your lip in a vain effort to concentrate, set on pleasing and serving your prince. Moving up and down in a slow pace, you grow wetter and more accustomed to his intrusion, and soon, your own pleasure follows.

"A-, ah, Prince Aemond", you call out, hoping the flattery will make him favour you even more. Mayhaps as much as he favours your madame.

He grunts and places his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him so he may rest his face against your scarcely clad bosom. He's enjoying you; reveling in your cunt, and it feels like the highest of praise.

You continue to call his title, his name, moving faster and harsher up and down his length, until,

"Brother!"

You catch the flash of a figure stumbling towards you in the corner of your eye, certain you know who it is before looking up;

King Aegon.

His lips are curved into a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded and hair tousled,

"I knew you had it in ya!"

The king ends his exclamation with a slur, clearly far too drunk to be staggering around Flea Bottom unattended.

You'd never been eye to eye with the king before; word around the street was that he found the Blue Pearl far too dull. He requires more to quench his thirst for depravity.

And yet, seeing you ride his brother's cock seems to be to his liking,

"Come on, girl, ride the dragon!", King Aegon shouts before falling into a fit of laughter. His hand smacks your arse as if you were a mare, urging you to go faster.

You search the prince's face for approval, but he's not looking at you anymore. His dark gaze is trained on his brother; still harsh and determined. You take his silence for compliance and move faster; quick breaths of exhaustion and moans of pleasure slipping out from your still wet lips.

"Making her do all the work-",

Aegon's still laughing between the words he slurs out. Standing behind you, one of his hands move to cup your left breast, and he squeezes it roughly; too drunk to appreciate tenderness,

"-I can see why"

Prince Aemond is still silent; still staring at his amused brother.

"No, no, no, this won't do", the king mumbles as he releases the harsh grip he'd had on your breast,

"Remove your gown, bastard"

Again, you seek Prince Aemond's eye for instruction, but he does not grant it. So, you grab the hem of your thin attire and pull it off over your head, exposing yourself to the Targaryen brothers.

'Tis not like you've never been naked before; you entertain most guests nude. Still, there's something about the royals' presence, their ongoing, silent battle, that leaves you feeling more exposed than ever before.

King Aegon hums in appreciation at the sight of your bare teats, the same rough hand coming up to slap the side of one of them, chuckling as they knock together.

You pick up the pace to ride your prince again, yet the king does not leave you be. His voice is still amused, though tinted with something darker, as he commands his brother,

"I want to see you fuck her like a hound, Aemond"

The prince does not reply, and your pace does not falter. You were tasked with pleasuring the prince, and if he did not reply to his brother's orders, neither would you.

Though he is your king.

"Fuck her like a hound! Come on!"

King Aegon sounds more agitated now; impatient. He does not like that his brother does not obey him instantaneously; that he would refuse an order.

The prince is as stubborn as his elder, and in between the brothers, is you;

Caught between two dragons waging a war of wills.

"Get up", Prince Aemond grits through clenched teeth.

You comply, standing swiftly only to be turned and roughly placed back on the settee on your knees.

The prince places a hand on your lower back, pushing you to arch, and enters you in one stroke, reaching far deeper than your previous position had allowed.

He quickly sets a brutal pace; fucking your squelching cunt harsh and quick.

You desperately hold on to the back of the seat, vainly searching for some control as the prince takes his pleasure from you.

Behind you, you hear his laboured breaths and grunts, and the entertained cackle of the king,

"That's more like it!"

He walks around the settee to face you; watching your body as it sways back and forward with the prince's rough thrusts.

Leaning in closely, so closely that his wine-soaked breath is right by your cheek, King Aegon inquires, "How does royal cock feel?"

You know how to play these games.

"Heavenly, your grace"

He hums and touches a strand of your hair, twirling it around his finger, "Is that what your mother thought as well?"

He does not bother with waiting for an answer from you; truly, he's not interested in knowing. Instead, he circles the settee yet again to stand next to his brother, mesmerised by the sight of his cock driving in and out of you,

"Where on her will you spill?"

Prince Aemond stays silent, pace never faltering.

“Face, teats or arse?”, his brother asks, but before his stoic sibling answers, he decides for him,

"Spill on her face. You got to appreciate those, uh, familiar features"

A few more rough strokes and the prince pulls out, grabs your waist, and turns you around so that you face them both. He pushes on your shoulder in a silent order for you to get on the floor, once again with his member in your face.

With a quick hand he strokes his slick cock, seed shooting out like arrows, landing on your cheeks, in your hair, on your lips.

He's breathing heavily, yet does not say anything, nor does he moan or grunt. He simply decorates your face in pearly luminescence, matching your silver hair and lilac eyes.

When he's done, he turns, and you see his older brother lay a comradery hand on his shoulder, commending him for "a good fuck".

As the brothers walk away together, you see the tension in Prince Aemond's shoulders ease ever so slightly.

The burdens of being a royal.

A/N: If the HotD writers want Aemond to be obsessed with his uncle, I'll comply! I like to write these little drabbles as a fun way to practice writing without much pressure, so please be kind, it's all just for fun!

[chaddavisphotography]

Inside the Star Tribune-Heritage Center Manufacturing Facility where the Minneapolis Star Tribune, St. Paul Pioneer Press, USA Today and Washington Post are printed daily.

[mysdrymmumbles]

[heritagecollectibles]

Big Tub of Useful Kitchen Items - A Mix of Ceramic, Glass & Plastic

Big Tub of Useful Kitchen Items – A Mix of Ceramic, Glass & Plastic

[ellilyre]

I love the idea of Achilles looking slightly uncanny, bc he is the closest a mortal can ever be to a god

he doesn't rly tan nor burn, but the sun seems to reflect on his skin like on a golden plate.

he's so pretty it actually is unsettling. It's like if 10 years of war didn't affect him at all. He still looks like a young prince, cherished by his mother.

when he walks or even runs on the sand, he leaves little to no footprints.

His sweat naturally smells like sea/iode. The more he sweats (ex during training or battles), the more he reminds of his nereid heritage.

His teeth are slightly too sharp. Not enough to look inhuman, but enough to make you feel uncomfortable when he smiles or bare his teeth at you.

[gaiussleechtank]

I never like thinking about Merlin’s dragonlord heritage for too long because I start to think about the implications of it.

If the lord part of being a Dragonlord meant nobility, then surely Balinor had an estate/ noble house of some kind.

All I can imagine is Merlin finding that grand home one day, and it being nothing but a hollow ruin. Flying in the wind are burnt and tattered banners of a family crest that Merlin doesn’t know is his because that knowledge is forever lost. Rooms upon rooms that once were occupied by his ancestors, ancestors who he will never be able to name. The kitchen frozen in time with dusty and moulded plates sitting on the table, a plate that maybe his aunt or an uncle, maybe a grandparent or a cousin was eating from before Uther’s men came after them. Little trinkets, jewellery, heirlooms, beloved toys, precious keepsakes scattered everywhere, and he wouldn’t know that by default they were his.

He would walk those abandoned halls, seeing how clearly loved that home was, how full of life and people and family it had had before the purge had broken out: only to wish that he could have experienced that in his childhood.

He would just see that grand house as nothing more than another of Uther’s victims, completely unaware of his connection to the place.

EDIT: OH GOD WHAT IF MERLIN HAD A SIGIL???