#I normally make her a lemon blueberry bundt cake but I just made that honey lavender bundt cake & cakelets

[imwritesometimes]

I made the blueberry compote cake filling and gave my brother a little to try and immediately he was like 😯 'this is really good!!!'

[halfabreath]

does holster come out to judy and his dad? do they take it better than his mom did?

the bittle-birkholtz-brousin tag

“Adam, honey?”

The words, caught on the artificial breeze of the air conditioner, flutter through the living room slowly. It takes the span of three breaths for them to finally come to rest on Adam’s back as he lays in the middle of the room, face pressed into the antique rug. It’s scratchy and musty and not at all comfortable, but this is what he does when he’s upset. Usually Bitty is here to rub his back and make him feel better, but today it’s just him and Judy.

The words are light but Holster can still feel the gentle pressure, knowing he has to respond. Before he can muster up the words he his stepmother’s feet come into his field of vision, her bright Lilly Pulitzer capris almost blinding in the late afternoon light.

“Hey, Jude.” He mumbles into the carpet. On any other day he’d sing it like he normally does, but on this, the day of his Wallowing, he can’t even muster up the energy to sing. Judy makes a disapproving noise and primly kneels down on the carpet next to him. She places her hand on his head and begins to comb through his hair like she used to when he was twelve and terrified of the strange new world of sweet tea and tupelo honey he’d been suddenly forced into.

The gentle grumbling of the air conditioner is the only sound in the room for a long moment, until Judy speaks. “Do you think four dozen brownies will be enough, or do you want another batch? And don’t you worry, sugar, I already made some for Justin so he won’t try to steal yours. You’ll give him my love, won’t you?”

It’s those words, unassuming and kind in Judy’s southern drawl, that sends him over the edge. Holster rolls over and sits up suddenly, settling cross legged with his back to his mother. He stares down at the carpet, picking at the intricate pattern of red and black and blue. He doesn’t want to see her face when he says this; he’ll limit himself to the image of just one mother’s disappointment, thank you very much.

“I think I - ” Adam swallows down the lump in his throat, shaking his head once, then once more to clear his mind. “I know I love him. I want to be with him, and there’s no way he’ll ever want to be with me because he can’t because he’s - he’s straight.” He closes his eyes, sucking in a quick breath before he ruins them forever. “He’s straight and I’m…not. I’m bi. Sexual. Bisexual.”

The words settle between them, too heavy to be caught in the air conditioner’s flow. He can feel the moment they settle onto the floor, pulling the entire house down with their weight.

“So you’ll definitely need something else besides brownies.” Judy’s voice cuts through the fear that’s dragging him down, and he turns suddenly in surprise. She moves closer, scooting forward on her knees, and reaches out to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, sugar. But loving someone isn’t ever something to be ashamed of. Now stand on up; this deserves a cake.” Judy pats his cheek and pulls him up, only managing to pull him into the kitchen because of his state of shock.

The next thing Holster knows he’s holding two bundt pans, a cookie sheet, and various bakeware as Judy sorts through the cabinets in her search for the exact pan she has in mind. He knows he should drop it - Judy’s given him an out if he doesn’t want to talk about it, but…Adam’s never been particularly skilled at keeping his mouth shut.

“I thought you’d be disappointed.” He blurts out, just when Judy sets a cupcake pan on top of his stack with a clank.

She turns away to climb up on the kitchen counter, reaching for the very back of the cabinet. “Well, I am, a little.” Holster’s stomach drops. It’s happening again. It’s happening again and he was ready for it a minute ago and now he’s not. His face falls just in time for Judy to see when she turns back around. “Oh, no! No, no, Adam, no. That’s not what I meant!” She climbs down and hurries over to him, removing the metal sheets from his hands. “I’m so sorry, honey. I meant that I’m disappointed things won’t work out between you two.” She pulls him in for a fierce hug, gathering him up with all the strength in her small body.

“You listen to me, Adam Birkholtz. No one in this house will ever be disappointed in you, you hear?” She shakes him until he nods, then shakes him some more until he kisses her cheek and smiles. “Now put those pans away and we’ll make you that cake. Lemon and blueberry okay?”

“Thanks, Juju.” If his voice is a little rough, Judy doesn’t say anything. She glides past him, pressing carton of blueberries into his hands even though they both know she’s going to have to take them away in a couple minutes so he stops eating them. A cake won’t make him love Ransom any less, but later that night, when the house still smells like lemon and sugar, it’s what helps him amble downstairs to settle next to his father on the couch as he watches football.

Jacob wordlessly tosses him the remote, and Holster flips over to the NHL channel where the Sharks are playing the Coyotes, even though he already knows the score of the game since Chowder has sent updates to the SMH groupchat several times each period. He’s not watching it for the game so much as the backdrop of sound, hoping the familiar clacking and scraping will ease him into a relaxed enough state to say what he needs to say. He swallows once, twice, and blurts out, “I’m bi, dad.”

The whistle blows and play ceases, the player's’ momentum carrying them around the rink in swooping circles.

“I know,” Jacob says, reaching out to wrap his arm around Adam’s shoulders. He drags him down, until Holster’s head is resting on his shoulder. “I always figured you liked Henrik Lundqvist a little too much.”

Holster laughs, weakly punching his father’s arm. “Why didn’t you think I was gay, then?” Jacob chuckles, the motion tilting the room in little bursts as his head is jostled.

“Tina Fey.”  Jacob says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and it probably is. Holster lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, the knot of tension he’s been carrying around finally beginning to unravel. The puck is dropped and play resumes, and he can feel the buzzing of his phone in his pocket - probably Chowder contesting the penalty.

They watch the rest of the game in a companionable silence, speaking only to grumble about bad calls and sing along with the analysis show’s jingle in perfect harmony.