#New Orleans Muffuletta

[fitnessinternational1987]

New Orleans Muffuletta Sandwich Recipe With Professional Style - Global Continent

New Orleans Muffuletta Sandwich Recipe With Professional Style

Related: Salami Roll Recipe of Professional Style — Global Continent

What is New Orleans Muffuletta Sandwich Recipe?

The traditional New Orleans sandwich is made up of layers of thinly sliced Italian cold cuts and a handmade olive salad.

The super-band of the sandwich world is nothing like muffulettas. Sesame-crusted bread isn’t Graham Nash, the olive salad isn’t Stephen Stills, and a few sliced cold slices of meat aren’t David Crosby either. But like other delicious and straightforward dishes, the sandwich only achieves brilliance when these fundamental components are put together in a very precise way. Anyone who doesn’t rank the muffuletta among the Top Five Sandwiches in the History of Life, the Universe, and Everything needs to have their mind checked.

The sandwich was invented at the Central Grocery in New Orleans when the ingenious proprietor advised that customers put their regular meal of sliced cured meat and preserved vegetables within the bread rather than alongside it. Today, the sandwich is common across the city and the nation (in varying degrees of deliciousness). It is the perfect party dish since it is one of the few foods that actually tastes better after sitting about at room temperature. Make a couple sandwiches, wrap them, and cut them as necessary. The tastiest bites will be served to latecomers.

It’s really easy to create and only requires four ingredients. This is the procedure.

Related:Make “Roast Turkey with Cranberry Sauce” Recipe Eat and Enjoy — Global Continent

Cook Time Detail of New Orleans Muffuletta Sandwich:

Total cook time Prep Time Cook Time Recipe servings

10 min. 10 mins. 20 mins. 2

Ingredients of New Orleans Muffuletta Sandwich

pitted mixed oil-packed olives, 3/4 cup

Giardiniera, half a cup (Italian-style pickled vegetable salad, see notes)

14 cups finely chopped red peppers, roasted

2 tablespoons of leaves of parsley

10 capers, 1 tablespoon

1 medium clove of minced garlic (about 1 teaspoon)

Extra virgin olive oil, 3 teaspoons

1/fourth cup red wine vinegar

1 big roll in the muffuletta fashion (see notes)

Sliced sweet soppressata in a third of a pound (5 1/3 ounces; 151g)

Thinly sliced mortadella weighing 5 1/3 ounces (151g) of a pound

Capicola cut thinly into thirds of a pound (5 1/3 ounces; 151g)

Provolone cheese, finely sliced, 1/3 pound (5 1/3 ounces; 151g)

Related: How to maintain health amazing tips for maintaining health — Global Continent

How to Make New Orleans Muffuletta Sandwich

1. On a level surface, slice the circular bread in half and open both sides.

2. Apply extra virgin olive oil or olive salad oil to the bread’s interior on both inside sides, paying particular attention to the bottom. read more

[adventuressclubamericas]

New Orleans Food of the Month – Muffuletta

The muffuletta - a sandwich made with mortadella, Capicola ham, Genoa salami, provelone, olive spread and great bread - is a true New Orleans original. Sicilian immigrant Lupo Salvadore invented it when he opened his Central Grocery in the early 1900s. Central Grocery is closed for renovations, but you can still get an original muffuletta from several locations in town. Other establishments throughout the Quarter also offer their own version of the sandwich. Try one while you're in town for Miss Fisher Con!

[gantpants]

Pork - Muffuletta Pinwheels Recipe This muffuletta roll filled with ham, salami, cheese, and an olive salad is a tasty, appetizer-sized version of the New Orleans sandwich.

[joeysilva]

Muffuletta Spread This straightforward muffuletta spread is reminiscent of a traditional New Orleans muffuletta sandwich, which is stuffed with cured meat, olives, and capers.

[biglisbonnews]

In praise of the muffuletta, a classic New Orleans sandwich Here's a food you should know, if you don't already: the muffuletta! It's a giant and delicious New Orleans classic that you really must try if you ever have the chance. But what, exactly, is a muffuletta? Here are a few mouthwatering descriptions: As big as a hubcap and layered with ham, salami, provolone cheese and — critically — olive salad, a single muffuletta sandwich can feed four grown adults. — Read the rest https://boingboing.net/2023/03/31/in-praise-of-the-muffuletta-a-classic-new-orleans-sandwich.html

[wonkawinka]

we’ll meet again

“we’ll meet again… don’t know where, don’t know when..”

alastor x angel!daughter!reader

CHAPTER ONE: don’t look at me like that!

— — CHAPTER TWO: smile like you mean it!

warnings/notes: NOT PROOF READ! blood, murder, guns, wounds, no use of y/n, uses she/her pronouns, reader is on the fem side, here are some things to know first, all the french was google translated i am so sorry hsdhdh

mawmaw- another way to address one’s grandma in the south

ma chére- french for my dear

as-tú mange?- french for have you been eating?

ça va aller - french for it is going to be okay

muffuletta- a sandwich that consists of provolone, olives, cured meat, and bread which originated in new orleans back in the early 1900s!

wc: 2003

————————-

LETTERS. letters turn to words. words turn to sentences. sentences turn to paragraphs. paragraphs turn to essays. essays turn to books.

one swoop in the air and one of the books gets snatched in a blur. the figure flew past the big, gold plaque which read The Records Room, landing softly on the floor of the library. you said gently as the big ol’ eye stared right back at you. heaven was littered with eyes. every crevice, ever corner, every wall of The Court had at least one staring right at you.

“oh, come on, don’t look at me like that.” the girl frowned at it, silently biting back on herself because she was quite literally talking to a book. it was as if the book was telling her to let it go, maybe even begging her to go home. her deer-like ears going against her head as she pondered the idea.

“ugh…” you released the book as it flew away, staring up as it joined its friends in the air— are all the books friends?

you grabbed your messenger bag, dusted your skirt, adjusted the vest, fixed your scarf…

and took a deep breath. today will be a good day, you thought mentally. if today isnt, tomorrow will be.

nodding at passerbyers with a polite smile, you strolled the streets of heaven, tracing your steps as if it was the back of your hand. people spoke your name gently, acknowledging your presence with soft tones.

one called out to you “nice to see you again, dear!” one smile to that woman.

then another “lookin’ good, toots!” another nod to that one man… despite the clear connotation of it.

“ate that up!” that made you nervously smile, not quite understanding the ‘new modern slang’ quite yet. looked like the teenager that recently arrived in heaven— a good person, you add.

you rounded the corner and sighed with relief at the sight of a familiar corner store. mawmaw’s corner. as you took note that the little store was closed, you reached for the secret key that sat in one of the flower pots.

third petunia to the left… ah. you pick it out of the pot and quietly open the door to the restaurant, locking it behind you.

“mawmaw?” you call out gently, not wanting to startle the poor woman. she was washing dishes, as usual, turning as she heard your voice.

she called your name in excitement, “ma chère!,” pulling you in for a hug which you happily accepted. she pinched your cheeks and turned your face from side to side to examine it.

“as-tú mange? you look so tired, sugar. i told ya’ to start watchin’ your health!” she scolds you with a sigh, shaking her head in disapproval, her new orleans accent slipping out as she pinches your cheek. “you youngins, tsk tsk.”

“i know, i know...”

she let go of your ear to turn back to the kitchen, giving you time to rub your cheek and soothe the pain. she quickly whipped up a muffuletta for you, her motherly love engraved into all her cooking.

“wouldve gotten you jambalaya, but people started comin’ left and right for it, dont even know where they comin’ from!” she exclaims with a laugh, brining the food towards you. she went on to talk about her day which you, of course, offered your utmost maximum attention to each word that fell from her mouth. the only thing that filled your ears was the subtle tumble of the air conditioning and the thick new orleans accent leaking from her tone. it was comforting in a nostalgic way. forms of her reminded you of your own father. own father. father. fath—

“oh! happy father’s day by the way!” you say with a slight teasing smile, but it was genuine for the most part. she turned to you with a— well, unamused, and albeit a confused face.

“hunny, i’m a woman.”

“that works her aaaa——,” the older woman cocked her eyebrow at your language choice, “bbbbutt… off every single day even when she’s dead. that’s enough recognition on both father and mother’s day” you say with a smile, finishing the last bits of your food.

“y’know, sugar, sometimes you remin’ me of my son.” she says with a smile. “quite the charmer back in the day, i’ll say!”

“never knew if he had kids, though.” she tried grabbing your plate, offering to wash it, but you declined with a smile, getting up to wash it yourself.

“well… sometimes, you remind me of my father.” you said, “say, what's his name? tell me ‘bout him. who knows, maybe he did have kids.”

the ringing of the water filling your ears as they awaited to hear an answer from the older woman. they twitched in reaction to the noise— it made you think back.

— — — — — 1932.

you walked through the woods quietly, trekking your way quietly to the cabin. home. you skipped in your steps as the delight of finishing your tasks early filled your core. the leaves swayed in the air, whispering untold nothings throughout the night. the gravel under you crunched against your heels as you got closer and closer to your humble abode.

you wouldve kept going. your father always told you to head straight home after your miscellaneous errands were done, especially after dusk. his words ringed in your mind always saying, “its is never safe for a dear like you to be hanging around town at night!”

there was a whisper in the bushes. a quiet one, but it was noticeable. it was enough to halt your steps.

you stood your ground as your eyes pivoted to the greenery. adrenaline started pumping; it removed the glue from your shoes that kept you from approaching the sound. what would be the harm in checking it out, anyway? you were close enough to your house as is.

something grabbed your ankle— shrieking in horror as the hand pulled itself towards you.

a man, bloodied, battered, drenched in his own blood looked up at you in a panic. the metallic stench rung in your nose as you stared down at the man in shock. he looked vaguely familiar— but the bloodied mask over his face barely made him recognizable. a flick away and all the oxygen would stop flowing through his veins. something turned in you. churned. stomach twisting in absolute horror and disgust. your mind told you to run. to scream. to call for help. to do anything but get your hands dirty.

but you couldnt leave the poor man.

you pulled the guy out of the bushes, only to discover a gunshot wound right in his abdomen. it was like some ravage animal was trying to tear him up right there and then. he stared up to you, not talking— hell, he couldnt talk. blood dripped from his mouth like a faucet. he couldnt if he tried.

but eyes always spoke. he didnt need to use his words. he looked grateful in a way. grateful he wasnt alone when he’ll die.

hands bloodied as if you were the one who caused it. his wound pooled out fountains of blood, onto the ground, seeping into your skirt.

“who… did this to you?” you whispered to him, bloodied hands shaking violently in reaction to the sight. he wanted to answer— but he couldnt.

you knew better than that.

you held his hand when he passed— which only took roughly around two minutes. it didnt take long.

you stood up. turned. looked. saw.

a man was looking at you from the woods. it was dark, but nothing could hide that manic smile, cheeks outstretched that it was nearly not human. nearly. he looked at you, eyes boring into your face.

he kept looking at you. it was only a matter of seconds, but to you it felt like hours. days. years. decades passed in those seconds. time ticked. it slowed down in the fastest way possible. it sped up in the slowest way possible.

you wanted him to stop looking at you.

your father— no. your father never looked at you like that. thats not the man who tucked you to sleep. thats not the man who made your favorite pancakes when you were sad. thats not the man who let you sleep with him whenever you had a nightmare. thats not the man who only trusted you when making his coffee every morning. it was unlike him. her father would never—

there was a gun pointed to her.

“dad—?” you whispered, as if he could hear her for the distance they were at.

the trigger popped.

the clock started.

the body jolted violently at the impact. it fell. blood pooled from the area like floods of rose petals bathing the forest floor.

it was a perfect hit. alastor always had perfect aim, anyway. he was never going to miss. he never misses. but as he approached, he had wished he did.

he approached the corpses slowly, making no haste in his steps. two birds, one stone. then he saw you.

you.

alastor’s manic smile faltered as the realization dawned on him. he fell to his knees, dropping the rifle, nearly throwing it to the side. his eyes blew open as he was instantly to your side. it was quite pathetic— especially for him. by now, he wouldve been tearing his victim’s flesh open, feasting on his prey like some crazed animal.

four minutes.

you, weren’t supposed to be home yet. you, weren’t supposed to wander to the small, suspicious sounds of the forest.

you weren’t the main target.

you coughed up blood, suffering the same fate of the man you had just encountered a few moments ago. now you were the victim, fallen to the forever bloodied hands of your manic father. the fact it was your father still hasn’t occurred to you fully yet.

he softly cradled you in his arms, now seeing your face stare back at him. “pa?” you coughed out, earning a shush from alastor.

“it’ll be okay, my dear.” he said, not sure if he was assuring himself too. his manic laugh grew louder and louder as he rocked you back and forth like a helpless child. “ça va aller..” he repeated this like a spell. a prayer. a grasp of intangible hope.

three minutes.

“pa, it hurts.” hurts was an understatement. your whole life was draining from one measly hole in your neck. it burned. ached. everything you have worked for draining out of your body in the matter of minutes.

“i know, my dear. it’ll all be better soon..” he carefully scooped you up to rest in his chest as if he were comforting you from a nightmare.

but his ego would never admit he was comforting himself in this nightmare.

it wasnt a nightmare, however. it was reality. your blood pooled onto his coat. his hands. everywhere. the stench reminding him that this was in fact, reality.

two minutes.

in moments of pure desperation, tears pooled down his face, completely contrasting the smile on his face. his eyes spoke.

“im sorry, pa.” you apologized. why were you apologizing?, you asked yourself. he was the one that just threw away your whole life, you thought. but—

but he was your father.

“don’t you apologize, my little dove,” he responded, “don’t you apologize.” his hand held your head to his shoulder. the hand that caused this mess in the first place.

one minute.

your life flashed before your eyes. did he even care? were you just another toy of his that he could kill? was he behind all of these killings he himself announced on the radio show you, oh, so adored— no, of course he did. it all made sense now.

“i love you.”

wait.

why did you say that?

times up.

— — — — — PRESENT.

the ringing of the water came back to you. the lukewarm water weaved through your fingers. it brought you back to your senses.

“say, his name was alastor.” she answered.

alastor.

[chefkids]

Carmy does not know how to do a chaos menu

They spent like 5 minutes working on it together. Carmy knows how to pair foods and what makes sense logically on a plate. But a chaos menu requires stepping outside of what's expected, experimenting, pairing two unlikely things together. We've seen Syd do that with the Etoufée and Coca Cola. Even her omelette had a bit of chaos with the potato chips. Carmy is used to cooking by the book. The closest thing they made to chaos was a savory cannoli and broth with grapes. Right now it's still looking very standard Italian. Sydney's touch is just waiting to be added. The thoughtfulness is not fully there yet, probably cause he had been avoiding thoughts of her. The menu is not done and is for sure going to get a revamp in Season 3. If my theory on her mom's family being from the Creole South is right, an Italian/Creole fusion chaos menu would make so much sense both for them and historically speaking as those two cuisines have already meshed. The muffuletta sandwich is famously a mix of those two and would fit perfectly for the window in the back. Also location wise, The Bear is on Orleans street and if Sydney's influence comes from New Orleans. It's just too perfect, yet thoughtfully unexpected.

[aloysiavirgata]

Do you have any advice for someone looking to improve their writing? You’re so incredibly talented!

Oh bless. Here’s the deep, dark secret: I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. My last English class was in like…? 1999?

1) Read books/articles/fic/stories by people whose writing you love. Find out what it is that you love. I love big, fat words you can chew like muffulettas at a cafe in New Orleans.

I love Thomas Harris and Cormac McCarthy and Ann Patchett and Jane Austen. You’ll see that a lot of my writing has lush descriptions and class issues and detailed minutiae. I love characters and dialogue and banter. The plot is more of a framework.

2) Find someone who will be unkind to you. My first beta, back in 2008, was absolutely vicious. It was fandom-culture acceptable at the time and if I were a crier? I would have cried at some of the feedback.

I swallowed very, very hard at a lot of it. She beta-ed all of my early writing and taught me a lot of what I know.

3) Read things multiple times and ask yourself “why am I telling this story?” If you want to get attention and be popular - and that is VALID - you should make sure that your fic aligns with current tastes and views. If your intent is to share an ugly truth about (situation)? Best lean the fuck in and go hard. I have killed William, I have had Scully fuck Byers, I have had Scully kill Emily. Be honest - a reader knows when you are pulling punches.

4) Wait. The thing you think is a terrible idea? It’s really good but it needs time. The Best Fic You Ever Wrote? Read it sober on a Tuesday at 10:00 AM.

We’ve all been there:.

5) My FIRST degree hashtag Stella Gibson was in biomedical science and I am qualified in Zero Ways to be of any real help.

6) You and your writing are not interchangeable. I have stories I’ve felt meh about that really connected with people. I’ve written things I loooooved that got a resounding 🤷‍♀️

That doesn’t make you bad or good in either case.

[power-chords]

top 5 sandwiches

1) A muffuletta from Verti Marte on Royal Street in New Orleans, preferably while drunk at 1 AM after a show at Tipitina’s

2) Cheeseburger at Louis’ Lunch with a Foxon Park soda (yes, this counts as a sandwich to me)

3) Katz’s pastrami on rye with mustard. Still the GOAT

4) Just about any pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich from a spot on the Jersey Shore because if I’m eating one of these it means I’m recovering the morning after a gig at the Stone Pony or Wonder Bar

5) An Italian combo from Nardelli’s in Norwalk

[monstersinthecosmos]

September 18, 1973

Daniel isn’t a morning person, but he’s so alert when the alarm goes off.

Still dark out, which he wanted. Promised himself he’d get up. Final gift to himself that he can look back on later. 

And still dark when he’s dressed, when he gets a free cup of coffee from the hotel lobby, when he gets in his car. The roads are empty and quiet as he weaves across the city, wondering if he’ll still be here this time tomorrow.

He finds a spot in Audubon Park, the place Louis mentioned. Sits in one of the benches by the water to watch the sunrise.

Something serene had come over him last night, after he had found the address. And he drove by it again afterwards to put his eyes on it. Parked across the street and watched it for a while. The Daniel that had driven across the United States in a frenzy would’ve gone inside immediately, would’ve been banging on the floors trying to wake him, but he feels okay now. Thinks he should be patient, he should try to have a nice dinner, take this moment. 

One more day.

So the sun comes up. He closes his eyes as the warmth hits his face. He breathes the humidity, the taste of the river on the air. He wants to keep this moment, to remember it.

He’s kind to himself, all day. This final day. 

Treats it like a vacation, trying the food New Orleans thrusts upon him. Beignets and muffuletta and gumbo. Praline for desert. Sazerac. 

He watches the sunset in Jackson Square and there’s a jazz band playing in the restaurant where he has dinner. He imagines interviewing the trombonist afterward. Something about him. 

But that was another life. 

Kind to himself, because he knows this is it. 

He heads back to his hotel once it’s dark out, to pick up the tapes. He wonders if he should call his mom, but doesn’t feel bad when he decides not to. 

One day, if his parents ask the right people, they’ll trace him to New Orleans. They’ll figure out he was working for the radio station, that his last known call was to leave the number of the hotel. No guilt, just serenity, happy to leave it behind as he leaves for Lestat’s.

Like he’s a new person, shedding a skin, as he cuts through the vines on the front gate. It’s not even locked. The front door is in such a state of rusted neglect that it breaks right open. 

Moonlight comes in through the windows, through the oak branches, enough to spill across the rows and rows of books, stacked to the ceiling. Sick to his stomach as his eyes sweep across, as he digs a flashlight out of his bag to see better. 

Not sick with dread, the way it’s been cycling through him since he met Louis. No, maybe something like butterflies. Something he can’t quite place. It’s more proof, he thinks; no human could have done something like this. Something this mad, this methodical. He remembers his tape collection, back in San Francisco. Each labeled, just exactly so, in the order he wanted them, perfectly aligned. The only thing in his life he had any control over, that he had the patience for. 

If these are Lestat’s books, if he’s done this, Daniel thinks he understands something of Lestat’s soul. 

He does a circle through the rooms on the first floor. Hundreds of books. Thousands, actually, he’s sure. In both French and English, and sometimes he isn’t sure what language, and so many of them are damaged so badly he can’t read the spines. The ones against the back wall of the dining room are covered in mold, near a broken window, and Daniel wonders how long they’ve been here.

The wood creaks beneath him as he heads upstairs. Slowly, trailing one hand along the wall, unsure if he should trust the bannister. Too dark to make out the paintings on the walls, but his fingertips graze across their heavy wood frames. He wonders how long Lestat lived in this house, if it had ever been a real home to him. If the art was incidental. If he’d truly read all these books.

It’s enough to stop him, at the top of the stairs, wondering how this could happen. 

Thinking about everything Louis had to say about his vampire nature, about his senses, about his perception of pleasure. 

Daniel’s dad used to have those fits sometime, the nightmares. And Daniel felt the heaviness now and then. His mom used to call it the blues, but shooed him out of the bed anyway. Made him go to school. 

And he never really told them why he dropped out. 

Working for the station let him live outside that box, let him sleep in, gave him some breathing room. But he had those days in San Francisco, too. Like when he finally tapped out, knowing he’d never make up all the school he’d missed last time he had an episode.

What about vampires, though?

Do you stay in your house for decades, and surround yourself with books, until you bury yourself in the ground? Do you obsess until you’re completely walled in?

Lestat, are you here? he thinks. He tries saying it loud, but his voice is swallowed by the dust and mold.

Forward, into the darkness. Into a bedroom with the skeleton of a four-poster. The window is broken out, moonlight filling the room with a white glow, roses crawling in over the splintered wood. Something shining on the floor, in the middle of the rotting carpet, and he points his flashlight, kneels to touch.

He feels like an explorer as his fingers caress the smooth gold, like he’s been pushing through a jungle, like he’s finally found the temple. More evidence, even if no one else believes him. He turns the watch over to see the Lestat de Lioncourt carved in delicate letters.

This was Charlie’s problem, maybe. Not that he didn’t have proof that someone else might believe, but that he cared if someone else believed. Daniel rubs his thumb across the gold, swiping away the layer of dust, and knows this is enough. Other people don’t factor into it anymore, not really. Not for Daniel. He’s not sure humans matter anymore. 

He rises, breathes in the dust and mildew. It’s a soft smell, cozy in its own right. Comforting, to be here at last. This close.

Did Lestat ever use this room? He wonders again if this place was ever truly a home. Or was it just somewhere he stayed, the way Daniel stayed in all those gross motels. 

The armoire in the corner groans as he opens it, the wood swollen shut. Full of moth eaten clothes, but they look like they could be from a fairy tale. Yellowed lace and stale velvet, and a black frock coat that falls apart when he touches it. 

He can see Lestat in these clothes, just like Louis described him. Convinced still that he can imagine Lestat’s face, that Louis had transferred it to him somehow. Too radiant, the way Louis was. But maybe he’s beneath the house, hurt and tired, as dusty as everything else.

A car passes outside, splashing light into the room, the shape of the window dancing across the ceiling. And Daniel tries to remember what day of the week it is. What year. He watches a spider on the windowsill and for a moment he feels like he can hear all the creatures in the house; rats beneath the floor and snakes in the garden. Even the termites, chewing through the walls of books. He sets his bag down and sits on the floor, near the window, in a pool of moonlight, and tries to listen for Lestat’s heartbeat.

Daniel isn’t sure how long it’s been since the night he met Louis. Maybe a week, maybe two. His hands move over the tape deck the way they have every night, and he’s so reverent in the way lines the tapes up in the correct order. The stiffness of the plastic case is so familiar now, and then schick as he sets the tape inside. And the way the play button clicks, the tiny squeak of the gears as it begins to roll.

And the static, the room tone from the recording. 

“You weren’t always a vampire, were you?” his voice asks. 

Or, someone’s voice asks. Daniel doesn’t think he’s that boy anymore. Sounded nervous already, unsure if he’d made a mistake, if the interview was safe.

“No,” Louis answers. “I was a twenty-five-year-old man when I became a vampire, and the year was 1791.”

“1791,” Daniel repeats, on the tape. And no one likes their own voice, but Daniel doesn’t mind because it’s not his anymore. But the boy sounds like he’s out of breath, and he’s stuttering a little as he asks the follow up. “How did it come about?”

“There’s a simple answer to that,” Louis says gently. So gently, and his voice is so soothing, even through the tape. Daniel turns the volume up, hoping Lestat will hear it. “I think I want to tell you the real story.”

“Yes.”

Daniel has listened to this a dozen times by now, each time further away from it, less and less the interviewer. He pats his pockets down for his cigarettes, lighting one as he stares down at the little speaker, letting Louis’s voice soak into him with the nicotine.

“There was a tragedy.”

[previous day] | [next day]

[e-m-p-error]

[ @hisslord LIKED For A Starter || Angel Dust ]

[ Alastor ]

"Aaaaaand here we are, my dear." Alastor grinned as he briskly sauntered into the dining room with a plate and cloche balanced delicately on his hand. He bent at the waist to set it down over Angel's shoulder, "I thought, perhaps, this was a dish we would both be familiar with."

A muffuletta was a sandwich he remembered from his youth. It was brought with the Italians that migrated to New Orleans, and there were plenty of twists on it that he'd seen while he'd been alive.

"I made the soppressata myself! I've always been fond of curing and slicing my own meat. I do tend to chop it a tad thick, of course. As for the cheese, I don't have the patience with such things. Though I do have a good friend that provides the cheese for my restaurant, and I've bought several wheels for the Hotel, as well."

Pulling back, he took the cloche with him, presenting the two sandwiches he'd made.

"I did make myself some as well if you'd like for me to join you in your meal. If you have a large loaf of French bread, it's easy to make six sandwiches. I've left some for Nifty when it's her lunch break."

[bronzewool]

Two weeks to go and I've decided to make a US Bucket List

California specific

Comic-Con

Death Valley National Park

Golden Gate Park 

Knott's Berry Farm

The Last Book Store

Pacific coast highway

San Fransico Bay

Food - California-style pizza, French dip sandwich, garlic ice cream, mission burrito,

New Orleans Specific

French Quarters

Mardi Gras

Vampire Tour

Food - Beignet, crawfish etouffee, gumbo, jambalaya, muffuletta, king cakes, po-boy, snowballs

New York Specific

Broadway

Central Park

Chinatown

Coney Island

Natural History Museum

Pokemon Center

Food: Bagels, dirty water hotdog, New York pizza, pastrami sandwich

Things I just wanna eat

The Cheesecake Factory

Jack in the box

Panda Express

Pumpkin-flavoured everything!

[allwaysfull]

Margaritaville | Carlo Sernaglia and Julia Turshen

Breakfast

Pineapple and Coconut Milk Smoothie

Key Lime Yogurt with Graham Cracker Granola

Baked Boatmeal Squares with Blueberries and Coconut

Huevos Rancheros

Key West Omlet

Key Lime Hollandaise

South Florida Eggs Benedict

Spicy Breakfast Quesadillas

Triple B (Buttermilk, Blueberry and Banana) Pancakes

Best-Ever French Toast

Our Breakfast Potatoes

Appetizers

Volcano Nachos

Warm Asiago Crab Dip

Grilled Oysters with Tarragon Butter

Peel-and-Eat Shrimp

Mustard Sauce

Drunken Shrimp Skillet

Lava Lava Shrimp

Conch Fritters with Calypso Sauce

Spanish Octopus Salad

JWB Crab and Quinoa Cakes with Curry Kale Slaw

Crispy Calamari with Peppadews and Lemon Aioli

Fried Oysters with Creamed Spinach

Lionfish Carpaccio

A Day on a Boat

Kusshi Oysters with Granny Smith, Cucumber, and Mint Granita

Veracruz Seafood Cocktail

Tuna Poke with Plantain Chips

Paradise Ceviche

Belizean Shrimp Ceviche

Pimiento Cheese Hushpuppies

Crispy Eggplant and Goat Cheese Stuffed Piquillo Peppers

Fried Baby Artichokes with Remoulade

Tostones with Mojo Sauce

Hollywood Burrata with Grated Tomato Dressing

Jalapeño Deviled Eggs with Pickled Mustard Seeds

Cajun Chicken Quesadilla (Blackening Seasoning)

Spicy Buffalo Chicken Wings with Buttermilk Blue Cheese Dressing

Sweet Chile Chicken Wings

Salads and Soups

JWB Caesar Salad with Sourdough Croutons

JWB House Salad with Cashew Dressing

Little Gem Wedge Salad

Avocado and Papaya Salad with Spicy Lime Dressing

Quinoa and Mango Salad with Seared Tuna

Fried Green Tomato Salad with Salsa Verde and Quesp Fresco

Andalusian Gazpacho

Luxurious Lobster Bisque (Lobster Stock)

Bahamian Conch Chowder

Chicken and Corn Chupe

Burgers, Sandwiches and Hot Dogs

Cheeseburgers in Paradise with Paradise Island Dressing

Black-and-Blue Burgers

Turkey Burgers with Cheddar and Barbecue Aioli

JWB Surf’n’Turf Burgers

Ultimate Veggie Burgers

Grilled Flank Steak Sandwiches with Horseradish Sauce

Cuban Meat Loaf Survival Sandwiches

A Day on The Beach

Tailgate Muffuletta for a Crowd

Beach Club Sandwich

New Orleans Fried Oyster Po’Boys

Delta Fried Catfish Reubens

Blackened Fish Sandwiches (Jalapeño Tarter Sauce)

JWB Lobster Rolls

Aloha Hot Dogs

Own-Damn-Fault Hot Dogs

Blackened Chili Dogs

Main Dishes

Best-Every Chili (alt: vegan version)

Margaritaville Family Recipe Cuban Meat Loaf

Veal Saltimbocca Pockets

Prime Sirloin Oscar

Steak au Poivre

Summer Grill Surf’n’Turf

Grilled Skirt Steaks with Carlo’s Chimichurri

Slow Cooker Pork Should with LandShark and Cola

Chicken Enchiladas with Salsa Verde, Smoked Ancho, Pasilla Sauce

Chicken Tinga

Jerk Chicken

Buttermilk Fried Chicken with Country Gravy

Shrimp Mofongo al Ajillo

Spear Fishing with Carlo

Outside-Optional Cajun Clambake

Sardinian Seafood Stew

Pan-Seared Halibut with Artichoke Ragout

Seared Grouper with Fresh Mango Salsa

Crispy Sicilian-Style Pounded Tuna Steaks

Coho Salmon in Lemongrass-Miso Broth

Salt-Crusted Whole Snapper

LandShark Beer-Battered Fish

Seafood Mac and Cheese

Lobster Pasta

Paella del Mar

Jimmy’s Jammin’Jambalaya

Baby Back Ribs with Guava Barbecue Sauce

Pizza à la Minute

Side Dishes

Pico de Gallo

Guacamole

Cilantro-Lime Coleslaw

Crispy Brussels Sprouts

Yukon Gold Loaded Mashed Potatoes

Spicy Red Onion Rings

Livin’ Floridays

Lobster Hash Browns with Jalapeño Cheese

JWB Creamed Spinach

Oven Fries

Fajita Black Beans

Island Rice Pilaf

Creamy Spinach and Cheese Grits

Skillet Cornbread with Honey Butter

Grilled Corn with Lime Butter

Pickled Jalapeño Mac and Cheese

Dessert

Baked Florida

Key Lime Pie

Banana Cream Pie with Caramel Rum Sauce

Coconut Tres Leches Cake

Island Rum Cake

Strawberry Sponge Cake Shortcake

Frozen Mango Cheesecake

Crispy Bananarama

Chocolate-Bourbon Croissant Bread Pudding

S’mores Nachos with Warm Chocolate Sauce

Drinks

Brunch Rum Punch

Perfect Bloody Marias

LandShark Micheladas

Incommunicado

Jimmy’s Perfect Margarita

Frozen Paradise Palomas

5 o’Clock Somewhere

Red Wine and Cherry Sangria

Cucumber and Mint Coolers

Watermelon Pink Lemonade

[foodies-channel]

🍥 Muffuletta from Verti Marte. New Orleans deli in the French Quarter that is open 24/7

🍔YouTube || 🍟Reddit

[dearamleo]

The Sinner’s Feast New Chapter!

Chapter 6: The Art of Distraction

The sterile white of St. Mungo's hospital hallways always made Sirius wrinkle his nose in distaste. He had spent several years visiting Alphard in a place just like this, doing everything in his power to stave off the clinical feel for his uncle, to make him feel at home. Now the sight and scent of it all just reminded Sirius of the end, of seeing his father figure and idol reduced down to someone who couldn’t even remember himself.

As they walked through the halls, making it to the main floor, Sirius had waved off James and Peter off. “You guys go find Avery, I’ve got something else I need to take care of really quick.”

Peter looked at him baffled, but James just winked at him and nudged the paper bag in his hand that he had picked up along the way. “Sure thing, Pads. Wormy and I got this one. You go and… get checked out.”

“Checked out,” Peter echoed, looking confused between the two. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Ah,” James said, taking Peter around the shoulder and leading him off. “Our boy Padfoot has quite the affliction, Petey. Might be no saving him from it.”

Rolling his eyes, Sirius turned to look at the direction board, searching for the floor he knew Remus worked. Thankfully he had a general idea of where he was heading, having been to the emergency trauma floor more times than likely anyone else in this town.

As he walked towards the nurses' station on the fourth floor, he spotted Remus talking to a colleague, Molly Weasley if his memory served him correctly, his expression focused and attentive. Sirius leaned against the counter several feet away, watching him for a moment. There was something incredibly endearing about the way Remus's eyes lit up as he spoke about medicine and patient care. It was a side of Remus that was very different from the one Sirius had encountered in his house, the one that blushed at his son's chatty enthusiasm.

When Remus finally noticed the way Molly’s disapproving eyes kept flicking in Sirius’s direction, he turned towards him. His expression shifted quickly from professional to confused and then dissolved into a soft surprise.

"Sirius, hey."

"Hey," Sirius replied, pushing away from the counter and offering the takeout bag to Remus. "I brought you lunch. Figured you might've missed it this morning in all the chaos."

Remus's eyes blinked as he took the bag. "You didn't have to do that, but thank you."

"It's no big deal," Sirius said with a nonchalant shrug, though his heart was hammering in his chest. He was acutely aware of how close they were standing, the air between them charged with something he couldn't quite define.

They found an empty break room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as they sat at a small table. Remus opened the takeout container and looked at the muffuletta sandwich inside with something akin to delight. "This is my favorite. How did you know?"

"Pure luck, I promise," Sirius replied with a grin, though he couldn't deny the satisfaction of having picked correctly. Truthfully he had only chosen it because the deli menu had boasted it to be authentic Louisiana style and he knew Remus was from New Orleans.

As always, conversation fell between them with ease. Sirius asked about Teddy, a topic that Remus absolutely lit up to talk about. He told Sirius about the surgery he had performed that morning. Sirius regaled him with his conspiracy that Pandora was actually some sort of strange ethereal being masquerading as a human with her dreamy tone and terrifyingly deceptive insight. At one point Remus had pushed half the sandwich to Sirius, demanding he needed to try it before launching into a full five minute lament about how much he missed southern food.

In the midst of their laughter, Sirius's attention was drawn to the entrance of the break room, where James and Peter were standing, smirks on their faces as they caught his eye. Sirius's heart stuttered, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement flooding him. He gave them a playful glare, a silent warning not to interrupt. Taking the hint, they disappeared from view, leaving Sirius and Remus to their conversation.

After they finished eating, Remus leaned back in his chair, looking at Sirius with a thoughtful expression. "You know, I don't usually have lunch dates with... people I've just met."

Sirius chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "I can't say I make a habit of it either."

They shared a moment of silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. Remus looked like he wanted to say something, his gaze searching Sirius's eyes for an answer he couldn't find.

Sirius cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "I should probably get going. I know you're busy, and I don't want to distract you from your important doctor stuff."

Remus smiled, a hint of regret in his eyes. "Right, of course. Thank you for lunch, Sirius. It was... unexpected, but really nice."

Sirius stood up, his heart thudding in his chest. He took a step closer to Remus, unable to resist the magnetic pull between them. "Remus..."

Before he could say anything else, he leaned down and pressed a slow, soft kiss against Remus's lips. It wasn't rushed or desperate like the peck Remus gave him this morning, but a lingering connection that spoke of something deeper- of more intention. Remus responded, his fingers tangling in the fabric of Sirius's shirt as he deepened the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingling, Sirius pressed his forehead against Remus's. "I'll see you around?"

Remus's smile was warm, his eyes filled with a mixture of uncertainty and hope. "Yeah, definitely."

Read from the beginning here!

[nbula-rising]

Muffuletta Sandwich Serves 6 Prep time 6 hours, 30 minutes

Ingredients

1 x round crusty loaf of bread (boule, cob or sourdough - about 6" or 15cm diameter) 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (can use herb infused oil) 2 tomatoes, thinly sliced 2 to 3 sprigs of fresh oregano (leaves only or 1/2 teaspoon dried oregano) 1 tablespoon capers 1/2 red onion, peeled and thinly sliced 75g pimento stuffed green olives (cut in half) 4 x slices smoked pork loin (or smoked ham) 6 slices provolone cheese (or provoletta cheese) 8 slices coppa (or salami) 100g mozzarella cheese (cut into thin slices) Sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper to taste Cling-film, greaseproof paper and string

Note A Muffuletta Sandwich is a popular sandwich originating among the Italian immigrants in New Orleans, Louisiana, using a Sicilian sesame round bread loaf, it is stuffed with ham, salami, cheese and an olive salad.

Directions

Step 1 Cut the round loaf of bread in half horizontally, and scoop some of the crumb out, to make a hollow. Keep the breadcrumbs for later, I usually freeze them. Step 2 Drizzle the olive oil inside the bread, top and bottom and season to taste with sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Step 3 Start to fill and layer the sandwich as so: sliced tomatoes, oregano leaves, capers, sliced red onions, olives, 2 slices of pork loin or ham, 3 slices of provolone cheese, 4 slices coppa or salami, the mozzarella slices and the remaining 3 slices of provolone cheese and 4 slices of coppa. Step 4 Place the lid of the sandwich loaf on top, pressing down to make a seal; wrap tightly in cling-film and then in the greaseproof paper tying it all up with string. Step 5 Place some heavy weights on top of the sandwich and keep it in a cool place, such as the fridge, for up to 6 hours or until you need to serve it. Take the weights off the sandwich and unwrap the sandwich, then slice it to serve in wedges, or in thick slices. Step 6 This is better if made several hours before serving, or even the night before. Serve with side salad and extra olives and pickles.