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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 5 years ago

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The French Connection - Chapter 3

A HardyxMiller AU

Ellie Miller is left to go on her honeymoon alone after a devastating secret about her fiance comes to light - halfway through the wedding ceremony. Sitting in St Pancras International in London waiting for her train, she runs into none other than her uni rival/best friend Alec Hardy, on the run from his own recent heartbreak.

They decide to make use of Ellie’s pre-paid trip, rekindling their friendship and escaping real life; yet, it turns out their years at uni are the hardest to outrun. Based on this prompt from @timepetalscollective

Chapters will be posted every Wednesday and Sunday. Beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma

Masterlist | AO3

Sorry it’s late; I forgot ☹️ I’m not used to posting on Wednesdays...

---

Ellie startled awake at the feel of the mattress shifting, eyes flying open to see a broad back in a tee rising from the bed.

Joe?

He turned then, creeping towards the loo, and she had an out-of-body experience wondering why her uni best frenemy had been in her bed. It all came rushing back after a moment though, her fiancé’s betrayal straight through to running into Hardy at St. Pancras' and inviting him on her trip.

Too much wine, she chalked her lapse in memory up to, yawning as she looked for a clock. It was perched on the telly stand, showing an early half six, and she whimpered. Rolling over she ended up on Hardy’s side of the small bed, burying her face in his pillow.

Inhaling deeply in an attempt to go back to sleep, her senses overloaded with his scent, taking her right back to the morning after graduation so vividly she had to physically pat herself down to ensure she was wearing pajamas this time.

Jerking upright she tried to push those memories away, stronger than they’d been in quite some time, and to her horror, not entirely unwelcome. Stop it, she told herself firmly, closing her eyes and taking measured breaths, that was four years of tension boiling over. A one-time thing. Forget about it!

Climbing out of bed herself, she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and started the Keurig, suspecting tea just wouldn’t cut it that morning. By the time she hit the ‘start’ button Hardy had exited the loo, pausing in surprise at seeing her.

“You’re up?”

She sniffed at his incredulous tone. “Yes.” She had to get past him to get to the loo herself, her curves brushing against his hard angles, and she swallowed harshly at a particular bit of hardness in the vicinity of her thigh. “I’m just…”

“Yeah.”

All but fleeing into the bathroom, she sternly lectured herself as she shut the door behind her. You have both just had traumatic breakups. You are here as friends. It was one time at uni. Stop thinking about it.

Splashing her face with cold water helped, and she put any thoughts of graduation night, or a potential repeat, firmly aside. Straightening her dressing gown and re-belting it, she exited to find the room empty.

Where-

Unusually loud sounds of the city tipped her off, and sure enough, she found him on the rooftop balcony with two mugs of coffee.

“That’s yours,” Hardy gestured to the steaming mug on the tiny table. He was leaning on the railing, watching the first hints of pink peek above the Ile de la Cite.

“Thanks.” Cradling it between her palms and letting it warm her, she settled next to him as they watched the sun rise in silence, sipping at their coffee and enjoying the sounds of life in the city. “I can’t believe I finally got to wake up in Paris,” she eventually murmured, once the coffee and any hint of dawn was gone. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Hardy agreed, his voice surprisingly rough, and she glanced up just as his eyes skittered away.

Was he looking at me? The idea was too absurd to entertain, so she changed the subject. “What do you want to do today?”

“What’s on your agenda?” he countered, and she blinked innocently.

“Sorry?”

Hardy smirked, gesturing for her to go down the stairs to their room first, then closing the door behind them and locking it. “Come off it Miller, we both know you’ve got this trip micromanaged down to the minute. Out with it.”

Ellie couldn’t help the reluctant grin. After all this time, he still knows me. That had been evident with her perfectly prepared coffee, but it was nice to know that hadn’t just been a lucky guess. “Breakfast in the hotel, a few sights on the Ile, then lunch on our way to the Louvre. Jardin des Tuileries and Place de la Concorde. Dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

Breakfast was easy, their suite including a continental spread every morning, and by eight they were strolling across Pont au Change, the bridge to the Ile right outside the hotel doors. Given the early hour, the only thing open yet was the Cathedral, and Ellie led him there without saying where they were going, hoping to see his honest reaction to the Cathedral up close.

It was a short walk, one she had carefully sketched out to give the best possible first view of Notre Dame, and they chatted along the way, vaguely discussing their careers to date. Hardy was mid sentence when they walked onto the square outside the Cathedral, where the bell towers reached to the sky, and they both stopped dead.

“It’s beautiful,” Ellie murmured, amazed that she was finally here, in Paris, seeing sights she’d dreamed of for so long. “D’you want to go inside?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, a bit breathless himself, and they walked in together. The first thing that caught Ellie’s attention was the sheer size – the ceiling hundreds of feet up, spectacular arches, and plenty of religious icons and statues. It was simultaneously awe-inspiring and overwhelming, and she wondered how Hardy’s Scottish Presbyterianism was handling the decorations.

Given the early hour and that the doors had just opened they were practically alone, wandering down the outer aisles and taking in the artwork, from the carvings on the pillars to the stained glass windows. Reaching the center of the cross-shape they found the aisle, and a view of all three famous rose windows, bright morning sun shining on the altar.

“A bit ostentatious for a place of worship,” Hardy murmured, “but as a historical and architectural sight, nearly unparalleled.”

“Napoleon and Josephine walked up that aisle,” she whispered back. “Kings and Queens married and coronated here. Can you imagine? The pageantry, the beautiful clothing.”

“The smell.”

She elbowed him sharply, only for him to smirk down at her.

“Think about it. Hundreds of people in here, candles and incense burning, and this is before frequent bathing or things like deodorant. Would reek worse than the Tube in a heatwave.” He shuddered violently for effect, making her scowl.

“Why must you always look on the downside?” she wanted to know, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. “Why can’t you just see the beauty in something?”

Hardy shrugged, expression softening as he glanced around. “I see the beauty,” he met her eye again, “but I also see what the beauty was meant to mask. There’s a reason this country has such a violent history, particularly when it came to monarchy, and showmanship. The things you laud are part of what sparked the Revolution.”

Ellie pursed her lips, turning away. “I choose to see the good.” She started off back down the aisle.

“As you should.” He didn’t hurry to catch up with her, but his long legs made easy work of closing the distance anyway. “That’s why we always worked as partners on projects – we could each see the opposite side.”

“Funny, that’s not how I remember it. To my recollection, we were horrible as partners, always fighting over the littlest detail. Sometimes it was a truly terrible experience.”

They burst out into the sunlight at the same time, Ellie starting for the gardens surrounding the Cathedral to see its famed architecture and windows from the outside.

“True,” he agreed readily enough, managing to stroll along and keep pace with her quick steps, “but it made actually working with a partner on the force a breeze, I’ll bet. How many times did you think ‘this idiot may be bad but at least he’s not Hardy’? A lot?”

“Shut up.” It was true, though, and they both knew it. She’d never had a problem with getting along with anyone after working with him. Then she realized the opposite must be true as well, and stopped dead. “Hang on, did you think I was difficult to work with?”

Hardy kept walking. “Come on, Miller, shake a leg. I dare not mess with your careful schedule. A place like this, you could actually have my head if you wanted.”

Scowling, she hurried after him. “You didn’t answer my question. Hardy? Hardy!”

After Notre Dame they visited the Conciergerie, taking a guided tour to learn about the building’s history as first a palace, and later a prison, especially during the revolution. The small chapel that now existed on the site of Marie Antoinette’s cell sent a shiver down Ellie’s spine.

“All right?” Hardy murmured, guiding her after the tour group with a firm palm between her shoulder blades.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, glancing over her shoulder towards the room, “there’s just something about history like that… women who die like that…”

He nodded in agreement as they caught up to the group. “I visited the site of Fotheringhay Castle once, as a lad. I’m not one for ghost stories, but… it felt haunted, even though the castle’s been gone for centuries.”

“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’”.

Hardy glanced at her in delight. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a Shakespeare fan, Miller.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she smirked, striding ahead as the tour moved on. “Keep up.”

After lunch at a charming little bistro they entered the Louvre through the iconic glass pyramid, winding their way slowly past thousands of paintings and statues towards the Mona Lisa.

“You have to wait in line?” Ellie asked, incredulous, as they were guided between velvet ropes, the line snaking along the perimeter of the large room. “For a painting?”

“Gee, Miller, can’t imagine why. It’s not the reason half the people are in the building,” Hardy rolled his eyes at her, making her stick her tongue out in retaliation. “Name one other piece of art here. Reading off the wall doesn’t count.”

She sniffled, scowling at his irritating I know more than you smirk. “Venus de Milo.”

“And?”

“Excuse me,” she said stiffly, arching an eyebrow, “I’m not the one who spent a semester going to art museums to impress the pretty girl in your English class.”

“From what I’ve heard, you might’ve had better luck,” he shot back dryly. “I enjoyed it as well, reasonably. There’s more history there than a first glance would tell you.”

“Spare me.”

They shuffled forward in the slowly but continuously moving line, making an effort to admire the otherwise magnificent paintings they passed that had the unfortunate fate of being in the same room as one of the most famous.

Ignoring him, she focused on the rest of the room until it was their turn, getting in front of the Mona Lisa itself and shoulders slumping as she stared at it. “It’s smaller than I thought.”

“A true work of art,” he murmured next to her, and she wished, not for the first time, to be able to see the world through his eyes. “Incredible.”

After a moment they continued on, spilling out of the line into a mess of people trying to see the painting without waiting.

“What’s wrong?”

Ellie realized her lower lip was trembling, and she bit it viciously in an attempt to stop it. “I expected it to be a lot bigger.”

“It is pretty small,” Hardy agreed kindly, “but it’s also a factor of the room. On a normal-sized wall, it would be very different. This was a royal palace – it’s enormous, and that changes the scope.”

“Spoken like a bloke who’s had to defend other small things,” she teased, trying for levity. “Hear that a lot, do you?”

He laughed, shaking his head, and she realized he looked lighter, somehow, than the day before. “Come on, you, let’s go outside, I know how you love your fresh air.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” she pointed out, letting him guide her out of the museum.

Hardy shot her a supremely cocky smirk, one that seemed almost unnatural on his usually humble face. “I don’t remember you complaining eight years ago. The opposite, if anything.”

To add insult to injury, the wanker had the audacity to laugh when she walked right into a door frame in her surprise.

“Stop it!”

#bbatcfic #broadfic #Broadchurch #HardyxMiller #Alec Hardy #Ellie Miller #AU #The French Connection #platonic honeymoon fic

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easyfoodnetwork · 5 years ago

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In Pursuit of the Perfect Bowl of Porridge

A porridge creation by Swedish competitor Per Carlsson | Clarissa Wei

Each year, gruel fanatics from around the world compete for the Golden Spurtle trophy in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland

In 2015, Lisa Williams was vacationing in Scotland when she stumbled across a glitzy bagpipe procession and a line of people in aprons holding flags from countries around the world. She took a closer look, inquired around, and discovered it was a porridge parade, celebrating the contestants of a world porridge championship.

“And then you go into the village hall [where the competition is held], and it’s decorated in tartan and heather and with all the flags from all the people and their countries,” she says. “It was amazing. I was hooked. I just said to my husband that I want to take part in this. I want to do it.” Four years later, Williams returned to Scotland, and her porridge was crowned the best in the world. “When they called my name out, I was absolutely stunned,” she says.

Like Goldilocks chasing down that perfect bowl, Williams is among a dedicated class of professional and amateur cooks around the world who compete each year to serve the best bowl of, essentially, gruel. They gather in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland, on the edge of a national park in the Scottish highlands, for the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Making Championship. Judges for the competition, which is split into “traditional” and “specialty” categories, are mostly recruited from the culinary industry, and rank each bowl by color, texture, hygiene, and taste. The “golden spurtle” refers to both the traditional Scottish utensil specifically designed for porridge-stirring, as well as the shape of the trophy awarded to winners.

James Ross

The bagpipe parade to kick of 2017’s Golden Spurtle championships

What began as a tourism initiative in 1994 to attract winter crowds to the quaint, 700-person Scottish town has grown into an institution, drawing in hundreds of spectators and up to 30 competitors each year. “I read about it in the newspaper and thought that if this isn’t a joke and it’s for real, it’s the most silly and insane thing I ever heard,” says Saga Rickmer of Sweden. She signed up immediately, and went on to compete in the 2016 world championships and ultimately win the Swedish Porridge Competition, a national spinoff competition, in 2019.

This year, due to COVID-19, the competition will move online, with competitors submitting short video recipes and winners announced over social media on October 10 — World Porridge Day. But while the thrill of softening stodgy grains in real time might be missing, the weight of the endeavor seems to resonate more than ever. Anyone who has been cooking and recooking the same simple meals from pantry staples during the pandemic will understand the quest for the platonic ideal of gruel.

The 2020 competition will also be slightly different in that it will focus entirely on the specialty category, where pretty much anything goes. Competitors can add a bunch of milk, shape the oatmeal into tapas, brulee it, steam it, or bake it. Per Carlsson of Sweden snagged the 2017 specialty win with a cloudberry-liqueur porridge brulee. Neal Robertson from Scotland won in 2011 with a cinnamon and nutmeg-spiked porridge topped with a blueberry compote. Other wins have included a mushroom porridge torta in 2012 and a sticky toffee porridge in 2014.

Nick Barnard of London, a two-time winner in the specialty category, says the key to dressing up an award-winning dish is knowing what the judges like. “The Scots love sugar, salt, and fat,” he says. “So I’ll give it to them in spades.” Barnard won in 2019 with his maple pecan porridge, a mix of pecan butter, maple syrup, dry milk powder, and cream, all topped with pecans sauteed in ghee.

Clarissa Wei

The tattoo on Carlsson’s forearm reads “Porridge Champion”

This year’s competition won’t include the traditional category, but normally competitors in this genre are required to make porridge with just three elements: oats, water, and salt. Minimally processed oats are a prerequisite; precooked oats like instant and rolled oats are not allowed. Almost everyone who has won has used steel-cut oats and soaked the porridge overnight.

While it may seem simple by comparison, the challenge — and honestly, the fun — of the endeavor lies in elevating what’s widely recognized as an archetype of culinary austerity into something worth awarding a large spoon-shaped trophy to. Many home cooks believe all oatmeal tastes mostly the same, but it’s a point of pride for a porridge connoisseur to rise above this stereotype to make a truly distinguished bowl of oats.

“Many older people have grown up with this traditional, gloopy porridge and have a distaste for it,” says Carlsson, who also won the traditional category in 2018. “But I usually give them a sample of my porridge to try, and they say, ‘This isn’t porridge. This is something else!’” At his bed and breakfast in southern Sweden, Carlsson used to rotate porridge duties with two friends, and guests always complimented their meals on days when he cooked. Now Carlsson is behind the stove nearly every morning. A small corner of the dining room is also demurely decorated with porridge paraphernalia: a spurtle, a ladle, Swedish porridge merch and slogans, plus Carlsson’s own book of recipes.

Fans generally believe that the ideal oat porridge should be thick enough to offer some resistance, but smooth enough to go down easily. There should definitely be salt, but not enough to make you reach for a glass of water. It should be thick enough, but not at all watery. Not too much, and not too little. Not too cold, not too hot — just as Goldilocks would have it.

“It’s fascinating. In a competition, porridge is cooked 24 different ways, and they all taste different,” says Robertson, who has competed for a decade and occasionally judges at the Swedish Porridge Championship.

courtesy Saga Rickmer

Saga Rickmer read about the competition in the newspaper and went on to compete twice since

James Ross

Everyone is pushing for the coveted Golden Spurtle trophy, shaped like the ultimate porridge-making tool

Competitors cook porridge every day for months, even years, to drill down the minutiae of the stuff. “You start preparing pretty much the day of the competition for the next year,” says Williams. Carlsson even recruited outside help from Dr. Viola Adamsson, a medical doctor and food nutritionist who has written several books on porridge and made porridge for the Swedish Olympic ski team in 1998 and 2002. “She practically has a doctorate in porridge,” jokes Carlsson’s wife, Catarina Arvidsson. Carlsson and Adamsson trained via Skype and telephone several times a week for a month, perfecting the water-to-oat ratio.

Among niche porridge circles, conversation often lands on four critical elements: oat-to-water ratio, type of oats, and salt. “One part oats to three parts water,” Williams insists. “Soak the oats overnight and use more salt than you think you would. I use Maldon sea salt — the same salt the queen uses.” Williams prefers half steel-cut oats and half stone-ground milled oats from Hamlyns of Scotland. “You get a nutty texture, but it’s not completely nutty. It’s more of a smooth nutty,” she says.

Robertson agrees on steel-cut oats from Hamlyns, but he does one part oatmeal to 2.5 parts water. “I tend to use sea salt,” he says. “It’s a bit softer and a bit more forgiving. And you should always stir it anti-clockwise. It keeps the devil at the bay.”

Carlsson does one part oats and 4.5 parts water. “I cook it for at least 25 minutes, then it is allowed to swell,” he says. Unlike Williams and Robertson, Carlson uses Swedish steel-cut oats from Saltå Kvarn, which are creamy but toasted for a “nice burned flavor,” he says.

In opting for Swedish oats, Carlson throws down the gauntlet in a nationalist sub-debate among porridge cooks. “Countries mill their oats in different ways,” says Anna Louise Batchelor, who won the specialty title in 2009. “Bob’s Red Mill [in America], they sell a really lovely rolled oat that’s very coarse. It’s very shiny and flat and it takes a long time to cook. Scotland loves their salty oats. And in Sweden, their milling is quite rustic.” Batchelor prefers coarse oats from English brand Mornflake.

Even the namesake spurtle is a topic of debate. Unlike spoons, spurtles allegedly don’t drag and prevent lumps. Many swear by them. “If you want to whip porridge in a pan without getting it all over yourself, the spurtle is the best tool,” says Barnard. “It brings air and stops it from overheating at the bottom of the pan and distributes the salt.” In 2016, Bob Moore, the founder of Bob’s Red Mill, won using a handcrafted myrtle spurtle from Oregon, where he lives.

Charlie Miller, the current organizer of the competition, says more eccentric attendees often bring specialty equipment too. Pressure cookers, microwaves, and bain-maries are commonly spotted in the competition hall. “Neal Robertson one year brought water that he claimed came from a stream that fed his local whisky distillery,” Miller recalls. In 2018, competitor Lynn Munro brought oatmeal she milled herself and cooked it with water she harvested from the loch at her childhood home. One woman even grew her own oats for the competition.

“Some people are so serious, it’s quite charming,” Barnard says. “The Swedish dress up like Swedish milkmaids and make a lot of noise. Some people have spreadsheets. It’s a circus, really.” But competitors are accepted into the fold regardless of skill. “I met one man at the competition who had never prepared a bowl of porridge in his life,” Miller says, laughing.

Robertson commemorated his 2010 win with a tattoo reading “World Porridge Champion 10.10.10,” rousing envy among friends and competitors. “Neal Robertson had [a tattoo] and walked around showing it off. Then I thought I should get one as well,” Carlsson says. Shortly after his own win, Carlsson shocked his children by getting his forearm inked with the words “World Champion” spiraling around a ladle.

But beneath the braggadocio and heated competition, the Golden Spurtle is, at its heart, about a bunch of people hanging out in a room cooking oatmeal. “It’s just the best time,” says Rickmer, who often visits her fellow Swede, Carlsson, as a guest chef at his bed and breakfast. “Competing in porridge is so cozy and cute. Everyone is so nerdy, which I love.”

Even this year, as competitors dive deep into their individual porridge pots, in their own kitchens, in their own countries thousands of miles apart, they are bound by a shared appreciation of well-cooked grains and what they symbolize. “It’s an ancestral food,” says Barnard. “All cultures around the world have a type of gruel.”

As with any competition, there are plenty of tears and laughter. “When I won, I was absolutely stunned. My face was bright red and I almost burst into tears,” Williams says, beaming as she holds up her trophy. She says she plans on going back to Scotland as soon as the competition is held in-person again, this time to add a specialty category win to her victory in the traditional category. “I have my china all picked out already.”

Clarissa Wei is an American freelance journalist based in Taiwan.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/35tYL5K https://ift.tt/35rwxIB

A porridge creation by Swedish competitor Per Carlsson | Clarissa Wei

Each year, gruel fanatics from around the world compete for the Golden Spurtle trophy in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland

James Ross

The bagpipe parade to kick of 2017’s Golden Spurtle championships

Clarissa Wei

The tattoo on Carlsson’s forearm reads “Porridge Champion”

courtesy Saga Rickmer

Saga Rickmer read about the competition in the newspaper and went on to compete twice since

James Ross

Everyone is pushing for the coveted Golden Spurtle trophy, shaped like the ultimate porridge-making tool

Clarissa Wei is an American freelance journalist based in Taiwan.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/35tYL5K via Blogger https://ift.tt/2DQpX2Y

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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winterromanov · 8 years ago

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from the dining table - twelve/missy fic

They don’t kiss that often, not properly, because he hates the thought that each one could be their last. But this time he doesn’t mind, not at all, because her lips are damp from steam and she tastes like champagne. This time could be their last time, but it’s a good last time; he’d rather it ended like this than the awful, awful, awful alternative. “I’m so proud of you. I don’t say it enough. I’m so proud of who you’ve become.” (twelve/missy fic, where they invite bill round for dinner. 8k words. hope you enjoy).

--course one: hors d’oeuvre

It’s at about seven pm that Bill’s phone judders across her desk, waking her from the powernap she’s enjoying across the keys of her laptop. The screen reveals a picture she’s drawn herself in a shitty paint app of a penguin with its arse on fire. Well—she’s doing a degree in theoretical physics, not fine art. She’s not expected to be good at these things.

She swipes her screen, smile tugging at her lips. “Hello? Doctor?”

There’s some vague rustling on the other end of the phone. Maybe he’s butt-dialled her. He’s done that before, not long ago actually, and she’s really pretty bloody sure she wants to know nothing about the noises she was hearing on that occasion. But there’s a break, and—“Good evening, Bill. Is it evening where you are? Missy says…”

“Yes, it’s evening,” Bill cuts in, glancing at the blinking digital clock on her bedside table. “Where are you?”

“Not sure. We were trying the new anti-gravity bowling alley they’ve set up on Venus, but that was a few hours ago now. Space, probably.” He clears his throat. “Would you like to come for dinner?”

Bill splutters on nothing. Checks she’s heard correctly. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. Oh, wait, sorry, I forgot humans were quite argumentative when it comes down to semantics… do you call it tea? Supper? Hors d’oeuvres?”

“No, I call it dinner,” Bill says, forehead furrowed, “It’s just—that’s not what we usually do, is it?”

“What are you talking about? We eat together all the time. That reminds me, I still owe you for the chips the other day, I think I’ve got some Earth currency around here somewhere…” There’s more rustling. Another muffled voice. “Yes, that’s a good idea; I always lose things down the back of the sofa.”

“Wait—who are you talking to? Is someone else there?” Instantly, Bill gives up on that line of inquiry. It’s blatantly obvious who the other voice is. “And anyway, that’s not what I meant. We eat chips on park benches or, like, that time we went to India in the 1980s and ate all that street food and Nardole got the runs.”

“It still troubles me that a cyborg somehow managed to get the runs. I need to look into that, if he’ll let me.”

“Better you than me. Will you let me finish?” A discontented murmur allows her to continue. “As I was saying, the way you asked before sounded really formal. We don’t usually do formal. Is it a special occasion? Have I forgotten your birthday?” Bill narrows her eyes. “Do Time Lords have birthdays? Do I need to bring a cake? I’ll have to go down to the Asda, they do this huge chocolate—“

“Stop, Bill. It’s not my birthday. Don’t panic.”

Bill sighs, relieved. The thought of buying over two thousand candles is enough to give her an aneurism. “Okay, okay, so what’s the occasion, then?”

There’s a pause on the line. “There’s no occasion. It’s just Missy has found this recipe for roast lamb that she really wants to—“

“Missy is cooking?” Bill splutters, leaning back in her desk chair. Oh, boy, she’s really heard it all. “Your homicidal human-hating arch nemesis is cooking me dinner?”

“Not just you. Me too. And Nardole. I’ve given him some medication so we shouldn’t have a repeat of Kerala.”

“That is—that is beside the point!” Bill gestures to thin air, “This is Missy we’re talking about here! Give her a bloody slow cooker and an oblivious human and she’s already thought of a thousand ways she could kill them!”

The receiver rumbles and Bill wonders if the Doctor has dropped it, until a very different Scottish accent responds. “Just a thousand? Bless you, it’s way more than that, not counting if I pick up the slow cooker in question and smash it against…hey, what? I was hardly going to let her believe that I only know one thousand methods of murder, was I?” Bill blinks, waits, as a small altercation appears to occur. “Sorry about that, Bill, she’s just a bit…sensitive, at the moment.”

Bill hears something smash in the background. Jesus. Even she realises that using words like sensitive in relation to the self-proclaimed Queen of Evil is an awful idea.

“You know she’s trying to change,” The Doctor says eventually. “She’s trying to show you that she’s changing. Please. Come.”

Bill’s still not sure if someone so inherently cruel could ever change, not completely, but the way the Doctor wants to believe it so much has her heart pounding, teeth tugging at her bottom lip. She doesn’t know a whole lot about their complicated, ancient relationship, but she knows that the Doctor is linked to Missy in a way that is impossible for any human to comprehend. Bill’s observant. She notices things. She notices how he clings onto her like a lifeline.

(She clings onto him, too. It’s obvious. It’s so fucking obvious.)

“Fine,” Bill relents, letting out a breath. Drums her fingers against the white Ikea wood of her desk. “Where and when?”

She can hear his smile through his words. “The TARDIS, usual spot. In about an hour, your time. She insists you wear your best clothes because she’ll be wearing hers.” A pause. “Thank you, Bill. Thank you.”

***

--course two: soups

Bill’s not one hundred percent sure what best clothes actually means so she decides on the black dress she wore when she first met Heather, because she’s always felt her best in that dress. She buys a bottle of mid-range white wine from the Asda and debates buying a cake out of paranoia, but decides against it. Even if Time Lords do have birthdays, doesn’t mean they’ll have cake, and she doesn’t want another excuse for Missy to laugh at her.

The TARDIS is stood majestically on a patch of grass in front of St Luke’s, the blue ghostly and ethereal in the late autumn moonlight. Bill’s heels sink in the damp soil as she treads carefully over, bangs her fist on the door. Nardole opens up merely seconds later, looking surprisingly dapper in a new suit and shiny, leather boots. He grins as they catch eyes.

“Bill! Welcome!” He steps back and allows her to walk in out the cold. Goosebumps bristle up and down her arms. She hands him the wine, because what else is she supposed to do with it? “Oh, lovely! The Doctor loves a white, especially with salmon.”

Bill idly wonders what Missy’s favourite drink is. Probably the blood of the innocent, or something like that. “Um—where is the Doctor?”

Nardole raises a hand, like he’s remembered something he’d previously forgotten. “He told me to take you to the dining room when you arrived. He should be in there. Just follow me.”

Nardole guides her through a network of complex corridors to a room deep within the TARDIS, much further than she’s ever dared to explore before: probably to assure she doesn’t escape mid-meal. The door opens into a grand, echoing hall with a ceiling higher than she’s ever seen, decorated delicately in religious renaissance art; fat cherubs and naked men with exaggerated penises, swathes of bright cloth and wispy clouds. Her jaw drops open.

“Michelangelo,” the Doctor appears beside her, gesturing towards the decadent artwork. “Missy’s idea. She’s a fan. I thought he was a bit of a show-off.”

Bill snorts. Michelangelo. Of course. “I don’t claim to know much about that area, but I’m sure no man’s dick is actually that big.”

“Like I said, show-off. In every single department.” The Doctor nods knowingly, and Bill wonders how exactly he knows that information. Not that she’s remotely surprised. “Would you like a drink?”

Bill nods vaguely. There’s a dark mahogany table in the centre of the room, too small really for its surroundings, intimate. Four chairs with burgundy velvet covers in the same wood sit squarely around it. The floor is bare stone, like that of a medieval castle, but the patch beneath the table is draped in a rug. There’s no chandelier or any modern light fittings, rather rows of tall candelabras that reach out into the room, flickering light. Wax drips and cools onto the ground. It’s all a bit goth, in Bill’s opinion, like the time her and the Doctor visited King James V at Edinburgh Castle when he’d been invaded by giant space spiders.

(The Doctor had told her they weren’t giant space spiders, they had a proper name from a proper planet, but they were giant and spidery and from space. Giant space spiders.)

A string quartet plays something she thinks is by Pachelbel, but there’s no musicians to be seen, just a melody that drifts through the atmosphere like a breeze. Each plate on the table is lined with a dozen pieces of cutlery. She shivers. “God. What’s with the medieval vibe?”

The Doctor pours her a glass of opened champagne, the bubbles rising to the rim. Foam oozes down his fingers, which he wipes on the velvet lapels of his smart jacket. He gestures in no particular direction. “It’s her aesthetic. Apparently. Are you cold?”

She accepts the champagne gratefully. The liquid warms her throat, her chest. “No, I’m fine. It’s just eerie.” She glances down at the table, notices the way it’s been set. “What is she cooking, exactly? Because this seems like an awful lot of cutlery.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve vetted the menu. She wants it to be a surprise.”

Nardole props his head round the door, then, smiling weakly. “Doctor, she’s asking for you.”

The Doctor shrugs at Bill—what can you do—and gently places his glass back down by his plate, before following Nardole out the room. The invisible quartet plays on. Bill wishes she didn’t feel so damn suspicious.

***

--course three: fish (interlude one)

The kitchen is warm, much warmer than the dining room, and the Doctor knocks on the extractor fans without Missy knowing to clear some of the steam. There’s hundreds of kitchens sprawled across the TARDIS somewhere, but this is her favourite—it has a rustic stove with a real log fire and an exposed stone floor, a big off-white fridge and a vintage kettle. She’s hunched over the hob when he finds her. Her hair is knotted up under a ridiculous chef’s hat and she’s wearing an apron, like dressing up like a chef will actually make her one.

“You called?” he says, coming up from behind her, pressing his hands down on her shoulders. She’s stirring soup—it smells herby. Rosemary. She lifts a ladle.

“Taste this,” she asks, “It’s got pepper in it. I’m worried it’s too much.”

He raises an eyebrow, slurps it gently. There��s pepper, yes, and rosemary. Chicken stock. “That’s fine. I can hardly taste it.”

“Yes, but we’re catering for humans here. They’re practically famous for their weak taste buds. I just don’t want a pepper overdose, of all things, to be the reason I kill one of your…friends.”

The way she says friends is hesitant, unsure, but it’s a thousand times better than some of the less complimentary terms she’s called his companions in the past. He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Bill’s been to the New New York Curry House and barely batted an eyelid. I think she’ll deal with it.”

Missy pouts, continues stirring. The stove hums. “On your head be it.”

Well, that’s usually the way. He puts his hand over her own on the pan handle and for a moment her body freezes beneath him, tenses, relaxes. “I can finish this off if you want to get ready.” She chuckles. He can feel it vibrate up his arm. “What? What is it?”

“It’s just—this is very domestic of us. Alarmingly so.”

“It was your idea,” he shrugs, “I’m just following through.”

She laughs again and for a moment they’re kids on Gallifrey, zealous and high on adrenaline, skipping class at the Academy. Hiding in the eves and wondering if the Professor would ever catch them and tell their parents. He thinks she taught him to kiss, the day they first skipped class. Her lips were warm and tasted like black cherries, her hair as red as the burning grass, as she was back then. Or maybe he’s made that all up—it’s hard to tell, now, after two thousand years. Sometimes memory and dreams are the same, sometimes completely different.

Maybe she remembers too. Missy pauses, biting her lip, as she unravels her hand from his. She pops the chef hat on his head, tugs it over his ears. Nods appreciatively at her handiwork. “Can you be a dear and check the lamb? In about ten minutes. I’d do it myself, but I want to do my hair.”

She’s got lots of hair, this regeneration. He kind of loves it. “Of course.”

She presses a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek, lets her hand linger round his neck. It might mean everything; it might mean nothing. “Thank you.”

As she leaves, he wonders when that invisible line that always instigated a boundary between them was breached.

***

--course four: entrees

It’s a good while before the Doctor returns and Missy has roped Nardole in as a waiter, so Bill waits in the dining room patiently, drumming her heels in the ground. The music shifts to a piano, a Beethoven suite that Bill remembers Missy playing back in the vault days. Maybe she’s sealed the musicians into the walls. Bill wouldn’t put it past her. It’s a pleasant composition, sweet, soulful, sorrowful. It makes her think of Heather and the ache she left behind.

Can you miss someone you barely knew? Yes, yes, you can, Bill decides. Because you don’t just miss the brief time you had with them, the past. You miss all the future you could have had with them too. Potential is always more painful than history.

She sips the champagne carefully. It’s dangerous to dwell. Looks up at the ceiling and concentrates on that instead. As well as the abundance of cocks, there’s quite a few decent pairs of boobs up there too. She can’t help but cringe when she realises that one of said pairs of boobs belongs to a dark-haired goddess that looks a lot like Missy.

She shudders. Perhaps Michelangelo and Missy’s relationship was a lot more… intimate, than she really wants to picture. She’s never going to get that image out of her mind. Luckily, the Doctor entering the room drags her away from that certain train of thought.

“What?” the Doctor blinks, “Are you alright? You look… unsettled.”

Oh, she’s unsettled alright, but it’s probably best not to mention the reason for it. She flashes him a grin. “Just thinking. I’m fine, really. Hungry.”

The Doctor walks over to the table and gestures towards the chair opposite his, urging her to sit. “Nardole will be bringing out the first course shortly. Missy’s just getting ready. Sorry we’re terrible hosts, I haven’t done this n such a…”

His voice trails off and Bill waves a hand. A candle in the centre of the table flickers. “I think you forget I’m a student. The other week a friend offered to cook me dinner and all she had was rice and ketchup. I’m used to it.”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “A friend?”

“Yes, a friend,” Bill emphasises the noun forcefully, “No-one special. I don’t… I don’t want to...”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to explain to me.”

From behind them, the door opens and Bill almost expects a fanfare, a flurry of trumpets. But this time—she needs no introduction. Missy enters in a full length burgundy ballgown, matching the colour of the seat covers. The silk shines in the candlelight. The sleeves are long but she’s clearly modernised the look, the back of the dress exposing her skin. Her hair is mostly knotted up in its usual style, but a few rogue curls trickle down her neck, her torso. Bill has never looked at her with anything other than mild curiosity, maybe disdain, but bloody hell. She’s not blind.

And the Doctor—for want of a better comparison, it’s like Prince Charming catching eyes with Cinderella on the night of the ball, before the clock strikes midnight. Admittedly, Missy is a far cry from the meek and dainty fairytale princess and the Doctor no prince, but the simile still stands. She’s unable to think of anything else.

“Oh, I must look beautiful,” Missy twirls her skirts, “You two can’t keep your jaws closed.”

Almost simultaneously, the Doctor and Bill subconsciously lock their gaping mouths shut. Bill flushes, takes another sip of champagne. Hopes this little incident will get forgotten. Missy settles elegantly in the chair next to the Doctor, gestures for him to pour her a glass of champagne. He rolls his eyes but pours one anyway.

“Anyway,” Missy gulps back a couple of mouthfuls, “I do hope that the Doctor has been keeping you entertained, uh…” She glances over at the Doctor, over-exaggeratedly widens her eyes, tugging at her earlobe. The Doctor shakes his head and mouths her name. “Bill! Yes, Bill. I remember.”

Bill raises an expertly plucked eyebrow, but otherwise makes no comment. She knows she’s teasing her. “Why are you doing this?”

“So loaded a question so early on in the evening!” Missy nudges Bill’s glass with the rim of her own. “Drink some more, then maybe I’ll tell you. Now, where’s baldy with the first course? I’m positively malnourished!”

***

--course five: removes

The soup smells good and doesn’t look particularly suspect, but Bill’s still wary to let anything prepared by Missy go anywhere near her insides. From beside her, Nardole wolfs down the food like a stray dog that hasn’t eaten in weeks, whilst the Doctor and Missy go for a much gentler approach. She swirls her spoon round her bowl, picking it up, dropping it again.

“Well, eat up,” Missy gestures at Bill with her own spoon, “You mustn’t have had a proper meal in weeks, you’re so scrawny. What’s that disease you humans get? Rickets? Yes, it’s highly likely you have that. You look rickety to me.”

Bill narrows her eyes. “I don’t have rickets.”

Nardole drops his empty bowl down on the table with an unceremonious ceramic plonk. “That was delicious. Is there any more?”

“See, baldy likes it,” Missy brings her spoon to her lips, “Why aren’t you eating?”

The Doctor tries to drag the attention away from Bill. “Give her chance, Missy, it’s still hot—“

“You think I’ve poisoned it, don’t you? You think I’d do that?” When Bill neglects to reply, Missy laughs manically, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, honey, do you think if I wanted you dead I’d go through this much effort? Slave away in the fucking—“

“Missy, calm down,” the Doctor reaches out to touch her elbow, but Missy pulls it away quickly. “It’s just hot, isn’t it, Bill?”

“What’s the fucking point?” Missy slams her fist down on the table. The cutlery clinks, and Nardole’s glass dances for a second before falling onto the floor, smashing into confetti. “What’s the fucking point of trying to—I’m never going to be good, I’m never going to be you, but I’ve been trying so fucking…”

Bill’s blood runs to ice. Of all the reactions, she never expected this. She never expected her to feel hurt by her apprehension. She doesn’t want to feel bad, but that’s her. She’s always wanted to make people feel happy. Even if that person didn’t necessarily deserve happiness. She’s about to apologise, but Missy pushes back her chair noisily, storms off into the kitchen. The Doctor follows quickly after her. Bill’s left staring in their wake, a hole opening up in her stomach.

“She’ll be alright in a minute,” Nardole says confidently. He points to the still full bowl of soup set out in front of her. “Are you going to eat that?”

Bill looks down. She doesn’t feel that hungry anymore, so slides the bowl to Nardole who accepts it graciously. It’s not just food, just dinner, not a special occasion. It’s more important than that. She knocks back the rest of her champagne and reaches out for more. Wonders what Heather would say, if she were here. She’d probably say the right thing. In her mind, the Heather that lives there—well, she always says the right thing. Potential. Huh. It’s always more painful than history.

***

--course six: punch or sorbet (interlude two)

He can feel the rage radiating off her like heat, the way she frantically rushes between the sink and the sideboard, dropping plates into soapy water. One slips from her grasp and drops to the floor, smashing loudly. She swears—a Gallifreyan curse word which is roughly equivalent to fuck—and he notices a splash of crimson on the stone.

“Missy, Missy, hey…” He reaches out and tries to still her, but she’s having none of it, trying to shake free of his grasp. “Missy, stop. You’ve hurt yourself. Stop.”

“The funny thing is,” she starts, gesturing madly, “I don’t care what your little pet thinks of me. I’ve never cared, they’re idiotic, they’re dispensable, they’re human. I care what you think, and you like her, and that makes me want her to like me, which is fucking stupid—“

Pet. Things have got worse, then. He reaches out for her hand. Blood trickles through the cracks in her palm like channels in a river, the gash slightly worse than he anticipated. “It’s not stupid. I don’t think it’s stupid.”

“It is, it is, it is, because I’ve never cared before, not once, why do I care now?” She hisses, springs back, when he tries to dab at the cut with a clean, damp cloth. “It’s fine, leave it. Leave it.”

“No, it’s not fine. It needs cleaning, at the very least.” He winds the cloth round her hand until red bleaches through the material, blurs with the water. “Keep that on it. I’m sure there’s a first-aid kit around here somewhere.”

Missy laughs bitterly. “You did this to me. You made me care. All those years in the vault and this is what you’ve turned me into. Someone who cares.”

The Doctor shuffles round in the cupboard for a couple of minutes until he stumbles across a kit he thinks Martha might have given him, a lifetime ago. Missy’s angry breathing and the drip of the tap are the only things that break the silence. He clips it open, finds a sealed bottle of antiseptic and a bandage. He unwraps Missy’s hand and for once, she lets him take care of her, watches as he dries it carefully and applies a thin layer of the cream around the broken skin. “I refuse to believe that that’s such a bad thing.”

“It is when it makes me weak,” she winces and he tuts, pulling her hand closer to him. “I’m weak, I’m compromised. I’ve made her dinner. I don’t make dinner for anyone, I don’t care about anyone, especially not her.”

The Doctor starts wrapping the bandage round her palm. “You have to remember that she knows about the things you’ve done, in the past. She’s wary, still, but she’s open to the idea, she’s seen—Missy, she wouldn’t be here otherwise. She came. Remember that.”

He can feel her pulse relax a little, her eyes soften. They’re ice blue, this time, like glaciers. He brings the bandaged hand to his lips and presses a kiss between her knuckles, keeps it there for a moment as she calms. A tide returning to the shore.

“I’m so proud of you. I don’t say it enough. I’m so proud of who you’ve become.”

Missy scoffs scathingly, rolls her eyes, but there’s no denying the flush across her cheeks. “Please. Don’t make me ill. Don’t be sappy. That kind of talk is exactly why after this I’ll go and blow up a planet, or go enslave Trivoli again, or something.”

“After this?” the Doctor quirks an eyebrow, “So you’re staying?”

Missy hums. Brings her arms to her sides. “Only for you. And if you make the human try some of that vodka you picked up in Russia a few weeks ago. The ninety percent stuff.”

“Bill, her name is Bill.”

“Fine, whatever, Bill,” Missy clicks her tongue and grins, “Get baldy back in here. He can deal out the fish.”

Well, it seems they’ve reached a resolution, for now.

***

--course seven: roast

A considerable amount of time passes before Missy and the Doctor return and Missy looks calmer, lulled, like a wasteland after a hurricane. Bill notices the bandage round her hand but decides not to question it. It’s best not to dwell. It’s best not to dwell.

“So…” Bill trails off, champagne on the brain. Her limbs are fizzing and fireworks are exploding in her gut. “What’s the next course?”

The Doctor glances over at Missy expectantly. Missy knocks back half a glass of champagne and wipes her top lip, lipstick smudging slightly onto her chin. “Fish. Poached salmon. It’s a bit bland, but the Doctor insisted I stuck to human delicacies.”

The Doctor points to his own chin and Missy understands, picks up her napkin and blots her face. “What are you talking about? You love salmon. It’s all you ate in Germany.”

“Only because it was the most tolerable thing on the menu,” Bill wonders which Germany, when Germany, why Germany. Two thousand years of friendship, she supposes, that’s quite a big timeline to think about. “The cheese was okay, but the sausages were awful.”

“The sausages were awful,” the Doctor agrees, “Odd, considering its what the Germans are famous for.”

“Depends on the German,” Missy winks, and Bill considers leaving the table to vomit. This is almost as bad as the whole boob thing, which she desperately tries to stop thinking about. Thinking makes her want to look. Looking equals permanent mental scarring.

“You’re horrific. Genuinely horrific.”

“It’s why you like me,” Missy grins. Her fingernails are painted midnight blue, matching with the stacks of silver rings she has on every other finger. Bill thinks this conversation sounds an awful lot like flirting, and has the nasty feeling that maybe this whole come for dinner thing is a ruse to reveal some rather disconcerting information. She pushes the thought back quickly and drinks some more champagne. No, she’s not going there, not tonight. Thankfully, Nardole re-enters, managing to balance all four plates up his arm—perhaps they’re magnetic. The salmon is bright pink, like flamingo feathers, and is remarkably soft when Bill prods it with one of the many forks.

She can feel the Doctor and Missy staring at her, their eyes burning into her hair. Gently, she cuts a little off, drops it in her mouth. It feels like silk on her tongue. “This,” Bill gestures towards the rest of the plate with her fork, “This is really good.”

And like that, the heavy atmosphere in the room parts, Nardole visibly relaxing from beside her. The Doctor smiles, and Missy pretends to not look pleased. “Caught the fish myself, you know.”

The Doctor frowns. “No you didn’t.”

Missy sighs, shaking her head. “Well, I could have caught it myself. It’s not difficult.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor says, chewing his food. He gulps the rest down with a sip of champagne. “It is good, by the way. Bill’s right.”

Missy doesn’t look up from her plate, instead daintily cutting her fish into tiny strips. “I don’t know why that surprises you. You know I won first prize in the three-hundredth series of the Great Outer-Space Bake Off.”

“That’s only because you cheated. You sabotaged Howard-Bot’s custard in the final round.”

“Yes,” Missy insists forcefully, using her fork for emphasis, “But I still managed to get to the final round sabotage-free. Other than when I turned off the Tin Princess’ hydro-oven in round two. She was bribing the Corporation, you know. It was my moral duty to ensure that behaviour didn’t go unpunished.”

“Wait,” Bill leans forward, eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I’m quite the celebrity on New Earth,” Missy sighs nostalgically, “And for once, not because of a mass-murder charge.”

Bill watches as the Doctor laughs and the two of them share a look, the kind of look Bill’s only seen in terrible films—a look of longing, of a shared history, except more raw, more real. Without the artifice of transcripts and camera angles and shitty actresses. Nardole spoils the moment by dropping his plate noisily, having licked the china clean. His eyebrows quirk up and Missy snorts derisively. “What’s next, then? I’m starving!”

***

--course eight: salad

After the blip early on, and the assurance Missy wasn’t going to slip cyanide into the gravy, the rest of the dinner passes quite smoothly. Well, even. Enjoyable. The roast lamb is beyond anything Bill’s ever tasted, but she supposes, it’s not that big a feat. Moira was never a great cook and Bill’s competent, but that’s only because she literally has to do it for a living. Those spuds don’t peel themselves.

For dessert, Nardole brings out chocolate mousse in four ornate parfait glasses, the glass engraved in blooming roses and petunias. When Bill spoons it into her mouth without hesitation, she notices that it’s got quite a fiery kick to it.

“What’s in this?” Bill asks, with her mouth still full. The chocolate is creamy and unbelievably decadent, and probably about a billion calories.

“Oh, just a handful of arsenic,” Missy says nonchalantly. Across the table, both the Doctor and Nardole drop their spoons noisily, a metallic clang against the wood. Panic drains all colour from Bill’s face, looking desperately at the Doctor. Missy slaps her chest and laughs heartily. “Oh, god, the looks on your faces! It’s brandy. Arsenic doesn’t taste like that at all, you imbeciles. It’s just brandy.”

The Doctor laughs first. It’s a gruff, croaky sort of laugh that emerges deep from within his chest, like it’s been hanging round there a while, waiting to be set free. Then Nardole starts. His is surprisingly high-pitched and sort of mechanical. Before Bill realises, they’re all at it, laughing so hard their limbs ache and hot, fast tears roll down her cheeks, smudging her makeup.

For a moment, she feels warm. She feels complete. She feels something that’s been absent her whole life, a gaping hole with nothing but ash and sawdust and concrete to fill it.

She feels… well, she feels home.

***

--course nine: cold dish

The Doctor slumps off to find his guitar so Bill takes the liberty of bringing some of the empty plates back through to the kitchen. She empties the now tepid washing up bowl, filling it with clean water. The cleaning liquid smells like lavender and bubbles drift up into the ceiling. One bursts on her nose. She drops a few of the plates into the water and starts scrubbing some of the gravy off with a scouring pad, the rush of the tap swallowing any background noise.

She gets a shock when an arm reaches out and switches it off. “You don’t have to do that.”

It’s Missy. She looks alarmingly earnest; a look Bill’s never seen on her before. “Honestly, I don’t mind. Might as well make myself useful.”

Missy shrugs, grabbing a tea-towel hanging loose on a nearby radiator. “Suit yourself.”

They stand there in silence for what could be seconds or minutes, Bill quietly cleaning each piece of crockery in turn and placing it upside down on the draining board, Missy wordlessly drying them and propping them back in the big, glass-faced ceramics cabinet. Bill can’t think of the right words, or how to phrase them. Her lips keep tripping over themselves.

“I’m…” Bill says, on an intake of breath. The ceramics cabinet clinks loudly as Missy tries to squash in a casserole dish. “I never said—well, I’m—sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Missy pauses. Looks down at her shoes. “I can’t blame you. I was a terrible person. Still am. Mostly.”

“No, no, I was wrong. You spent all that time in the vault, you’re good…”

Missy sighs with a hint of exhaustion, kneading her forehead with her fist. Bill frowns. “Why is this such a difficult concept for humans to comprehend? I’m not good. I never will be good. It’s not—it doesn’t work like that. You’re obsessed, you’re all obsessed, by putting unintelligible abstracts into tiny little boxes. Labelling them. It’s like your whole ridiculous gender debate. You strive for neatness and compactness and it bothers me. Why are you so eager to be confined?”

Bill laughs out of disbelief. As if she doesn’t know how harmful being confined and labelled is. “Fine. Go on. Educate me.”

Missy grabs another plate. “Good and bad are not as black and white as you like—want—to believe. They’re interchangeable. The boundaries merge and it’s all…” She smirks to herself, like she’s in on a joke Bill doesn’t know. “Bumpy-wumpy. Being bad, or what you perceive as bad, is what I’ve always been. It’s debatable whether that was more me or what Gallifrey made me, but I’m not going to go into that, especially with someone who will never understand what being a child on Gallifrey is like. As much as you try, you can’t remove your heart, without killing who you are. And what would be the point if you’re not fully you anymore.”

The water in the bowl is going lukewarm now, and Bill’s fingers are all pruney.

“I’m never going to be good, like the Doctor will never be fully bad. It’s just a fundamental fact. It’s too late to change what is effectively in our DNA. But the vault—the vault was an opportunity to balance my equilibrium, both our equilibriums. The way I was heading wasn’t sustainable. I was going to burn myself out. I can see that now.” She blinks hard, staring at the wall. “Earlier, you asked why I was doing this. This whole ridiculous display of domesticity and kindness and, and, and tranquillity. Well—that’s why. I’m balancing myself out.”

It’s more a confession than Bill expected. Probably more than Missy was expecting, too. The words just keep tumbling out her mouth like uncorked champagne, impossible to pour back into the bottle. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she thinks it’s a weakness, this emotional vulnerability. It’s not, though. This is more proof she’s changed to Bill than all the soup and the lamb and the brandy-infused chocolate mousse. She jolts out of her stupor quickly, going back to drying the dishes, placing the row of parfait glasses in a cabinet that hangs over the wall.

“Missy,” Bill says, tentatively, pouring the cold water out the bowl and down the plughole. “Can I ask you something?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to. Ah, humans. Absolutely no boundaries.”

Bill ignores her, turning her back on the sink, resting her spine against the side. She watches as Missy closes the cabinet door carefully. “When did you realise you needed to, uh, change? Reform, I guess?”

Missy exhales heavily, staring at the shelves rather than at Bill, like she’d prefer not to look her in the eye. “The Doctor and me—we don’t have many constants in this world, not for a very long time. But we have always had each other. The thought of someday killing him was what kept me going for a while, and he’d be lying if he’d never thought the same about me. But…” She glances down at her knuckles, fiddles with one of her rings. “I was going to lose him. Irreversibly, this time. And the thought of losing him took precedence over the thought of killing him.”

Bill doesn’t know what to say. She knows how loss feels—her whole life has been one big epic sad story, from the mum she never had and the girlfriend she couldn’t have, but her loss feels like nothing compared to the ancient sadness that exudes from Missy’s tone. She’d never fully comprehended the Doctor and Missy’s relationship properly until now; mainly because she’s never fully understood just how hard it must have been, to try and change the person you have been for thousands of years. Missy has always been just the evil, devil incarnate figure to her. Yes, the things she’s done in the past can never be undone; maybe there will still be more chaos to come. Definitely. But she’s trying, and she has changed, and maybe that’s good enough for now.

“Don’t you dare mention any of this to him,” Missy comments as an afterthought, “He’ll think I’ve gone soft. And I’m not making a habit of this. Just because I’ve… told you things, doesn’t mean I like you. I can tolerate you, like one can just about tolerate a chipped mug or a terrible romcom. But I’m not going to start getting gooey-eyed over apes like he does. It’s nauseating.”

Bill smiles. Maybe somethings will never change. “Sure. Whatever you like.”

Missy narrows her eyes, not quite believing her but accepting it anyway. She hangs the tea-towel back on the radiator and flattens out the creases. Distantly, Bill can hear the chords of a song she hasn’t heard before—a beautiful song, an eerie song, that sends shivers rushing through her—but Missy freezes, like she recognises it.

Perhaps, Bill wonders, it’s her song.

***

--course ten: sweets

The air is cool and the sky above is hazy with artificial light, pinpricks of white breaking out amongst the blue. Engines blare from the main road running adjacent and there’s faint giggling, shouting, as students head from the halls and drunkenly into town. It’s rolling on for eleven pm. Bill rests her empty glass on the step of the TARDIS and watches as her shoes sink into the soil, her toes wet with dew. She feels him before she sees him; maybe two hearts beat twice as loud.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, sitting beside her with a groan. Bill nudges his boot with her toe. “It does—even if it doesn’t feel like it. It means a lot. To the both of us.”

“I actually quite enjoyed myself in the end,” Bill muses, “Missy sure knows how to host a party.”

“She’s always been like that. When we first…” he trails off and stares at the moon, peaking out amongst the clouds. “She’s not had an opportunity to do it for a while. Would you like me to walk you home?”

Usually she’d decline and order a cab, or just go on her own, it’s not that far away. But it’s a nice night, not too cold for the time of year, so she might as well take advantage of his company. He stands first and offers a hand to help her up. The grass snakes up Bill’s legs but it’s refreshing, a reminder of just how alive she really is.

“Feel free to tell me to piss off,” she says when they reach the road, “But was there an ulterior motive to this?”

The Doctor’s expressive brows furrow, dodging a group of students clinging onto each other and spilling red bull on the pavement. “What do you mean?”

“I know Missy’s reason. I think. I just don’t know yours.”

He shrugs. “There isn’t one. I just went along with what Missy wanted.”

“I just—I find that hard to believe.” They pause at a pedestrian crossing. The Doctor presses the button, taps his foot as he waits for the light to change. Bill gathers her vowels and consonants in the hope of making a somewhat coherent train of thought vocal. “Look, when I was younger, Moira, she had quite a few boyfriends. There was Cliff from the rugby club and Martin the gym assistant and Kevin the geography teacher—they were all ginormous dickheads, probably why I don’t like men. But every time she found a new one she’d bring them round the house, make them dinner, and introduce them to me.”

The crossing flashes green. “Look, Bill; is this going anywhere?”

“Yes. Yes!” Bill walks quickly to keep up with him, “What I mean is… Moira hasn’t been the ideal mother figure, not at all, but she knew how fucked up my childhood had been. She brought these boyfriends round to the house because somehow, for some reason… she was seeking my approval.”

The Doctor slows in his strides. Blinks.

“Is that it, then?” Bill looks up at him, “Is it an, uh, approval thing? I’m not stupid Doctor, or blind. I know I don’t have a hope in hell in understanding Time Lord relationships or how you two work. I don’t even think I want to understand. But I know how much she means to you. I’ve always known, even if I didn’t want to know.”

The Doctor smiles softly. Bill knows it really isn’t as simple as she’s making out, but maybe she’s thought of an analogy that just about fits. “And does she?”

Bill looks confused. “Does she what?”

“Have you approval.”

Oh. Oh. Bill grins and bites her lip. They turn the corner into her street, where Bill can see the porch light glowing dimly. The teenage lad that she’s seen on many occasions stare at her arse on the way to uni rushes by on a bicycle. The air smells damp, as if there’s rain on the way. “I don’t… She still scares me, to know what she’s capable of. But I think she’s capable of being better too. And I think that’s probably enough.”

Bill undoes the latch on the little iron gate in front of her garden and closes it behind her.

“For the record, Bill, your opinions do matter to me. They will always matter to me. Doesn’t mean I’ll always listen to them, but I take what you say seriously.” The Doctor gives her a small wave, opening his fist and splaying his fingers. She waves back. “See you on Monday. You’ve still got a paper on parallax theory to hand me.”

And like that, it’s back to reality, sitting at her laptop for hours on end in the hope of writing something remotely clever. “See ya.”

“Goodnight, Bill.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

***

--course eleven: dessert (interlude three)

Nardole tells him she’s in the bath when he returns, and he instantly know which bath he means. Missy has a thing for outrageously big rooms with very little furniture—her bathroom is easily the size of a normal person’s flat but the claw-foot tub sits isolated in the middle, the space around dominated by stone tiling. She’s humming some ancient Gallifreyan lullaby they were both taught as children and it chills him, despite the heat, as her soprano echoes around the high-ceilinged room.

sing the days of love, softly lay me down

Her clothes are haphazardly laid about like she’s removed them one piece at a time, walking over to the bath. The gown swallows the ground like a bloodstain, one shoe next to it, the other at the side of the tub. His footsteps feel ridiculously loud but if she notices, she doesn’t look up.

“Where did you disappear off to?” she asks, sticking one leg in the air. He still finds it funny, watching her shave her legs. It’s been a while since she was last female.

“Walked Bill home,” he murmurs. Sits on the side of the tub and plops her flannel in the bubbles. “She enjoyed herself, by the way. Miraculously.”

“I enjoyed myself.” She tugs on his arm. “You joining me?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Of course, my love.”

He peels off his jacket and shirt, folding them neatly a few feet away. He can see her watching him as he unlaces his boots, pulls off his trousers. The water is still hot as he sinks in, smelling pleasantly like honeysuckle—or maybe that’s just Missy. She reaches across, pulls herself close to him, rests between his knees. Her hands caress his shoulders, tracing shapes he assumes are nonsensical bits of Gallifreyan.

“I’m not making a habit of this,” she says eventually, “How often do you have to be nice to humans to keep them on your side? Their lifespans are so fleeting, I forget.”

He sighs. Presses a kiss on her bare shoulder. She’s got a mark like a crescent moon there and he can’t remember if it’s a recent thing or a regeneration thing. “It’s not about sides, Missy.”

“I know, I know,” she smiles, “I’m just playing with you. You’re so easy to play with. Always so easy.”

She snakes her arms round his torso, her fingers drumming across his spine, his collar bone. He finds himself wanting to return the gesture and they end up holding onto each other, but it’s soft, not like the world is ending, not now. He remembers gripping her and crying so hard he’s almost sick, tears he could never shed for anyone but his own. She’s finally back. She’s finally where he’s always wanted her, all these fucking years.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I know that,” he says. Her hair is tickling his cheek. He leans back so he can face her, see those cold blue eyes and cut-glass cheekbones. He loves all her regenerations in their own little way, but perhaps he loves this one the most. He presses his forehead against hers and she can feel her smile, effervescent, blinding. “I know that.”

“I had a word with Mickey, the other day, about that mural.”

“Mickey?” the Doctor’s frowns, “Who’s Mickey?”

“Mickey. Michelangelo. Idiot. Anyway, he says he can pop round and paint you in if you like. He remembers all the necessary measurements, although he does tend to go a bit overboard.”

“Can we not talk about Michelangelo while we’re kissing, please? It’s distracting.”

“Oh. Sorry, dear,” Missy smirks, kisses him again. “You didn’t seem that bothered last time he visited.”

“Shut up. Shut up, right now, or I’m getting out. You’re spoiling it.”

She laughs, and kissing her is much more fun when she’s laughing. They sit in the bath until it goes cold and they have to find somewhere warmer.

***

--after dinner

Bill wakes up the following morning to a voicemail notification from the Doctor. Intrigued, she rubs her eyes, unlocks her phone. Scrolls through until she finds the call in question. She’s too tired to be panicked just yet and surely she would have noticed if the world had ended in the meantime.

The speaker is muffled by something but even blurry with sleep, it doesn’t take her long to figure out just what exactly is going on.

“Fucking hell!” she yells, disgusted, manically trying to shut down every single app she has open. Deletes the message. Wipes her call-log. Debates throwing her phone straight out the window or just burning the thing, devoid of all evidence. Instead, she opens the Doctor’s contact, and begins to type out a message.

Stop. Fucking. Butt-dialling. Me.

#twelve x missy #twissy #twelfth doctor #missy #doctor who #twissy fic #dw #fanfic #doctor who fic #twelvemissy #fic

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uacboo · 8 years ago

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Outlander makes its long-awaited premiere on UK mainstream television tonight on More4 (Thursday 29 June) and while viewers fall in love with the story, Scotland’s starring role in the show is also likely to capture hearts.

Numerous stunning Scottish locations, such as Doune Castle, Linlithgow Palace and the Highland Folk Museum provide the backdrop for the television adaptation of author Diana Gabaldon’s, time-travelling love story.

Based on the best-selling novels, Outlander follows the story of Claire Randall (played by Caitriona Balfe), a married English combat nurse from 1945 who, while on her second honeymoon in Inverness, is mysteriously swept back in time to the 18th-century Scottish Highlands. There she meets Jamie (played by Scottish actor Sam Heughan), a chivalrous young warrior, with whom she becomes romantically entwined.

The blockbuster fantasy show, along with the successful books, have inspired a range of tours and catapulted the real-life attractions and places from the series into the spotlight.

Jenni Steele, Film and Creative Industries Manager at VisitScotland, said “The fact that the hugely popular Outlander series is both set and filmed on location in Scotland has been great for tourism. Claire and Jamie’s relationship may take centre-stage on screen but Scotland’s sweeping scenery, romantic castles and fascinating history are far from just the support act, helping attract thousands of visitors to our shores. As the show airs for the first time on UK mainstream television we look forward to introducing a new wave of fans to Scotland, the land that inspired Outlander.”

So whether it’s following in the fictional footsteps of Claire and Jamie or embarking on your own adventure, here are some of the best Outlander-inspired locations and experiences every fan should try:

Fan-friendly filming locations Kinloch Rannoch: Nestled in the shadow of Schiehallion, on the banks of the River Tummel, lies the pretty village of Kinloch Rannoch and the surrounding Rannoch Moor. The idyllic location is the backdrop for Claire and Frank’s second honeymoon and is a fantastic example of Scotland’s magical landscapes.

Doune Castle: Many film and TV fans will already be familiar with the formidable sight of Doune Castle, which graced the screen in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It also takes a starring role in Outlander, substituting for the fictional Castle Leoch – home to Colum MacKenzie and his clan in the 18th century. You may also spot a 20th century version of the site which is visited by Claire and Frank on a day trip. With its striking 100ft high gatehouse, the 14th century courtyard castle is one of the best preserved great halls in Scotland.

Culross: Step back in time and enjoy a glimpse of Scotland from a different era with a visit to the pretty village of Culross. With its historic Mercat Cross and well preserved buildings, the Fife village doubles for the fictional Cranesmuir, while behind the stunning Culross Palace you’ll find the filming location of Claire’s herb garden at Castle Leoch.

Falkland: The Fife village doubles for the northern city of Inverness in some of the first scenes of the Outlander series. Enjoy a stroll around the village centre where you’ll recognise a number of local shops, each transformed on screen into 1940s stores and guesthouses. Falkland is best-known for its Palace. The royal dwelling was once the country residence of the Stewart kings and queens as they hunted deer and wild boar in the forests of Fife.

Bo’ness & Kinneil Railway: The popular West Lothian attraction is almost unrecognisable when transformed into a busy wartime London railway station for Claire and Frank’s goodbyes in series 1. Home to Scotland’s largest railway museum, the charity-run heritage railway offers visitors the chance to journey by steam train.

Pollock Country Park: While Doune Castle takes on the role of Castle Leoch, it’s Pollok Country Park that doubles as the grounds surrounding the fictional site. Situated near Glasgow, the extensive woodland area is great for walks and an ideal place to visit for all levels of mountain biking.

Preston Mill: The peaceful setting of Preston Mill provides the backdrop for a number of scenes during the Jacobite Risings. Located in the village of East Linton, East Lothian, Preston Mill is one of the oldest, working, water-driven meal mills in the country. Today, visitors can see and hear the mill mechanisms in action and learn about the millers who worked there.

Outlander-inspired adventures:

Outlander dramatises one of the most bloody chapters in Scottish history, the Jacobite Risings - an attempt by Charles Edward Stuart, better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, to regain the British throne for the exiled House of Stuart. Today, during the Year of History, Heritage and Archaeology 2017, many attractions, tours and experiences bring to life the momentous events of that era and allow you to delve deeper into the real-life experiences that inspired Diana Gabaldon’s story.

The Jacobite Trail

From Brodie Castle in Moray Speyside to the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh, the Jacobite Trail spans 26 properties and attractions throughout the country whose history is intertwined with Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobites.

Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobites

This new exhibition at the National Museum of Scotland explores the real story of Prince Charles Edward Stuart and the rise and fall of the Jacobites. More than 300 spectacular objects including paintings, costumes, jewellery, documents, weapons and glassware will bring to life the events of this turbulent period in European history.

Prestonpans Battlefield 1745 & Bankton Doocot

Visit the site of the famous Battle of Prestonpans 1745, where Bonnie Prince Charlie won his first victory. Visitor can then explore the site of the battle on foot and discover three stone monuments. Smartphone users can also download a free mobile App to guide you are around the site.

West Highland Museum

At the West Highland Museum in Fort William, you can see the Bonnie Prince’s death mask, sword, and some of his clothing, including his fine silk waistcoat, as well as other Jacobite artefacts.

For more Outlander inspiration and to download VisitScotland’s dedicated Outlander filming locations map visit visitscotland.com/outlander

Source and to view the gallery of pictures: http://www.eveningtimes.co.uk/news/15374196.Embark_on_your_own_Outlander_inspired_adventure_as_smash_hit_show_makes_UK_debut/

Nice brief overview, especially for new Outlander watchers.

#outlander #west highland museum #fort william #battle of prestopans #bonnie prince charlie #doune castle #Claire Fraser #linlithgow palace #Caitriona Balfe #Jamie Fraser #sam heughan #Kinloch Rannoch #visit scotland #falkland #culross

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solsarin · 4 years ago

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what percent alcohol is budweiser beer

Hello dear friends, thank you for choosing us. In this post on the solsarin site, we will talk about “what percent alcohol is budweiser beer“. Stay with us. Thank you for your choice.

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All About Budweiser Alcohol Content and Calories Alcohol / January 18, 2020

In any conversation about American beer, the name of Budweiser is bound to come up.Budweiser stands out among the best-selling beers across the United States.

What’s Budweiser Beer’s Alcohol Content?

Budweiser beer’s alcohol content differs from the drink.

Many people

Many people prefer having Budweiser while at a get-together or party.

Unfortunately, they have little or no knowledge at all about Budweiser’s alcohol volume, known simply as ABV.

1.Regular Budweiser Beer

A regular beer has about five percent alcohol, while its various variants have varying levels of alcohol.

2. budweiser beer Light

Budweiser Light has a 4.2 percent alcohol content.

3. Budweiser Ice Light

Bud Ice Light has 4.1 percent alcohol.

4. Bud Ice

Bud Ice has a 5.5 percent alcohol content.

5. Budweiser Select 55

Another variant of Budweiser is the popular Budweiser Select 55, which is brewed with strong malts as well as a mix of household and imported hopping.

It comes in a light golden color and smells of inconspicuous hopping and toasted malt.

You can rightly consider it as a light version of beer because of its low alcohol content of just 2.8 percent. This is less than all the other beers.

Other than its low alcohol content, Budweiser Select 55’s low calories make the beer quite an interesting topic.

Like the names suggests, the beer has just 55 calories, which is way lower than other beers.

How Many Calories Does a Budweiser Beer Have?

Like all other beers, Budweiser has calories. With this in mind, you can plan on the amount of beer you want to consume.

1.Budweiser Beer

In terms of calories, Budweiser beer can be considered among the heaviest in the market. It has 145 calories, which is quite high by any standards as far as beer is concerned.

2. Budweiser Can

The 355-milliliter can of Budweiser beer contains 147 calories. It’s worth noting that an increase in the volume of alcohol also increases in the amount of calories. That’s why a 500-milliliter can of the beer contains 207 calories.

3. Budweiser Light

Budweiser Light, popularly referred to as Bud Light, is a common pick among beer fans because it’s light, just like the name suggests. If you’re a fan of Bud Light, then the good news is that just 110 calories in a 12-ounce serving. It’s particularly popular among those who are keen on their fitness but still want to party. With its low calories, you’re not likely to put on extra weight even when you consume it regularly.

Calories in a 12 oz. Serving of Budweiser

The 12 oz. serving is the most requested by people who want to go out, relax, and chill. As a beer consumer, do you ever stop to think about the number of calories your favorite beer contains? Chances are you never. But did you know when you drink hastily without caring about your beer’s calorie content might, you might end up adding weight?

It’s important to know that a 12 oz. serving of Budweiser contains 145 calories. If you happen to be among those who prefer ordering many rounds of the beer, then you want to calculate the total number of calories you’re consuming. You might also want to take steps towards limiting your alcohol consumption.

Calories in a Bottle of Budweiser Beer

If you’re a regular consumer of Budweiser beer, then you probably know that it comes in two bottle sizes: 330 milliliters and 500 milliliters. The 330-milliliter bottle contains 136 calories while the 500-milliliter one has 207 calories. This is quite a big difference.

The Bottom Line

The perception that if you quit drinking Budweiser, you’ll stay healthy is a myth. All you have to do is to plan your drinking such that it does not leave a negative impact on your weight or health. You want to always ensure that you know about Budweiser’s alcohol content. This will help you know how much alcohol you consume regardless of the variant you pick. In addition, this knowledge will ensure you consume the right quantity of alcohol that won’t have any adverse effects on you.

📷what percent alcohol is budweiser beerThe last thing

The last thing anyone wants when he gets home from a day’s work is a watered down beer.

You want to settle down with a nice, crisp cold one to let off some steam.

But three separate lawsuits filed in Philadelphia, New Jersey, and San Francisco contend AB InBev’s Anheuser-Busch Cos. add extra water to their finished product — 11 brands in all — to stretch the quantity of alcohol the company can supply, Bloomberg’s Sophia Pearson reports.

What Is the Alcohol Content of Popular Beers?

So, the beers are being sold at a lower alcohol content than advertised, which are the main thrust of the lawsuits, each of which seek damages over $5 million.

In San Diego, beer isn’t just a drink, it’s a lifestyle. With over 120 breweries, we’re often referred to as “the craft beer capital of America.” Whether you’re rocking out at a concert, catching a ball game, or lighting up the grill on a sunny Sunday afternoon, it’s likely someone will ask you, “Can I get you a cold one?”

Is Budweiser stronger than Bud Light?Random Posts how to calculate percentage of water in a hydrate ow many percentage of brain did einstein useh how to find mass percent of hydrogen in water how to use percent off calculator

Budweiser has an abv (alcohol by volume) of 5%, Bud Light is hovering at about 4%. This is why some people claim Bud gives them a headache, they are consuming 25% more alcohol.

Product Description budweiser beer Beer Now Brewed with Renewable 100% Electricity™ To find out more about Budweiser’s commitment to renewable electricity, please go to www.renewablefuture.com Scan your Budweiser to Win Officially Official Prizes Instantly Visit www.winwithbud.com and Take a Picture of your Budweiser for a Chance to Win Officially Official England prizes. LG™ 4K TVs, Official Merch, Free Beer and More. 18+. England residents only. Promotion open 12.04.21 to 31.07.21 For your chance to win, visit www.winwithbud.com and take a photo of your bottle or can. Max one entry per person per day. Retain proof of purchase. Full T&Cs apply, see www.winwithbud.com. www.tapintoyourbeer.com

This is the famous Budweiser beer. We know of no brand produced by any other brewer which costs so much to brew and age. Our exclusive Beechwood Aging produces a taste, a smoothness and a drinkability you will find in no other beer at any price.

Brewed by our original process from the choicest hops, rice and best barley malt

From the King of Beers for the Kings of Europe

Pack size: 1760ML Information budweiser beer IngredientsWater, Barley Malt, Rice, Hops Allergy InformationContains: Barley Alcohol Units2.0 ABV budweiser beer4.5% vol CountryUnited Kingdom📷what percent alcohol is budweiser beer How many beers does it take to get drunk? For an average sized man of 190lbs (or 89kg), it would take 6-7 beers of 3.2% ABV to get legally drunk in the US. For an average 160 pounds woman (or 72kg) it would take 4-5 beers of 3.2% ABV to get legally drunk in the US. Legally drunk means you’ll have equal to or more than 0.08% of blood alcohol content. Storage Type budweiser beerAmbient StorageBest Before End: See Can Base Produce ofBrewed in the UK Name and addressAB InBev UK Limited, EC4A 1EN. InBev Belgium, BD Industriel 21, B-1070 Brussels, Belgium. Return toAB InBev UK Limited, EC4A 1EN. Consumer Helpline: 0800 65 560 75 Net Contents4 x 440ml ℮Nutrition budweiser beerWhich beer has the highest alcohol level? Snake Venom Scottish brewery Brewmeister has made the strongest beer in the world, clocking in at 67.5 percent ABV. The subtly named Snake Venom is brewed with a one-two punch provided by doses of beer and Champagne yeasts. Is Budweiser the strongest beer? “Budweiser is the strongest beer in the world” – Charles Barkle, from The Dream Team. What beer has 8% alcohol in it? List beer include Steel Reserve, De Proefbrouwerij Slaapmutske Tripel and many additional beer as well. 📷what percent alcohol is budweiser beerBudweiser Internationally, Budweiser may also refer to an unrelated pale lager beer, originating in České Budějovice, Czech Republic (historically Budweis) produced by the Budějovický Budvar brewery. The parallel existence of two separate brands with the same name has given rise to a series of trademark disputes. Usually, either Anheuser-Busch or Budějovický Budvar are granted the exclusive use of the Budweiser name in a given market. Anheuser-Busch commonly uses the Bud brand for its beer when Budweiser is not available.

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roundtheworldwithtaytay · 6 years ago

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Today we start our day in the most perfect of Scotland conditions. Cool. Heavy Fog. Light Rain. In any other place this would almost be annoying but the weather here just adds to the charm and the fantasy of this place. We first drive to the Three Sisters Parking Lot which gives one of the most iconic views of the Scottish Highlands in Glencoe. The sisters are massive, impeding yet beautiful. Today they look a bit ominous with a low lying cloud. We take a moment before going off to find one of my off-road hikes of whimsy, up to Ralston Cairn.

First cairns, if you don’t know, are piles of stones as a memorial or landmark. In prehistoric times they were burial mounds. You will find them all throughout Scotland and Ireland. Now the story of Ralston Cairn as I understand it. The location of the cairn is one of the most breathtaking views of Glencoe. The cairn, which is in memory of Ralston Claud Muir who died at the age of 32, was erected in his memory. He loved to climb in the glen and his ashes were apparently scattered here. He died in January of 2000 very suddenly from a rare form of Leukemia. Hikers celebrate this cairn and it has grown quite big from its original incarnation which included a cross and inscription that read, “These Are My Mountains, And I Have Come Home.” I wanted to visit here because I felt much the same when I came to the Highlands for the first time. I have likened it to taking a first hit of a drug. I will always go searching its majestic landscapes for the immense joy and pleasure it gives me. Ralston Cairn will always be a place I return to when I come home to Scotland. To make sure our presence is locked in; we place a lock on the bridge at the Meeting of the Three Waters. I can’t wait to go back to see if it is still there because I will be back. I will always go back.

We travel further down the road by Aonach Eagach, Loch Achtriachtan and my dream home Achnambeithach Cottage. It is nestled so perfectly across a bridge and by the beautiful mountain and lake. It is owned by the Scottish trust and all I want in life is to live out my existence there. Instead, I let Tammy pull me away where we tuck into get some coffee, some art (of my dream home) and onto take a look at Ben Nevis.

Ben Nevis is the largest of Scotland’s Bens or as we call them, mountains. We stop by for a quick look, then a quick trod around Inverlochy Castle, and then Ben Nevis Distillery. We would love to spend more time but we have to get to the Glenfinnan Viaduct and then be on time for the Jacobite steam train that comes through only twice a day. We have missed the morning show so we have to make this one. The Jacobite Steam Train is well loved by Harry Potter fans as it was used in the movie. Don’t’ ask where, I’m not a fan. But suffice to say, it is. I’m more interested in the landscape and viaduct it is atop. Before we however start our trek to stake our ground for the viewing, I clime to the top of the Glenfinnan Memorial which was erected to commemorate the failed cause of the Jacobite Rising. The views of Loch Shiel. The gentleman manning the memorial noted that the area at the top forces you to put your head down and use your right hand to pull up as a mechanism so that you can kill any intruders. The gentleman is delightful and then further points us in the direction of the best spot to see the train.

We trod through a lot of mud and up rocks and find our spot... It tends to fill up quickly so you have to claim your space. We are the second group there so we are doing well. We wait nearly an hour and then it comes. It is breathtaking and well worth the wait, though I’m not sure if my counterpart agrees, lurking up behind me like a troll. Everyone applauds the show and then we run down to watch the train go back over the viaduct. It is quite a show, but we have a lot of ground to pick up now as we have to make it to the Isle of Skye before it is too terribly dark and before all the restaurants close or have no more room. Before heading off into what is easily one of the most beautiful drives I’ve ever been on, we stop briefly by the Commando Memorial, honoring highlanders that have fought. We meander through glens and between bens, by waters and cairns with the stereotypical low lying clouds and mist before crossing over the Skye Bridge in Kyle of Lochlash before making our way into the Isle of Skye and eventually Portree.

We quickly settle into our Air BNB and our lovely host Alex suggests we go immediately to eat, so we do. We take our chances on the one restaurant that can seat us and find that they have a vegetarian menu. We have a couple ciders that were not your typical cider but a specialty dark fruits version. I am not a fan of cider but this is fantastic. We are both tired and hungry. I grab vegetarian fish and chips (the fish is breaded stilton). I have another beer with dinner and then I insist on getting a sticky pudding. Tammy doesn’t seem in the mood, but then she ate ½ so I guess she really was in the mood. We tuck out but not before heading to grab some more beverages and then into Merchant’s Bar for a couple more beers and then back home for a few more with a picturesque view of the full moon bouncing off the sea just outside our window.

It is a beautiful night, but we are exhausted and have a lot of hiking ahead of us tomorrow.

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odyssey-of-a-human-being · 8 years ago

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Konta vs Ostapenko - a Saga in Three Parts Lemonade, Two Parts Vodka, One Part Pimm’s

It’s June 29th at time of writing and I am sober. As an unemployed, unemployable man it always feels quite natural to watch the television. As circumstance would have it, I happened upon a tennis match on BBC2. “This will have to do,” I lamented to my warm can of comfort (beer). Fate had thrust me into a match between two female women’s-tennis players: the teenaged Latvian wunderkind Ostapenko, a spunky, highly aggressive player whose meteoric rise to tennis fame put me in mind of a meteor (ascending, rather than crumbling to nothing in the atmosphere), and whose endearing frustrations translate in sporting terms to not just personality, but a personality, the highest accolade any woman sportsman can hope to achieve. She was battling against her opponent, Konta, who was quite tall and wore pink.

It was obvious who the home favourite was, particularly after John Inverdale remarked that she was “the home favourite here at Eastbourne.” As it transpired, Konta – Jo Konta – was in fact the British number one women’s-tennis player and number five women’s-tennis female player worldwide. And then I pitied her – I could see the weight of expectation that had been imposed upon her. Every broken microwave, every smashed up toaster from every penalty shootout in the modern era dangled over her like the Sword of Damocles. Because it’s always been a source of deep shame and secret regret to the English that the greatest tennis player in the world - perhaps in the entire universe - our national hero, our homegrown British champion is not in fact English, and soon will cease even to be British. Moreover, Murray, busy with training, never developed his personality, let alone a personality.

Sponsors, event organisers, broadcasters, journalists, content distributors...they can make him juggle cantaloupes, trim his neckline, play instead with a squash racket for Sports Relief (for money); they can tee him up with softball questions desperate for some kind of humorous aside, but it’s symptomatic of our denial: not only is Andy Murray - our national Hero - a foreigner, he doesn’t even possess a personality. Off court, he may as well walk into his airing cupboard and power down until morning practice. Observe the relationship with his wife and you’ll see there’s about as much chemistry in it as a North Korean chemistry GCSE – which is to say there’s some but that it’s essentially false, with some rather telling errors and glaring omissions betraying a blatant misunderstanding of the basics of chemistry. Long have I wondered what she sees in Sir Andy Murray. I suppose I pity her, too.

The days of Henmania – days of hope for our nation’s greatest semifinalist – are long over, and soon history shall forget him, as indeed it has forgotten multiple Doctor Who episodes, charity wristbands and custom ringtones. Or perhaps he shall instead be vilified? Which would he prefer? Shall we judge him for demoralising the British spirit, for that time he got disqualified in 1995 – thankfully in the doubles – for hitting a ballgirl in the face. Will we happily forget that it was with a tennis ball? Shall instead it be his racket, or his Scottish fists?

Jo Konta - the Heroine of the Hardcourt, The Queen of Clay, The Grass Goddess - is she doomed to a similar fate? Doomed to the mercy of our damaged hopes, a victim to our scorn, the goat to our damaged scapes, the nationally despised national hero, shall She die for our sins? We accept we cannot have an Englishman champion but we have a Scottish one, so who is to say we are not ready for a female woman one? Surely we’ve moved past all that. Can we not welcome her likewise into our needy arms, as we did indeed Mo Farah? Is this our new prime candidate…is this Henwomania?

And then, out of frenzied panic, I googled her: that was when my hope crumbled like so much vintage cheddar, for ‘Jo’ was a deception. Perhaps you thought it was short for Joanna? Nein. It’s Johanna. And Konta – Mr. Konta isn’t drinking Carling down at the Red Lion and moaning about the surnames of the senior England football squad. Mr. Konta isn’t tagging the Kontas of this world into anonymous hateposts. Yes, you’ve got it – her parents are South African and she played for Australia – quite naturally, having lived there until she was 14. I can understand a Scottish champion, but surely it is beyond our pale to root for a South African Austro-Anglian woman’s-tennis player. I pondered on all this, and having found it to be profoundly sobering I poured myself a Pimm’s (& vodka) and lemonade.

After the first set (Konta nudged out Ostapenko in a deciding game) I decided to invest fully and totally into the match - and it was only then that I noticed an ugly tension in the atmosphere. And I understood it immediately. The crowd…old, white, crusty Tories, they were not rooting for the South African Austro-Anglian, they were rather wishing failure upon the Latvian Latvian. And then it took on an altogether political tone. The Old Tory Brexiteers, upper middle class, upper middle-aged men, perving on women they despise – men mercifully unaware of private browsers, let alone Google Chrome. The top 2%, the only people worse than the 1%: in this sense, Eastbourne is considerably worse than Wimbledon – ask any self-respecting tennis-hating tennis fan. Look at them, in their brown brogues and authentic Ray Ban’s, enjoying a perv and a Pimm’s – “It’s Perv o’Clock!” I overhear one of them say, rubbing his hands together – wrinkled with time, not toil. Unwittingly rooting for their immigrant. An Australian, no less. But shall we forgive them for they know not what they do?

I poured myself another vodka (& Pimm’s) & lemonade, no ice or fruit or anything, and I knew then, for sure, what I thought I knew before. “This,” I said to myself, “is war. Plain and simple.” And it was that dreaded Brexit. Our minds have become enspoiled with its putrid filth, like a dangerous dangly dirty politoctopus, whose slimy tentacles invade the sanctity of our personal space, encroaching it, squirming through it, past through our eyes and our tears and our ears and into our tiny little brains, fidgeting down through to the small of our backs, its tendrils gathering like polyfiller through to our corpus callosa – the brain: an organ as predictable and as knowable as the spleen. Look at it: a great grey meaty bolus. And it was then that I vowed to be a soldier in this war: fighting the good fight. Henceforth, all my meals are to be made with non-locally sourced ingredients – my sausage shall be German, my mash shall be mashed up French fries (also German, Dr Oetker – oh yes, it will be complicated). I shall master every cuisine of the world, learn every other language, cram my brain full with enough knowledge of the vocabulary and grammatical nuance of every language, every dialect, every patois, in the hope that I will eventually expunge all existing knowledge of my mother tongue, expunge every pub-factoid, every pop-cultural frame of reference, all my slang, all my friends, my childhood memories, everything that ever happened to take place in this scuppered Isle, to get rid of all of it! Replace it with knowledge of Scandinavian politics, the etiquette of Japanese cuisine, re-learn how to cycle, but along the frigid canals of Amsterdam, spliff in hand - smoke and steam in the winter air - French cheese and Polish cold-cuts in my wicker basket, trring-trring!, with a great big massive baguette, and I’ll learn to love Finnish melodic death metal, appreciate German architecture, practice Persian poetry, study Chinese history, explore Norse Mythology and eat those little paprika crisps you sometimes find in Lidl. I consummated this noble decision - and to me it felt like a good start in the brain-damaging process – with yet another vodka & lemonade (and a dash of Pimm’s).

As I sobered up after a small nap and after a small period of time, my allegiance toward Europe and the promises I had splurted at a mirror I had mistaken for my own face, now moist with spittle, had somewhat waned. My unshakable hatred toward the wind-power couple – Murray and Murray wife – had now settled into amused bemusement. My anger towards the audience was now little more than a mild vexation – a mere frustration, a puzzling perturberance – nothing more, nothing less. And probably not even that. And the words ‘Ostapenko’ and ‘Konta’ suddenly evoked within me as much emotion as the words ‘limestone’ and ‘velcro’ do. The episode was finally over: I had drunk myself into contention and slept it off. The match finished, Ostapenko having lost, and I was at peace. As an 18-24 year old educated to master’s degree level I am naturally quite accustomed to failure, and tennis. I lost in 2010. I lost in Brexit. I lost in 2015. I lost against Konta. As indeed we all did. But I did not lose Andy Murray. That’s right – I won the Independence referendum. Which is to say I didn’t lose it. Murray’s ours, for now at least. But we should be prepared. For we shall lose him. And that’s why we need, now, a man like Joe Konta, to step into his red, blue and white sneakers (except at Wimbledon where they’re not allowed) should he no longer need them. Because Murray won’t be here forever. Look at that stony-faced expression, gazing outward in press conferences waiting for his questions to be translated, desperate to think of nothing. Desperate not to be there. There is more in that glazed expression than Murray could express in a million words. Look at him. Dare to countenance him.

Murray himself has begun to lose Murray. And losing is not an option.

#konta #murray #andy murray #johanna konta #tennis #brexit #velcro #wimbledon #dprk #odysseyofahumanman

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A porridge creation by Swedish competitor Per Carlsson | Clarissa Wei Each year, gruel fanatics from around the world compete for the Golden Spurtle trophy in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland In 2015, Lisa Williams was vacationing in Scotland when she stumbled across a glitzy bagpipe procession and a line of people in aprons holding flags from countries around the world. She took a closer look, inquired around, and discovered it was a porridge parade, celebrating the contestants of a world porridge championship. “And then you go into the village hall [where the competition is held], and it’s decorated in tartan and heather and with all the flags from all the people and their countries,” she says. “It was amazing. I was hooked. I just said to my husband that I want to take part in this. I want to do it.” Four years later, Williams returned to Scotland, and her porridge was crowned the best in the world. “When they called my name out, I was absolutely stunned,” she says. Like Goldilocks chasing down that perfect bowl, Williams is among a dedicated class of professional and amateur cooks around the world who compete each year to serve the best bowl of, essentially, gruel. They gather in the small village of Carrbridge, Scotland, on the edge of a national park in the Scottish highlands, for the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Making Championship. Judges for the competition, which is split into “traditional” and “specialty” categories, are mostly recruited from the culinary industry, and rank each bowl by color, texture, hygiene, and taste. The “golden spurtle” refers to both the traditional Scottish utensil specifically designed for porridge-stirring, as well as the shape of the trophy awarded to winners. James Ross The bagpipe parade to kick of 2017’s Golden Spurtle championships What began as a tourism initiative in 1994 to attract winter crowds to the quaint, 700-person Scottish town has grown into an institution, drawing in hundreds of spectators and up to 30 competitors each year. “I read about it in the newspaper and thought that if this isn’t a joke and it’s for real, it’s the most silly and insane thing I ever heard,” says Saga Rickmer of Sweden. She signed up immediately, and went on to compete in the 2016 world championships and ultimately win the Swedish Porridge Competition, a national spinoff competition, in 2019. This year, due to COVID-19, the competition will move online, with competitors submitting short video recipes and winners announced over social media on October 10 — World Porridge Day. But while the thrill of softening stodgy grains in real time might be missing, the weight of the endeavor seems to resonate more than ever. Anyone who has been cooking and recooking the same simple meals from pantry staples during the pandemic will understand the quest for the platonic ideal of gruel. The 2020 competition will also be slightly different in that it will focus entirely on the specialty category, where pretty much anything goes. Competitors can add a bunch of milk, shape the oatmeal into tapas, brulee it, steam it, or bake it. Per Carlsson of Sweden snagged the 2017 specialty win with a cloudberry-liqueur porridge brulee. Neal Robertson from Scotland won in 2011 with a cinnamon and nutmeg-spiked porridge topped with a blueberry compote. Other wins have included a mushroom porridge torta in 2012 and a sticky toffee porridge in 2014. Nick Barnard of London, a two-time winner in the specialty category, says the key to dressing up an award-winning dish is knowing what the judges like. “The Scots love sugar, salt, and fat,” he says. “So I’ll give it to them in spades.” Barnard won in 2019 with his maple pecan porridge, a mix of pecan butter, maple syrup, dry milk powder, and cream, all topped with pecans sauteed in ghee. Clarissa Wei The tattoo on Carlsson’s forearm reads “Porridge Champion” This year’s competition won’t include the traditional category, but normally competitors in this genre are required to make porridge with just three elements: oats, water, and salt. Minimally processed oats are a prerequisite; precooked oats like instant and rolled oats are not allowed. Almost everyone who has won has used steel-cut oats and soaked the porridge overnight. While it may seem simple by comparison, the challenge — and honestly, the fun — of the endeavor lies in elevating what’s widely recognized as an archetype of culinary austerity into something worth awarding a large spoon-shaped trophy to. Many home cooks believe all oatmeal tastes mostly the same, but it’s a point of pride for a porridge connoisseur to rise above this stereotype to make a truly distinguished bowl of oats. “Many older people have grown up with this traditional, gloopy porridge and have a distaste for it,” says Carlsson, who also won the traditional category in 2018. “But I usually give them a sample of my porridge to try, and they say, ‘This isn’t porridge. This is something else!’” At his bed and breakfast in southern Sweden, Carlsson used to rotate porridge duties with two friends, and guests always complimented their meals on days when he cooked. Now Carlsson is behind the stove nearly every morning. A small corner of the dining room is also demurely decorated with porridge paraphernalia: a spurtle, a ladle, Swedish porridge merch and slogans, plus Carlsson’s own book of recipes. Fans generally believe that the ideal oat porridge should be thick enough to offer some resistance, but smooth enough to go down easily. There should definitely be salt, but not enough to make you reach for a glass of water. It should be thick enough, but not at all watery. Not too much, and not too little. Not too cold, not too hot — just as Goldilocks would have it. “It’s fascinating. In a competition, porridge is cooked 24 different ways, and they all taste different,” says Robertson, who has competed for a decade and occasionally judges at the Swedish Porridge Championship. courtesy Saga Rickmer Saga Rickmer read about the competition in the newspaper and went on to compete twice since James Ross Everyone is pushing for the coveted Golden Spurtle trophy, shaped like the ultimate porridge-making tool Competitors cook porridge every day for months, even years, to drill down the minutiae of the stuff. “You start preparing pretty much the day of the competition for the next year,” says Williams. Carlsson even recruited outside help from Dr. Viola Adamsson, a medical doctor and food nutritionist who has written several books on porridge and made porridge for the Swedish Olympic ski team in 1998 and 2002. “She practically has a doctorate in porridge,” jokes Carlsson’s wife, Catarina Arvidsson. Carlsson and Adamsson trained via Skype and telephone several times a week for a month, perfecting the water-to-oat ratio. Among niche porridge circles, conversation often lands on four critical elements: oat-to-water ratio, type of oats, and salt. “One part oats to three parts water,” Williams insists. “Soak the oats overnight and use more salt than you think you would. I use Maldon sea salt — the same salt the queen uses.” Williams prefers half steel-cut oats and half stone-ground milled oats from Hamlyns of Scotland. “You get a nutty texture, but it’s not completely nutty. It’s more of a smooth nutty,” she says. Robertson agrees on steel-cut oats from Hamlyns, but he does one part oatmeal to 2.5 parts water. “I tend to use sea salt,” he says. “It’s a bit softer and a bit more forgiving. And you should always stir it anti-clockwise. It keeps the devil at the bay.” Carlsson does one part oats and 4.5 parts water. “I cook it for at least 25 minutes, then it is allowed to swell,” he says. Unlike Williams and Robertson, Carlson uses Swedish steel-cut oats from Saltå Kvarn, which are creamy but toasted for a “nice burned flavor,” he says. In opting for Swedish oats, Carlson throws down the gauntlet in a nationalist sub-debate among porridge cooks. “Countries mill their oats in different ways,” says Anna Louise Batchelor, who won the specialty title in 2009. “Bob’s Red Mill [in America], they sell a really lovely rolled oat that’s very coarse. It’s very shiny and flat and it takes a long time to cook. Scotland loves their salty oats. And in Sweden, their milling is quite rustic.” Batchelor prefers coarse oats from English brand Mornflake. Even the namesake spurtle is a topic of debate. Unlike spoons, spurtles allegedly don’t drag and prevent lumps. Many swear by them. “If you want to whip porridge in a pan without getting it all over yourself, the spurtle is the best tool,” says Barnard. “It brings air and stops it from overheating at the bottom of the pan and distributes the salt.” In 2016, Bob Moore, the founder of Bob’s Red Mill, won using a handcrafted myrtle spurtle from Oregon, where he lives. Charlie Miller, the current organizer of the competition, says more eccentric attendees often bring specialty equipment too. Pressure cookers, microwaves, and bain-maries are commonly spotted in the competition hall. “Neal Robertson one year brought water that he claimed came from a stream that fed his local whisky distillery,” Miller recalls. In 2018, competitor Lynn Munro brought oatmeal she milled herself and cooked it with water she harvested from the loch at her childhood home. One woman even grew her own oats for the competition. “Some people are so serious, it’s quite charming,” Barnard says. “The Swedish dress up like Swedish milkmaids and make a lot of noise. Some people have spreadsheets. It’s a circus, really.” But competitors are accepted into the fold regardless of skill. “I met one man at the competition who had never prepared a bowl of porridge in his life,” Miller says, laughing. Robertson commemorated his 2010 win with a tattoo reading “World Porridge Champion 10.10.10,” rousing envy among friends and competitors. “Neal Robertson had [a tattoo] and walked around showing it off. Then I thought I should get one as well,” Carlsson says. Shortly after his own win, Carlsson shocked his children by getting his forearm inked with the words “World Champion” spiraling around a ladle. But beneath the braggadocio and heated competition, the Golden Spurtle is, at its heart, about a bunch of people hanging out in a room cooking oatmeal. “It’s just the best time,” says Rickmer, who often visits her fellow Swede, Carlsson, as a guest chef at his bed and breakfast. “Competing in porridge is so cozy and cute. Everyone is so nerdy, which I love.” Even this year, as competitors dive deep into their individual porridge pots, in their own kitchens, in their own countries thousands of miles apart, they are bound by a shared appreciation of well-cooked grains and what they symbolize. “It’s an ancestral food,” says Barnard. “All cultures around the world have a type of gruel.” As with any competition, there are plenty of tears and laughter. “When I won, I was absolutely stunned. My face was bright red and I almost burst into tears,” Williams says, beaming as she holds up her trophy. She says she plans on going back to Scotland as soon as the competition is held in-person again, this time to add a specialty category win to her victory in the traditional category. “I have my china all picked out already.” Clarissa Wei is an American freelance journalist based in Taiwan. from Eater - All https://ift.tt/35tYL5K

http://easyfoodnetwork.blogspot.com/2020/09/in-pursuit-of-perfect-bowl-of-porridge.html

#EasyFoodNetwork #ComfortFoodRecipes #EasyRecipes #GoodFood #BestComfortFoodRecipes #TastyFoodv

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