#Scotch Bonnet Records

[intothedysphoria]

There was a boy who lived on the other side of town.

Hawkins was a small town but it had a pretty explicit wealth divide. There were a solid wall of three streets where people had three, even four story houses and their own pools. Walk beyond that line and it looked pretty grim. Well, his parents said it did. Steve privately thought the people who lived in those houses looked much happier.

Except for one house. The Hargrove’s.

The dad was ex Marines and was a fucking piece of work. He’d go on ranting about anyone and everyone in the mall, clutching his wife’s hand in a vice. She was quiet and didn’t really seem to do much apart from occasionally pushing her daughter into getting more dresses. The kids were far more interesting.

A red headed thirteen year old girl who trudged around with a skateboard and him. He looked like a movie star but he was constantly limping, like he was injured. Supposedly, he’d taken Steve’s arbitrarily assigned crown but he didn’t even talk to anyone. He just scowled and sometimes Steve saw him crying.

It was all really sad and Steve was going to do something about it. He wasn’t sure what but he was at least going to try.

Steve tried to talk to him once after class. Hargrove looked him up and down then promptly spat on his shoes. The nice ones he’d just got for Christmas.

He talked funny too. It wasn’t just because he was from California, Steve had watched enough tv to pinpoint that accent. He talked rough and gutteral, with a harshness to his voice that suggested he’d been smoking from the age of 10.

Hop arrested him for minor drug charges on Christmas Day. The news spread fast in a town like Hawkins. Not because he’d been smoking weed but because they’d had to carry him out on a stretcher.

The hospital bed was his cell. Steve sent flowers because it felt like the right thing to do given the circumstances. Poppies.

They were still on Hargrove’s bedside table when he left. Medical fees had been paid off by the town. Mr Harrington had even snuck a 100 dollar bill into the pot.

One day Billy approached him. There was a vulnerability to him, shoulders hunched as he asked if there was anywhere he could stay for the night. Neil Hargrove had kicked him out.

Billy was enamoured by Steve’s record player and ran to his own collection to shove them under the needle. Apparently Joy Division was what he played to everyone before he introduced them to the heavy stuff. Steve would have almost preferred Metallica or WASP to Love Will Tear Us Apart. There was something so incredibly bleak about the lyrics and Steve wondered if that was how Billy saw the world.

Steve had leftover pierogies and latkes in the fridge but Billy politely said he preferred to make his own food. He then made a soup with scotch bonnet peppers in which looked delicious but Steve knew he wouldn’t be able to handle.

Billy took the bed. Steve took the couch. There was a pile of porn mags buried under the pile of stuff and Steve knew he should’ve just left it. He was just curious and toed a page open.

There was a photo which looked like it had been taken behind an alleyway, of a large, bearded man in denim with another man in a suit on his knees. That magazine was shoved back down to the bottom of the pile.

Billy was queer. Steve had seen videos from New York, Los Angeles, London recently, of gaunt men on hospital beds, clinging to the hands of kind faced women. The news had said that was what happened if you were queer. Agony. Death. But Billy seemed fit and healthy.

Billy wasn’t going to die of that disease. Of AIDS. Steve wouldn’t let him.

The next morning, Billy used the shower for too long, ate nothing but a single slice of toast and left by 6AM. Steve watched him go and wondered if he would come back.

Come back he did, promptly that same evening. Billy made a grilled cheese, which of course had ghost chilli in it, and watched MTV. They had a long conversation about nuclear disarmament which Steve only half followed, then they both went to bed.

Things went on like that for several weeks. Billy would put on a wide variety of records and sometimes they would dance. Sometimes Steve would just watch Billy shake his head so hard, it may as well have fallen off.

They started sharing one meal for a change. Stir fry, steak with mashed potatoes, something Billy proudly proclaimed as toad in the hole, which was just battered sausage. All things his grandfather had taught him to cook.

The sleeping situation also got more complicated.

Due to the length of time that Billy was staying over now, there didn’t feel like there was any point in Steve staying indefinitely on the couch.

So they shared a bed. Steve listened to Billy taking long, deep breaths each night and wondered if he was a queer too.

That question was answered on New Years Eve.

Steve had drunk quite a lot. Billy had probably drunk more. Soft Cell was playing on the radio and Steve was humming along to the tune, making popping sounds with his mouth to the synths.

The song changed to a new track from Frankie Goes To Hollywood and Billy grabbed his arms, spinning them both across the room. It was fun, then Steve felt like he was going to be sick so they had to stop.

Billy was lying down on the floor next to him, giggling with flushed cheeks, then declared he hadn’t had a midnight kiss yet.

He was obviously joking but something in Steve’s chest took it deadly serious because he was climbing into Billy’s chest. They were breathing in the same air.

Billy blinked twice, eyelashes glowing and Steve decided to stop caring.

The kiss didn’t set him alight. It didn’t kill him. It didn’t even eject him from the house. All it did was send a warm tingly feeling down his back and towards his groin. The feeling was indescribable.

Billy asked if they could do that again.

Steve said yes.

For @shieldofiron @robthegoodfellow @dragonflylady77 @oopsiedaisiesbaby @harringroveobsessed @bigdumbbambieyes @thatgirlwithasquid for being so cool I hope you like it (I am genuinely so ill right now I probably won’t remember that I wrote this in like two hours)

[thetruthwilloutsworld]

Now the Daily Record has covered it🙄

[bouponnn]

Exploring the Vibrant World of an Afro Caribbean Store

A Culinary Journey

One of the standout features of an Afro-Caribbean store is its extensive selection of food items. These stores are a haven for those looking to purchase ingredients that are hard to find in mainstream supermarkets. Staples such as plantains, yams, cassava, and a variety of beans and pulses line the shelves. Spices play a crucial role in Afro-Caribbean cuisine, and you can find a plethora of seasonings like jerk seasoning, curry powder, and pimento.

For those who enjoy seafood, Afro-Caribbean stores offer a range of options including salted fish, snapper, and kingfish. The availability of fresh produce, such as okra, callaloo, and scotch bonnet peppers, allows customers to prepare traditional dishes with authentic flavors. Additionally, many stores stock frozen and prepared foods, making it easier for people to enjoy the tastes of home even with a busy lifestyle.

Cultural Products and Goods

Beyond food, Afro-Caribbean stores often carry a wide array of cultural products that reflect the rich traditions of the African and Caribbean diasporas. From colorful fabrics and clothing items like dashikis and headwraps to artisanal crafts and jewelry, these stores offer products that celebrate cultural heritage. Hair care products are another significant category, Afro Caribbean Store catering to the unique needs of Afro-textured hair with a variety of natural oils, butters, and specialized hair care brands.

Music and literature also have a place in Afro-Caribbean stores. CDs and vinyl records featuring reggae, soca, and afrobeat, as well as books by African and Caribbean authors, provide customers with a deeper connection to their roots and a way to share their culture with others.

Community and Connection

Afro-Caribbean stores serve as community centers where people can connect, share experiences, and support one another. They are often run by individuals who are passionate about preserving their culture and providing a space for others to do the same. These stores frequently host events such as cooking classes, cultural celebrations, and meet-and-greet sessions with authors and artists from the African and Caribbean communities.

The importance of these stores extends beyond their immediate customers. They provide an educational experience for those unfamiliar with Afro-Caribbean culture, offering a window into the traditions, values, and everyday lives of people from these regions. This fosters greater cultural understanding and appreciation within the broader community.

Supporting Local and Ethical Businesses

Many Afro-Caribbean stores prioritize sourcing products from local and ethical suppliers. This not only ensures that the goods are of high quality but also supports small businesses and farmers, often from African and Caribbean countries. By shopping at these stores, Jamaican Black Cake customers contribute to a more sustainable and equitable global economy.

[booomwhadis]

Egoless - Super Echo [2015]. Digi Dub with some Dubstep influence. Well wicked!

[hisokas-toybox]

Hunter x Hunter characters taking part in a chilli eating contest

This started out as just a Hisoillu headcanon, but then I got carried away imagining all my faves doing this, so enjoy! (Scoville scale I used for reference at the end of the post)

At a fair or something, an enthusiastic employee shoves a flyer into the face of *character* as they walk by. He challenges them to take part in a chilli eating contest, stating that nobody has managed to make it to the end and promising an exciting prize for anyone who can eat the hottest chilli there. Anyone who takes part has to sign a waiver that they understand and consent to the potential risk associated with this challenge and that the fair is not liable for any injuries/sickness caused by the challenge... There is also an ambulance on standby behind the stall, just in case.

Gon - Is under 18 so not allowed to take part for health and safety reasons. If he had been allowed, he wouldn’t have wanted to take part  but would have went for it anyway if someone challenged him (which of course someone would) until he put himself in hospital as our boy does NOT know when to say no to a challenge. Probably best he isn’t allowed to take part.

Killua - Also not allowed to take part due to his age. He is furious about this, what was the point of all his poison immunity training if he can’t even use it??? Would have probably made it to the end and been fine.

Kurapika - Probably the most sensible person out of the entire cast, would be the only one to just refuse to take part. Why would he want to hurt himself without good reason? (If he had taken part, he’d probably have made it to about fatali)

Leorio - My precious idiot. Would hype himself up as ABSOLUTELY capable of the challenge. Would make it to about scotch bonnet level before choking, face red, tears streaming from his eyes. (He’d also forget about having chilli fingers and rub his eyes) Most likely to end up needing that standby ambulance.

Knuckle - Another precious idiot. Would take on the challenge, making himself sound tough but would only get as far as jalapeno before remembering he HATES spicy food and giving up, his mouth tingling but otherwise not harmed.

Shoot - Only took part because Knuckle forced him to. Makes himself get to the Hungarian stage before tapping out just to beat Knuckle. Again his mouth is hot and he’s going to have heartburn for the rest of the day, but nothing too damaging.

Pitou - Intriguied by the challenge, takes a bite of a bell pepper, immediately spits it out, gagging and then leaves disgruntled. They are a cat after all.

Bisky - Would need a lot of persuading, but would take the challenge. She’d make it to a respectable Habanero before admitting defeat. Immediately goes for an entire tub of ice cream after and vows never again.

Chrollo - Is convinced to try it by the rest of the Phantom Troupe (who all tried and failed at various stages). They’re all convinced he can win so he tries. He does well, making it as far as chocolate habanero before bowing out. He acts graceful and like he just got bored and doesn’t need to prove himself, but really? IT BURNS!!!!! He probably has some stolen nen ability that stops serious damage, but he’s not going to have a good time digesting those, may ‘disappear’ for a few days until he can keep solid food down.

Hisoka - Doesn’t just accept the challenge. Is HYPED for it! Breezes through most of the stages, seemingly unimpressed until it gets to around fatali, then he starts enjoying it. And I mean really enjoying it. Inappropriately. It’s really hurting him, but this freak is into that and that’s making everyone else uncomfortable - more so than the peppers ever could. Hisoka breaks a record for being the first person ever to be banned from the fair and is forcibly removed by security before he can complete the challenge. He made it to Trinidad Scorpion. One pepper away from winning the entire challenge. He’s disappointed he wasn’t allowed to finish, but also kind of smug.

Illumi - Not sure why he’s being challenged by this loud annoying stranger. Seems pointless but he takes part anyway (Hisoka convinced him it’d be fun). If Hisoka made people uncomfortable with overreacting to the pain, Illumi makes everyone uncomfortable for the total opposite reason. He has no reaction at all. He climbs gradually up through the Scoville scale looking, if anything, bored. He surpasses Chrollo at chocolate habanero, and keeps going, up and up, until finally! He does it! A record has been broken!!! He ate the famous Carolina Reaper and won the challenge!!! He is showered in confetti and is forced into having his picture taken for the local newspaper. He wins a cash prize and a stupidly oversized pepper plushie as well as a lifetime supply of tabasco sauce and toilet paper... He remains completely stoic throughout the whole thing, not getting what all the fuss is about.When asked how he feels he informs the staff and local reporters that He is completely fine, why wouldn’t he be?  And when asked what his secret is, if he’d trained for this challenge at all beforehand?  He explains he’s trained for worse his whole life and compared to arsenic, peppers barely even tingle. When he asks if he can leave now, everyone is quietly relieved, not quite sure what to make of this strange man.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 134

Since I am queueing this chapter the same that I queued the last one, I just want to say:

If you have found my story in the last week, and liked it, thank you. It makes me smile when that happens.

If you shared my story with others, and they liked it, or even found a little bit of themselves in it, I’m very glad. Thank you for sharing something with your friends that they enjoyed.

As always, thank you to @the-raven-fae, @anotherusrname, @baelpenrose, and @charlylimph-blog for being my ports in all storms and the family everyone deserves to have.

Annnd the podcast. Don’t miss the podcast!  I don’t profit from it in any way, shape, or form, but the idea of a version of this story that is more accessible for people who would struggle to read it is something that should always be supported! 

A week later, I was wincing and out of breath when I reached my office for the day.  Tyche had enthusiastically agreed with Arthur’s suggestion, and after some tests from Maverick showed that I could apparently kick hard enough to break a grown man’s pelvis - although not without also breaking my foot - I had been expected to be in the gym for nearly two hours every day.  My legs hurt and my feet looked worse than the time I tried to learn ballet en pointe.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was also apparently very slow in reacting with my legs as a result of years learning to fight with, you know, my hands. Like a normal person.  This meant I was also wearing five pound weights on each ankle, all day, including when sparring.

So far, the only thing I had noticed was a demonstrably shorter patience and a reduction in how much I bounced my legs. Or sat comfortably.

I was so absorbed in my bad mood and how badly my legs hurt that I had already gotten coffee, greeted my mentees, and sat at my desk before I noticed something out of place.  As usual, Parvati and Hannah were across from each other at the table they typically sat at, but Parvati was standing and demonstrating something.

While using the table emitter, which they only ever used for my benefit.

Tilting my head in what probably looked like what Sparkle’s expression when she was denied a treat, I watched as Parvati picked up a vaguely pen-shaped object - it really looked more like a sonic screwdriver than a writing implement - and started making neon pink lines of various widths, swirls to test the slant it would make, and using it at various speeds before closely considering the color of each line.

“What in the world is that?”

“Paint testers,” Hannah explained. “Charly dropped them off with Vati last night, along with the programming to simulate how they work so we could test them with an emitter and not a wall.”

“Paint?”

“For the Festival. Charly designed these for us to use instead of trying to get permission to use actual spray paint.  The fumes of spray paint are apparently very caustic to Noah.”

I shuddered. “Yeah, no spray paint, clearly.”

Apparently satisfied with the pink, Parvati keyed her datapad to clear the emitter and picked up a different pen.  This one was a beautiful lapis blue. “She’s quite brilliant,” she murmured as she tested the pen. “The pens work like an airbrush, but she took some inspiration from something Arthur Farro gifted her several years ago and ensured the pigment will only last three Ark-days.  It also only appears under certain lighting.”

“And it’s non-toxic, of course,” Hannah added with a smile. “Because, you know… Charly.”

I hesitated before asking the next question. “How non-toxic are we talking?”

To my utter horror, rather than respond, Parvati opened her mouth and used a different button on the pen to paint her entire tongue blue. “They’re edible.” She closed her mouth with a smile before her eyebrows shot up. “Oh! That one is pomegranate!”

Hannah furiously made notations on her datapad before looking back up at me. “Vati already tested them on canvas in her quarters, but we also wanted to make sure the simulation software works so that we don’t waste pigment trying to figure out the design elements.”

“We’re also rather curious about what flavor each one is,” Parvati admitted before swapping to a toxic-looking green. “This one is peach, I do remember that. The pink was popcorn.”

I shook my head. “Do you want people licking the walls? Because this is how you get people to lick the walls.” I walked over as I was speaking and idly picked up one that was labelled as Titan Black.

Hannah snatched it away quickly. “That one is scotch bonnet flavor. I found that out the hard way.”

“I get making them non-toxic, but why are they flavored?” Hannah arched an eyebrow at me and I held my hands up defensively. “Other than the obvious application. Why design flavored paint pens for the Food Festival murals?”

Parvati blanked the emitter again and swapped pens. “That is going to be part of the design and experience,” she started to explain. “We originally wanted them non-toxic in case of the non-zero event that Else tries to eat the paint off the walls.” I nodded since ‘non-zero’ was putting it lightly. “Then I had the idea to include the possibility of Else eating the mural into its design.  Rather than worry that Else will eat it, I am planning on it: I am going to create a piece that changes as the various colors are devoured.”

“Annnnnd how do you plan on controlling what order Else eats everything in?”

She waved to the row of pens on the table. “These are each in a flavor that we know Else likes. I am currently testing in my quarters what the order of preference is.”

As my mind started to catch up, I started nodding. “Your test swatches last night.”

“Precisely. I have them laying out in a grid, easily accessible to Else, and they are being monitored. We will take the recording and determine what the order of preference is from there.”

I shook my head with a huge grin. “That’s one hell of a performance art piece.”

Hannah straightened her posture in an imitation of Pravati’s normal ramrod-straight demeanor. “There is nothing more fitting for a celebration of how humanity persists in surviving, despite how transient and brief life can be, along with a clear showing of how we intend to welcome and embrace the differences between ourselves and those most different from us - even those who once nearly destroyed us but wished to make peace.”

“That’s frighteningly good,” Parvati praised nonchalantly as she squirted a fluorescent yellow into her mouth. “It makes no sense for that one to taste of something spicy.”

I took the pen and forced myself to spray it in my mouth. I perked up when it was actually very familiar and delicious. “It’s gochujang…” They both looked at me skeptically. “Apparently Else likes spicy food?”

“I’m starting to think this is how she flavors her popcorn,” Hannah murmured.

My head shook on that one. “No, all her popcorn is decidedly popcorn-flavored. The coloring is added while it is being made, along with the flavoring. Same thing with her ice-cream, and with the candy bars.”

“I agree,” Parvati added. “This pigment is quite wet, it would never work on something like popcorn.” Pausing in her testing, she turned to me. “She has made popcorn in your quarters before, did you notice how she colored it?”

I thought back to the movie night, fighting through how nostalgic and relaxing it made me feel. “It has to be a high-saturation powder.  Other than the actual oil she used to pop it, everything she put in was powdered.”

“But it was toffee popcorn,” Parvati argued. “I remember because it was such a lovely shade of purple.”

Hannah and I both glanced at each other before turning concerned looks to Parvati. I was the one who eventually spoke. “You make toffee popcorn by adding sugar and salt while it’s being popped, Vati. Both are powders.”

“And how am I supposed to know that?” she demanded with a scowl before picking up a pen.

I looked back at Hannah, who was as baffled as I was. “Vati? Do you cook?”

She scoffed. “Of course not. Xiomara is a brilliant cook, why would I give that up?”

“But you know how, right?” I prodded. “We always have cooking classes going on here.”

She decidedly ignored us.  I gaped at Hannah, who eventually crowed with laughter. “Oh my god! We found something Vati doesn’t know how to do!”

“Xio does make a wicked roti with veg curry,” I tried to defend her. If she was deflecting, Parvati clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

“And I can cook,” Parvati argued. “I can roast meat, and forage edible plants, and clean them both.”

“Works for me!” I chirped, trying to defuse the situation before Parvati actually got upset. “If you can cook enough to feed yourself in an apocalypse, I consider that a solid fundamental basis.”

Hannah finally took the hint. “Well, if you ever want to learn more, gods know you have plenty of friends who can teach you. Hell, Sophia taught Maverick to cook, and when they first met he had a very iffy relationship with the concept of food in general.”

That got me a look. “He had been through a lot, okay? You spend thirty years with everyone blaming your sensory issues with food on just ‘being picky’,” I used air quotes for emphasis, “and yeah, you start living on the three foods you like and a lot of vitamins and protein drinks.”

Parvati stopped in her tracks and slowly turned her head toward me before taking a seat. “How did someone who doesn’t even eat to live end up with two people who live to eat?”

I felt my face heat up, but managed to limit my reaction to a shrug. “If he said he didn’t like something, I took that at face value and didn’t make him eat it. If he never had it, I thought really hard about how similar it was to things he did or didn’t like, and offered it to him - or didn’t -  based on that.  I never took it as a challenge I needed to make him overcome, just as a challenge I needed to rise to.”

She considered this for a moment, glancing to Hannah who nodded in confirmation, before speaking. “This is why you cook.” It wasn’t a question. Parvati stated it as a fact.

And I confirmed it was, indeed, a fact. “One of the few things Huynh and I agree on is hospitality. I don’t want anyone to come to my table and feel they can’t eat.  It’s how I was raised.  There will be food they like, and plenty of it.”

I heard a popping noise from Hannah’s direction, and turned only to realize that it was her neck popping when she turned from Parvati to me.  Eyes wide, she was barely audible when she whispered, “That’s why the Food Festival is so important to you…”

It took several attempts and a lot of nodding to swallow the lump in my throat. “We were all scared, and all strangers in this insane reality that we weren’t even sure was actually real.  I thought - knew - it would ground us, and even start uniting us. If we could all see that arroz con pollo, paella, chicken biriyani, chicken etouffee weren’t all that different? What’s more familiar than chicken and rice, or fried puffs of dough, or pancakes?” I shook my head. “I remember my first day on the Ark. I was in a mess hall, and even with my sister and cat, I knew I was luckier than most but so lost.  I just - “ I gulped and fought back tears. “I wanted shepherd’s pie so bad it hurt my soul. And I tried and tried to get it from the food consoles, and it was never the right thing. I must’ve tried eight times. It was so frustrating!” I didn’t catch myself in time to keep from slamming my fist a couple times on the table. “I felt even more lost.  Someone came up to me and asked what I was doing.” 

I took a deep breath to banish the concept of Arantxa from my head. “And dragged me to Conor because she realized that what I was saying and what she was hearing weren’t the same thing.  That’s how I actually met him. And, bless his face, he knew exactly what I was asking for and got it for me if I promised to help him get French toast, of all things.”  The memory made me smile. “Believe it or not, that moment mattered more to me than even waking up on the Ark when I should have been dead. Just… the idea that this person who knew nothing about me except what I wanted for dinner, was able to fix that lost feeling.  I want everyone to have that.”

Parvati was staring at me like she was watching the most romantic story in the world, but at least Hannah nodded seriously. “Steak and ale pie. I always want that when I’m stressed.”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “Exactly. And multiply that by every type of steak and ale pie anyone can possibly make on the Ark? I know I don’t have to convince you two to keep the Festival anymore, but yeah.  That’s why it matters so much to me.”

I turned to Parvati, who was drumming her fingers and looking down somewhat sheepishly. “Most cultures have a kind of curry, so I never really thought about it,” she admitted. “But it makes sense, from that perspective. I never thought about it.”

Reaching out to pat her hand, I gave her a serious look. “That doesn’t mean you have to learn to cook anything more than what you already know,” I assured her. “It’s my motivation. No one else’s. If you ever want to learn to make something you don’t know how to, I’ll be happy to teach you. If you never want to learn how to make anything you don’t know how to, I will be happy to cook for you. Just… don’t ask me to bake? That’s a Tyche thing.”

She groaned. “Those mini black forest donuts….”

“Exactly. Don’t ask me to make them, I’ll ruin them ten times out of ten,” I laughed.

“She should make donuts for the Festival,” Hannah suggested wistfully. “Do you think we could talk her into it?”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I’m not asking her to do it, so have fun.”

“But you’re her sister.”

“How the hell do you think I know not to ask?” I gave them both a flat stare that set them giggling. “Donuts for the family? Fine. Donuts for the whole entire Ark? Not touching it.”

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[walks-the-ages]

I got sooooo many peppers are the farmers market today! I'm going to be processing them for seeds tomorrow and freezing the pods for future use :)

In order of appearance, against a green background, contained in clear plastic bags with a label:

1) California Reapers, a very long and twisty peach-colored pepper with long stingers, a close relative to the Carolina Reaper, the world's current record holder for hottest pepper.

2) Daisy Cutter peppers, smaller, bright orange peppers that are round and wrinkled, with no stinger tail. Never seen these before, but they're related to the 7 Pot Jonah.

3) Ghost peppers, also known as Bhut Jolokia, former world record holder for world's hottest pepper. Bright red, very long and wrinkled, and only a few have small stingers on the ends.

4) Orange Long-Tailed Scorpion: dark orange/redish peppers that are long and wrinkled.

4) Yellow Reaper: accidentally grabbed two of the same bag, and I actually have these in my garden! Good to know it's the right appearance on the garden ones, a yellow with slight shades of orange, shorter and squat shaped peppers with no visible stingers.

5) 7 Pot Lava: almost identical to the Yellow Reapers, the 7 Pot Lava seem to be a brighter, more lemon yellow color.

6) Moruga Scorpion: a deep, very dark red pepper that is short, round, and very wrinkled, with no visible tails.

7) 7 Pot Douglah: a very dark chocolate or extremely dark red, almost black colored pepper, they are short and wide peppers with lots of wrinkles and warts.

8) A mixture of yellow, red and orange Scotch Bonnet, mostly flat and wide peppers with a rounded shape with three to four lobes, as well as a line of long, wrinkled, unripe green and ripe, bright red Ghostly Jalapenos.

9) Lemon Drops, Hot Lemon, or Aji Lemon, this is a pepper of many names! The only Capsicum Baccatum that I found today, they are long and rather flat peppers with a shiny, almost waxy appearance to go with their bright lemon yellow color that has very few wrinkles, being very smooth.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Six; Hopes.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Brief mentions of violence and gore in this chapter !!! 

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Hellford park was a domineering house. It was as proud as it was beautiful.

 A high and grand edifice of squared buff sandstone with the very same in all its trimmings. The roof is welsh slate. And the front of the house echoed it’s Palladian and baroque design. The Doric order pillars out front hold up a looming triangular outset to the building. There are three floors. Three towering floors all full of windows.

 The house sits vast in its horizon. Dominating. She had walked up through the woods from Pembleton. A good twenty minutes of walking down the front drive merely to get to the place. Through a resplendent wrought iron black gate that looked nearly eerie in the morning fog. The cawing of throaty crows echoed around the tall dark trees that nearly eclipsed the sun. She opened that creaking gate and slipped on through. Feeling like a doomed trespasser on Lord Ren’s land.

 When the walk along the paved road clears of the governing country nature, each side of her not now lined with massive oaks, and the dark wood thinned out, the sun shone down on her in speckles through the spreading tree tops.

 She listens to the cooing call of wood pigeons in the far off trees. The sizzle of wind ruffling the dead leaves on their branches. Sizzling and spitting and rattling in the air. And the cold bitter landscape seems buttery warm, the colour of dandelion sunshine lifts every facet of nature. Melts the snow. Makes the countryside all merry again. Thaws it from the unfeeling and cruel fingers of frosty winter.

 Though she can still see wisps of her breath flutter the air. And she tugs her rabbit lined gloves up her wrists to keep warm. Her soles crackle along the road in the misty frost.

 She’s on yet another errand this morning. In her battered blue wool coat, her quite hopeless brown boots. She hadn’t seen the need for a bonnet, and now her ears are feeling the price of such a poor decision. Tipped with icy pink.

 The dappling sun tangled in her hair. Where it’s scooped back off her face in a semi braided coiffure. She had her plain wool dress on. It was a boring shade of chowder grey pinstriped with white. But it did it’s occupation of keeping her warm better than her old pelisse did.

 She comes up to the view of the house. Admiring how vast and proudly it stands. Resolute even under the strong sun. The sky behind its roof is a net of crepe cotton blue splashed with smeared white clouds.

 From the vantage point on the road, where she is, far far far down below the humongous beast, the vast wall of windowpanes wink icy in the sunlight across at her. The huge pond to the front of Hellford Manor, is deep glass green, and navy skipped with gold from the mirrored reflection of the sky.

 Her steps rap sharply on the hard road, clapping off the house and bouncing back to her. Mingled in with sounds of the woods, of the birds and the trees and the wind ruffling through it all.

 She steps up to the cavernous entryway and the door that’s eight feet taller than she is. Doesn’t know if she’ll get a reply knocking here- she hopes she does.

 She knocks her gloved hand loud and clear on the door. Taps her knuckles loudly three times. Hears it ricochet off the house behind and in front of her. Probably drifting through that elegantly extensive marble foyer that was bound to be inside. Manor this grand was bound to have a colossal foyer for entertaining.

 She stares up at the great big white painted door in fervent hope. A few seconds pass. Nothing but the silence of her own anticipation.

 She’d brought Lord Ren some welcoming gifts that high society hereabouts has decided to bestow on him. The ladies and matrons of prominence are thankful for his mentioning he’d keep an eye open for the terrorising wolf on his land.

 Mrs Phillips sent him a box of Turkish dried fruits and sticky figs drowned in honey. Miss Smith sent a bottle of port and a selection of sweet meats. Her own mother had declined to send him anything.

 Iris was affronted at her sudden distant behaviour when days before she’d been clamouring for her daughter to prostrate herself at his mighty feet. So she snuck to the kitchen earlier and secreted away two dead partridge’s when she wasn’t looking.

 Cook was on her side covering for her. She’d spin Mrs Ashton a cunning tale that the cat got into them and she had to discard them. Let’s hope Iris’ mother didn’t decide to take action against the innocent tabby.

 She’d also put in some of cooks chutney and her famous jam. She was a crass red faced, battle axe Irish woman of stout size and many years. But she liked making sure the people around her were well fed. She was a kindly woman to Iris.

 Many times as a scolded young girl, belittled for improper behaviour, or something petty Caroline nitpicked over,  she’d find herself hiding from mama in the kitchen. Wedged between the stove and the butchers block. Red faced and sobbing tears.

 Cook - Mrs Murphy as she doesn’t like to be commonly known as - would crossly stop whatever she was doing. Whatever soup or sauce she was preparing, whatever un-plucked game bird awaited stripping by her hands, or whatever haunch of meat needed seasoning, she would stop.

 Wiping her hands on her grubby apron. She’d pour Iris a cup of chocolate, sit her by the open stove and put a warm rug around her shoulders. Tell her to dry her eyes on her handkerchief. She always had one to hand. “There now. Dry your eyes. Pet.” In her soothing County Kildare, Irish brogue.

 “Here’s to hoping the road rises up to meet you yet.” She’d always say. Her way of wishing all the pain and obstacles to her happiness be plucked free right out of her life. Mrs Murphy knew, even back then, what strain Iris was being put under to be the perfect daughter. Drowning under expectations at such a bonny young age.

 So when Iris went to her this morning, interrupting her making her brown onion soup and scotch collops ready for supper, she asked for some donations to a man whose been kind to her, and to the scared flustered hens of matrons in the village. Cook raised a brow. “I see.” She said cannily. With an all-knowing understanding to her tone.

 Steered Iris into the cold larder and gave the game, the jam and some other goods. “This wouldn’t be that infamous Lord I’ve been hearing whispers about, now, would it?” She asks with a hand on her hip. Iris blushes.

 “He’s- merely an acquaintance.” Iris insists sweetly.

 “Aye. And I’m the goddess queen of the upper Nile.” She smarts flatly.

 “Be off with ya now pet. Before your mother gives you what for.” She says gruffly. Plonking two rosy pink apples in her hands for her journey to Hellford park. Before jabbing her thumb the back door over her own shoulder. Continuing rolling out her pastry with sticky-flour and buttery hands. She watches Iris head out with the baskets. One on each arm as usual. She smiles when she leaves.

 A good girl she was- much rounder temper than her silly sisters. Cook loves Iris like a daughter. And in damn sure more of a maternal way than her dragon of a mother ever did.

 Surprisingly, Iris didn’t have to wait too long at Hellford’s grand oak door before it is shuddered open with a whine from the other side.

 The very pleasant face of Kylo’s butler greets her. A red dastar turban covering his head. His arrowhead shaped goatee was black shot through with silver. Straight as a yardstick. And oiled finely. He appears very well groomed and meticulous. A fine warm scent of lime blossom and something like citrus or oranges woven into his cologne.

 She smiles warmly at him. Hands across her calling card through the gap of the door. “Good Morning. I’m so sorry to disturb you- but I’m just paying a call to deliver some-”

 His warm face breaks into a warm beam. One of honesty and recognition. “He told me we should be expecting you, Miss Ashton.” He smiles gladly. Already apprised of her being here. Widening the door for her.

 “Please do come in...” He urges. Iris likes the warm cadence to his voice. The distinctive accent of his sounds like honey syrup or spiced cloves. Comforting and rich. A voice that promises nothing but warmth and friendliness in its offering.

 Where he widens the door, Iris catches a glimpse of the exotic threads of his clothing. Something akin to a silk coat covers his top half. Indigo ink silk with buttons that glimmered like raindrops in rain. It’s almost military style in its fashion. He is a lean, towering man with broad shoulders. Though not as powerfully foreboding as the man he serves. His coat covers most of his legs. His knees are clad in loose fitting black trousers of thin substance. Puffy at the knees. Tucked into impressively shiny black boots.

 The sun catches on a bangle on his right wrist when he moves. Hitting against the silk of his peacock blue sleeve. When she stopped in, she sees the coat is embroidered with twirls of silver thread stitched into vines. It was such a beautiful garment. She’s in awe of it.

 She steps in from the cold, thanking him, and the huge house engulfs her. It’s warm for such a colossal place. And she was right. The foyer is entirely marble.

 Marble pointed tile floor. Walnut panelled walls and wainscoting coat the house. Set with gilded gold frames resting on them, surrounding impressive paintings. Black votives of candles stand lit and flickering amber flame. A gigantic mouth of a limestone fireplace is directly ahead on the wall. It’s twice as big as her bedchamber, that one hearth alone. Roaring flames lit within. Around the neatest pile of logs that blazed. Not even a spec of ash was out of place. There’s no decoration. Hardly any vases or relics. That’s strikes her as odd.

 “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He bows his head respectfully and tucks his hands behind his back. “I am Raajaa Jomar. Lord Ren’s butler.” He introduces himself.

 “Pleasure to meet you. Mr. Jomar. I only called by to give Lord Ren a few tokens of gratitude from some local families.”

 He smiles and accepts the baskets from her. “Of course. How kind. Do follow me to wait in the parlour. I will see to finding his lordship.”

 He leads her through the impressive house. Walking her deeper into the expensive bowels of the place. She walks demurely behind him. Aghast at the display of wealth that lines every wall. It hangs in the dripping crystal and spotless chandeliers. The way the tiles underfoot gleam like they’ve been scrubbed mercilessly.

 Paintings ooze oil and grandeur dour wealth from their spots on the walls. Ancient portraits of powdered wigs and styles of the 1700’s. Robes a la Francaise and beauty spots on powdered faces and craggy noses, casting a disapproving eye out at her.

 He brings her to a double door entrance of a richly furnished parlour. Decorated with red and white. Fire roars in the pearl marble of the hearth. She steps onto the fine cushion of a scarlet Aubusson rug. Sees her reflection in the huge antique mirror above the mantel. The room is trimmed in old French antiques. Side tables and end tables around the garnet red settees that bleed gold gild at their tops.

 “Do please make yourself comfortable Miss Ashton. I will arrange for a tray of tea and refreshments be brought to you.” He bows his head politely again.

 She feels like calling out to stop him. She was only here to pay call delivering a basket after all. Which she now sets both things down on the immaculately polished low table, set before her. She sinks into the luxuriously soft settee. Plump velvet feather cushions catch her back and prop her up.

 She feels rather nervous. Here, in this grand place in her shabby coat and ragged boots.

 She’s looking out the white glass of the terrace doors into the finely trimmed dutch gardens. Neat shrubs arranged in symmetrical patterns with paths cutting through to the lawn. A fountain crowns the central spoke of the flowerbeds. Blooming waxy tulips in summer spring up there. In punching reds and fierce oranges.

 In no time whatsoever, a waify scurrying maid appears in the doorway. Thin arms laden with a silver tray of a tea service. She smiles a beaming polite grin over at Iris. Who bids her a good afternoon. She sets the tea and a plate of warm jam tartlets before her, and they discuss the weather. She bobs a cute curtsey when she’s done and nods a parting and a good afternoon at Iris.

 She found it slightly odd to have someone curtsey to her. Sat here in her shabby boots and too-small-pelisse. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Not in cruel jest to the sweet maid’s behaviour- just that in her household, she barely outranked their maids. She helped out with the cooking, the cleaning, as did her sisters.

 That didn’t seem to place her worthy of a curtsey. She had no title after all. Was likely never to bare a title or be among nobility.

 She drinks some of the excellent tea. A fine rich blend no doubt. She nibbles the corner of a sticky jam tartlet and listens as the carriage clock on the mantel strikes twelve. Dinging softly around the opulent room. Along with the crackling of the fire spitting spewing out embers and ash in the hearth.

 She idly awaits company- drains another cup of tea. And stands to better admire the frosted gardens from the big windows. Lifting the scarlet red curtain out of her sight as she admires.

 A different maid enters across the room. Clunking the heavy door. “If you please, Miss. I’ll take you to his Lordship. Mr Jomar says he’d do it himself only on account of him getting caught up chatting to the cook.” She explains.

 Iris leaves her baskets in the parlour on the table. She goes directly with the girl. Who leads her through the house and out across a courtyard, and points to a little track road down to the working stables. She apologised that she had to skip back to the kitchens to attend to some errands. Iris says it’s quite alright. She can find her way from here.

 She walks up the pea-shingle paved road. Seeing the U shaped courtyard ahead, under the stone arch of the gates leading into the stables. Stalls surround the shape of it. Running around the perimeter. She can smell hay and animal sweat and the stench of hops. As she walks closer a repetitive clunking noise rings in her ears. The clatter of wood tumbling onto stone. Coming from the direction she’s intended toward.

 She passes under the arch, cool shade of it tickles the back of her neck. She comes into the clearing of the cobblestoned courtyard. Horses stamp and shift in their stalls surrounding the walls. She spies Erland in his stall. Munching on something he’d recently been fed. Carrots most likely.

 She comes into plain view of the whole stable- and then she lurches right to a sudden stop. A gasp punched out her lungs. Chest seizing up.

 She’s now stood facing a very shirtless Lord.

 Chopping logs with a heavy axe. Blade of it glints wicked sharp in the sun as his thick arms swing it over, crossing it over his body to strike sharp down the centre of the log before him on the stand. The wood tumbled and clunked to the ground.

 Chest gleaming slipping shimmering with sweat from his exertions. Stood in his obsidian breeches and boots to match, even in the winter cool of the courtyard. His shirt lay discarded on the nearest stall door. Folded cotton crumpled there.

 She idly wonders as her eyes take all of his naked state in, why he was doing this himself when he probably had tens of hundreds of servants who could do it for him. She knows she not supposed to look. But she’s seen the bare beauty of him now and her eyes don’t wish to be rid of it-

 She didn’t have any concerns that his frame was in any way unimpressive. But seeing him in such a bare manner merely reconfirmed what she already knew. He is broad in the shoulder, wide at the waist.

 His chest doesn’t taper it remains a solid stack of muscle. His thick thick build of his arms flex. The trapezius lines slipping outwards from either side of his neck are intimidatingly big. As is the reach from his shoulders down over his pectorals.

 He is a hugely broad warrior of a man. Crude. Monumental.

 A few seconds have passed since she stumbled onto the sight of him. Though it felt longer. He raises his eyes to the movement of her. Though he hadn’t needed too. He could sense her walking up the front drive to come to him. Felt her presence here ever since she set foot on his land.

 He unsticks the heavy axe from where it lodged chipping into the wood block stand below the logs he’s cutting up. He lets it hang down by his side. Grins wickedly across at his guest. Wall of muscular chest panting. Abdominal muscles flexing. His breath spirits silver out his smile up into the bitter air.

 His smile is sinful and his eyes are shady with promiscuous motive. “Miss Ashton...” He greets her rakishly.

 Fully aware of what the sight of him will do to her. How much it will stir her blood, get her blushing. The potent effect of him enchanting her lust. Dazzling her weak mortal senses.

 “Your lordship. Do forgive me. I’d no idea you were-um. So-“ Her eyes flicker across to his chest again, darting away quick. But he saw her snatch a look through blushing hot cheeks.

 “Informally attired?” He finishes for her confidently.

 She gulps and nods. “Yes- I do beg your pardon.” She’s now turned three quarters away from him. Giving him a ample view of her profile. Looking rather like she wants to scamper back to the safety of the house. Those pink cheeks and her flustered breathing that pulses out her neck in a sudden unexpected rush of lust... It gets his temper straining at its hold when he senses it.

 It’s captured the side of him that she should absolutely not want to rouse.

 He lays the axe down. Standing it against the brick wall near the log shed. Shifts closer. She can hear his boots scrape on the cobbles. Dusted with hay and splintered wood chipping’s from his laborious work. His fine booted soles crackle and shift with it. He brings his shirt into his free hand. Leaves it folded down by his side.

 “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He seeks smugly.

 Her brain malfunctions. Caught on his choice of word. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure-

 She wills the impertinent thought away.

 Feels him coming closer. The way his eyes stab into her coat. Rake along the back of her neck like dragging flint knives being drawn along her skin. She tries not to shiver too much at the not-entirely-unpleasant sensation.

 “I just paid a call to deliver some tokens of gratitude from obliged Pembleton residents.” She offers.

“There’s um. Port and figs in honey. Some partridges. And some very excellent jam... Miss Smith, The Phillips and us Ashton’s all send our compliments.” She babbles.

 He chuckles warmly. Stepping ever closer. Sparing her blushes and gazes. He slips the rumpled cotton of his shirt over his head and lets it fall, untucked, down to his thighs.

 The open v neck tips to hang between his nipples. Dusky bronze discs of them. And the coarse smattering of dark hair brushes his chest too. She shouldn’t know that about a man.

 “That’s very generous of you. I’m very fond of partridge. Do be sure to thank your family for me. For such a thoughtful offering.” He insists in a drawl that gets her smile increasing.

 She chuckles. Feeling safer about meeting his eyes now. “Miss Smith was delighted. With your assurance of looking out for the murdering beast. She has decided to forgo the extra bolt on her bedroom door.” Iris explains.

 “I fear she’s now quite enamoured with you. She said she means invite you over to take tea, very soon.”

 Kylo raises a brow that instantly told Iris how very ridiculous and inconsequential her found the always-flustered Miss Smith.

 “I might accept the invitation on the provisory condition that you accompany me. To keep me from beating my head against the wall in sheer desperation.” He smarts.

 Iris chuckles lightly. She tries to swallow it down but she can’t.

 “She is a little trying.” She confesses. She was a harmless woman. Just admired the sound of her own voice rabbiting on too much. And she fretted about every beast, man, and creature put on this earth. Everything was cause for suspicion with Miss Smith.

 “She’s the most trying woman in all of the British Empire.” He declares lowly. His smile crooks up on one side.

 Iris thinks for a second. Looking down at her shoes. “I do so hate to disagree with you, your lordship. But I fear that title must instead be awarded to my mother.” She smarts.

 He chuckles rightfully loud. It’s warmer than all the winter sunshine that slopes down on them. Crinkles form near his eyes and his divots beside his mouth.

 “Anyway-“ She begins. “I should take my leave. I’ve lingered far too long. You must have matters to attend...” She smiles. Dipping into a short curtsey. Flicking her eyes back up to him after she does.

 “Nothing so urgent could possibly draw me away the honour of your visit.” He insists. Making unabashed eye contact with her. Face so open and genial. Eyes all melting honey and granite.

 “I wouldn’t wish to importune you.” She says crossing her hands and holding them in front of her.

 One ink brow curves up. “From my incredibly laborious and eventful morning of, chopping firewood?” He lets her infer her own conclusions.

 “Well. I do have errands to take heed of. Back at Westwell.”

 He smiles like the devil. Like he knew how Satan himself leers- which he very truly almost does. He’s seen the closest thing this earth knows to a demon, grin at him. White pearly smile so savage and handsome.

 “Defer them.” He presses nicely. “I promised you a tour did I not? Come take a ride of Hellford Park with me and Erland.”

 Iris swallows. “You wish me to- spend time with you, alone? unchaperoned?” She checks.

 His eyes glow with that savage glimmer once more. The one that makes his eyes look like the most melting shade of black imaginable. Oh yes he did.

 “I promise to be the very saintly soul of propriety.” He pledges. Cupping a hand over the black vacuum where his mortal heart once laid in his big chest.

 “I won’t stand for indulging in any behaviour on my part if it severely discomforts you.” He vows seriously. She believes him. He was respectful enough to let her truly escape this endeavour if she wanted. He would never inopportune a woman for the benefit his own comforts.

 Even if she stirs him up so violently like the way this woman does-

 She tries not to follow where his hand lay on his body with her eyes. Tries not to look at that divine sticky chest again. Her head swims with comparisons of marble Greek gods swimming in salty tepid seas. Emerging dripping from the cobalt ocean.

 She blushes. Yet again her silly female heart betrays her. She hesitates for a second- she should say no. A polite girl would be a shrinking violet and scurry away at such a bold suggestion.

 She should turn her back and apologise profusely, head on back toward the house. She should walk home, the cool air stinging at her hot cheeks. She should go and think about scrubbing their curtains back home. Or arranging flowers. Or donning her apron and helping cook on with peeling the maris pipers in preparation for supper.

 She looks at his eyes again. Words fly from her mouth before her brain comprehends how it came to an answer. He truly was an enchanting creature.

 “I’d be delighted.” She nods bravely.

 It wasn’t what should be done. But it’s what she so desperately wanted to do.

 Westwell has had 23 years of her looking after everyone and everything in it. They can miss her for a meagre few hours whilst she finally puts herself first.

 “Allow me to briefly adjourn and attire myself correctly. Then I’ll see to having the horses tacked up.” He excuses himself. Smiles all wicked, and turns to head for the doorway in the brick wall near the logs he was cutting up.

 She flushed and almost fell faint to a dizzy spell. Seeing his finely muscled back as it lumbered away from her. Slicked with sweat.

 She watched the savage blades of his shoulders, as sharp as that axe blade he’d been swinging. Her eyes stuck on the three slashes of scars that rake deep over the left jutting bone hill of his scapula. Where an animals claws had long ago cut and torn into his skin.

 If she knew just precisely how long ago- she’d faint.

 A time she can’t even comprehend. An age away. An age she’s only studied in books. An age he can moderately remember anymore. It was several centuries past him now.

 He remembers towering pine tree tops scraping at the sky. How bitter bitter snow blazed and churned between the tips. The ruddy tang of houses back then cast solidly out of timber and roofed with straw. The smell of the sticky sap bleeding out the wood. The ash from the open fires and the clog of acrid woodsmoke sunk into the fur pelt he wore around his shoulders. The beast that had scarred him on his back and left him to rot away with fever of the wound. Left Kylo clinging desperately onto life by his dirty fingernails.

 He found that creature. He sunk his knife into that brutes belly and gutted it. He wore that black pelt with savagely earned pride. The gloom of longhouse where feasts, battles, births and politics were celebrated. The place that reeked of ash, the stench of smoking meat and the sour reek of stale urine from the odiferous tannery, when the frigid wind blew and shuddered into the village in the right direction.

 Back breaking labour was crucial for survival. Farming and hunting and warring. Truer dignity in hard work than any of these perfumed dandies of the fashionable ton knew about.

 He’d been brought up in those freezing acetous lands. He’d farmed for oats and barley and rye in the summers. Then one winter, he trained as a soldier. Upholding the honour of his family and willing to go and to defend his people.

 Then he went to war- His fate was violently and horribly rearranged.

 He’d marched right on in to fight a battle from which he’d never return home. Never would he be the same man. He was offered instead, a sweet mercy of a deathless death. And he greedily snatched it with both hands- glutted himself on its chance.

 It was all so different back then. Life was so brutal. Compared to the pomp and ridiculous circumstances the narrow minded people in this village are governed ruthlessly by, by things they think matter.

 When he thinks of the contrasts to the two societies it makes him sick. All the stuffy airs and graces and endless bowing and scraping. Veiled insults cloaked as compliments. Velvet draped over daggers.

 He vastly preferred this world back when it was a more feral one. Atleast then he knew where he stood.

 When there were no falsehoods or lies floating out sugared words from simpering sickening smiles. Here, when one thing was said to his face, quite another was hissed behind his back when he turned. Maybe he was just a relic of a time long since over-maybe maybe maybe.

 He goes into the stable rooms, where he left his jacket and other attire earlier. Luckily there’s a washroom out here that was used on hunts if the work got bloody. He washes himself down from the basin and jug of cold water, and clears away the salt of his sweat. Pats himself dry and redressed in his fine jacket, white shirt and white cravat. Atop a burgundy waistcoat.

 When he steps back out, buttoning his thick wool jacket. Silver buttons blazing proud in the sun, he sees Miss Ashton at Erland’s stall. The stubborn animal nudged into her shoulder again as she strokes his handsome velveteen forehead. Remembering her. Thinking she had more treats to bestow.

 He comes across and chides his horse in the Bavarian tongue he was trained by. “Nett Sein. Erland.” Kylo barks across low at his horse as he walks over. Be kind.

 He then adds, chiding him, that he shouldn’t be disrespectful to ladies. Croons to him. Speaking fluently in his own language. Stroking his nose as the horse turns and nibbles at his masters coat shoulder and snuffles his hair with his hot, hay scented breath. Kylo pats the chunky meat of his solid corded neck.

 She strokes a hand over his silken mane. Hair harshly stiff and bushy under her gloves. Parted to one side over his neck and shoulders as the animal bows his head down for the handful of oats Kylo held out for him. Erland snuffles them up in a mere matter of seconds. Chews on the cud’s and almost headbutts his master for more.

 Miss Ashton laughs. “You were right about his stubborn blood. So I see.”

 “One of the most obstinate beasts on four legs.” Kylo promises with a grin.

 “Would you mind riding one of our mares, Miss Ashton? They are generally easier of temper.”

 “Not at all.” She accepts.

 He steps back and urges her over to the next stall. Here, a shimmering white horse awaits them. Brushed coat glistening the way untarnished snow lays sparkling in the sun. Bright and pure.

 This horses mane and snout is an ash grey. The same colour bleeds up past her fetlocks. There’s some dappled patches of pebble grey also on her flanks and rear. She was the sweetest mare with the softest temperament. She stays in her stall but gently cautiously seeks Kylo’s hand to eat the food her offered her. He strokes her neck fondly.

 “This is Kana. Shortened from the old Norse word for Birch tree.” Kylo’s introducing her. The mares ears twitch with her mentioned name. “So named, if I recall because her coat resembles the colours of the trunk.”

 “She’s beautiful.” Iris insists. Rubbing up the flag bone between her eyes. Kana appreciates the caress with an equine little snort.

 Across from them. The stable boy has brought Erland out his stable to tack him for their ride. Kylo and Iris stay stroking the sweet white mare. Stood at her stall.

 “Do you ride them out often?” She asks.

 “Every morning with Erland if I can manage it. Sometimes at night too. If sleep evades me.” He tells. Sleep always evades him. The one curse of immortality.

 “This poor old girl deserves as good a chance as any to stretch her legs.” He smiles.

 Another stable hand comes out and gently leads the white mare from her stall. She stands quietly as she’s tacked. Erland however? He pounded the cobbled floor with a scraping hoof and was twitching with excitement to be ridden. He bays and snorts and huffs until he gets his way.

 When his bridle and bit are slipped on, Kylo steps over and soothingly rubs his shoulder. “You, are an intemperate old beast.” He chides to his horse, as the stable boy lifts the fender to secure the cinch strap around Erland’s strong belly.

 After they’ve tacked her mare, the stable boys see to their other work. Bidding them a good ride. Kylo leaves Erland for a moment and steps around Kana to help Miss Ashton safe into the saddle.

 He takes her hand as she holds her skirts decently and levies herself up to her horses height via a handy wooden footstool. There is still a shimmering spark of contact when his hand closes around hers to hold. Even though they are both wearing gloves. The thrill of it is wilder and more potent than ever.

 She sets herself side-saddle. Takes the reins in her gloved hands. Gets used to the sturdy solid weight of the animal beneath her.

 Lord Ren heads back to Erland and hoists himself onto his strong back. In all his tall glory he didn’t need assistance into the saddle.

 He leads their walk out under the stone arch of the stables, and into the winter sunshine. He pulls Erland up flush to her and Kana’s side when the path widens out.

 They walk a to a slow paced trot through the dewy grass, that follows along the merry ash and taupe brown of the silver and white of birch winter woodland to their right. He was entirely correct about Kana. The sweet horse was gentle and unassuming in her nature.

 Iris sighs happily as she sees the sunlight cast an enchanting amber through all those pale trees. The waxy nectar of tulips drifting in the air from the Dutch gardens nearby. It was like something beautiful out of a dream.

 “You were right about the beauty of the ride. Your Lordship.” Iris remarks as she watches the amber stripes slope through the birches.

 He turns his head and catches that very same view she’d remarked on. He’d seen a million woodlands in his life. Over numerous centuries. And the place he spawned from was between tall pines and a ground eaten up thick with snow. He’s seen every copse of nature on every continent that exists. This view was stale to him. But he appreciates her admiration of it.

 “I suppose it is.” He says offhand.

 “What made you choose to settle at Hellford Park?” She asks him. “If that’s not an impertinence.” She adds. Smoothing her grey gloved hand over Kana’s neck.

 He smiles. “The house seemed of a decent size. The land holdings were vast. And I appreciate having my own space away from society. My worst nightmare is being wedged into a modern townhouse in London. With all the smog and the ton being rammed down my neck. I far prefer the country. The quieter pace of life.” He tells her.

 “Easier for hunting and sport...” He adds.

 “I feel easier knowing nature is on my doorstep. I need only walk out and be in it.” He explained.

 “I can’t bear the thought of a town life. I bless every year that my family haven’t the capital to rent a place in town.” Iris tells him. Probably not something she should admit. But she felt like her honesty was safe with him.

 “The most of town I’ve ever seen is a season in Bath when I debuted at sixteen. We managed to stay with my aunt and cousins. I thank heavens we’ve never repeated the experience.” He makes a firm sound of fond agreement.

 “I’ve seen the way you take to country life.” Kylo smiles at her. She nods across at him.

 “Same as you. Your Lordship. I appreciate the peace and quiet. Able to go and walk in the woods and be where my thoughts and wishes are my own. No one else’s expectations get forced upon me.” She says.

 “Nothing I like better to soothe my mind than walking around the Hampshire wilderness...” She comments as they head along a lane under a glade of golden elm trees.

 “I hope you don’t going adventuring out after dark, Miss Ashton. Even such tame country places can grow afoul after nightfall.” He warns her. Even in this genial little village he’s glimpsed the vile echelons of scum hereabouts.

 “Oh. I never run errands outside Westwell after dark.” She puts his mind at ease. “Mother thinks my evenings are best spent extensively reading of the Mirror of the graces and better improving my embroidery.” She tells him.

 He’s honest in his answering remark. Where most men she associated with would call her fine and sensible for indulging in etiquette novels. Kylo can’t think of anything more intrepid.

 “I can think of a million better ways in which I’d rather indulge my evenings.” He offers sincerely.

 “I don’t tell her that I often escape to my room to read my Johnathan Swift novel and to get a bit of peace away from her and my sisters.” She says with glad derision.

 Kylo smiles at her. “A far better use of your time, I’m certain.” He tells her.

 “Do you have any family?” She asks. And then she winces. “Sorry if I’m irritating you with nagging questions-“

 He smiles. He’ll answer any question she aims his way.

 “I did. A long time ago. It’s just me left now.” He imparts.

 She glances back at the gigantic house of Hellford. Save for staff, he had no one in it.

 “Doesn’t that ever get lonely?” She’s asking.

 “Don’t you?” He questions back nicely. Melting eyes catching hers. Sunlight spun them to amber glowing off dark walnut.

 She can’t help but nod. She doesn’t have many friends in this world. She has a greek harpy for a mother - talons, scales forked tongue and all. Her sisters were about as dense to understand as a Chelsea boot. Air headed and with no substance. And her father, loving though he is, is usually preoccupied in his study or being bullied down by mother. She doesn’t really have anyone.

 “I’ve never been left alone a day in my life. I’m permanently surrounded by noise and people yet- I’ve always felt... lonely.” She admits. Looking down to her hands where she held Kana’s reins.

 “It’s a privilege to finally have liberty to be able to express that to another living creature.” She smiles gladly at him.

 Kylo looks over at her. Brow furrowed. She does so many things for other people. She cares after every member of her dratted family. And she’s got this two tonne grey weight of sadness pressing down on her shoulders.

 It’s no secret he doesn’t care for the piddling and idle emotions of fleeting mere humans. But he so cares for her.

 “You never have to feel lonely if you don’t wish too.” He offers.

 “You have my confidence. And all that my acquaintance and friendship can offer to you. Miss Ashton.” Whether she likes it or not- she does. She has it. He firmly and fondly tells her so.

 “I’m very thankful for it. Vastly thankful.” She promises. “I could use a friend just now. With all the terrible circumstances happening in Pembleton.” She relays with a note of grimness.

 Erland snorts. Kylo pats his neck to sooth him. “Yes. The uh- madman Miss Smith raves about.” He recalls. “I’m sure it is the imaginings of her overworked mind.” He tells.

 Iris supposed that was a very accurate statement. Kylo had only met the awful woman once, too. And he already had sussed her flighty panicked character. That spoke volumes of her temperament.

 “Not to make mention of the supposed wolf thats said to be stalking these parts...” She adds.

 “An exaggerated tale, do you think?” He asks.

 “Well. I do subscribe to my fathers notion that wolves did die out centuries ago- but who knows? An animal that big and vicious, I’m all astonishment it hasn’t been spotted before now. This is a farming county. There’s poultry and livestock for the taking. Why would it bother with drunkards in the middle of the forest.”

 “Easier to stalk. And pick out- I imagine.” He smiles just a little. His gleaming eyes hold back his many dark secrets.

 He hears her inhale a shaky breath. He hears her throat pulsing next to him.

 “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” He starts. “Of the alleged wolf. If, heaven forfend, there is one.” He surmised.

 “Why ever not?” She searches. Face pulled back. A little shocked.

 “Because wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them. The reason those men were attacked? They were half clumsy, gone on drink and weakly vulnerable.” He tells.

 Iris swallows. Brings Kana to a stop. “Lord Ren...” She gulps. “You talk as if you-“

 She takes a deep breath to fortify herself. “As if you know of such a thing...” She finally remarks.

 He stops Erland and doesn’t shy - from her glance or her question.

 “I know merely how wolves operate. Miss Ashton. Nothing more.” He says openly.

 Of course he does. She thinks stupidly. His home. Back in Bavaria. He said it was surrounded by wolves. He’s no doubt seen some people succumb to the packs of them.

 There’s silence for a minute as Kana and Erland chew at their bits. Clacking and shifting its crunch in the air. Erland leans his head over and snuffles Kanas snout. The creak of leather eases out in a squeak from The reins in Kylo’s hands.

 She nods. Cheeks beating. The shame of foolishness slithering up her spine. “Forgive me-“

 “I would if there was something to forgive.” He smiles.

 She ducks her head. Cheeks pink as she tips her chin to her chest. She sighs in bliss as she looks out at the open field before them. Before she gets a niggling flare of a brilliant yet stubborn idea in her head.

 “For once in my life...” She insists, almost angrily, Kylo’s eyes shift to how she shoves herself, adjusting on Kana’s saddle. She bunches her skirts. Leans back and he sees a flash of a white cotton chemise and pearly wool stockings as she swings her legs over, the both of them now astride the saddle.

 “I intend to do something completely and utterly dishonourable and unfeminine.” She says.

 Kylo’s smiling at the sight of her skirts draped up almost over her calves where she’s sat on the horse. He watches her adjust the reins in her hands and skip her feet into the solid stirrups.

 With a gentle kick into Kana’s flank she braces herself on the horse, as the mare proceeds to lurch into a gallop, breaking into the frosty meadow in front of them. Her blue coat flaps behind her. Kylo smiles after her lead. Adjusts Erland’s reins and spurs him on after her.

 For just that afternoon, for just those heart pumping minutes of uninterrupted bliss- Iris feels the sun bleaching onto her face, and the wind stinging and ripping at her hair. She feels her body and her soul stirring. For just those few minutes, she doesn’t feel like a trapped suffocating girl. Like a toy being manoeuvred in the dolls house that was her strict life.

 They gallop up the field and through another one. Coming up a trail that rises onto a hill in the sunny wood. She slows down when she gets to the top. Lord Ren catches up behind her. Erland could really get up a speed when he got going.

 She comes to a stop where the hill levels out. Looking across all the acres of Hellford park. She’s still winded from the ride. Sun and wind having kissed her cheeks a bright pink. Where she ducked past low branches in the forest, Kylo spies a green leaf nestled captured in her hair. Making her comparable to some frolicking wood nymph.

 He draws Erland up by her and Kana’s side. Listens to her panting as they take in the view of Hellford together.

 “Truly is a beautiful house, your lordship. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

 “A truly fine prospect.” He agrees. Looking out at all his wealth. All his grandeur and land.

 “Finest land holding in all of England I expect.” She smiles. Still panting for breath. He can hear how her blood beats like sweet syrup around her body. He can smell her skin and he is just- a man whose found heaven on earth.

 “Indeed it is. Nothing quite like it.” He admits. Iris doesn’t see how he turned to look and admire her rather than the view. Intoxicated by the tug and pulse of the artery her throat. It thunders her neck and it’s all he can hear or think about.

 Kissing her. Tasting her neck. Her skin. The subtle perfume of her body. Her caresses.

 He might aswell be a man half starved-wild at this point.

 They ride back to the stables. Slowly together. Conversing along the way. She changes back to side saddle as they get closer - didn’t wish for his stable hands to catch sight of her and remark on how unladylike she’d been.

 Kylo slips off Erland and hands him across to be untracked. He marches up to Kana’s side and takes Iris’s hand to help her slip down from the mares saddle.

 Only, fate seems determined to drive them into each other’s arms at every foreseeable opportunity. Her skirts snag on the pommel and this makes her fall onto her feet too fast.

 Kylo’s there to catch her. She’s once again, wedged now between Kana’s back and his chest. She thuds down to the ground with a soft “oof.” Escaping her lungs.

 That escalated when she looked up and found him so, brilliantly close. He towers over her, he’s twice her width in his shoulders alone. But he’s gazing at her so tenderly. His hand had shot to her waist to steady her outside her coat. The span of it reaches from her ribs almost to her hip.

 It’s somehow more dizzying to be nearer him now she’s seen what form lies under those clothes. The sheer immensity of this man.

 He looks up into her hair and smiles a tipped up curl of a crooked grin. His fingers reach up and skim away the leaf caught in her hair. She blushes and laughs a little when he shows her.

 She touched over the spot his fingers had skimmed. The skin still burned with heat and cold from the leather of his gloves.

 “I had the most pleasant afternoon.” She encourages. Swallowing nervously again. He can smell her hot throat. Her hot bare throat and it’s addictive- to be so close as this to his biggest temptation.

 “Thankyou very much for your hospitality, Your Lordship.” She adds.

 “And you for yours.” He thanks her for the baskets she’d bought. He breaks the trance. Turns back and calls to one of the stable boys to ready the carriage to take Miss Ashton home.

 “Oh, please. You needn’t bother. I don’t mind the walk.” She tries to fuss

 “I insist on seeing a lady safely home. It is all of five miles from here to Westwell.” He announces. She smiles in gratitude.

 He parts with her at the coach door, after it’s brought around. He holds her spare hand as her other clutches at her skirts and she steps up into the scarlet black box of it- to think on all that had passed between them since she first saw this coach mere days ago.

 If only she knew how much-

 He kisses her hand in parting. “A delight as ever, Miss Ashton. I do hope you visit Hellford again.” He urges.

 “As do I.” She beams back. Leaning forwards to look at him through the carriage door. He smiles before he steps away. Hands behind his back again. He nods to the driver, who cracks the whip on the horses and the coach lurches away. Takes her home. Safe away from him.

 She passes the ride to Westwell in his comfortable carriage, remarking with a sly smile to herself about the pleasantness of the afternoon. Looking out the window as the carriage shakes and cracks and tumbled speedily along the road, she noticed how the sun is dipping low into a evening sky. Misty purple and burnt peach copper. She wonders if she’s been missed at all.

 As soon and she alights the coach, thank’s the driver and slips inside Westwell’s front door. No sooner than she pushes the door shut, flat to her back on the wood to close it. And she is ambushed by her mother.

 The foyer is dark save for the amber fire. Daylight dies in the window frames. Here there is gloom waiting for her. Her crushing boa of a life wraps around her neck again.

 She is greeted with a pursed thin lipped glare of displeasure. Mother rips herself up to a stand from the armchair by the fire and snaps her book to slam shut. Loudly. Like a slap. Looking across at her daughter.

 Happiness shatters in her chest like a glass vase being dropped. The splinters and shards clog up her once happy heart.

 “Where in the devil’s name have you been?” She demands to know.

 “Paying call to Lord Ren.” Iris says. Moving into the house. Intending for the stairs. She doesn’t wish to be bitten by this poisonous viper. Not tonight. She’s had such a wonderful day to reflect on.

 “I beg your pardon?” Her mother remarks.

 “You heard me perfectly well.” Iris says flatly.

 “I dropped off the basket Mrs Phillips and Miss Smith sent to him in gratitude.” She adds in explanation.

 “I can’t think what gratitude they could possibly owe to that man.” She curses.

 “Why do you think so ill of him? What possible vexation has he caused you?” Iris accuses.

 “Pray tell why do you praise him so?” Her mother narrows her eyes.

 “He is a kind man. And he has the phenomenal benefit of having a working brain unlike all the preening idiots I usually have to comport myself in front of.” Iris explains.

 “I will not tolerate anymore stupidity. Think of our reputation to uphold. You were gone half of the afternoon. And I’d no clue as to where. And now you’re telling me you were in the company of a man, unchaperoned?” She shrills.

 “Yes I was.” Iris spits out plainly. “And there was no impropriety in it. Before you start accusing me of that.” She adds.

 Lifting her skirts and beginning to stomp away up the stairs. Mouth bitter and full of anger dashed with sadness. Mourning her beautiful day.

 “Do you have any idea what this could do to us? To our family name? Running around unsupervised with a man like that-”

 Iris turns back. Fuming. Hair wild. Eyes bright with rage. Glittering spitfire red from the hearth.

 “For once in my life, mother. I did not think! And I was glad of it! I did not need reminding of the fact you use me as a chess piece for this family’s hopes. Seizing my skirts and dragging me from square to square to make sure I catch a man of fortune and hale breeding.” Iris fairly yells. Voice scraping hoarse through her throat.

 Her mother stands in the foyer like some grim harbinger of doom in her plum muslin dress that looks black in the gloom. Her face sternly cross and icy at her daughters outburst. Her pale claw of a bony hand gripping the banister.

 “You will not associate with him again.” She tells stonily.

 “I wrote to Armitage Hux today. He travels back from London tomorrow and I’ve stated he is excessively welcome to come to tea.” She explains.

 “You will put on your best dress and make him welcome. And let him entertain the idea of a marriage match. Don’t be a fool Iris. A man like Lord Ren would never wish for your hand. Learn that now and be done with it. It’s time you took our family situation seriously.” She comments with finality.

 She takes her hand off the banister and walks away. Words ringing in her ears like knives stabbing at her brain.

 Iris’ pounding heart hardens over with grey nausea and glass shards that stab her lungs. Her eyes flood with quivering and filling up of silvery tears.

 She slips up the wooden stairs to her room and collapses into great fits of tears. Muffling her sobs with her hand. She wipes off her face and her stinging eyes.

 Kylo felt her dread, all those miles away at Hellford Park. He felt it like a punch to the gut. 

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~ 

[lesgenouxdanslegif]

QUE LE PETIT PAPA NOEL PUISSE APPORTER.

- Une tronçonneuse pour les cheveux de Thibaut Baronian. La même chose pour ceux de Grégoire Curmer.

- Un retour fracassant à Caroline Chaverot. La même chose pour Mimmi Kotka. Et aussi pour Rory Bosio.

- Un système digestif digne de ce nom à Jim Walmsley.

- Deux talons neufs à Ludovic Pommeret. Un échange talons/estomac avec Jim est envisageable.

- Une casquette à Rémi Bonnet.

- Une Hardrock 100 à la Hardrock 100.

- Une Barkley terminée à Courtney Dauwalter.

- Une leçon particulière sur le thème « courir sans ses bâtons » pour Xavier Thevenard afin qu’il puisse claquer un Grand Raid de La Réunion.

- Une résurrection pour Anton Krupicka. Amen.

- Une âme pour celles et ceux qui grattent 3 paires de chaussures et qui font semblant d’être sponso.

- Un record du GR20 pour Lambert Santelli.

- Le DVD du film « La Moustache » à Philippe Propage.

- Un beau livre sur les oiseaux pour Camille Herron et Blandine L'hirondel.

- Un dossard à François D'haene. Et une poubelle pour jeter son bob.- Un défaut à Emelie Forsberg.

- Un aller simple pour l’enfer à ce putain de virus.- Un(e) athlète à emmener là-haut, tout en haut, à Jean-Louis Bal. Les vrais savent.

- Un bavoir pour Gédéon Pochat.

- Trois brindilles, une ficelle et du scotch à Stéphane Brogniart afin qu’il puisse construire une fusée.

- Un job à Ugo Ferrari.

- L’entrée dans le circuit de course d’orientation pour le Grand Raid de La Réunion.

- Le livre « le miracle de la marche » à Zach Miller.

- Un gros titre pour sustenter Sylvain Cachard. Il a faim, déconne pas Papa Noël.

- Une friteuse à Michel Lanne.

- Un postiche à Nicolas Martin. On peut éventuellement reprendre les cheveux de Thibaut Baronian ou Grégoire Curmer.

- Un grand sac pour que l’Echappée Belle puisse ranger les cailloux qui traînent.

- Un petit chat trop mimi à Joe Grant. Les vrais savent.

- Un bol de glaires à avaler tous les matins pour les dopés.- Une intervention de Pascal le grand frère à Kilian Jornet pour qu’il arrête ses conneries et qu’il puisse revenir sur le droit chemin : LA MONTAGNE.

On vous souhaite de joyeuses fêtes et de ne pas tomber sur l’huître qui fait sprinter vers les chiottes. Ça serait con de se claquer un ischio.

Photo Alexis Berg

[erisis]

So, I made hot sauce with the superhot peppers I was given! I worked from a blend of a couple different recipes I found and some ideas from friends. I roasted the ghost and scotch bonnet peppers with a jalapeño and a couple of poblanos in a VERY WELL VENTILATED kitchen. I also roasted an onion, a build of garlic and a carrot. Put it all in a food processor. Added cider vinegar, fresh lime juice, very dark local maple syrup, and salt. Then some white vinegar. And some more white vinegar. Then a little more white vinegar. And some water. The hot sauce was super successful! It’s very tasty! And juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusssst tolerable! Here’s the finished product! And for the record, that amount on the spoon is probably a regrettable amount. #hotsauce #superhotpeppers #ghostpepper #scotchbonnet #poblanopeppers #foodie #homecooking #homemadehotsauce #maplesyrup #newenglander #masshole (at Northampton, Massachusetts) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFie3aRHy7q/?igshid=4ca2al12g48s

[raid-crew]

(Scotch Bonnet Records)

[jenapaul]

(Scotch Bonnet Records)

[noizecode-blog]

Mungo’s Hi Fi – Rules of the Dance Ft. Charlie P (Kahn Remix) Get Mungo's Hi Fi - Rules of the Dance Ft. Charlie P (Kahn Remix) Here! ---

[discoattack]

Mungo's Hi Fi Ft Johnny Clarke - Rain Keeps On Falling

[booomwhadis]

Stalawa ft Nazizi - Ukiangalia [2019]. Amazing new version of the Tempo riddim, created in an East-African/Scottish collaboration

(YT link)

[peckhampeculiar]

Straight to the sauce

SALES OF HOT SAUCE ARE SOARING, WITH MOUTHWATERING VARIETIES FLYING OFF THE SHELVES LIKE NEVER BEFORE.

Three producers from Peckham and Camberwell talk about their homegrown recipes and why so many people do indeed like it hot

WORDS: HELEN GRAVES PHOTO: LIMA CHARLIE

Chillies are loved around the world for their unique flavour, wide-ranging heat levels and the buzz they give us as we add ever-increasing amounts to our food. The hot sauce business is booming, with lots of independent producers simmering, fermenting and blending chillies before funnelling them into handy, shakeable bottles.

Jen Ferguson, co-founder of Hop Burns & Black, said her business is enjoying a bumper year for hot sauce, with revenue from hot sauce sales in the East Dulwich Road shop alone up by 54% in the first three months of this year compared to the same period in 2018.

From the mild, everyday cayenne-based sauces to those made with the beautiful but serious scotch bonnets we see every day on Rye Lane, people can’t get enough of these spicy additions.

Now, three local brands – Peckham Sauce Co, Disco Hot Sauce and Slow Richie’s – are making names for themselves with their addictive homegrown recipes. Exactly how does one end up in the hot sauce business?

Archie Woodward of Peckham Sauce Co got into it through his love of fermentation, originally just making gifts for friends and family. A combination of “trial and error mixed with serendipity” led him to “create a unique fermented hot sauce that was like nothing [he’d] ever tasted”.

After doing some research and finding there were very few other fermented sauces on the market, he decided to use his background in marketing to launch a new business and has “never looked back”.

Just down the road in Camberwell, Jen Katan and Oli Kissick-Jones of Disco Hot Sauce were inspired by the scotch bonnet bounty so freely available in this corner of south-east London. “We were walking home from a night out and decided we wanted a late-night snack with some decent hot sauce but knew we were out of our usual fridge stock,” Oli explains.

“There’s always the opportunity to buy scotch bonnets from any of the late-night convenience stores so at 2am we embarked on making some of our own. We both have a lot of energy so we figured, what better time to knock some up?”

For brothers Richie and Alex Calver of Slow Richie’s it was a case of developing their established street-food brand, loved for their giant, juicy burgers and now their “hog kitchen” at Brick Brewery.

“Having had a career as a chef before starting Slow Richie’s, I believe in making food from scratch using fresh ingredients, not just opening a packet or jar,” explains Richie. “We were raised on spicy foods, so all our hot sauces contain a hefty amount of chillies.”

This includes that ever-present scotch bonnet, which they blend into their “Blenheim Black” with Brick Brewery’s Blenheim Black ale, where its fruitiness balances well with the bitter hops.

In fact, all three producers are huge fans of the chilli so familiar to residents of this part of London, with the Peckham Sauce Co fermenting their Batch One hot sauce with the bobbly, lantern-shaped bonnets as well as Dutch chillies, paprika, coriander, mustard seeds and garlic. This produces a sauce that is fresh and hot but aromatic too. “Some people say it’s quite similar to ’nduja [the spicy Calabrian sausage], which I can kind of see,” Archie muses.

Jen and Oli make their Disco Hot Sauce with a heavy dose of turmeric in addition to the scotch bonnets, inspired by a trip Jen took to Panama, where she fell in love with a “scotch bonnet-based hot sauce with mustard, fresh vegetables and herbs like onion, garlic and lots of turmeric. They serve it everywhere and keep it in recycled whiskey bottles.”

She resolved to come back and make a version of the sauce, albeit with a special “London twist” that includes English mustard.

With the hot sauce market crammed full of products, these cooks focus on small batches produced with high quality ingredients. “All of our chillies come from Rwanda,” explains Archie.

“We work closely with a few farms out there because the quality is second to none and it’s less than 24 hours from picking to landing at Gatwick. From there they get chopped down to a mash, then we chuck in salt along with our favourite herbs and spices. We then seal up the barrel and let it sit for at least one month but it can be up to three. Once that’s complete all we do is blend down the barrel and throw in some vinegar.”

At Slow Richie’s, all sauces are handmade in the kitchen at Dulwich Hamlet football club and they often take things one step further by working with high quality local producers.

In addition to their collaborations with Brick Brewery, they’ve made sauces with Gosnells mead (a green cayenne number) and Kanpai sake (roasted chilli and horseradish). Richie also cultivates some of the chillies at home for “small batch sauces”, including the fearsome Carolina Reaper, which currently holds the Guinness World Record for the hottest chilli pepper on the planet (it has been claimed that other chillies are spicier but this has not been confirmed by Guinness).

So what’s the best way to enjoy these sauces? Slow Richie’s, unsurprisingly, suggests trying it on their swine-based sandwiches at the brewery. Their behemoth Black Hog sandwich is made with slow-roast pork, black pudding and their Original Hot Sauce, while the Classic Hog comes with an impressive shard of crackling and their sweet-spicy chilli apple sauce (see their Instagram page @slowrichies for incredible photos that should come with a trigger warning for the hungry). Diners can then buy a bottle to take away and douse their sandwiches for ever more.

For Archie at Peckham Sauce Co, a bacon sandwich is number one. “It’s my favourite thing about the weekend,” he says. “I also made a Batch One braised short rib, which was pretty mind-blowing and the recipe for that is over on our Instagram [@peckhamsauceco] if you want to check it out. Batch Two [their habanero, yellow pepper and peach sauce] is pretty decent on tacos because you get a good hit of sweet, tangy spice.”

Jen and Oli are less specific, saying: “We eat it on literally everything! We also experiment with recipes and post the creations on our Instagram [@discohotsauce]. Last Saturday we made a spicy cod and fried egg ‘disco bap’ for breakfast and drenched that with Disco Hot Sauce. We add it to mayo for a spicy mayonnaise.

“It can also be used in salad dressings to add a kick, or as a flavour enhancer in a stew. We’ve also been experimenting with drinks too – a Disco Michelada went down a treat during the summer and the Disco Mary was on the drinks menu at the Montpelier pub last summer. We’re hoping to introduce it to the White Horse menu very soon.”

All the producers clearly have strong ties to Peckham’s creative community. “Being a local in south-east London has been brilliant for discovering food entrepreneurialism and connecting our favourite dance haunts and music networks with the sauce,” Jen enthuses.

It turns out the name Disco Hot Sauce comes from a combined passion for music and chillies. “I’ve worked in the music industry most of my life for labels such as Universal and currently Kobalt’s AWAL,” explains Oli. “I still DJ regularly and spent my early London days running dance parties and hanging out in late-night discotheques.”

“So much has changed in the six years Peckham has been home,” Richie says. “In that time the food and drink scene has grown massively and it’s been great being a part of it. There’s a real festival feeling in the area throughout the summer months; from the rooftops to Peckham Rye Park, everyone is having a great time. There’s very little reason to leave the area these days, with so much going on.”

Archie agrees: “I live in Peckham and it’s the best place in London – there’s literally no other place I’d rather be. There’s always so much going on, with new places popping up and exciting events. There’s very few places where you have it all and I think Peckham is one of them. The day I have to leave will be a very sad day.”