#You delightful nautical stereotype

[sub-ignis]

[nkyangiehomes]

A Guide to Kids Bedroom Styles

In today's modern world, kids' bedrooms are more than just places to sleep; they are sanctuaries of imagination, comfort, and self-expression. At AngieHomes, we understand the importance of creating a space where children can thrive and feel inspired. That's why we've put together this comprehensive guide to help you discover the perfect style for your child's bedroom.

Classic Kids Bedroom Style Classic kids' bedroom style evokes a sense of timeless elegance and sophistication. Characterized by graceful lines, ornate detailing, and soft color palettes, classic bedrooms are reminiscent of fairy tales and storybooks. Traditional furniture pieces, such as sleigh beds and antique dressers, create a sense of nostalgia and charm, while plush textiles and delicate accents add warmth and comfort.

Modern Kids Bedroom Style Modern kids' bedroom style embraces clean lines, minimalist design, and a sleek aesthetic. Simple yet stylish furniture pieces, such as platform beds and modular storage units, create a sense of space and openness, making them ideal for smaller rooms. Bold pops of color, geometric patterns, and quirky accessories add personality and flair, while smart storage solutions keep clutter at bay.

Bohemian Kids Bedroom Style Bohemian kids' bedroom style is all about free-spirited creativity and eclectic charm. Inspired by the carefree lifestyle of bohemian travelers, these bedrooms are characterized by a mix of textures, patterns, and colors. Think vibrant tapestries, macramé wall hangings, and plush floor cushions that create a cozy and inviting atmosphere, perfect for imaginative play and relaxation.

Scandinavian Kids Bedroom Style Scandinavian kids' bedroom style embraces simplicity, functionality, and natural materials. Clean lines, neutral color palettes, and minimalist decor create a sense of calm and tranquility, while cozy textiles and warm wood accents add a touch of warmth and coziness. Scandinavian-inspired bedrooms are designed to promote restful sleep and peaceful dreams, with soft lighting and clutter-free spaces.

Coastal Kids Bedroom Style Coastal kids' bedroom style captures the relaxed, breezy vibe of seaside living. Soft hues of blue and white, natural textures, and nautical accents create a serene and tranquil space, reminiscent of lazy summer days by the shore. Weathered wood furniture, seashell decor, and beach-inspired artwork bring the beauty of the coast indoors, allowing kids to escape to their own private beach retreat.

Industrial Kids Bedroom Style Industrial kids' bedroom style embraces urban-inspired design elements and raw, unfinished materials. Exposed brick walls, metal accents, and reclaimed wood furniture create a rugged yet stylish aesthetic, perfect for adventurous young explorers. Industrial-inspired lighting fixtures and bold artwork add a sense of drama and intrigue, while practical storage solutions keep clutter at bay.

Gender-Neutral Kids Bedroom Style Gender-Neutral kids' bedroom style challenges traditional notions of gender and embraces inclusivity and diversity. Neutral color palettes, versatile furniture, and unisex decor create a space that feels welcoming to children of all genders. Gender-neutral bedrooms celebrate individuality and encourage self-expression without conforming to gender stereotypes.

Conclusion Designing the perfect kids' bedroom is a delightful opportunity to unleash creativity and imagination. Whether you prefer classic elegance, modern simplicity, or bohemian flair, there's a style to suit every taste and personality. By combining thoughtful design choices with practical solutions, you can create a space that inspires, comforts, and nurtures your child's growth and development.

[vagrantblvrd]

Cat Scratch Fever (1/1)

Summary: It’s possible that Trevor’s bitten off more than he can chew.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Trevor rolls his eyes at the goon’s delighted little chuckle. Such a clever joke, as though Trevor hasn’t heard it before.

Notes: Prompt fill for @rhinnie who asked for Alfreyco. (And also went and reblogged this and my brain was like "Oh, hey, Catwoman!Trevor" because those damn gloves.)

This is like. An alternate version of that AU we've been tossing back and forth, so yes.

AO3

It’s possible that Trevor’s bitten off more than he can chew.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Trevor rolls his eyes at the goon’s delighted little chuckle. Such a clever joke, as though Trevor hasn’t heard it before.

There’s a burn in his thighs – he’s really let himself go, hasn't he? Gotten soft the last little while, and there was a reason he didn’t linger on his reflection in the mirror before setting out tonight. (The suit is skintight, after all, and offers no mercies.)

Soft or not, muscle memory is a beautiful thing and he’s not so out of practice that he doesn’t know what to do next. Flash drive of vital information tucked away safely in a compartment on his belt, sharp little claws that pop out when he flexes his hands just so, the right amount of pressure along the mechanism and he swings out of cover and starts his run.

Fast and light on his feet as he uses an overturned crate to launch him towards the goon. Big burly gentleman with questionable facial hair and atrocious fashion choices – those boots with that tactical vest? Appalling. (He knows it’s stereotyping, but he can’t imagine the brute has good dental hygiene when he looks like that.)

The goon starts to turn, and Trevor grins as he sees the flicker of surprise on his face before he strikes. Hand flashing out to the strap of the weapon, claws catching in the weave before he wrenches and they slice through.

Jerks, and the rifle goes clattering somewhere off to their left, and Trevor follows up wth a closed fist because the classics never go out of style. (That, and he doesn't want to maim the man. This isn't personal, after all.)

The goon grunts, staggering back a step and Trevor puts more of his weight behind the next blow, and the poor bastard finally drops.

Trevor pauses to check that the goon’s still breathing, not about to die on him and continues on his way out of the building quick as he can. The noise will draw other guards, and Trevor’s not stupid enough to stick around to see it.

Not when he’s gotten what he came here for.

Outside the city is loud and dirty and a jarring difference from the quiet confines of the office building. Disorienting, almost, but Trevor keeps moving. Passes by the little alcove where he left a folded up trench coat and trendy little fedora and strolls casually to a side street where the battered little car he’s...acquired waits patiently.

Beaten up thing, scratched and faded paint and a stubbornness to it he admires because it refuses to quit on him. Struggles up the slightest incline, gears grinding when he shifts gears, but by God does it keep trucking along.

========

Technically, Trevor’s retired.

Left the business a few years ago and settled down with a nice boy.

Trevor had his job working at an animal clinic (ha, ha, ha) and Alfredo worked for a security firm in the city. (Oh, the irony.)

They’d been happy, or so Trevor thought. Pair of idiots getting by best they could. Someone he played off perfectly, Fredo always willing to roll with whatever insanity Trevor got caught up and vice versa, but then -

Oh, but then.

Alfredo slowly pulling away, citing problems at work and Trevor hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. But then it got worse, to the point they rarely saw each other throughout the day. Phone calls went to voice mail, went ignored and he’d thought – thought -

Well.

He’d thought it was Alfredo losing interest, getting tired of Trevor and letting him piece it all together on his own.

This horrible feeling that that Trevor had been wrong about him all this time. His judgment flawed for not being able to see Alfredo as the kind of boy who’d just let things between them wither and die, and that had hurt far more than he expected it to.

Trevor muddling along like he wasn’t hurting, confused and stupid and naive for the first time in years.

And then he’d gotten a text from an old work buddy and an attached news article with a picture of Alfredo front and center with one of the biggest criminal names in the country.

One of many millionaires out west who lorded it over the city with his extravagant lifestyle and supposed stable of pretty, nubile things, and suddenly Alfredo in the mix.

Not exactly what he’d expected when Alfredo said he was headed to Los Santos.

And maybe there was some anger burning at the bottom of Trevor’s fragile little heart at everything that had happened.

So.

To Los Santos it was, that fire safe hidden under the floorboard in their bedroom closet cracked wide open and his old suit packed up along with a few essentials for the flight to the Golden State in search of answers he probably wouldn’t like.

========

Trevor’s not bad when it comes to computers, manages to get through the encryption on the files he’d stolen and sifts through them.

The motel room he’s staying in is small and dirty and cramped and he hates it. Hates this city full of people like him (worse than) and the fact that Alfredo is here.

He’s here and cuddled up to Ramsey of all people.

This respected figure in Los Santos with his millions sunk into a wide array of businesses and squeaky clean facade that falls apart the deeper you dig.

Goes by an old college nickname the journalists and bloggers of this city use fondly, something to do with his nautical-themed tattoos.

“’Corpirate,’” Trevor scoffs, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on his thigh. “What a name.”

It’s the city’s worst kept secret that Ramsey is heavily involved in the criminal side of things in Los Santos. Operates out of the penthouse in one of the many buildings he owns in this city and shameless about it. All his wards in on things, helping him widen his hold on the city and so damn pleased with themselves.

Money and influence enough to keep him out of jail no matter how many times they go after him and his, and one of the reasons Trevor had made damn sure to avoid stepping foot in Los Santos before now.

But, Alfredo and Ramsey and answers Trevor needs if he wants any kind of closure at all.

He stares at the photos of Ramsey and his pretty little things.

The Brit he’d collected on his travels years and years ago, the first of many. The angry looking one from a business trip to the east coast that one time. The...well, there’s no readily available story for the one with the man bun, but rumors say he used to be a model in his youth, which could be more than enough explanation. The one with the beard is an old friend, confidant and supposed advisor and then Alfredo.

Newest addition to the fold, a quick blurb regarding his promising career in the military before a training injury landed him behind a desk counting down the days until his enlistment ended that fades into vague hand waving nonsense about his time in Liberty City.

“You always did look good in a tuxedo Fredo,” Trevor murmurs, and puts the laptop into sleep mode because he has work to do.

========

It’s a mystery as to how Trevor got the moniker he has when he’s working. There aren’t any adorable if impractical ears on his suit, no feline-themed gear he uses. (The claws are practical! They’re tiny little knives on the ends of his gloves that make climbing things a snap, and serve as useful weapons and tools in turn for his work.)

But such is man, he supposes, or something along those line because -

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Trevor smothers a sigh in his hands, crouched low behind some hideous sculpture placed in an alcove in the hallway.

He’s rustier than he thought because so far he’s managed to trip several alarms and alert this annoying specimen of a guard.

Less brutish than the one at the office building, but only just.

To be expected, probably, because this is one of Ramsey’s little properties. Lovely little mansion up in the hills and a soiree taking place. Fundraiser for one of the charities he funds, the man himself glad-handing sponsors and critics alike and his pretty little things swanning about.

He’d meant to sneak in, get his hands on Ramsey’s personal files, but, again, rusty.

Too much time spent with his head in the clouds thinking he’d gotten his fairy-tale ending after all.

Trevor presses a button on the remote in his hand and a small explosive charge goes off down the hall. (Goodbye priceless vase, hello distraction.)

He waits a beat and creeps out, slow and careful. Quiet, quiet, quiet, and nearly has a heart attack when he hears a gun cock.

“Hands up where I can see them!”

Rusty.

Trevor complies, slipping one of his little gadgets off his belt as he raises his hands and slowly turns. Pasted a smile on his face and tries to remember that emotions get people like him killed, but it’s hard to keep in mind.

The goon with the gun blinks, genuine surprise on his face as he lowers it.

“Trevor?”

He really should think about reinvesting in a good pair of goggles, or a suit that covers his face one of these days if he’s going to come out of retirement.

“Hey, Fredo,” he says, all bright and cheery the way he used to before things turned Lifeinvader complicated.

Alfredo is staring at him in shock, and Trevor might feel a little bad about that if he wasn’t the reason Trevor’s here in the first place.

“I’d really love to stay and chat,” Trevor says, hooking the tip of a claw in the little pin and pulling just enough that the shink noise it makes when it disengages reaches Alfredo. “But I’ve got places to be.”

He sees Alfredo raise his gun and thinks, well, then, that answers that, doesn’t it? with this sharp little ache in his chest as he throws the tiny grenade as it starts hissing smoke.

========

This is a mistake.

The sort that’s guaranteed to get Trevor killed, but what’s a little risk now and then?

And besides, he doesn’t quite have his answers, does he.

Knows Alfredo is clearly working for Ramsey, running security or something else to investigate the disturbance Trevor caused at the party the other night. Seemed reluctant to pull the trigger on him, but perfectly able to aim a gun at him and -

The heat of the moment, most likely, or maybe Trevor’s just lying to himself. Making up excuses and clinging to them because he’s still in love with Alfredo even though it stands to get him killed, and yet here he is anyway.

“I’m an idiot,” Trevor mutters, flashes the poor woman sharing the elevator a reassuring smile when she inches away from the lunatic muttering to himself.

She doesn’t seem to buy it, but Trevor doesn’t push when he’s certain things are uncomfortable enough for her as it is.

Another night, another party for the filthy rich under the guise of raising money for charity. This time it’s being held at a swanky hotel and Trevor’s gotten his hands on an invitation.

Ramsey’s here with his “wards” and Trevor's an idiot.

Doesn’t know what the point of all this is, but it’s too late to back out now.

The elevator slows to a stop and Trevor lets the woman leave first, puts enough distance between them that it doesn’t feel like he’s following her and then he’s through the little security checkpoint outside the ballroom where the party's being helped.

He mingles, bright smiles and pleasant laughter at their terribly bland jokes. Delicious hors d'oeuvres and oh, dear, is that a gun in his back?

“You’re not on the list.”

Trevor turns, oh so slow and finds himself face to face with the former model. Perfectly polite smile on his face and gun digging into Trevor’s ribs, and maybe he’ll take a pass on that little bacon-wrapped bit of deliciousness on the refreshment table he’s been eyeing.

“This is true,” Trevor says, and smiles.

The guy, Haywood, raises an eyebrow and nudges Trevor away from the party and to a conference room down the hall.

Ramsey’s inside, along with his entourage, including Alfredo, who looks -

Not happy.

Ramsey’s watching him, hands in his pockets and this tired little smile on his lips.

“Never expected to see you in Los Santos,” he says, and of course he knows who Trevor is. (Was?)

Trevor shrugs.

“Times change,” he says, and looks at Alfredo in his sharp tuxedo. “People change.”

Behind him Haywood growls, and Trevor doesn’t roll his eyes at that bit of unnecessary drama, but it’s so very tempting.

“Yeah,” Ramsey says, glancing at Alfredo who’s got himself all locked down. “They do, don’t they.”

“Hmm,” Trevor agrees. “I don’t have a problem with your little operation out here,” Trevor says, because showing weakness here would be a major misstep, but he didn’t come this far to make enemies. “Just wanted to have a little chat with Alfredo.”

That sets off a ripple through Ramsey’s crew- that’s what they are, the truth the rumors don’t get close enough to. Not wards or bedmates (or at least not all of them, Trevor’s still not sure about Patillo), but his crew.

Operating in plain sight and the authorities helpless to do anything about it lest they show their own hand. All the dirty little secrets, the bribes and corruption and everything Ramsey and his have been slowly purging the city of so they can set up their own little empire.

Lets the rumor mill run wild as he goes around town with one (or more) of them on his arm and no one the wiser because they’re all old hands at this game by now. Give the public what it wants, expects to see and they don’t bother to look further.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Trevor says, unable to stop because there’s that little ember burning away in his chest. Anger and hurt and confusion. “Fredo, honeybun, how could you?”

Alfredo’s composure cracks, has him choking on the horrendous pet name Trevor’s only used to terrorize him in the past.

“Uh,” Ramsey says, not sure what to say. “What?”

“I’ve got this, boss,” Alfredo says, and bustles over to grab Trevor by the arm and drags him out of the room.

========

“Honeybun?”

Trevor shrugs, leaning on the balcony railing that overlooks the city streets below.

He doesn’t think Alfredo took him to this quiet spot to murder him, but if he did the view is spectacular.

“Would you prefer pumpkin truffle? Honey badger?”

Trevor has a list thanks to the dark corners of the internet where the tragically romantic reside with their heart-patterned backgrounds and flowery prose.

“Oh my God,” Alfredo mutters, helpless smile and odd little laugh like he’s trying not to laugh, indulge Trevor in this terrible thing. “What?”

Trevor shrugs, heartburn or something else acting up at the way Alfredo’s looking at him and looks back at the city.

“The internet is a strange and terrifying place,” he says, and leaves it at that, because it’s the horrible truth.

Alfredo mutters something Trevor doesn’t quite catch as he moves to stand next to him.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, sheepish note to his voice given the situation at hand. “Ryan and Jeremy tracked me down, asked if I wanted a job that would make a difference.”

That.

“And,” Alfredo says, because he knows Trevor. “I didn’t want to get you caught up in all this.”

From the corner of his eye Trevor sees Alfredo’s hand as he gestures at Los Santos.

Beautiful from up here, so far from the rot and corruption it’s built on. Easy to forget what the city is like when you’re so high above it that the details fall away.

Trevor snorts because that’s a convenient lie, isn’t it? Worry about little old Trevor, helpless damsel in distress and break his heart because that’s the right thing to do.

“The ‘right thing’”, Trevor says, and hates how bitter it sounds. Not sure if it’s directed at Alfredo or himself, because he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with his own little secrets, has he.

Figured it was for the best if Alfredo didn’t know about Trevor’s former line of work, and look where it’s gotten them.

“Ryan and Jeremy,” Trevor says, something about the names oddly familiar. Stories Alfredo used to tell him about his days in the military. “The ones - “

“The Battle Buddies,” Alfredo says, and when Trevor looks at him, he’s grinning. “Lost track of them after they, uh. You know.”

Faked their own deaths, seeing as how they’re both alive and committing crime here in Los Santos.

Trevor rubs his eyes, and wonders what kind of hole he’s fallen down looking into the mess his life turned into. Following Alfredo out there and picking up old habits he thought he’d shaken a long time ago.

“Ah,” Trevor says, and wonders where they go from here.

“I’m sorry,” Alfredo says, and he sounds it. Like the idiot he is, trying to be noble about things. Wanting to do the right thing by doing the wrong thing and Lifeinvader really does have it right, it’s a complicated thing, this. “I could have done it better.”

Trevor snorts.

“You could have not done it at all,” he points out, but there’s no heat to the words, just an observation. “And I could have told you about me.”

International thief, back in the day, and a damned good one. A little rusty nowadays, because he’d settled down, gotten soft. (That little ember in his chest fizzling out because he’s just as much to blame for this as Alfredo is, always suspected he’d muck things up like this.)

Alfredo’s acting shifty all of a sudden. Darting these little looks at Trevor, biting his lip to keep from blurting out whatever he’s thinking. This look like he has something he wants to say but might die of embarrassment if he does.

“What?”

Alfredo clears his throat, thumping his chest like that’s going to help.

“So,” he says, all casual and non-nonchalant, like he’s not a lech. “That suit.”

========

It’s not all roses and sunshine or however that particular little saying go because the ground between Trevor and Alfredo’s all broken up, footing uncertain.

Big lies that gave birth to little ones and sorting through all of it’s going to take some time, but they’re making steady progress.

No plans to settle down just yet because it takes a lot of work to build an empire and they’re busy, busy people these days.

Ramsey made the mistake of offering Trevor a job. Thought it would be a good investment on his part to have an in-house thief at hand, and Alfredo was good enough not to tell him the kind of trouble he was getting himself in for, which was a good thing, really.

Because this new life Trevor’s building for himself here?

A nice boy like Alfredo with the training he has, and a troublemaker like Trevor with all these tricks up his sleeve and this nice little crew of Ramsey’s backing them up?

Los Santos was made for people like them.

Belling the Cat

[tragicbooks]

17 delicious foods you can thank immigrants for.

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Immigrants are in the spotlight lately. And not in the good, Patti LuPone/Audra McDonald duet kind of way.

LuPone (left) and McDonald (right). Photo by Drama League/Flickr.

As promised, the Trump administration is advancing its plans to boot millions of immigrants from the United States — and reviving its order to stop them from coming here in the first place.

To hear all your Sean Spicers, your Stephen Millers, and your Kellyanne Conways tell it, the measures are necessary to stop, well, pretty much everything bad currently happening in America — from job-stealing to crime to terrorism.

Convincing Americans that immigrants are more than the sum of their worst stereotypes means winning back some hearts and minds, but these days, it can feel futile to appeal to America's heart or its brain.

But perhaps — perhaps America's stomach is still willing to listen.

Immigrants don't only make America great; they make it delicious. The people who risk their livelihoods and occasionally their lives to come here are often more than happy to share their secret recipes with us. Without them, we'd have nothing to eat ... nothing good, anyway.

Here are 17 of the top contributions to America's culinary scene by refugees, ex-pats, and immigrants.

Try not to drool on the keypad.

1. You wouldn't know about pretty much all the Chinese food you like if it weren't for refugee-turned-immigrant-turned-master chef Cecilia Chiang.

Chang and kung pao chicken. Photos by John Parra/Getty Images and Sodanie Chea/Flickr.

Chiang, who survived the Japanese invasion of China before immigrating to San Francisco in the 1960s, introduced America to the delicious, umami, stir-fried meat pile known as kung pao chicken at her restaurant, the Mandarin.

2. This giant paella wouldn't exist if chef Michael Mina hadn't moved here from Egypt.

Today was one for the books. #MinaMoments

A post shared by Michael Mina (@chefmichaelmina) on Sep 24, 2016 at 6:26pm PDT

Mina, the guy with the oar, was born in Cairo, immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Washington state, proceeded to open over a dozen restaurants in cities across the country, win a Michelin star, write a cookbook, appear on Gordon Ramsey's "Hell's Kitchen," launch a media company, and, in this photo, somehow managed to combine rice, shellfish, and nautical equipment into something so appetizing you would probably win a free T-shirt for finishing it.

3. Without lax 19th century immigration laws, America would have been denied its birthright: the Bud Light Straw-ber-Rita.

Anyone who watched this year's Super Bowl just for the commercials knows that Adolphus Busch was a hardscrabble German immigrant who trudged through miles of mud and ominously high grass to found the all-American beer company that makes the U.S. the perennial world leader in drunken high school reunion softball games.

4. You'd have to travel to an Eastern European war zone to enjoy these perogis.

Photo by Veselka/Facebook.

In 1954, Ukrainian refugees Wolodymyr and Olha Darmochawal came to New York City and founded Veselka in the East Village, serving these soul-altering fried meat, cheese, and potato pouches by the crock-load to NYU students who have crushed one too many Bud Light Lime Straw-ber-Ritas.

5. This ridiculous pulled turkey burger with Indian spices, candied bacon, and masala fries wouldn't be available in Elvis country.

Maneet Chauhan and the turkey burger. Photos by Theo Wargo/Getty Images and Chauhan Ale and Masala House/Facebook.

One great thing about being alive in 2017 is that you can find South Asian-Southern fusion sandwiches for less than $20 in the middle of the Bible Belt like it's no big deal thanks to immigrants like Indian-American chef Maneet Chauhan (you might know her as a frequent judge on "Chopped"), who opened Chauhan Ale and Masala House in Nashville in 2014.

6. We wouldn't know the gastronomic perfection that is surf and turf served over two cheese enchiladas.

Richard Sandoval and surf and turf. Photos by Neilson Barnard/Getty Images and La Hacienda/Facebook.

Before Richard Sandoval was a "Top Chef Masters" contestant, Bon Apetit Restaurateur-of-the-Year Award winner, and international food star, he was just a Mexico City kid with a dream. That dream? To put fried onions on top of steak on top of enchiladas with some lobster tail and risotto getting freaky on the side, as his La Hacienda in Scottsdale, Arizona, did on Valentine's Day 2017.

7. Anything with Huy Fong sriracha in it would have to be seasoned with a far lesser hot sauce.

Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr.

Thanks to erstwhile humane values of decades past, America's hottest condiment was given unto us by a refugee — David Tran — who fled his native Vietnam on the ship Huy Fong in the 1970s. Had he come four-and-a-half decades later, it's likely he would have wound up in Canada and invented spicy maple syrup or whatever. (Actually, to be honest, that sounds pretty great. Please, immigrants from tropical climes living in Canada, invent spicy maple syrup.)

8. The Swedes might have chef Marcus Samuelsson's La Isla Bonita all to themselves.

Samuelsson and La Isla Bonita. Photos by Gustavo Caballero/Getty Images and Red Rooster Harlem/Facebook.

With all the problems in Sweden that are totally so real that everyone knows about them, it's no wonder that Samuelsson (who was born in Ethiopia and is another frequent "Chopped" judge) skipped town for New York City, bringing his brand of soul food to Harlem's Red Rooster — including this otherworldy mashup of tres leches cake, rum, passion fruit, and banana.

9. Detroit would be bereft without its iconic chili-onion-mustard dogs.

Photo by Steven Depolo/Flickr.

The precise origin of the Michigan-favorite Coney dog has been debated for decades, but pretty much no one contests that it was invented by Greek immigrants, notably brothers Bill and Gust Keros around 1919, when they discovered — after millennia of flailing by the best chefs in the world — that the ideal condiment for meat was goopier meat.

10. You wouldn't even be able to dream about Jose Andres' ibérico bacon cristal bread uni.

Jose Andres (L) and tapas (R). Photo by Larry French/Getty Images; Jaleo/Facebook.

It's also known as coca con arizos de mar — or "expensive ham 'n fish pizza" — and Andres serves this magical creation at his D.C. tapas restaurant Jaleo. The award-winning chef, who hails from Spain, was one of several dozen who closed his restaurants on Feb. 16, 2017, in protest of the Trump administration's immigration policies.

11. Vending machines, bodegas, and gas station convenience stores nationwide would be thousands of dollars poorer without Flamin' Hot Cheetos on the shelves.

Photo by Calgary Reviews/Flickr.

More than "The Great Gatsby," more than "Rudy," even more than Katy Perry's "Roar," the story of Flamin' Hot Cheetos is the story of the American dream. Working full time as a janitor at a Cheetos factory (!), Mexican immigrant Richard Montañez took home some defective, un-dusted Cheetos after an equipment breakdown, sprinkled some chili spices on them, and presented his creation to corporate bigwigs, who promptly put them into production. The tangy corn tubelettes quickly became the company's #1 selling snack, and Montañez was promoted to executive vice present of multicultural sales and community activation, having successfully pulled himself up by his sticky-dusty bootsraps.

12. Cronuts would not be a thing.

Dominique Ansel and a cronut. Photos by Noam Galai/Getty Images and Chun Yip So/Flickr.

Assuming you could get a cronut, you would be first-born-child-level indebted to Dominique Ansel, the French-born chef who debuted the monstrously scrumptious croissant-donut hybrid in New York City in 2013. Unfortunately, four years later, you still can't get a cronut.

13. Your airport layover would be 1,000% less tolerable without this margherita pizza from Wolfgang Puck Express.

Puck and pizza. Photos by Michael Kovac/Getty Images and Jeff Christiansen/Flickr.

Stuck in Downtown Disney World or delayed getting back to Milwaukee? You could do a lot worse than this gorgeous bubbly cheese pie by Puck, Austria's greatest gift to America since the toaster strudel.

14. You'd have to eat this mouthwatering soft-serve in a cup instead of a cone.

Photo by Mark Buckawicki/Wikimedia Commons.

If there's one thing certain cable news outlets will never fail to remind you, it's that Syrian immigrants are very, very, super-duper scary. Perhaps nothing in history illustrates this better than their most terrifying invention to date, the ice cream cone. The edible frozen treat vessel was created by Abe Doumar, who debuted his creation at the St. Louis Exposition in 1904, the culmination of the Middle Eastern migrant's dastardly plot to improve mankind and delight children of all ages around the world forever and always.

It's not just that immigrants invent food we like to eat. They pretty much cook everything we eat too.

Roughly 20% of restaurant cooks are undocumented, and an even greater share are foreign-born — up to 75% in some cities. That means that immigrants are responsible for feeding you even the down-home comfort food you enjoy, including...

15. This cheeseburger from Hardee's...

Photo by Mr. Gray/Flickr.

16. ...this stock photo apple pie....

Photo by mali maeder/Pexels.

17. ...and this American flag sheet cake.

Photo by Eugene Kim/Flickr.

Immigrants deserve a place in America. And not just because they fill our tummies with tasty victuals.

They enrich our communities and keep our culture varied and interesting. They do the jobs most of us don't want to do. They pay hundreds of billions of dollars in taxes and contribute to our economy in countless measurable and immeasurable ways.

Immigrants and refugees don't come here to get Americans fired, steal our wallets, or blow us up. Most of them come here for a better, safer, more secure life.

They make all of our lives richer — and more delicious — in the process.

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