#and where did that apple juice and brown sugar and those lemons come from

[vampirian]

just got an ad for a recipe for vegan 'honey' and i'm not sure how instagram could ever think that i'm a prime target for this ad but thanks for the reminder i wanted to buy a new jar of honey from a local beekeeper here :)

[restorativemeal]

Menu Fourteen

Menu Fourteen from Bishop and Carruthers' "The Vegetarian Adventure Cookbook".

Chilled Apricot and Apple Soup: tinned apricots with juice, granny smith apples, celery, orange rind, orange juice, lemon juice, ground ginger, cinnamon, white wine, natural yoghurt, chives. 

Egyptian Kusherie: oil, brown lentils, boiling water, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, rice, tomato paste, water, capsicum, sugar, cumin, chilli sauce, worcester sauce. 

Browned Onions: oil, onion, garlic, sugar. 

Borani (Persian Salad): cucumber, plain yoghurt, spring onion, raisins, salt, white pepper, parsley, mint. 

Spicy Chickpea Salad: cauliflower, chickpeas, tumeric, tomatoes, onions, ground cumin, salt, pepper, parsley, oil, lemon juice. 

Green Salad: cos lettuce, olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper. 

It was the fourteenth week and the fourteenth menu. Fourteen weeks and it felt vaguely dull, if I thought anything about significance it was the lack thereof. The week was repetitive in too many ways for me to take anything new away. I watched the same movie for the second week in a row. There was a chilled soup on the menu, only three weeks after the Chilled Watermelon and Cucumber soup of my birthday. And I found that my previous suspicion that patterns are made and then broken was after all true when I shopped for ingredients on Monday after work. There was no way that anything new would come out of the Fourteenth week. On Tuesday at lunch time I walked down to the bulk store to find brown lentils because I still wanted to forge a love story with the guy behind the till. Unfortunately, he was working, just not behind the till. It was the last few days of November, I was running on a sort of social battery, dependent on those that would spend the non-working hours with me. 

By the time it came to be Wednesday it was apparent I would only have one guest for dinner. I had attempted to convince her to bring a sick plus one by insisting that soup would make them feel better. I withheld the fact it was a cold soup again. After work that evening, I collected my singular guest. She carried a bottle of red wine and stood in the supermarket car park. We intended on cooking the four page spread of Menu Fourteen together. She thought it would be fun but I thought that sharing the kitchen might be the biggest challenge of the entire “Vegetarian Adventure Cookbook”. Insisting that she remained at the table with her glass of red wine and my flatmate, I prepared the chilled soup alone with my glass of red wine in the kitchen. I opened the tinned apricots with shaky hands. The noise of the blender interrupted conversation in the dining room and I felt bad. The Chilled Apricot and Apple soup was prettier than the Chilled Watermelon and Cucumber soup from my birthday week. There was a promise in the kitchen. 

When my flatmate left, my guest walked into the narrow kitchen. We were going to start the Egyptian Kusherie together. For the next 15 minutes we emotionally wrestled around the tiny kitchen on the dead end street, she made the lentils and I made the tomato sauce to go with them, had I been downgraded to sous chef? We had Lana Del Rey playing on my flatmate’s speaker, I realised how little of the things I used belong to me. At the end of those 15 minutes my guest needed to lie down. Either I had hexed her, or her journey with Bishop and Carruthers was on the same track as mine. Could she have been in some sped-up-time-warp where her time in the kitchen was equivalent to a second week. Was she the second victim of Bishop and Carruthers’ second week curse? She didn’t know Bishop and Carruthers like I did. Were the brown lentils the Cheeky Plum Sauce of her second week? As she lay in my bed, I cooked the rest of the menu. I felt guilty that I had won and nervous that I was never going to be able to cook alongside somebody else. I cooked swiftly because it was now a matter of feeding a sick person and not providing a free dinner for someone I had driven over from the supermarket. An infirmary not a restaurant. There was an empty Uber Eats bag on the floor of the kitchen which every so often I would kick into the middle of the room, it was a testament to my character that I never picked it up and put it in the bin for recycling. When things aren’t broken don’t fix them, but even when things are broken I tend not to fix them. 

Hospital kitchenette

I called my guest from her sick bay back into the dining room when dinner was served. She was feeling better. The dishes were colourful on the table, yellow and red. Menu Fourteen tasted fine, but Menu Fourteen seemed to have become something of utility rather than something no one other than myself needed. Maybe then, Menu Fourteen changed the course of my capacity to care for others. Thinking back to fourteen weeks ago, I started this in a hope of caring more for myself, restoration of the self, a restorative meal after caring so much about whether other people cared about me. It was the three days till the end of November and fourteen weeks since I’d been rejected twice in one day. 

Served and cleaned.

[robbybirdy]

39. Baking therapy on a budget Ft. Genshin Characters: Klee - Apple Pie

Hello, every birdy. Today’s recipe is honestly a recipe that I could probably do in my sleep. This is one of those recipes that I have been making for years with my mom, for every Thanksgiving.

And it just hits differently. Even if we aren’t having it at the table this year, because everyone is tired of apple pie, I still want to make it. And the character that goes along with it is just as memorable. 

Klee is a character from Mondsadnt. She is an elf child who is the daughter of the head alchemist in town. She is known to be a little bit rambunctious. She likes making explosions. And she has a companion named Dodocoo. It is a rabbit-like creature. 

The link to the recipe will be down below. Feel free to check it out. 

What you will need

Pie crust or store bought pie crust

Flour

Salt 

Shortening 

Cold water

Filling 

Sugar

Flour

Cinnamon 

Nutmeg

Salt 

Apples 

Butter or margarine

The first thing that we are going to be doing is making the crust. If you don’t have time to make the crust or you don’t have confidence in making it, don’t fret. Just jump to the next part.

Pie crust: We are going to be making 1 batch of pie crust that makes 2 crusts. To do this you are going to grab a medium-sized bowl and in your flour and salt. Cut in the shortening with your pastry blender or two forks. You want to do this until the mixture looks like small peas. Then you are going to add in your Ice water 1 tablespoon at a time until the pastry is moistened and it leaves the sides. 

You are now going to flour your work surface and roll it out into a ball. Divide the ball in half, and then flatten each of the rounds on a your surface. Place plastic wrap separately around both doughs. And either refrigerate it for 45 minutes, or place it into the freezer until you are done with the filling. 

Heat the oven to 425F.

Filling: Slice up your apples. Now, I understand that most people out there and most recipes for apple pie say “slice and peel the apples.” Yes, that is what it says. But my mom has taught me since I was knee-high, that we don’t peel the apples for anything because that is where most of the nutrients come from. And who am I to say that my mom is wrong. So, whenever I was making apple pies with my mom I would never peel the apples. 

I did however peel the apples for an apple pie that I made in a Food and Nutrition class in high school. The teacher had us peel the apples, and my gosh, it felt weird. It felt like I was going against my mom's words. 

For the bowl of apples, when slicing them put in a little bit of lemon or lime juice in a bowl of water just so that the apples do not brown by the time you are done slicing all of the apples. 

In another bowl, you are going to mix together your sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of salt. Drain your apples from your lemon/lime juice water and add them to the sugar mixture. 

Grab your crust from the freezer and roll it out a little bit longer than your pie dish. It is easier to work with when you have access to pie crust. Especially if you are doing something complicated like a lattice or something like that. 

Place your pie pan on top of a cookie sheet, this way if you happen to overfill your pie crust, you won’t have to worry about the filling going to the bottom of your oven. 

Add your apple filling to the pie crust, and top it with the top crust. And decorate it the way that you feel. I tried my best at making Doodoco. And it turned out…. Okay, I guess. 

Bake the pie for about 40 to 50 minutes or until the crust is brown and the juice begins to bubble. 

This recipe is such a favorite of mine. So many different memories come from this recipe. 

I hope that you liked this recipe. Feel free to check out the recipe in the description down below. Thank you. See you in the next recipe. 

Pinterest: Here

Recipe: Here

[tinyshe]

This portrayal of an imagined 'goblin market', in which scary-looking goblins offer fruit to two terrified young women, was painted by English artist and Royal Academician Hilda Koe (1872-1936) c.1895-1901. There is very little available information on Koe, other than her membership of the RA. This remains her best-known work, painted in a style that shows a clear pre-Raphaelite influence.

Goblin Market                                                                                         Christina Rossetti                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Morning and evening

Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.”          Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather.          Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone.          Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird.          But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone.          Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.”          Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest.          Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night.          At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep.          And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men.          Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?”          Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break.          Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away.          One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.          She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat.          Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.          Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look.          Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”—          “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat.          White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down.          One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance.          In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter.          She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.”          Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.          Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run.          Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life?          Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes.          Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

[mind-of-a-hardstan]

Apple Pie

Pairing: Hoseok x reader 

Genre: angst, post-breakup au

Warnings: cursing

Summary: It’s been months since you broke up with Hoseok, and Jimin finally convinces you to go out with the gang again. It doesn’t turn out exactly as he said it would, though, and things go downhill rather quickly. 

Word count: 1.8k 

A/N: A little post Christmas angst. This is rather short, but I’m actually quite fond of this piece. Please let me know if you liked it, I live on attention :)

“My mom asks about you, you know.”

The words didn’t surprise you. Hoseok’s mother always liked you. Liked that you baked good apple pie, liked that you knew how to sew, liked that you genuinely loved her son.

So the words didn’t surprise you. What surprised you, however, was that Hoseok said those words to you in the first place.

You looked at him. His face was passive, but his lips were slightly pressed together. It almost made you smile. Not the hurt that was hidden there, but the fact that you could still pick up on it even months later.  

It would have really made you smile if it didn’t hurt so damn much.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” was all you could say. What else was there to say? Nothing. There was nothing to say to make this any better. So you looked away instead and focused on the shitty food of the shitty restaurant that Jimin dragged you to.

And you cursed him for it. The conversation still rang in your head, clear as a bell.

“You need to come out with us again. We all miss you.”

“I know but… Hoseok will be there and I just – I don’t want to make things awkward, you know?”

“You won’t! We’ll just seat you two far away from each other and you know the conversation goes in fifty directions anyway. You don’t have to talk to him.”

“Jimin… I don’t know about this. I don’t want to see him. Not… it hasn’t been long enough.”

“It’s been two months –” you went to interrupt him, but he held up his hand to silence you “– and I know it’s been hard. But we’re your friends too, and we miss having you there.”

And then he pouted, and you’d already lost.

Obviously, as there was always chaos in this ungodly, perfect friend group, things didn’t work out as everyone planned, and you ended up sitting right next to Hoseok. And no one noticed until everyone was settled in, so you couldn’t move without making things awkward.

And now things were awkward. And things hurt. And you really hated Jimin. And you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Hoseok’s mother misses you and that he brought it up in the smallest voice you’d ever heard him use.

And it fucking hurt.

“Why are you sorry?” Hoseok asked. There was kindness tucked into the words, a small smile came with it. But the small smile almost unsettled you because whenever he smiled, he smiled big and lit up the whole room like sunshine. It was never small and it was never sad. He wasn’t supposed to be sad. He didn’t deserve to be sad.

God it fucking hurt.

“Because,” you said and picked at your food, “your mom still asks about me. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to linger in your life like that.” Because you don’t deserve the hurt that lingers with me.

“Nah, it’s okay. Honestly! I’m sort of… letting you linger, if that makes sense? And my mom just wants you back because you never did give her that pie recipe.”

You softly giggled and picked at your food some more. You didn’t feel like eating. The pasta was too salty and the sauce was too runny and maybe it had something to do with the fact that you just didn’t want to be here.

“I might email it to you. But make sure to tell her that she better not do a better job than I did. That’s my spotlight,” you said, trying to lighten the conversation.

The others were talking merrily, oblivious to the fact that you wished you were that piece of spaghetti swimming in what was supposed to be a bolognaise sauce.

Jimin eyed you every now and then, but he was sat across the table so there wasn’t much he could do right now except for giving you a sorry pout. You kept your eyes away from him, avoiding that look at all cost, knowing that you’d fall for it and that you loved him too much to stay mad at him. But you wanted to stay mad. So you looked away and pointedly ignored him.

Hoseok chuckled and shook his head, looking down at his food also. “I don’t think she could, even – even if she tried.”

You swallowed heavily and looked down again, unable to face him. He always said that you made the best apple pie. You literally had to get creative in hiding it after you baked it to make sure he didn’t find and eat the damn thing in one sitting.

You learnt your lesson after the first time. You found him at two in the morning on the kitchen floor in his underwear with a fork hanging from his mouth and the wide, guilty eyes of a kid who got caught stealing cookies out of the cookie jar.

“Hoseok!”

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it, it was taunting me, I swear!”

You were livid that night, but he made it up to you and now memory made you smile.

“She’ll manage. The recipe is easy,” you said more to your pasta than to him.

“I know. But it wouldn’t be you who baked it,” he replied softly.

That shut you right up. Because yes, it wouldn’t taste the same because it wasn’t you who baked it. Just like how hot chocolate tastes watery now, no matter how much milk or cocoa or sugar you put in there. And just like how you can’t stand olives on pizza now, because even though you always disliked them, Hoseok used to eat them off for you. And just like how the bed sheets smell like nothing now, completely empty, even though they used to bear Hoseok’s musky scent.

So yes. Of course the fucking apple pie wouldn’t taste the same, because there’s no one to hide it from him, there’s no one to catch him eat it, there’s no one to dish him a double serving with more ice cream.  

Did he cry over store bought apple pie like you cried over hot chocolate from the coffee shop?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Hoseok said and snapped you out of your downward spiral. You would have bet anything that he knew exactly what was going on in your head. You smiled at him, as genuine as you could manage, and he mirrored it.

“No, not at all. Honestly. I like – I like talking to you.”

Not a lie, not the truth.

“Hey, Y/n, how’s the spaghetti?” Taehyung yelled from across the table – bless him – effectively grabbing your attention.

“Watery and salty, why?” you said back with a smile.

“Because I’m still hungry.”

“You just had a whole steak, Tae. With chips and onion rings. There’s no damn way you’re still hungry!” Seokjin said, wildly throwing his hands in the air.  

“I’m a growing boy and I need my nutrition, damn it!”

“You stopped growing two years ago!” you laughed.

“You’re being a pig, Tae!” Jeongguk chimed in from next to you.

“Yah, I’m still older than you. Use your honorifics!” Taehyung scolded, waving a fork at the boy. You laughed when Jeongguk chucked a rib bone at Taehyung and Tae reached to grab something off of his own plate, only to find it empty.

The pout that formed on the boy’s lips made you throw your head back in laughter.

“I’ll get you back for that, brat.”

“Oh, yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

“God, I missed you.”

Hoseok.

Hoseok said that.

Hoseok said that to you.

“What?”

Those infernal words that you feel in your very fucking soul but refrained from saying because it’s supposed to be wrong. You’re not supposed to say them out loud because they hurt. And that hurt goes both ways.

But there was a smile on his lips. Not a small one, not a fake one. A real, genuine smile.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a shitty time to say it. I know it’s probably shitty to say it to you either way. And I don’t mean anything by it. I’m not expecting anything because of it. I just – I did. I missed you. It’s just a truth that I’m telling you. I missed you. So goddamn much. Every goddamn day. And seeing you laugh just now made my heart all warm inside. And I want to see you more. And I understand that we can’t be in a relationship, no matter how much I want it. But maybe we can be friends? I just want to see you. I’m not ready to fully say goodbye to you and being friends with you is already more than enough. More than I deserve. I understand if you say no. Just… can we consider it?”

Everything inside of you froze. The world outside continued on. The boys created chaos, as they do. The restaurant was bustling. The street was crawling with people trying to get home as fast as possible. The world just kept on turning. And your heart stopped cold in your chest.

But you looked at him, locked eyes with him, and saw the shitstorm brewing in his own head. And you smiled. Not the smile that you’ve been plastering over your lips for the past few minutes. A real smile, but not the smile he gave you. You smiled a bitter smile that displayed hurt so openly that Hoseok visibly flinched.  

“I missed you too.” There. The words burnt your throat like acid, but they were out. “But I don’t think we could ever be friends, Seokie. I love you too much for that.”

Hoseok’s face didn’t fall. The words didn’t make him flinch. He already knew that, you realised. He wasn’t surprised, because he already knew that it was true, he just needed to hear it to be sure. He needed you to say those words so he could stop hoping.

“I’m sorry, I need to go. I can’t… I need to go.”

You didn’t say goodbye to Jimin on your way out.

Two days later.

22:46 You: flour, brown sugar, white sugar, cinnamon, butter, 8 apples, lemon juice, nutmeg.

22:54 Seokie: Where’s the rest of the recipe?

22:56 You: You don’t need it. Just have those ready for me on Saturday at your place.

22:56 Seokie: What happened to ‘we can’t be friends’?

22:57 You: I don’t intend on being your friend. We can talk about it over apple pie and hot chocolate on Saturday? You: If I’m not too late?

22:58 Seokie: Yes. God yes. You’re not too late. Seokie: Saturday at 9am?

22:58 You: See you then, Seokie. Good night.

22:59 Seokie: Good night, Y/n Seokie: I can’t wait.

23:00 You: Neither can I.

[mellicose]

Anon request: tenth doctor, hands, fluff ❤😍

This is something that’s been brewing in my head for a while - a tender moment between Ten and Wilf before the fall.

The TARDIS hummed melodically in the background. She was showing off for Donna’s grandpa, and the Doctor was a bit irritated at her.

He had told her so many times the reasons why he did what he did, but she gave him her usual green-hued disapproval. Still, what’s done is done, and there was nothing else to be done about it-

“Ey, boy,” Wilf said quietly. 

The Doctor was lost in thought. Dread pressed into his skull like a vise, and no amount of Time Lord logic seemed to diffuse it. Something was coming. Something big. Huge. His hearts fluttered in his chest. He resented the battery acid tang of fear in his mouth. Lately, it’s all he tasted. He hadn’t eaten in days.

“Boy,” he said, patting his shoulder. The Doctor jumped, and gave the old man a fierce look that made him stumble back.

“Doctor,” he said tersely, and kept fiddling with his hyperdimensional defibrillator – it was acting tetchy at the moment. There was something jamming it, but he couldn’t imagine anything so huge as to jam it. At least, not in Earth space.

“Alright. Doctor,” he said, nodding. The Doctor instantly felt guilty for being so harsh. And immediately after, irritated for being guilty. The old man was basically an interloper in a tense battle between him and the Master, and…

...he didn’t know whether he could protect him, properly. It made him vibrate with despair to think that something might happen to Donna’s grandfather. He had already caused enough havoc in her family.

The man pulled off his red cap to expose a shock of white hair. He cleared his throat. The Doctor saw the echo of Donna’s eyes in his, and it made his throat tight.

“So … the TARDIS. The time and relative-

“-Dimension in space, yeah, mate. You got it,” he said impatiently. He was on the metal grating floor near the center column. His coat spread around him on the floor like a sheet. A sheet that Wilf stood on with his dusty oxfords.

“Ye said before this thing has many dimensions folded into it-”

“Infinite dimensions,” the Doctor corrected, and hit a metal pipe with a wrench. The TARDIS hiccuped with disapproval. Wilf’s eyes widened.

“She really is alive, ain’t she?” he said excitedly, looking around. He didn’t dare leave the Doctor’s side for fear he might get lost, and he didn’t want to bother the tall, mysterious alien, but biology forced his hand. “Ahem, er, d’you reckon there’s a toilet for ... em ...?”

The Doctor froze and looked up at him, his face serious. Again, Wilf took a step back, but the Doctor’s intensity came from guilt, not anger. Of course he needed a bathroom. And how long has it been since they’ve been together? At least two days, and he also hadn’t taken a bite.

“The bathroom is over there,” he said, pointing to a dark portico just beyond the heart of the TARDIS. And I’ll take to the kitchen when you get back.”

His eyes followed as the old man nearly ran to the facilities. He felt so … thoughtless. It was Donna who insisted the TARDIS have a toilet available nearby, and not 5 right turns, 2 left turns, and a stairwell away. The edges of his mouth twitched.

“You say you’ve been around humans for ages, but you act like you have no idea about their little foibles, do you?” she said, hands on her hips. “The kitchen’s a hour’s walk away! I hardly want to go on a bloody hike to get my morning cuppa.”

He smiled. Her voice echoed in his brain, brassy and beautiful.

“It’s an adventure. You can discover all the hidden rooms along the way,” the Doctor whispered, and remembered Donna’s rolling eyes.

“A hike. An adventure. Imagine all that nonsense just to get some beans on toast,” she said, and stomped off, to his delight.

He missed her. And having Wilf around was only pricking the old wound.

Wilf came out, his face relaxed. “Thanks, Doctor. I thought I’d have to ask whether there was a rest stop in the Milky Way,” he said, smiling.

“Are you hungry?” the Doctor said, wiping his hands on the end of his coat and standing up.

“I could do with a proper tea,” he said, nodding. “A bit of beans on toast.”

His hearts hurt.

“Follow me,” the Doctor said, and went down the stairs and into a wide hallway.

“I swear I’ve been poking around the control room for hours, and I didn’t see,” Wilf said, looking around in wonder.

“She knows where I want to go, so she makes the crooked ways straight,” the Doctor said, walking fast in front of him. He took a sudden left turn, and his coat snapped smartly behind him. Wilf had to jog to keep up, but he didn’t mind. He was in an alien spaceship, about to eat in an alien kitchen. He wondered whether they called it something else. Did they have those crazy machines that made food out of thin air, like in the sci-fi shows on telly? Was it gonna be exotic, or weird and wonderful-

They turned again, and the Doctor stopped.

“Blimey,” Wilf said, scratching his head. The Doctor smiled. It wasn’t a weird and exotic room. In fact, it looked exactly like their kitchen back home.

“Donna set it up like she wanted,” the Doctor said, and plopped down in an overstuffed chair with green polka dots.

“Did she just?” Wilf said. “I wonder-” he walked to the cabinet by the refrigerator and opened it. He laughed. “Ha! Baked beans!” It was exactly where they kept their canned goods at home. He looked around at the spacious counters, and spied the bread box. There was a bag of bread in, and not the horrible whole wheat dross his daughter usually bought. It was the plain ol’ white pan bread that he and Donna preferred.

The Doctor watched him navigate the kitchen familiarly, getting a pot to warm the beans, and fetching the cheese from the icebox. He stared in it, and grabbed a packet of raspberries, Donna’s favorite.

“When’s the last time you stocked the icebox?” Wilf said. The raspberries were in perfect condition, although Donna had been back for ages.

“I assure you, they’re perfectly good, as is everything else in there,” the Doctor said, standing and popping one in his mouth. He loved them too. What a funky little fruit – both tender and crunchy with seeds.

“But, how?” Wilf said, closing the icebox and turning on the stove.

“Time stops in the icebox,” the Doctor said simply, as if it wasn’t the strangest concept Wilf had ever heard until that moment.

“What did you say?”

“When you put something in the icebox, it’s as if you’re suspending it in time. It’s a great way to preserve leftovers, I’ll tell you that,” he said, eating another raspberry.

“So … those berries could’ve been in there since...”

“I think they were here since before my regeneration,” the Doctor said, grabbing the whole packet and sitting back down. “They taste like the 80’s.”

Wilf looked at the bag of bread. “And this?”

The Doctor furrowed his brow. “No, that’s all Donna. She loved her buttered toast.”

The beans bubbled on the fob as he popped two slices of bread in the toaster.

“And what do you eat?” Wilf said.

“My metabolism’s different, so I don’t need to eat like you,” he said, his mouth still pink with raspberry juice. “But I could eat like you. I love a good English breakfast. Eggs and bacon and a cheeky sausage? It’s the best,” he said, patting his flat belly. “Especially after a good sleep.”

“But I suppose you don’t do much of that either,” Wilf said, looking at him curiously. It had been two days, and the alien had not stopped.

“Nah,” the Doctor said, tipping his head to the side. “But it’s lovely sometimes. Helps pass the time,” he said, and polished off the last raspberry. He bounded up and stared into the pot. “Tea up soon?”

“You’d like some? I’ll toast more bread,” Wilf said, smiling.

“Might as well,” the Doctor said, giving him his first smile. “It’s dreadful eating alone.”

Wilf burst into laughter. “You know it! So does my Donna!”

The Doctor took off his coat and hung it up in the hook by the door. He wore his usual dusty brown suit. He sat at the table as Wilf buttered toast at the counter. He loved the sound of buttering toast – that  delicious bready grindgrindgrind as you work the butter deep into the bread, and way it melts and gleams temptingly on the uneven brown surface, softening it just slightly. He especially loved dipping it in a milky tea, and seeing the butter form glass bubbles on the surface…

Tea!

“I’m make us a cuppa,” the Doctor said, jogging to the cupboard where Donna kept the teabags. “It’s a miraculous thing, tea. Real brain food.”

“I agree. Morning’s not the same without one – or a couple,” Wilf said, spooning the steaming beans on a piece of toast with a couple thick slices of cheddar on them. “D’you take cheese?”

“Nah,” the Doctor said. “Just butter. Loads of butter,” he said, looking over the old man’s shoulder as the kettle started to boil on the fob. Wilf spread a generous knob on a piece of toast, and the Doctor’s left eyebrow rose as he was about to put down the knife.

“You want more?” Wilf said, refraining from a chuckle.

“Yes! It should be butter on toast, not toast with butter,” the Doctor said, rolling back on his heels. “Don’t be shy, man. I’ll work it off.”

“That you will, boy,” Wilf said, and buttered until creamy pools of the stuff formed on the craggy surface of the bread. The kettle screamed, and the Doctor jumped into action, grabbing cups and teabags and milk and sugar and cream and lemon-

Did he take lemon in his tea? He couldn’t remember. It was nice to have, just in case.

He put it all at the table and waited for Wilf to bring them their banquet. Wilf placed a steaming plate in front of him.

“There ye go, boy-er, Doctor. Tuck in,” he said, and sat opposite him.

“I’ll do the tea,” the Doctor said, pouring the steaming water into the large, apple-red cups. They waited a few beats as the water swirled amber around the teabags, then began to prepare it how they like. The Doctor added everything at the table. He hadn’t eaten in ages, and he was suddenly ravenous. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a cuppa. Perhaps a few days. Maybe 3000 years. Who knew.

Wilf watched him manically pour and squeeze and stir in silence as he ate. He was so young. A looker, to be honest. He wondered whether Donna ever thought so too. There was no way to ask now, anyway. The Doctor slurped loudly at his ridiculous cuppa, then started in on the toast. He ate like a teenager, barely chewing. He inhaled the plate, and looked hopefully at Wilf’s.

Wilf pushed the half eaten plate across the table.

“Ta,” the Doctor said, and ate. Wilf waited patiently, and kept his face neutral as the Doctor finished every bit, then licked both plates.

“Hit the spot, did it?” the old man said.

“Didn’t think I liked cheese,” the Doctor said frowning pensively. “But I think I do. Good stuff.”

Wilf sipped the warm tea. “Now that me belly’s not rumbling, it got me to thinking,” Wilf said.

“What about?” the Doctor said, slinging his long legs over the arm of his chair.

“This place – all the stories – you are extraordinary. It’s like a dream, but it’s real. A ship with endless dimensions, and fully fitted kitchen-”

“You should see the bathing pools,” the Doctor interrupted. “One of them has tiny, carnivorous fennic fish – they eat dead skin, so when you get in they tickle you, and you come out gleaming,” he said with a grin. Martha thought it was a laugh-” the light suddenly went out from his eyes, and he seemed to deflate into the chair.

“Doctor,” Wilf said. He waited for him to come back into himself.

“Yes?” the alien said.

“How could Donna forget the unforgettable? I could live a thousand years and not forget even this. Sitting with you here, in this magic box, eating beans on toast. Not in a million years.”

The Doctor’s jaw muscles tightened, and his brown eyes twitched with emotion. He leaned forward and fiddled with the teacup. Then, surprisingly, he reached over and pressed his fingertips into Wilf’s temples. His touch was gentle, and his fingertips were still hot from holding the cup.

Wilf remained still. His long, pale fingers looked so human. Masculine. He wondered whether it was just a façade, like some of the sci-fi shows. Maybe he looked strange and wonderful, and his spiky hair and long, lean form was just an image he projected into his brain-

“It’s not a projected image,” the Doctor said, shaking his head. He withdrew, and stared at his hands. “I really look this way. Now. It might be a thousand years or a day, and I will look different.”

Wilf’s heart was going triple time. “You can read minds?” he said, stuffing his knit cap onto his head, seemingly for protection. The Doctor chuckled.

“A little. Well, yes. But I haven’t been able to read psyonic waves through thin air for a number of regenerations, so you don’t won’t be needing the hat,” he said, pulling it off and handing it to him.

“Oh. Right then,” he said, flushing.

“Psyonic waves?” Wilf said.

“For human beings and many, many other species, consciousness isn’t quite what it feels like. In its essence, your thoughts are electrical impulses shooting off in your brain. And not only that. Emotions. Memories. It’s all stored in your biological computer, and sadly, can be manipulated.”

Wilf nodded slowly. “Biological computer. It makes sense,” he said.

“I don’t mean to diminish the vast and wonderful twists and turns of human consciousness and their capacity for being absolutely brilliant, but … it is what it is.”

“Yeh,” the old man said.

“When I realized Donna was in danger, I simply … deleted certain things from her biological computer. For her safety ... as well as her sanity,” he said haltingly. He felt like he was confessing a crime. He didn’t mention certain protection protocols he might’ve added to her DNA, but the old man didn’t need to know everything.

“Deleted?” he repeated, nodding. “Did it hurt?”

“Only for a nanosecond. A bright burst, and she was safe,” he said, swallowing hard. He missed her sarcastic mouth and her endlessly kind heart. He was so dreadfully, tragically lonely. He had nothing but the beans and toast in his belly and a grim outlook of his immediate future. She would make him feel better by teasing him about his moping. She would poke at him and laugh her laugh and convince him to go on a visit to M’adelixis 7, where they had the best cream floats in the galaxy, and all would be well for a while.

But he didn’t have it. He didn’t have her. And he was tired, no, absolutely exhausted of losing.

“You’re shaking, Doctor,” Wilf said, putting his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” the Doctor said abruptly, and shook his hand off. He wouldn’t be able to hold it together if this man, with the echo of Donna’s cornflower blue eyes, kept giving him a sympathetic look.

“So, just a quick touch and everything’s gone,” Wilf said as he tidied up. He gave the Doctor a sidelong glance. “You didn’t mess about with anything earlier?” He nearly dropped a teacup. The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but-

“No,” the Doctor said. “And I didn’t see much. Just that thought about the aliens on television,” he said, giving him a crooked grin. Wilf walked up to him and took his hand in his.

“Lookit that,” he said, studying the Doctor’s large hands. “Just a touch is all it took.”

The Doctor gently stepped back and put his hands in his pocket. Wilf went back to washing up.

“Doctor?” he said softly.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Donna trusted you, so I trust you. But I don’t need to forget any more than I already have,” he said. “I’m old, and and I live on memories.” He wiped his hands with a tea towel and slung it over his shoulder. “You felt Donna needed to forget, and she has. She’s happy now, and I’m grateful to you. But I don’t wanna forget. Don’t make me forget,” Wilf said, and his eyes gleamed with tears.

“Don’t you worry, old man,” he said, patting his shoulder. “If Donna trusted you, I do too. You won’t say a word about all you’ve seen, will you?”

“Now’t,” Wilf said, shaking his head vigorously. “But what a story I won’t tell. An alien in a box that travels through time! What a yarn.”

“Good,” the Doctor said, kicking the floor with his scuffed sneakers and smiling wistfully. “Good man.”

[aardvark-123]

Gensokyo Festival day 5: Fantasy

~Author’s Note~

We’ve all heard at least one fairy tale about Three Brothers. You know the drill: three brothers take turns to go on some sort of quest, but the eldest is a bit of a wanker, the middle brother loves the sound of his own voice and the quiet, unassuming younger brother turns out to be the one who actually succeeds. Well, this is not one of those stories. It’s a Touhou fanfic. Any more questions?

I thought not. On with the fable!

~The Three Little Vampires and the Wicked Witch~

Last Tuesday in a distant land, there lived two little vampires and one medium-sized vampire who had come for a sleepover. They lived happily in their big red house with a caring maid, a sleepy gardener and a librarian who wore only purple, knowing neither hunger nor fear.

On a morning like any other, the two little vampires and the one medium-sized vampire woke up to find the house quiet and empty. They didn't want to wake the gardener, so they crept downstairs and slinked into the dining room, but there was no breakfast waiting for them. There were no steaming bowls of miso soup, no scones dripping with cream and jam and no steamed rice piled high in its bowl.

The vampires were distraught. How would they ever survive when their tummies were empty? Flandre cried and Kurumi ran around in a blind panic, but Remilia came up with an amazing idea. They would make their own breakfasts.

Kurumi found a sack of flour and eggs in the pantry, so she set to work mixing up a batch of pancake batter. Flandre sawed up a loaf of brown bread and slathered it in butter, then she dusted the slices with sugar and drizzled them in lemon juice. Remilia roasted a chicken and seasoned it with pepper. After a couple of hours, the girls were all messy with honey and sugar and very satisfied indeed.

Once she was able to move again, Remilia decided to go and look for Sakuya. To her amazement, the silver-haired domestic servant was still in bed. Remilia climbed on top of the sleepy maid and gave her a vigorous shake.

Sakuya awoke with a tortured groan. "I don't think I can make you breakfast today, Milady..." she whispered.

"It's almost lunchtime, but go off I guess," said Remilia sympathetically.

"I'm afraid I do not feel so good," said Sakuya weakly. "I think it's the Black Death. Oh, Remilia, whatever will become of me?!"

Remilia was horrified. She ran downstairs and told her sisters the terrible news. They knew they could not let Sakuya pass away, but how would they cure her?

It was eventually decided that Remilia would set out to look for a cure. She packed a loaf of bread, some cheese, a flask of tea, some spare clothes, a bottle of sun cream, a diving suit, her parasol, a football, an alarm clock, her beloved teddy bear and some candyfloss in a rusty old wheelbarrow, which she gave to Meiling, and the two of them set off.

Remilia and Meiling trekked through the Forest of Magic. They hiked for an hour beneath the trees, over streams and past frolicking fairies, until they came to a mysterious house in a clearing.

Remilia knocked timidly on the door. After a few moments, an unexpectedly young and pretty witch opened it.

"Ooh! Hello there, dearie!" said the witch, trying and failing to sound venerable. "It's not often I get any visitors around these parts. Come in, come in! I'll have you for- I mean, um, I'll make you some tea!"

Remilia and Meiling followed the witch into her dining room, shoved some piles of books off the chairs and sat down. The wheelbarrow they left in the front garden, trusting that nobody would come and steal it. Marisa brought them piping-hot bowls of tea and sat down for a chat.

Remilia explained what had happened to her maid and begged Marisa for some help. Marisa thought about it for a few moments and decided to offer Remilia a deal.

"The truth is, these old bones aren't quite as strong as they once were," sighed Marisa, who had won the village arm-wrestling tournament on her twenty-second birthday last week. "I need a strong young lass like yourself to help out around the place. If you can weed the back garden and alphabetise my book collection, I'll give you an antidote for the Plague. If you should fail, I shall eat you and become immortal! Deal?"

Remilia was confident in her abilities, so she agreed without hesitation. She changed into her work-boots and dungarees, rolled up her sleeves and had a nap. Meiling sighed heavily and got to work.

An hour saw every last weed in Marisa's garden piled up on the compost heap. Remilia awoke to a tired, filthy, sweaty, fairly miffed Meiling shaking her out of her doze.

"The garden's done," declared Meiling. "Now I believe it's time for the books!"

"Of course! Just leave them to me!" said Remilia confidently.

"Help," whimpered Remilia, inspecting the four thousand books piled haphazardly in the spare bedroom.

They struggled valiantly, but Remilia and her companion managed only to line up two volumes of a trilogy in the proper order. As the sky grew dark, Marisa summoned Remilia to the kitchen, where she'd prepared a woman-sized pizza base dripping with tomato sauce and cheese.

"I hate to do this, dearie, but a bet's a bet." Marisa shoved an apple inside Remilia's mouth. "How should I cook you? Until golden-brown?"

Remilia desperately wracked her brains for a way out. She spat out the apple. "I'm, um, best served with tartare sauce? You should go out and buy some!"

Marisa shook her head. "Thank you, but I already have a jar. Now, if you'd care to lie down on the pizza base, I'll see if I've got a carving knife-"

Meiling hit Marisa over the head with a shovel, grabbed Remilia by the shoulders and carted her back home.

The following morning, Kurumi set out with a backpack full of food and survival gear, which she gave to Patchouli. After twenty agonisingly slow steps they came to the front gate, at which point Kurumi decided to carry Patchouli. It was slow going with Kurumi so encumbered, but she soon came to the ramshackle house in the clearing. Marisa met her with a face full of green make-up and a bandage on her head.

Marisa invited the travellers in for tea. Patchouli rather conveniently woke up in time to drink hers. Kurumi told the witch about their dilemma and how her elder sister had already tried and failed to find the cure, at which point Marisa smiled slyly.

"I'm sorry to hear about your sister, dearie," she declared. "I might be able to help you, however! If you alphabetise all my books and knit me a new pair of socks by sunset, I'll give you the cure for the plague. On the other hand, if you don't succeed..." Marisa licked her lips, smearing the green lipstick.

Kurumi got the message, but what other choice did she have? She accepted the witch's bargain.

Patchouli had been listening eagerly since she heard the word "books". She took Kurumi firmly by the hand and all but dragged her upstairs.

"Right," said Patchouli, her eyes shining, "we'll start by stacking up the books according to the first letter of the author's name! You take A and B, I'll do the rest. Move! Move! Move!"

Kurumi frantically rifled through the piles of books. Occasionally an A or a B would show up and she'd deposit it on the appropriate stack. Patchouli was a blur, moving thousands of books a second with only the occasional pause for breath. Kurumi had never seen her like that before. The cure was as good as theirs.

The next morning, Marisa found Kurumi and Patchouli curled up under a blanket in the spare room. Walls upon walls of books stretched out around them, all in perfect alphabetical order. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

Out of gratitude, Marisa made the travelers some bacon and eggs for breakfast. Still exhausted from the previous night's exertions they wolfed their meals down. Once she judged that enough time had passed to avoid seeming presumptuous, Kurumi broached the subject of her payment.

"Oh, of course, the cure! I daresay you've earned it," smiled Marisa. "Just one thing, though. Where's my pair of socks?"

Kurumi turned to Patchouli. "Go on, give her the socks!"

"Socks?" said Patchouli nervously. "But Kurumi, the socks were your job!"

"Oh, dear." Marisa sighed with unconvincing regret. She grabbed a box of sage and onion stuffing from under the table and took a handful. "Would you mind taking your bloomers off?"

"Wh-what?! No!" yelped Kurumi. "You can't eat me! Patchouli, do something!"

Patchouli thought for a moment and set the house on fire.

Meiling and Patchouli had their work cut out nursing the severely burned Kurumi back to health, so Flandre was on her own when she began her journey the following morning. It would be her first trip outdoors without Remilia or Sakuya by her side, but she was determined to do her very best. She packed an apple, some shears and a yo-yo in a small bag and headed out through the forest.

After an hour's walk, Flandre came upon a clearing full of charred, smouldering wreckage. A woman was crying on the blackened stone doorstep, her head in her hands.

Flandre sat down beside the witch and put an arm around her shoulders. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Hm?" Marisa looked up. Her eyes would have been red and puffy if they weren't a faded greyish-green instead. "Oh, hello... Some good-for-nothing librarian burned my house down, as you can see. Now I've got nothing. Won't you please help me build another house from stuff that doesn't burn?"

Flandre thought about it. "I wish I could help you, but there's something I really have to do. My maid is dying of the Bubonic Plague and I'm the youngest sister, so if I don't find the cure, nobody will!"

Marisa's face lit up. "I know how to cure the plague! If you help me build a house I'll give you the cure within the hour!"

"Really...?" Flandre was suspicious. "You won't try to eat me if the house doesn't turn out that good, will you?"

"No, of course not! Cross my heart and hope to die!" said Marisa earnestly.

"All right, then! It's a deal!" Flandre stood up and stretched. "To start with, we need to clear up the wreckage." She focused her power on the burned corpse of the previous house. It vanished in a puff of red smoke. "There we go!"

Marisa stared at the empty flat area where her house had been, then at Flandre.

Flandre just smiled. "Right, then, I'll go and quarry some stone. Can you take care of the cement?"

[beastofeasto-blog]

Medlar and Quince Jam

There’s a special pleasure in making your own jam. It’s not just another thing to brag about: ohh look at me I made a strawberry-Chablais-black pepper abomination, I’m better than you.

The point, I think, in making your own, is to scratch an itch that isn’t widely commercially available: don’t bother with berry jams. It’s just going to be a whole lot of effort on your part resulting in something you could’ve popped down to the shops for.

Now, where I’m at, in soggy old England, tis the season for two excellent fruits.

This is a  quince. It looks like an especially  large, yellow, tumourous pear. When you poach it (cue eyerolling from the zoomers in the audience, derisive snorts and rhetorical questions as to which century it is), it takes on an implacable, exotic fragrance, and a taste somewhere between roses, apples and pears, and a texture that’s both grainy and soft. I know that’s not to everybody’s taste, sometimes, not even to mine. If you have a quince at home and don’t know what to do with it, the best I can advise is to cut it into chunks, put it into a pot, cover with water, add maybe three tablespoons of sugar and a few well chosen spices: a stick of cinnamon, a couple star anise, maybe some cardamom. Subtlety is the name of the game here, so don’t be excessive. Then let it bubble away until the white flesh has blushed to magenta and it will yield to the pressure of the back of a fork. You can serve this as is, or with double cream or even custard. It’s the perfect thing to cheer you up on a wet November afternoon.

The other fruit is something that some of you probably haven’t tasted or even seen. English poets of yore charmingly nicknamed it “cat’s arse” or “open arse” due to its suggestive, rectal shape. Medlars are doubly strange because they’re inedible raw, and it’s standard procedure to allow them to blet: soften, darken, their interior flesh changing from cream to an applesauce-brown to something somehow even less appetising. Yeah, bletting is a more appealing way of saying rotting. So why am I telling you about them? Not just due to centuries of jokers making allusions to them, but also because they’re delicious. I mentioned applesauce because that’s an approximation of what they taste like. Applesauce, or medjool dates. They also have the quality of being absolutely packed to the gills with pectin. This is another reason why I want to tell you about this recipe: unlike many other jams,  it doesn’t require pectin. It’s strictly a jelly: silky as the jar of Welch’s, but at least a dozen times better tasting.    

Now, in absolute brevity, pectin is a polysaccharide, like starch or cellulose. It’s different from something like fructose, glucose or sucrose, because they’re all monosaccharides; just one "unit” of sugar. Pectin, on the other hand, is a polymer chain of many monosaccharides, all bonded together. The gel forms because when heated, the different pectin chains form hydrogen bonds with one another. For those who’ve neglected their chemistry, hydrogen bonds are comparatively weak interactions, that occur between a hydrogen and a pair of free electrons on most usually an oxygen, nitrogen for fluorine. Despite their weakness, they’re still significant, because they can affect the 3D structure and behaviour of molecules. They allow DNA to have its double-helical shape.   Pectin is another great example. The pectins (remember, they’re chains of sugars) interact via hydrogen bonding, and form a net-like structure. In real terms, this means a gel forms. 

However, what this recipe does need is a pot, a wooden spoon or spatula, something to strain with like a relatively fine-grained sieve, and a cooking thermometer, ideally a candy thermometer.

I’ve modified a Nigel Slater recipe here. Nigel Slater is my favourite food writer, and he probably should be yours also, not just because of his evocative prose but because he doesn’t give a shit what’s going on at El Bulli or Noma or God knows where else. He cares about good, tasty, unpretentious cooking. He’s one of the reasons why I’m so interested in food today.

You’re going to need for about two jars.

about a pound of medlars, 2/3 of which are soft and squashy, and 1/3 of which are still quite hard.

one big quince

 an apple

a lemon

water

caster sugar

and some spices of your choice

First, cut your fruit into pieces so that they’re all roughly the same size. I’d suggest that you go for “half a medlar” as your size, but it’s entirely up to you.

Then put them into a big old deep pot, cover them with water, and then about a thumb’s depth extra.

Bring the pot to a boil, and then turn it on low and let the thing bubble away for an hour. Poke at the fruit a little with your spoon, but don’t stir because the jelly will cloud, thereby partially ruining it. While you’re boiling, you could skim the foam off the top if you want to. I did it, but you don’t have to.

Then, pour all of it into the sieve, which you’ve sat over a bowl that’s at least 2L in volume, and let the liquid pass through. You can help the juice on its way, but generally let nature take its course, until all that remains in the sieve is a dark mess, and the bowl is full of a pretty, deep coloured liquid. You could, of course, use a jelly bag or cheesecloth, but you probably don’t have one and they’re the very devil to clean. While a sieve isn’t as fine, it’s good enough.

Now, measure out how much liquid you’ve got, make a note of it,  and return it to the pot. Boil for a few minutes, not just to deepen flavour and colour, but also to bring it up to heat.  Here, you can add some spices. I chose cardamom and hibiscus: about four cardamom pods and a small handful of dried hibiscus flowers. The cardamom because I think that it works beautifully with stewed fruit, and the hibiscus to amp up the gorgeous colour. Add the same volume of sugar as you did liquid. Stir to combine and bring it up to to 108C/220F. This is the gelling temperature, and if you don’t do this the jelly won’t set. Cook at that temperature for a few minutes. Dip a cold metal spoon into your jam and remove it. If two drops  coalesce to form a “sheet”, it’s ready. Another way to test for doneness is to put a teaspoon of jam onto a saucer and put that into the freezer for a few minutes. If it furrows like a brow when you run your finger through it, it’s also done.

Now, once you’ve done that, pour it into sterilized jars. Hot jam likes hot jars, cold jam likes cold jars. I’m not sure how long this keeps, but it’s probably weeks-to-months.

The first thing I ate it with was some baguette and brie. It was excellent. I’m no sommeilier, but let’s see if I can evoke the flavour. It was sweet, even for me, fragrant, intensely tasting of quince, with that subtle bitter/sourness from the hibiscus flowers, and with a distinct almost creamy flavour which I suppose comes from the medlars. Very rich stuff. The texture was jelly-like, but subtly crumbly.

So here we are. Medlar and Quince Jelly. My first post. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did cooking it. Next time, maybe something about Japan.

All images were taken by me except for the quince illustration, which is by Ann Swan, and is called “Champion Quince”.

[babylon-crashing]

christina rossetti’s goblin market

“Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices.” Longing for forbidden goblin fruit the impulsive Laura enters into a bacchic orgy with the demons of the woods only to develop a consumptive wasting disease that threatens to kill her. It takes the brave Lizzie to cross through hell for her sister, enduring the Victorian equivalent of bukkaki and return, urging, “Eat me, drink me, love me;/ Laura, make much of me,” who then proceeds to lick and suck goblin juice off Lizzie’s face. For reasons that I have never understood parents keep insisting that this is quaint children’s verse, whereas I consider it one of my favorite subversively erotic poems. Not only is the ending message that Sisterhood is Powerful, but that the only heteronormative representation that Rossetti presents for us (the goblins are all clearly male, lecherous and untrustworthy/ Laura and Lizzie live independent as a couple in their own house) warns the reader that random forest gangbangs might leave you with something suspiciously like syphilis. Ah, literature.

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.”

  Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. 

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird. 

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone. 

Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.” 

Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night. 

At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”— “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. 

White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down. 

One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance. 

In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

notes:

The illustrations come from Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s (1862), Laurence Housman‘s (1893) and John Bolton’s (1984) editions of Goblin Market, as well as the 1973 Playboy issue that was illustrated by Kinuko Craft.

[itsapoemeveryday-blog]

Goblin Market

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.”

Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen.

“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.”

Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest.

Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?”

Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look.

Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”—

“Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter.

She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.”

Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

This 1862 poem by Christina Rossetti remains one of my favourite testimonies to something that has always been very close to my heart: sisterhood and female bonding. In a world where women are taught to despise each other, compete with each other over the most trivial things, and treat each other as enemies, we need to remember the message of this wonderful narrative poem. 

[high5nerd]

The Adventures of Fanty and Pitch Black---Chap. Nine

Fanty padded down the wide, grand stairs in her bare feet, smacking her lips tiredly. Sandy came in to wake her up-not one of his favorite things to do-and tell her breakfast was ready. She almost tripped on her nightgown, which was a little bit long on her petite frame. Fanty's brown hair was a mess, like Anna's in the movie Frozen. Just as she landed on the stone flooring and slowly trudged to the grand feasting hall, Jack Frost swooped down from the rafters and drifted alongside her casually, grinning like the silly boy he was.

"Mornin', Sleepyhead!" he greeted cheerfully, bopping her nose with the staff.

"Hi, Jack. Did you sleep last night?" Fanty yawned, scratching her head sleepily.

Jack happily shook his head, "Nope. Once you fell asleep I went to Russia. Moscow looks awesome with a foot of snow, by the way."

Fanty nodded, not really ready to have a full on conversation in the morning. Just as she opened the doors, her eyes went wide.

Not only was there a giant feast set before her, but Mystic and Star stood by the long table, looking around in astonishment. When they saw Fanty in this Indian, colorful nightgown with a living nightmare of bed hair, they gasped and ran over.

"Fanty, we were so worried about you! Xion almost called the police." Mystic frantically told, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her gently.

"Even Drago was gone for days looking for you. You never told us where you were going or for how long!" Star looked disappointed in Fanty as she scolded her.

Fanty, after closing and opening her mouth in shock like a fish, finally mentally smacked herself before apologizing multiple times. She told them of Pitch's desperate drawback, and how she has to go to some witch spirit to help him. Mystic and Star gave her a look, one mixed with slight pity and confusion.

"I can't believe you're risking your life for him. Even I wouldn't do that, at least willingly. I'd be scared." Star said truthfully, and Mystic reluctantly nodded.

"He's a friend, and no one deserves to die alone and uncared for." Fanty said bravely, finally wide awake.

Mystic and Star, after a while, smiled brightly. They pulled in Fanty for a tight hug, and laughed when Fanty muttered about cooties.

"You really are a great friend. Even to someone who's dark, evil, manipulative, and soulless-" Star went on.

"Okay, she gets it." Pitch snapped from the shadows.

Mystic and Star looked like they almost jumped out of their skins. Fanty just rolled her eyes with a smirk and said teasingly, "And sneaky."

"I prefer guileful, or devious." Pitch smirked, strolling over to the girls with his hands behind his back.

Fanty looked at Pitch, and when she saw that tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, she beamed brightly. "You brought them here?"

"Your goodbye wasn't proper enough, at least for my taste." Pitch nonchalantly said, looking away with pride at his success.

"Me neither," Mystic grinned, "Besides, how are you going to help Pitch when we're busy stalling you?"

Fanty rolled her eyes with a grin, "You're not stalling me, guys…but do you really have to leave now?"

Mystic and Star nodded in sync, but then Star noticed Jack leaning on his staff in the corner of the feast hall. He smiled and waved at her, and Star eagerly grinned at Fanty, as if she spotted something worthy in a candy store.

"Before we go, can we get a picture with Jack?" she gave Fanty her best puppy eyes, and Mystic happily joined her.

Fanty smiled and nodded at Jack, who ran a hand through his hair and gave a flirtatious, shy smile at Star, who blushed a bright pink. She whipped out her cupcake iPhone and snapped a picture of the three grinning, Jack playfully sticking out his tongue like the childish boy he was. As Star and Mystic thanked him and put on their thick, winter coats, Jack hid his hands in his pockets and shyly said, "I'm not sure if I'll come up in the photo, though."

Star smiled and showed him the picture, and indeed he was there, sticking his tongue out like a kid. Jack raised a brow and gave a curious smile. Mystic patted his shoulder and said, "The best part about these photos is that only believers will see you. So it's like a privilege to take a photo with a spirit! Finders keepers, at least in Star's sake."

Jack winked at Star, who giggled and looked away. As they disappeared in the portal they came through with a snow globe, Fanty sat herself down at the table, close to the head of the table. "You're a player, Jack," Fanty said, smirking at him, "Which one, Tooth or Star?"

Jack blushed and snapped, "Neither! Girls are gross."

"Excuse me?!"

Tooth zoomed over to him, clearly back from her palace. Her feathers were puffed with annoyance, and she was breathing shallowly. It was a sight to see her irritated. Fanty felt something drop at the bottom of her stomach as she watched Tooth get in his face with a shaking finger, and Jack looked honestly terrified.

"I'll have you know that we're much more cleaner than any boy in the entire world. At least we have our priorities straight!"

Fanty awkwardly coughed as Pitch sat next to her, and she leaned over to whisper, "I don't think she's ever heard of Twilight…or any teen romance novel for that matter. None of the characters in those books have their priorities straight."

"Okay," Pitch agreed slowly, "What about real people? That's more important."

"Can't say. It'll be bashing and it isn't my place to point out flaws in real people. Characters? They aren't real, so I can say anything I want." Fanty smirked at Pitch, who chuckled at her joke.

As the Guardians settled down at the table, Tooth still huffy with Jack who looked completely worn out and worried of her opinion, the yetis brought out the giant platters of food. North cheered and clapped his hands, and Bunny grinned at the sight of the warm carrot pancakes one of the yetis was bringing to him. Sandy silently clapped when a dark haired yeti poured him egg nog and placed a delicious plate of sunny side up eggs with toast and two strips of bacon. Bacon, as Fanty learned that breakfast morning, was his absolute favorite part of breakfast.

"It's the only thing he wakes up for," North winked at Fanty, and Sandy even nodded through eager crunches as well.

Pitch helped himself to his own breakfast, consisting of an odd drink of Darjeeling tea, scrambled eggs on toast and oatmeal. Fanty crinkled her nose at the oatmeal, an old memory floating into her mind. Tooth, who was really into her bowl of fruit salad, noticed her stare at Pitch's choice of food. Being the Guardian of Memories, she could see what she was remembering, and almost snorted on her milk. Bunny gave her a concerned look, and Pitch couldn't help but grin over his cup of tea at Tooth's choking laughs. Tooth finally looked at Fanty with an amused smile, and Fanty shyly grinned back at Tooth's ability to read her memories.

"Tell us vhat's going on. I hate being left out of good joke." North said, munching on a deliciously cooked lemon muffin.

Fanty looked down, suddenly embarrassed. "I can't. It's kinda gross, at least in my opinion."

"If it made Tooth laugh it's good enough for the table." Bunny kindly said, gesturing to Tooth who playfully glared at him.

"Fine…" Fanty timidly looked at Pitch, who raised a brow at her strange behavior, "When I was six or seven, my dad made me some of my favorite oatmeal for breakfast. I was really excited, since he always made it taste better with a bit of brown sugar and apple slices. But my dad…has a very bad taste in jokes."

Bunny and Jack grinned simultaneously. "I like where this is going." Jack snickered, and Sandy patted his arm to shut him up.

"He covered the bowl with a smaller one to make it look like it just came out of the microwave. And when I lifted it…there were worms inside."

Bunny almost fell off his chair while hooting in laughter and Jack guffawed so badly he literally snorted his cold orange juice. Tooth began giggling uncontrollably again, and even Pitch snickered at Fanty's blushing face. She looked ticked off as she patted her fork against her chocolate chip waffles, making the syrup splat repeatedly against the flat of the fork.

"It isn't that funny. I never ate oatmeal again."

"Don't worry, you're not missing out," Jack snickered, "Oatmeal is boring, Pitch is boring. Point made."

Fanty grinned at that, and Pitch glared at him before slyly flinging a spoonful of oatmeal at Jack's face so it splat against his forehead. Before the spirit of fun could chuck a peeled orange back at him, North gave a good scolding to both, and the breakfast meal quieted down a bit than it was before. Fanty ate to her heart's content, and was quite sad to leave so suddenly afterwards. North and Tooth fussed over her by giving her extra clothing and utilities like a compass and a snow globe in case of emergencies, but Fanty knew she would be fine. Pitch felt content watching Fanty happily grin to each Guardian in thanks for their care and interest, and even gestured a stiff goodbye as they went through a portal to the thick forest that the spirit of magic dwelled in.

"So what's our plan?" Fanty asked, shedding her bomber jacket as the portal behind them closed up.

"Find Morgana, get an answer how we can save me." Pitch said, taking her jacket from her as the gentleman he was.

"What're we waiting for? Let's go!" Fanty said excitedly, and they started their trek through the bright and airy woods.

The forest had a golden tint to the bright green leaves, and the two could just feel the magic in the air. Bluebirds and mockingbirds fluttered in the air, and occasionally they spotted red squirrels and butterflies of many colors. Flowers were in full bloom, some shimmering with a hint of mystery and beauty that not even Mother Nature could produce. The sun's rays made everything look…beautiful!

Pitch watched Fanty happily walk ahead of him, a slight spring in her step as they strolled down a path that was edged with moss and clovers. A smile lay on her face, tilted up to the sky as she enjoyed the feeling of the warmth of the sun and the sharp blueness of the sky. Her hand lazily grazed against nearby leaves and flowers, enjoying the feel of nature at her fingertips.

Pitch couldn't help but feel a small smile curl his lips. She reminded him of a past memory of his daughter, how she thoroughly enjoyed the woods outside their home and often pretended to have adventures in the glade.

"Having fun?" Pitch chuckled as Fanty twirled before hopping onto a shiny grey stone.

"Loads. Come on, smile at least." Fanty grinned at him, holding out her hand.

Pitch looked away, trying to hold back a grin, but took her suggestion for consideration. He finally smiled at her, and Fanty grinned back, "You are pretty handsome when you smile."

Pitch couldn't help but laugh, his face leaning to the sky at Fanty's remark. The girl continued to smile on and walk backwards, watching him surprisingly look so…happy.

"Just shut up and continue frolicking, Fanty." Pitch said to her with a teasing grin.

Fanty shrugged lightheartedly and continued skipping down the path, and the whole way down, Pitch could just feel a weight lift off his shoulders and relieve some small stress he's carried for centuries. He missed the freedom like this. Fanty urged him to keep up with her, and pretended she was Peter Pan flying through the forest while running fast.

He almost bumped into Fanty when she suddenly stopped, and pointed to a part of the forest that bended like a cave, and the ending of the path was a dead giveaway that they reached their destination. The path separated into little shiny stones, and the nearby rocks softy glittered with quartz, diamonds and rubies that looked so tiny, Fanty couldn't make them out without expecting them closely. A golden cauldron sat patiently to the side, and a cluster of rocks nearby formed a waterfall that continued forever, and a wooden dish floated above magically as if it was its own water basin. From the tree branch and leaf canopy hung decorations and strange objects that must have been relics and magical objects that Morgana must have collected. Colored bottles of many shades hung above too, and cast a light to the green grass below that made it almost look like a clubhouse. To the right was a bed that had a curtain of ivy leaves and satin sheets, and a dark wood wardrobe that reminded Fanty of her favorite childhood book of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Fanty softly smiled and took one step forward, before Pitch grabbed her and pulled her back, securing his arms around her protectively.

"Shh. Don't move and don't scream." He hissed, his eyes wide at the creature that lay behind the thin curtain of more leaves and vines in front of them.

Fanty held her breath, terror rising in her gut when Pitch grabbed her like that. She squinted her eyes to see what was the matter, and saw only a glittering behind the curtain of leaves. It continued on for a long time, and it was until then she realized that hot wind feeling was actually coming from behind the curtain.

"Have no fear, for Cambria is a gentle dragon." A soothing voice said from behind the curtain.

The shade drew back to reveal a massive purple and blue dragon, fast asleep and curled against a giant boulder. There also stood a woman, much taller than Fanty but around Pitch's height, with long and flowing hair. In her hair, was pixie dust of blues and greens. Jewels dripped from her headdress, and her gown looked like fabric ivory with hints of silver and ebony. She stepped forward, not looking at Fanty but straight at Pitch. She gracefully extended a hand to Pitch, who took her hand and kissed it, not tearing his eyes from her bright and shining ones. Fanty pursed her lips and looked away, feeling jealous of her fair and white skin and red lips and she had olive toned skin. Not even a single blemish on this woman, the lucky duck.

But then Fanty felt better when she noticed Pitch's lips looked glittery when he released her hand. It's as if this woman was bathed in pixie dust.

"I received word that my mother would be receiving guests." The woman glanced at Fanty with an amused smile.

"You are not Morgana?" Pitch looked her up and down, clearly thinking she was in fact her.

"I am not, for I am her daughter, Megan. Mother had an urgent matter with the Seasonal Spirits and Father Time. It is nothing to worry about."

As Pitch asked her questions such as why she didn't go with her and what her importance was, Fanty got the feeling Megan and Pitch were hitting it off. She started walking around, looking at things and…yeah, she kind of touched stuff to see what they did. She saw this mirror looking thing, and when she peeked into it, only saw another location she wasn't familiar with. She touched the mirror, only to be shocked that it had the texture and appearance of mercury against her fingertips. She grinned and dipped her hand further into the mirror until she heard a scream from the other side, "MOOOM! THERE'S A FLOATING HAND!"

She quickly retracted and glanced at Pitch, who would have shot fireballs at her with his eyes if he was able to. Megan only smiled and said in her usual silky voice, "That is the Mirror of Might. My mother linked it to the place she first became a spirit, for memory sake."

"Well…that's uh, meaningful." Fanty awkwardly complimented, rubbing her hand tenderly.

"So can you help us?" Pitch asked her, turning away from Fanty.

Megan nodded slowly, following her mother's directions. "She said you would be coming, so I am prepared. But the risk of this ritual to gain belief is precarious."

"I can deal with precarious!" Fanty grinned at her, tossing a crystal ball in her hand, "Precarious is my middle name!"

"I…is it really?" Megan looked quite shocked, not getting that it was a figure of speech. Sarcasm wasn't invented when she was born in the Renaissance Age.

"No it isn't. It's Elizabeth." Pitch smirked at Fanty.

"HOW DO YOU-?!" Fanty yelled, and accidentally dropped the crystal ball. It smashed to the ground, causing Cambria, the giant dragon to stir in her sleep and Megan to cringe.

"You idiot! You thoughtless, pubescent witch!" Pitch scolded, stomping over to her and pulling her away from the shelf of magical books and scrolls.

"I didn't mean to," Fanty pouted, "it just kinda jumped out of my hand."

"All is well," Megan waved her hand elegantly, "My mother has twenty more."

Fanty grinned widely, "We could break all of them and then make a giant, big one with the pieces!"

Megan stared at her, thinking Fanty really was an oddball. But then again, she was. Pitch face-palmed, and then held out his other hand as Megan gave him a tiny piece of parchment with the location of where they should perform the ritual.

"She's…quite a keeper." Megan said to Pitch, trying to go for a compliment.

"Ew." Fanty crinkled her nose as Pitch furiously blushed.

"I'll say this lightly. She's not my type." He said acidly, forcing a smile to appear friendly. It wasn't very comforting for Megan, and she took a tiny step back.

"I see. Well, pardon me," Megan turned to Fanty with an apologetic smile, "your little snow globe will only get you about half a mile close to the ancient ruins you are destined to go to, but just follow the fae and they will guide you. You have my word, and so mote it be."

When Megan curtsied, Fanty curtsied as well, feeling a bit odd pulling at the sides of her pants as if she wore a skirt. Megan noticed it, and flashed a white smile. Her eyes shone as she shyly asked, "Um…are they comfortable?"

"What, these?" Fanty looked down at her jeans.

"Yes, those trousers. I have always wanted to try them." Megan timidly admitted.

Fanty looked down at her jeans, and then back at Megan, her lower lip out in thought.

Pitch chuckled as he glanced at Fanty as they left the Glade, still finding her grouching very amusing. Fanty stomped down the path, not finding it funny at all.

"You've had your laugh. Just shut up." Fanty muttered, glaring at him.

Pitch teased her by pinching her cheek as if she were an adorable three year old, "Aww, but you were being considerate. How thoughtful."

"I hate dresses." Fanty complained, looking down at the shiny dress that she wore. She had to wear a silver belt to keep the hem up from tripping on it. It looked odd with her converse and her bomber jacket.

"You're not that bad in them. Let's just get this ritual over with and maybe I'll consider crafting a badass outfit for you out of nightmare sand." Pitch nonchalantly said while observing the snow globe in her hand.

Fanty snickered and said sassily, "I think I'll pass. Your gown is proof enough."

"It's a robe!"

Yeesh, while you were busy reading that I was reading my old fanfiction, the first one I ever did with Pitch and an OC. I'm glad my writing has improved! I can kinda see it as the chapters progress. Ah well, I won't bother deleting it. It's a learning experience. :)

Excuse any of the misspellings, parts of this chapter was written in the dark and around midnight. Leave a review for all time's sake, and have a wonderful summer! :)

[lumiolivier]

The Tale of a Bourbon Apple Pie

Hi there, cuties!  How are you today?  I hope this finds you well.  If you remember, this past Monday, I made pie.  More or less on a whim.

And it turned out FANTASTIC.  Because I have a little piece of Supernatural fan fiction called A Family Forged in Fire where the main character helped a particular angel make his favorite righteous man a birthday present.  And she said that the recipe she used was for her Aunt Karen’s apple pie that she made for Uncle Bobby once in a while.  According to Bobby, it’s not as good as Karen’s, but pretty close.  

But because I’m so damn nice, I got asked for Aunt Karen’s apple pie recipe.  Now, a lot of the things I didn’t measure out, so this is going to be a bit difficult to get down on paper, blogpost, what have you.  But because @havarti2 (I’m pretty sure.  That asshole left the game too early last night.) and @nirnbane asked so nice, I got this.  I can put it together.  I’m also going to be divulging some old family secrets that aren’t exactly secrets, but my mom likes to think they are, so keep them to yourself.  Bear with me here.  I’ve never written a recipe with instructions before, so this isn’t going to sound professional in the least bit, but that’s not what we’re here for, is it?  Are we ready then?  Let’s begin.

Let’s talk filling first.

Ingredients:

-6 small golden delicious apples (or whatever apples you want to use.  I don’t judge.)

-1/2 cup butter

-3 tablespoons flour

-1/4 cup water

-a splash of lemon juice

-1/2 cup brown sugar

-1/2 cup white sugar

-cinnamon (I kind of went apeshit on the cinnamon, but that’s just me)

-nutmeg (I didn’t go as apeshit as I did with the cinnamon, but add at your discretion)

-1 teaspoon vanilla (again...Use at your discretion.)

-2 shots bourbon (I used 2 little shooter bottles of Jim Beam Honey and Fire, but any bourbon really)

1.) Wash your apples.  Very important.  Clean fruit is happy fruit.  Now that I’m done being cheesy...Cut them up into smol piece.  Use a chopper, use a knife.  I don’t care.  That’s entirely up to you.  Personally, I find cutting fruit to be very therapeutic, so I used a knife.  Occasionally feeding a piece to your dog while she watches Death Note with you is entirely optional.

2.) Get a bowl with a lid and put your apples in said bowl and put your lemon juice in, so the apples don’t brown and get disgusting.  Put the lid on the bowl and shake vigorously.  Once the lemon juice and the apples have become one with each other, add your bourbon.  Shake again.  Put them in the fridge overnight.  Then, get yourself a good night’s sleep, ok?  

3.) Now that it’s morning or afternoon or whenever it is you’re making this pie, we’re actually going to make the filling.  If you want to make the crust first, that’s fine, but the dough comes together super quick, so it doesn’t really matter.  Get a saucepan and put in the butter.  Once the butter has completely melted, add your flour.  Mix until it becomes kind of a paste.  Then, add your sugars and mix thoroughly.  It’s going to be kind of thick, so that’s when we add the water.  You’re also going to add the cinnamon and the nutmeg and the vanilla.  Let your mixture come to a boil.  Once it does, get it off the heat and add your apples.  I let it cook together for a little bit, so the alcohol in the bourbon has a chance to cook out a little bit, but you don’t have to.   

And there you have your pie filling!  Now, onto the crust!

Ingredients:

-1/2 cup butter flavored Crisco (Trust me.  You want butter flavored Crisco.  You can use just straight up butter, but this is going to make your crust super flaky.  And to make it even better, make sure it’s chilled.)

-1 1/4 cup flour

-1/4 teaspoon salt

-ice water.  Just get a cup of it.

Before you do anything else, though, preheat your oven to 425.  When you have time to kill, you can make your crust.

1.) Mix together your flour and salt.

2.) Add your Crisco and use a pastry blender to mix it into the flour/salt baby you just made until it looks like coarse crumbs.  If you don’t have a pastry blender, you can use a fork, too.

3.) Once your dough is all good and crummy, we’re going to add the water in little bits at a time.  Use your hand and knead it together as you add more water.  Once it’s come together into a good sized ball, we roll it out.

4.) Flour your surface and drop your dough ball onto the counter.  Roll it out to about a quarter inch thick and drape it into your pie pan.  It stretches, so feel free to be a little rough with it if you have to.  As long as you don’t have any air bubbles, you’re golden.  

5.) Take a butter knife and go around the outside of your pie pan, trimming off any excess dough.  Trust me.  You’re going to want that.  Especially if you’re going to do a top crust.  You don’t have to, but I did.  

And now, my friends, we’re going to marry the two in a holy matrimony.  Let’s assemble the pie!

1.) Take your pie filling and pour it into your pie crust.  I’m pretty sure you’re smart enough to figure that one out.  By now, your oven should be preheated.  And while you’re there, you can do your decorating with your top crust.  I did a simple square, but you can do whatever you want.  If you need more pie dough, make more pie dough!  No shame in your pie dough game.  

2.) Is your pie all filled and decorated and cute and such?  Fantastic.  Put it in the oven for 10-12 minutes with a loosely fitting blanket of tin foil on a cookie sheet just to catch any drips that might happen.  Mine did.  My oven smoked up quick.  It’s not pleasant.  Learn from my mistakes, friends.  

3.) After your 10-12 minutes is up, drop your heat to 350 and bake for another 40 minutes, but DO NOT TURN YOUR OVEN OFF YET.  We have one more baking cycle to go.  But after 40 minutes, take your pie out and do a quick egg wash on your crust.  I highly suggest sprinkling your crust with sugar, too.  It just makes it all the better.  And now, put your pie back in the oven for another 10 minutes WITHOUT the foil, so the crust can brown up a little.  (A helpful tip for when you go to bake your pie, play Studio Ghibli soundtracks.  I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s what I did.  Even when you’re not in the room.)

4.) Once you’ve gone through all the baking cycles, take your pie out and let it cool.  Do not...I repeat...DO NOT eat it straight out of the oven.  Your filling is going to be all bubbly and those burns are going to be a gift that keep on giving and you do not want that.  Not to mention, when you let the pie cool, it’ll help the filling solidify a bit more, so we have that going for us.

5.) Now that your pie has cooled, go ahead and go to town.  Enjoy!

[pearcar93-blog]

Upside Down Walnut, Chocolate, & Pear Cake

Our little back house we are renting is about four miles from the ocean here in Costa Mesa/Newport Beach. We get the foggy marine layer on the mornings it chooses to hang over the coast, and we have a very tempered climate year round. In the past I’ve brushed southern California off as having no seasons, but this just isn’t true. I think with social media these days we see so much in the fall of the iconic leaves changing, and more clearly defined seasons of certain regions of the world, that is has become commonplace to standardize these quarterly shifts. Maybe it’s just me and my tendency to seek out change, but I’m coming around to seeing a more full, open picture. Every little dot of latitude and longitude on the map has it’s own unique characteristics when it comes to seasons, and I’m beginning to appreciate our a-typical southern California ones.

September and October are two of the warmest months here where I live, which is wonderful if you can get past the photos of falls leaves and warms mugs of cocoa elsewhere. Why is it wonderful? The crowds of people have all gone home, the kids are back in school, and the beaches and national parks are now near-empty to enjoy. Around here we call it “locals’ summer”. I don’t do well in the heat, so this time can be tough for me to get through, but November and December are the greatest gift after these few warm months. This is my season, this is the time of year I fall in love with California. The air is chilly and as crisp as you can get with the pacific ocean nearby. The light is the most beautiful light I’ve ever seen. The sunsets make you weak in the knees. And the smell that permeates the entire city is pure heaven. The farmers market is still overflowing, with fall produce finally coming in alongside unlikely jewels such as tomatoes, avocados, oranges, and so many greens (kale, chard, herbs, etc). Local pomegranates are half the size of my head and two dollars a piece.

Approaching Thanksgiving this year, and hosting for the first time with my parents coming into town, I tried pondering a new theme we could base our cooking around that felt more fitting for our area. As is typical this time of year, we have a three day heat bump that lands right over Thanksgiving. Normally I would say something negative about California and how I wish I lived somewhere cooler. But not this year, I’m celebrating where we live. So we are having a California-themed Thanksgiving with dishes made from all of the produce that was overflowing the most at the farmers market this past weekend. Our backyard will be in shade in the late afternoon, so we will set up the table under our twinkle lights and eat outside. Roasting a dozen heavy dishes on a warm day doesn’t sound right to me, so I’m planning a few lighter twists. I’ll be sure to share them on Instagram stories a bit if you’re curious to see what we are making. I’m really excited you guys, it feels good to be going with the grain and not against it for once.

Part of my inspiration to dig deeper into understanding and loving the unique spot in the world where I live came from reading Valentina‘s pages in her new cookbook, Everyday Vegetarian. She lives in a small medieval town on the eastern side of Italy and shares her region’s history and culinary traditions in a way that reads like a poetic novel. From cover to cover you are immersed in recipes and stories that overlap each other into one beautiful picture of her culture. Valentina takes traditional recipes that have been passed down for generations in her family, alongside some newer ones of her own, and shows how to make them vegetarian (and many of them vegan too) without compromising the tradition. It’s beautifully photographed, with such a lovely cover to have sitting out on your kitchen counter too (see photo below recipe). She shows how there is so much more to Italian cooking outside of pasta and tomato sauce (although she has recipes for both from scratch that are incredible) and how to cook throughout the seasons in her nook of the world as well. I want to make every recipe from cover to cover and book a trip to Italy ASAP to experience so much of what she describes.

The first recipe that jumped out to me was her grandma’s upside down prune cake, which she suggests in the fall making with pears, nuts, and chocolate instead. So I did just that, and it was so scrumptious I had to share it with you here too! I used a mixture of freshly milled flours from the incredible people over at Eat Grain, which I link to individually in the recipe below. You can taste the freshness, and even see it, in these flours. I’ve never experienced anything like it – and the nutrition is suppose to be even better as well! Check out their line on their site here if you’d like, they are shipping anywhere in North America for free for the rest of the year – which is perfect timing for some holiday baking.

I hope those of you celebrating Thanksgiving this week have the most wonderful, joy-filled time. Maybe this cake could even squeeze onto one of your holiday tables too ;). -xx

SHOP MY PANTRY >>

RECIPE NOTES: The recipe below is pretty darn near exact to Valentina’s, with a few small exceptions. Here are the few substitutions I made which you can convert back to the original if you desire to: I use coconut sugar instead of brown sugar, apple sauce instead of sunflower oil, and a mixture of whole spelt and rye instead of whole wheat. I also halved the recipe below and prepared it in a 6 inch springform pan in the photos above, since I knew we would have lots of sweets on hand this week. This worked out really well, but I know I’ll be making the full recipe next time – it was just too good.

UPSIDE DOWN WALNUT, CHOCOLATE, & PEAR CAKE Makes one 10 inch cake, serves 8 to 10.

1 3/4 cups almond or soy milk 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar 1/4 cup of water 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1/4 cup unsweetened apple sauce (or sunflower oil) juice and zest of 1 lemon 1 cup coconut sugar, plus 1 teaspoon for the pan 1 cup of sifted spelt flour (white) 3/4 cup whole spelt flour 1/4 cup whole rye flour 1/3 cup potato starch 1 heaping teaspoon baking soda 1 heaping teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon pinch of salt 15 small pears 1/3 cup chopped raw walnuts 1/3 cup chopped dark chocolate

optional: extra chopped walnuts and dark chocolate for sprinkling on top

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line a 10-inch springform pan with parchment paper and lightly oil the sides (I forgot to oil mine and it still removed itself nicely, but it is probably safer to do so). Sprinkle about a teaspoon of coconut sugar on the bottom.

Combine the sifted (white) spelt, whole spelt, and rye flour with the potato starch, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, salt, coconut sugar, and lemon zest in a large bowl and whisk to remove any lumps (I sifted mine, and added the sugar and zest afterwards).

In a large glass measuring cup, combine the almond or soy milk, vinegar, and lemon juice and stir. After a few seconds, the milk will start to curdle. Immediately add the water, applesauce (or sunflower oil), and vanilla. Stir well. Slowly pour this into the dry mix, stirring with a whisk to break any lumps. The batter will be somewhat on the liquid side.

Core each pear and slice into 1/4 inch thick wedges. Arrange in a circle in the prepared springform pan, until the bottom is completely filled. Sprinkle the chopped walnuts and dark chocolate on top, and slowly pour the cake batter into the tin. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes (mine took 50), until cooked through when tested in the center with a toothpick. Once cooked and golden on top, turn off the oven and let it sit inside for 5 minutes more.

Remove the cake from the oven and release from the springform pan onto a wire rack. Flip upside down so that the pears are on top, and peal away the parchment paper. This is optional, but while the cake is warm I sprinkled some dark chocolate on top, and when it had melted I added a small handful of additional chopped walnuts. Once fully cooled, slice and serve the cake. Store leftovers in an airtight container on the counter, or in the fridge (it’s really good cold), and enjoy within three days.

This recipe was originally found in the cookbook Everyday Vegetarian, and is being republished here with Valentina’s permission. See more of her beautiful work on her blog, Hortus Cuisine, and on Instagram. 

I love seeing what you create! Be sure to tag your photos on Instagram with #FWmakers.

This post contains affiliate links (they are underlined for clarity). Purchases you make through these links will help fund the work I do here on Faring Well at no extra cost to you. Thank you sincerely for your constant love and support.

Naturally Vegetarian by Valentina Solfrini O R D E R  H E R E

Source: http://faring-well.com/upside-down-walnut-chocolate-pear-cake/

[forkfridge91-blog]

How to Make Donuts From Scratch (Like You Know What You're Doing)

Doughnuts, for me, represent absolute perfection. Don’t get me wrong: Pie is my number one; cake is near the top of my list; and I’ve never met a cookie I didn’t like. But doughnuts…there isn’t much in this world that’s better than a good—no, a GREAT—doughnut. Sure, they can be doused in sugary glaze and topped generously with sprinkles, but the dough itself isn’t too sweet‚it’s just yeasty and light and fluffy and perfect. It’s the ideal canvas for endless variations to suit your whims. 

The real reason doughnuts are so wonderful to me is the connection they have to my past. My grandmother lived in a house built by my great-great-great grandparents: a real little house on the prairie in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. When my grandma was a kid, it was her grandma’s house; same for my dad; and luckily, for me too. Along with the wonderful history of the place itself, the house was home to a lot of our own food history. One day, my grandma pulled out a pretty little yellow tin recipe box. The paint was chipped, but it was lovely and chock-full of my great-great grandma’s recipes. This includes the tattered old card that contained the handwritten recipe for these doughnuts. When a recipe is good, it stands the test of time—and these doughnuts do just that. 

If you need more proof (or aren’t overly sentimental) of doughnuts’ greatness, there’s this: You’re allowed, even encouraged, to eat them for breakfast. Cake and cookies can’t really say that. So, let’s break it down, shall we? 

The History of Doughnuts

Time for a little doughnut history, y'all. The concept of the doughnut has origins in Dutch, Italian, French, and Russian baking—all cultures that mastered dough (especially of the sweet variety) and weren’t afraid of frying. Archeologists have even found fossilized bits of what appear to be pieces of fried dough across prehistoric Native American grounds.

But, much to our country’s pleasure, the doughnut is pretty much an American invention. The doughnut made its way to the Big Apple in the mid-1600s by way of the Dutch settlers who called them "oily cakes." It was in the mid-19th century that the mother of a ship captain began making deep-fried dough flavored with nutmeg, cinnamon, and lemon rind. Frying trapped a lot of moisture inside the dough, making them taste relatively fresh (or at least, not horribly stale) even after days and weeks of storage. This savvy baker would stuff nuts in the center of the dough that might not fully cook in the fryer. And so she called them, quite literally, “doughnuts.”

From this time on, there was much heated debate about how doughnuts got the hole in the center. Some say it was a nod to the steering wheel of a ship, others say it was to avoid undercooking the center. Whatever the reason, doughnuts took off—cheap, fast, and easy to produce, they became a primary snack of American troops during the first World War. The hungry boys came home seeking more doughnuts, the first mechanized doughnut machine was built in 1920, and the rest, they say, is history. Doughnuts were prominent throughout the United States, and were so inexpensive to produce that they were a food of the everyman, an attainable treat even during times of poverty or hardship.

Now, the reason for this little history lesson is the name. “Doughnut” is the traditional name of these delicious treats. The word “donut” was coined when manufacturers began to try to market the food overseas—they thought a shorter word might be catchier and easier to remember for those who’d never seen it.

More: Doughnut-cha want more doughnut history? 

Types of Doughnuts

While I’m particularly fond of the classic yeasted doughnut (and that’s the recipe I’ve included here), there are many different types. 

Yeasted:

Yeast doughnuts are made from a lightly sweetened yeasted dough that is deep-fried. These doughnuts possess a tender exterior and a fluffy interior.

Twists consist of two pieces of yeasted doughnut dough twisted together prior to being fried and glazed. This is worth pointing out because it opens a whole host of fun shaping opportunities for yeasted dough (like my cinnamon roll doughnuts below).

Filled doughnuts are most commonly made from yeasted dough because it produces an airy interior which easily makes room for filling. This category includes jelly-filled Berliners, cream-filled or fruit-stuffed doughnuts, Boston Cream, and so on.  

Long Johns are a long, rectangular doughnut made from yeasted dough that often have a thicker schmear of glaze and/or a filling.

Cakey:

Cake doughnuts are made from a looser batter/dough that is leavened with chemical leavener (baking powder or baking soda). If the batter is loose, these doughnuts may need to be piped rather than cut. These doughnuts have a firmer exterior and a tighter crumb structure on the interior, and they can be baked instead of fried.

Crullers are piped doughnuts. While they’re most often thought of as ring-shaped, they can also be made into long rectangles. American crullers are generally made with cake doughnut batter. French crullers are made with pâte à choux dough.

Cider doughnuts are a type of cake doughnut made with apple cider and plenty of cinnamon. No fall would be complete without one. Or five.

Old-fashioned doughnuts are a type of cake doughnut that is piped or scooped, giving it an irregular shape and therefore, a crispier outer crust. 

International contingent/other:

Don’t forget the street foods and snacks of the world. This includes bomboloni (often made with brioche dough) and zeppoles of Italy, Norway’s cardamom-scented smultringer, the jelly filled packzi of Poland, Spain’s churros, Israel's sufganiyot, Latin America’s sopapillas, Japan's sata andagi, east Africa's mandazi, China's you tiao, dozens of German variations, and the New Orleans classic, the beignet. 

In short, there’s a heck of a lot of doughnuts out there. Nowadays, the sky’s the limit. 

How to Make Yeast Doughnuts

The ingredient list for doughnuts is relatively small, but it’s important to understand the ingredients and how they are manipulated to create the end result. Flour provides structure—most recipes will veer towards all-purpose, though specialty recipes may call for cake flour or bread flour if a specific result is trying to be achieved (more tenderness and more structure, respectively). The liquid can simply be water, but it often includes some form of dairy—whether it’s milk, cream, sour cream, buttermilk, melted butter, or evaporated milk. These liquids help to tenderize the dough as well as provide richness. Yeasted doughnuts often contain very little (or even no) sugar inside the dough, while cake doughnuts often have a more significant amount. A leavener of some kind (whether yeast or chemical), and salt are also a must. Finally, any number of flavoring agents, from dried spices, citrus zest, fresh fruit, juices, cocoa, nuts, maple, etc. 

1. Mix Your Dough

Yeasted dough needs more intense mixing to build structure. Generally yeasted doughnut dough should be mixed on low speed until the dough comes together, then mixed on medium speed to strengthen gluten strands. The dough is not mixed as intensely as brioche—the whole process will take only a few minutes—but much like brioche dough, yeasted doughnut doughs can be quite sticky and can require oiled hands or a sprinkling of flour before handling. Cake doughnut batter, on the other hand, should be mixed minimally to ensure tenderness.

2. Let it Rise

This tidbit doesn’t apply to cake doughnut batters, but when yeast is involved, it’s really important to allow for enough rise time. Generally, this means 1 to 2 hours of bulk fermentation (letting the entire dough rise) and about 30 minutes after shaping. This gets to be a problem for impatient doughnut lovers (isn’t that all of us?). There is a solution. Instead of using warm water to mix the dough, use room temperature water and refrigerate the dough immediately after mixing. Under refrigeration, the dough continues to rise, just much more slowly. This means you can mix the dough up to 12 hours ahead, let it rise slowly overnight, and wake up ready to fry in the morning. 

3. Shape Gently

Doughnuts are rustic but it’s still important to keep shaping in mind because this is where they can go a bit awry. A doughnut cutter is great, but you can improvise if you don’t have one: For a long time, I used a circle cookie cutter and then the base of a large pastry tip. It’s important to make sure the hole itself is large enough—if it’s too small, it will “fill in” when the dough hits the fryer. I also like to cut square doughnuts (no scraps!), using just a pastry wheel—2 inches x 2 inches is a good base size (this same technique works for Long Johns).

When you transfer the dough to the oil, do so carefully: It’s easy to accidentally squish the hole shut or stretch the doughnut into an oblong shape. If the doughnut batter is to be piped, it can be piped directly into the hot oil. Since that can be pretty scary, piping onto squares of parchment can alleviate the fear. When you go to fry, the doughnut will release itself from the parchment, and you just have to remove the parchment from the oil with tongs.  

   4. Fry, Baby, Fry

Baked doughnuts are now officially a thing, but let’s be honest: Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing, baby. If you have one, use a deep-fry thermometer to test the oil and help regulate the temperature —around 350°F is best. If you don’t have one, do it the way my great-great grandma did: Throw a doughnut hole in and see if it sizzles and rises to the surface. If it does, you’re good to go.

Remember that if the oil is too hot, the doughnuts will brown too quickly and the center may remain raw. If the oil is too cold, the dough will absorb a large quantity of oil and be greasy upon cooling. The perfect doughnut will be evenly golden brown on both sides and pale in the center.

5. Drain, Drain, Drain

My favorite draining system for doughnuts is simple: several layers of absorbent paper towels on a baking sheet. When it gets too saturated, toss the top layers and reveal the fresh ones underneath. Some folks opt for a cooling rack set on top paper towels. Either way is fine, just make sure to use a spider or slotted spoon to remove the doughnuts to start the draining process off right. 

6. Roll or Glaze

This is where it gets fun: the finishing.

For powdered sugar, cinnamon sugar, or other sugared doughnuts, remove the doughnuts from the oil and drain as desired. After 30 seconds to 1 minute of cooling, toss the doughnuts in the sugar. If you wait for the doughnuts to cool for too long, the sugar won’t stick to the doughnuts. Also, remember that powdered sugar will eventually absorb into the doughnuts, so you’ll either need to toss them again or you should plan on serving them immediately.

For a thin, all over glaze (think classic glazed doughnuts), let the doughnuts cool for 3 to 4 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack. Pour the glaze evenly over, fully coating the doughnuts. Let set.

For a thicker glaze (think top of the doughnut only), let the doughnuts cool for 4 to 5 minutes, then dip the doughnuts in the glaze. The thinner the glaze, the more it will run (yum). The thicker the glaze, the more precise it will be. Apply any garnishes to the top of the glaze before it sets, which can take anywhere from 2 to 10 minutes depending on the glaze. 

Basic Yeast Doughnuts (with Many Variations)


Some finishing options: 

Powdered: Toss in powdered sugar or cinnamon sugar. 

Glazed: Mix 3/4 cup powdered sugar, 3 to 4 tablespoons heavy cream or milk (enough to make a runny glaze), and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla (optional). 

Chocolate-Glazed: Mix 3/4 cup powdered sugar, 2 tablespoons dark cocoa powder, and 4 to 5 tablespoons milk or cream. 

Chocolate-Coated: Dip doughnuts in tempered chocolate thinned with 1 to 2 tablespoons vegetable oil. 

Fruit-Glazed: Mix 1 cup powdered sugar and 1/4 cup fruit purée. 

Violet-Glazed: Mix 1 cup powdered sugar, 1/4 cup cream or milk, and 1 teaspoon violet extract. Garnish with candied violets. 

Pistachio: Glaze doughnuts with basic glaze, then press in chopped toasted pistachios. 

Coconut: Glaze with coconut glaze (1 cup powdered sugar, 1/4 cup coconut milk, and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla), and press in toasted coconut flakes. 

Black and White: Make a dark chocolate ganache with 1 cup chopped dark chocolate and 1/2 cup heavy cream. Make a white chocolate ganache with 1 cup chopped white chocolate with 1/4 cup heavy cream. Glaze half the doughnut with the chocolate glaze and half with the white glaze. 

Caramel-Glazed: Melt 1 cup of caramel candies with 1/3 cup heavy cream in the microwave in 10-second blasts until fully melted. Thin the glaze with additional milk or cream as needed to get a pourable glaze. 

Meyer Lemon: Mix 1 cup powdered sugar with the zest and juice of 1 Meyer lemon, then add enough milk to form a pourable glaze. 

Cinnamon Roll: Roll out the dough to 1/4-inch thick. Mix together 1 stick melted butter with 1 cup granulated sugar and 2 tablespoons ground cinnamon. Spread the mixture evenly all over the dough, then roll tightly into a cylinder. Cut into 1 inch-thick pieces, then fry until golden brown. Glaze with basic glaze.

7. Eat, Repeat—& Store (If You Must)

The best doughnuts are fresh doughnuts. If you've ever lived anywhere near a Krispy Kreme, you understand. When that magical light went on, it was absolutely worth it to pull over with a total screech to get at those piping hot doughnuts. But even at room temperature, doughnuts are best the same day. If you must, keep them in airtight containers overnight, and enjoy round two. 

Photo of apple cider doughnuts by Yossy Arefi; photo of chocolate doughnut holes by Samantha Seneviratne; all other photos by Alpha Smoot

Source: https://food52.com/blog/12413-everything-you-need-to-know-about-doughnuts

[lilacpisces1-blog]

Upside Down Walnut, Chocolate, & Pear Cake

Our little back house we are renting is about four miles from the ocean here in Costa Mesa/Newport Beach. We get the foggy marine layer on the mornings it chooses to hang over the coast, and we have a very tempered climate year round. In the past I’ve brushed southern California off as having no seasons, but this just isn’t true. I think with social media these days we see so much in the fall of the iconic leaves changing, and more clearly defined seasons of certain regions of the world, that is has become commonplace to standardize these quarterly shifts. Maybe it’s just me and my tendency to seek out change, but I’m coming around to seeing a more full, open picture. Every little dot of latitude and longitude on the map has it’s own unique characteristics when it comes to seasons, and I’m beginning to appreciate our a-typical southern California ones.

September and October are two of the warmest months here where I live, which is wonderful if you can get past the photos of falls leaves and warms mugs of cocoa elsewhere. Why is it wonderful? The crowds of people have all gone home, the kids are back in school, and the beaches and national parks are now near-empty to enjoy. Around here we call it “locals’ summer”. I don’t do well in the heat, so this time can be tough for me to get through, but November and December are the greatest gift after these few warm months. This is my season, this is the time of year I fall in love with California. The air is chilly and as crisp as you can get with the pacific ocean nearby. The light is the most beautiful light I’ve ever seen. The sunsets make you weak in the knees. And the smell that permeates the entire city is pure heaven. The farmers market is still overflowing, with fall produce finally coming in alongside unlikely jewels such as tomatoes, avocados, oranges, and so many greens (kale, chard, herbs, etc). Local pomegranates are half the size of my head and two dollars a piece.

Approaching Thanksgiving this year, and hosting for the first time with my parents coming into town, I tried pondering a new theme we could base our cooking around that felt more fitting for our area. As is typical this time of year, we have a three day heat bump that lands right over Thanksgiving. Normally I would say something negative about California and how I wish I lived somewhere cooler. But not this year, I’m celebrating where we live. So we are having a California-themed Thanksgiving with dishes made from all of the produce that was overflowing the most at the farmers market this past weekend. Our backyard will be in shade in the late afternoon, so we will set up the table under our twinkle lights and eat outside. Roasting a dozen heavy dishes on a warm day doesn’t sound right to me, so I’m planning a few lighter twists. I’ll be sure to share them on Instagram stories a bit if you’re curious to see what we are making. I’m really excited you guys, it feels good to be going with the grain and not against it for once.

Part of my inspiration to dig deeper into understanding and loving the unique spot in the world where I live came from reading Valentina‘s pages in her new cookbook, Everyday Vegetarian. She lives in a small medieval town on the eastern side of Italy and shares her region’s history and culinary traditions in a way that reads like a poetic novel. From cover to cover you are immersed in recipes and stories that overlap each other into one beautiful picture of her culture. Valentina takes traditional recipes that have been passed down for generations in her family, alongside some newer ones of her own, and shows how to make them vegetarian (and many of them vegan too) without compromising the tradition. It’s beautifully photographed, with such a lovely cover to have sitting out on your kitchen counter too (see photo below recipe). She shows how there is so much more to Italian cooking outside of pasta and tomato sauce (although she has recipes for both from scratch that are incredible) and how to cook throughout the seasons in her nook of the world as well. I want to make every recipe from cover to cover and book a trip to Italy ASAP to experience so much of what she describes.

The first recipe that jumped out to me was her grandma’s upside down prune cake, which she suggests in the fall making with pears, nuts, and chocolate instead. So I did just that, and it was so scrumptious I had to share it with you here too! I used a mixture of freshly milled flours from the incredible people over at Eat Grain, which I link to individually in the recipe below. You can taste the freshness, and even see it, in these flours. I’ve never experienced anything like it – and the nutrition is suppose to be even better as well! Check out their line on their site here if you’d like, they are shipping anywhere in North America for free for the rest of the year – which is perfect timing for some holiday baking.

I hope those of you celebrating Thanksgiving this week have the most wonderful, joy-filled time. Maybe this cake could even squeeze onto one of your holiday tables too ;). -xx

SHOP MY PANTRY >>

RECIPE NOTES: The recipe below is pretty darn near exact to Valentina’s, with a few small exceptions. Here are the few substitutions I made which you can convert back to the original if you desire to: I use coconut sugar instead of brown sugar, apple sauce instead of sunflower oil, and a mixture of whole spelt and rye instead of whole wheat. I also halved the recipe below and prepared it in a 6 inch springform pan in the photos above, since I knew we would have lots of sweets on hand this week. This worked out really well, but I know I’ll be making the full recipe next time – it was just too good.

UPSIDE DOWN WALNUT, CHOCOLATE, & PEAR CAKE Makes one 10 inch cake, serves 8 to 10.

1 3/4 cups almond or soy milk 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar 1/4 cup of water 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1/4 cup unsweetened apple sauce (or sunflower oil) juice and zest of 1 lemon 1 cup coconut sugar, plus 1 teaspoon for the pan 1 cup of sifted spelt flour (white) 3/4 cup whole spelt flour 1/4 cup whole rye flour 1/3 cup potato starch 1 heaping teaspoon baking soda 1 heaping teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon pinch of salt 15 small pears 1/3 cup chopped raw walnuts 1/3 cup chopped dark chocolate

optional: extra chopped walnuts and dark chocolate for sprinkling on top

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line a 10-inch springform pan with parchment paper and lightly oil the sides (I forgot to oil mine and it still removed itself nicely, but it is probably safer to do so). Sprinkle about a teaspoon of coconut sugar on the bottom.

Combine the sifted (white) spelt, whole spelt, and rye flour with the potato starch, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, salt, coconut sugar, and lemon zest in a large bowl and whisk to remove any lumps (I sifted mine, and added the sugar and zest afterwards).

In a large glass measuring cup, combine the almond or soy milk, vinegar, and lemon juice and stir. After a few seconds, the milk will start to curdle. Immediately add the water, applesauce (or sunflower oil), and vanilla. Stir well. Slowly pour this into the dry mix, stirring with a whisk to break any lumps. The batter will be somewhat on the liquid side.

Core each pear and slice into 1/4 inch thick wedges. Arrange in a circle in the prepared springform pan, until the bottom is completely filled. Sprinkle the chopped walnuts and dark chocolate on top, and slowly pour the cake batter into the tin. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes (mine took 50), until cooked through when tested in the center with a toothpick. Once cooked and golden on top, turn off the oven and let it sit inside for 5 minutes more.

Remove the cake from the oven and release from the springform pan onto a wire rack. Flip upside down so that the pears are on top, and peal away the parchment paper. This is optional, but while the cake is warm I sprinkled some dark chocolate on top, and when it had melted I added a small handful of additional chopped walnuts. Once fully cooled, slice and serve the cake. Store leftovers in an airtight container on the counter, or in the fridge (it’s really good cold), and enjoy within three days.

This recipe was originally found in the cookbook Everyday Vegetarian, and is being republished here with Valentina’s permission. See more of her beautiful work on her blog, Hortus Cuisine, and on Instagram. 

I love seeing what you create! Be sure to tag your photos on Instagram with #FWmakers.

This post contains affiliate links (they are underlined for clarity). Purchases you make through these links will help fund the work I do here on Faring Well at no extra cost to you. Thank you sincerely for your constant love and support.

Naturally Vegetarian by Valentina Solfrini O R D E R  H E R E

Source: http://faring-well.com/upside-down-walnut-chocolate-pear-cake/

[basketdouble29-blog]

Upside Down Walnut, Chocolate, & Pear Cake

Our little back house we are renting is about four miles from the ocean here in Costa Mesa/Newport Beach. We get the foggy marine layer on the mornings it chooses to hang over the coast, and we have a very tempered climate year round. In the past I’ve brushed southern California off as having no seasons, but this just isn’t true. I think with social media these days we see so much in the fall of the iconic leaves changing, and more clearly defined seasons of certain regions of the world, that is has become commonplace to standardize these quarterly shifts. Maybe it’s just me and my tendency to seek out change, but I’m coming around to seeing a more full, open picture. Every little dot of latitude and longitude on the map has it’s own unique characteristics when it comes to seasons, and I’m beginning to appreciate our a-typical southern California ones.

September and October are two of the warmest months here where I live, which is wonderful if you can get past the photos of falls leaves and warms mugs of cocoa elsewhere. Why is it wonderful? The crowds of people have all gone home, the kids are back in school, and the beaches and national parks are now near-empty to enjoy. Around here we call it “locals’ summer”. I don’t do well in the heat, so this time can be tough for me to get through, but November and December are the greatest gift after these few warm months. This is my season, this is the time of year I fall in love with California. The air is chilly and as crisp as you can get with the pacific ocean nearby. The light is the most beautiful light I’ve ever seen. The sunsets make you weak in the knees. And the smell that permeates the entire city is pure heaven. The farmers market is still overflowing, with fall produce finally coming in alongside unlikely jewels such as tomatoes, avocados, oranges, and so many greens (kale, chard, herbs, etc). Local pomegranates are half the size of my head and two dollars a piece.

Approaching Thanksgiving this year, and hosting for the first time with my parents coming into town, I tried pondering a new theme we could base our cooking around that felt more fitting for our area. As is typical this time of year, we have a three day heat bump that lands right over Thanksgiving. Normally I would say something negative about California and how I wish I lived somewhere cooler. But not this year, I’m celebrating where we live. So we are having a California-themed Thanksgiving with dishes made from all of the produce that was overflowing the most at the farmers market this past weekend. Our backyard will be in shade in the late afternoon, so we will set up the table under our twinkle lights and eat outside. Roasting a dozen heavy dishes on a warm day doesn’t sound right to me, so I’m planning a few lighter twists. I’ll be sure to share them on Instagram stories a bit if you’re curious to see what we are making. I’m really excited you guys, it feels good to be going with the grain and not against it for once.

Part of my inspiration to dig deeper into understanding and loving the unique spot in the world where I live came from reading Valentina‘s pages in her new cookbook, Everyday Vegetarian. She lives in a small medieval town on the eastern side of Italy and shares her region’s history and culinary traditions in a way that reads like a poetic novel. From cover to cover you are immersed in recipes and stories that overlap each other into one beautiful picture of her culture. Valentina takes traditional recipes that have been passed down for generations in her family, alongside some newer ones of her own, and shows how to make them vegetarian (and many of them vegan too) without compromising the tradition. It’s beautifully photographed, with such a lovely cover to have sitting out on your kitchen counter too (see photo below recipe). She shows how there is so much more to Italian cooking outside of pasta and tomato sauce (although she has recipes for both from scratch that are incredible) and how to cook throughout the seasons in her nook of the world as well. I want to make every recipe from cover to cover and book a trip to Italy ASAP to experience so much of what she describes.

The first recipe that jumped out to me was her grandma’s upside down prune cake, which she suggests in the fall making with pears, nuts, and chocolate instead. So I did just that, and it was so scrumptious I had to share it with you here too! I used a mixture of freshly milled flours from the incredible people over at Eat Grain, which I link to individually in the recipe below. You can taste the freshness, and even see it, in these flours. I’ve never experienced anything like it – and the nutrition is suppose to be even better as well! Check out their line on their site here if you’d like, they are shipping anywhere in North America for free for the rest of the year – which is perfect timing for some holiday baking.

I hope those of you celebrating Thanksgiving this week have the most wonderful, joy-filled time. Maybe this cake could even squeeze onto one of your holiday tables too ;). -xx

SHOP MY PANTRY >>

RECIPE NOTES: The recipe below is pretty darn near exact to Valentina’s, with a few small exceptions. Here are the few substitutions I made which you can convert back to the original if you desire to: I use coconut sugar instead of brown sugar, apple sauce instead of sunflower oil, and a mixture of whole spelt and rye instead of whole wheat. I also halved the recipe below and prepared it in a 6 inch springform pan in the photos above, since I knew we would have lots of sweets on hand this week. This worked out really well, but I know I’ll be making the full recipe next time – it was just too good.

UPSIDE DOWN WALNUT, CHOCOLATE, & PEAR CAKE Makes one 10 inch cake, serves 8 to 10.

1 3/4 cups almond or soy milk 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar 1/4 cup of water 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1/4 cup unsweetened apple sauce (or sunflower oil) juice and zest of 1 lemon 1 cup coconut sugar, plus 1 teaspoon for the pan 1 cup of sifted spelt flour (white) 3/4 cup whole spelt flour 1/4 cup whole rye flour 1/3 cup potato starch 1 heaping teaspoon baking soda 1 heaping teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon pinch of salt 15 small pears 1/3 cup chopped raw walnuts 1/3 cup chopped dark chocolate

optional: extra chopped walnuts and dark chocolate for sprinkling on top

Preheat the oven to 350F. Line a 10-inch springform pan with parchment paper and lightly oil the sides (I forgot to oil mine and it still removed itself nicely, but it is probably safer to do so). Sprinkle about a teaspoon of coconut sugar on the bottom.

Combine the sifted (white) spelt, whole spelt, and rye flour with the potato starch, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, salt, coconut sugar, and lemon zest in a large bowl and whisk to remove any lumps (I sifted mine, and added the sugar and zest afterwards).

In a large glass measuring cup, combine the almond or soy milk, vinegar, and lemon juice and stir. After a few seconds, the milk will start to curdle. Immediately add the water, applesauce (or sunflower oil), and vanilla. Stir well. Slowly pour this into the dry mix, stirring with a whisk to break any lumps. The batter will be somewhat on the liquid side.

Core each pear and slice into 1/4 inch thick wedges. Arrange in a circle in the prepared springform pan, until the bottom is completely filled. Sprinkle the chopped walnuts and dark chocolate on top, and slowly pour the cake batter into the tin. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes (mine took 50), until cooked through when tested in the center with a toothpick. Once cooked and golden on top, turn off the oven and let it sit inside for 5 minutes more.

Remove the cake from the oven and release from the springform pan onto a wire rack. Flip upside down so that the pears are on top, and peal away the parchment paper. This is optional, but while the cake is warm I sprinkled some dark chocolate on top, and when it had melted I added a small handful of additional chopped walnuts. Once fully cooled, slice and serve the cake. Store leftovers in an airtight container on the counter, or in the fridge (it’s really good cold), and enjoy within three days.

This recipe was originally found in the cookbook Everyday Vegetarian, and is being republished here with Valentina’s permission. See more of her beautiful work on her blog, Hortus Cuisine, and on Instagram. 

I love seeing what you create! Be sure to tag your photos on Instagram with #FWmakers.

This post contains affiliate links (they are underlined for clarity). Purchases you make through these links will help fund the work I do here on Faring Well at no extra cost to you. Thank you sincerely for your constant love and support.

Naturally Vegetarian by Valentina Solfrini O R D E R  H E R E

Source: http://faring-well.com/upside-down-walnut-chocolate-pear-cake/