#at least it's not fucking olive oil again

[my-mind-is-afk-rn]

People sleep on olfactory hallucinations cause they're not as "big" or "scary" as visual or auditory hallucinations. Like, everyone knows those two, but imagine you're about to get to sleep finally after a long day and you're really tired and then you suddenly start smelling burning? Or maybe gas? So you jump out of bed and frantically search the house, making sure the oven is off, making sure your pets are okay, checking the walls and floors and every corner looking for any hint of anything, smelling for gas leaks, smelling for fire, looking for smoke or light where there shouldn't be, wondering if maybe that nail you put in the wall the other day actually punctured something important and you didn't notice, and the whole time, you know you suffer from olfactory hallucinations. You know you smell things that aren't there all the time. And you know that there's no way that you can tell if it's real or not. You never know if the smell is really there. And everyone else is asleep. And it's better just to check. Just in case it's really real this time.

[tracycloud]

COOKING FOR ROBERTA

(Part 3)

Roberta's birthday, I really don't remember which one and it doesn't matter, made me a different person over the next few months, a new, lively, horny, lustful, self-determined young woman. I think Roberta changed too. Of course, I can't really say for sure because I didn't know her before.

When Roberta left the kitchen - I was still standing with my legs spread, wet and horny, panting and sweaty, leaning against the kitchen table. My hands were covered in tomatoes crushed with lust, their juice slowly dripping onto the kitchen floor, perhaps mixing with mine. What kind of sauce would that make? I thought, slowly coming back to myself.

Something magical had just happened to me. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I felt incredibly at ease. Without thinking further, I cut up my panties with the kitchen scissors, threw them in the bin, took off my bra, which still had my boobs hanging out of it, and threw it in too.

Then I started cooking. It was cooking like in a wonderful, hot dream. My naked pussy rubbed against the denim. You couldn't miss the wet spots, nor the nipples of my little boobs poking out of the sweat-stained T-shirt.

Of course, I started with the ragu Bolognese first. This wonderful sauce made from minced beef and pork, pancetta, fat milk, onions, celery, carrots and tomato paste had to simmer for at least 2 hours.

Now for the antipasti.

My cooking had become an exhilarating flow. Everything I did made me happy and horny.

As I was working on the eggplants stuffed with tomatoes, capers, olives and garlic, Roberta quietly crept into the kitchen.

She pressed herself firmly against my back. I felt her soft, full breasts, then her strong, caressing hands on my boobs.

“Mhhh so nice and small and firm. Good thing you took your bra off. You don't need that with me anyway, my horny little chef,” she whispered in my right ear.

I could feel her breathing, goose bumps ran all over my body and I moaned softly with pleasure. As her hand slowly slid down, undid the top buttons of my jeans and felt its way to my wet center, I spread my legs as if automatically.

She breathed tenderly: “How submissive you are. Ohhhh, you got rid of your panties straight away. You are such a wonderful cooking whore.”  Her fingers slid between my vulva lips, pentrating me slightly. “You're so wet. I'd love to fuck you right here.

“Jaaaaa, fuck me.... pleaaaseeee..... whenever you want. I'm all yours��. I had never said or even thought such sentences before.

But every word felt right, it was an incredible moment of happiness and never before had I been so completely close to myself.

Roberta sensed my devotion, kissed me tenderly on the back of my neck and said nothing. Her fingers, wet from my vulva, reached for a black olive that she pushed into my mouth, glistening with my own juice.

I licked her fingers, which she immediately slid back between my pussy lips until they were wet again, wetting another olive, which she then slipped into her own mouth.

I tried to keep working, chopping the fresh oregano into small pieces. Her fingers explored me, my wetness. I felt them deep inside me, measuring me, taking possession of me.

“Keep going, cute cooking whore,” she whispered in my ear. A little tap on my clit that made me cry out in pleasure and devotion. She left.

I stood back at the kitchen table with my legs wide open.  I was happy. My juice was oozing out of me. My jeans were wet like after a rain shower. I was soooo happy.

The ragu smelled delicious. It sizzled gently on the old-fashioned stove. I put the stuffed eggplants in the huge oven and started preparing the potato cakes with saffron, the bruschetta with diced tomatoes and olive paste last, as well as the radiccio, which I would fry in olive oil, the green beans with anchovies, parsley and garlic and also the porcini mushrooms.

Everything should be on the table at the same time, including the Ragu Bolognese.

[fanficfish]

hetalia thought: the older they get, the more "fuck it we ball" the nations get

let me give examples.

-italy bros are at the least gonna hit 2000 soon. Both are bumbling idiots who are more here to have a good time then anything. I'm convinced they're stronger then they make themselves to be (they caught England with a hole. Yes he dropepd in there but how did they get him into the cell? Venezianobbeat up Turkey once, too, and i think that was when turkey was stronger....and if you think about it, veneziano pretending to be an idiot means he can get away with everything. Literally. Even if he sneaks into a meeting room, him yelling about pasta is enogh to make the others go "ah hes at it again"

-China lmand the maid dress cosplay. Enough said.

-the Nordics, who are all over a thousnad and most are prob older. Denmark doesn't give a shit anymore, Norway goes along with everything becauae why not it's entertainment, Sweden is a memelord. Finland is probably a bit younger so he's a little more grounded, and so is Iceland- they follow the rest but i think they haave a bit more sense of not letting time just go by completely. -America and Canada are young and you can see it- they try to fit in with the rest but over or underdo it and are surprised at things like weekends passing by in a blink of an eye. Germany too, the three of them are babies and just don't quite get the joke sometimes, not for lack of trying.

-England is also up there and i mean. England and his brothers made up English TCG pokemon whatever

-france has long since accepted the idea of being a free spirit. He exists and contemplates and does his thing, knowing time will pass and he might as well try to do the little he can.

-we all know russia was hit one too many times by General Winter. Ukraine surprisingly seems to have her head, but Belarus definitely let the age get to her....just a little. I have a bet she's spent so long chasing Russia she doesn't really know how to stop.

-Poland also doesn't give a shit he just wants his ponies. Man's embraced modern life and decided to just take things as it goes. Lithuania would be dead from stressing at him if he wasn't immortal.

-japan is also pretty old but he is an outlier as far as im concerned becauae this man is a boomer whose besties are a bunch of gen Zs and he might as well be one of them. i think he's done better at the aging thing at least.

-not gonna touch on spain and olive oil. -or Austria's entertainment source being infuriating to his hosts and then marrying everyone.

-or Prussia who's kinda just gone awesome

-or Switzerland who saw the world as said fuck all lf you (cue the red cross) yall need therapy (adopts a sister) why am i the sane one here (puts up security cameras)

-and then ofc there's Greece, who long ago philosophiciEd tok hard and now knows the only things that matter in life are sleep, cats, and occassionally hanging iut with your best frenemy.

[utilitycaster]

Sort of related to the post about people coming in for shipping but something that’s struck me, as actual play fandom has spread, is that there is a certain lack of genre awareness currently - not just surrounding Critical Role, to be honest; it’s a frustration for me for the conversation surrounding Dimension 20 and Worlds Beyond Number for a while as well.

Take fate, for example. The idea of fate, whether it’s as specific as an ancient prophecy, or as broad as the general concept of destiny, is absolutely at the core of so many classic fantasy series that to be vehemently opposed to it within Critical Role is to display profound ignorance of the genre of fantasy. It’s akin to showing up to a sporting event and getting mad that people are running around in athletic gear; it’s like going to an Italian restaurant in the US and screaming in the face of the waiter when they give you bread and olive oil. There is not, per se, a required reading list. You do not need to read nor watch all of Lord of the Rings let alone consider it a formative work; Sam Riegel and Aabria Iyengar sure haven’t. But if you are not familiar with the genre at all, at the very least you do need to come with a certain awareness that you are not familiar with the genre and be open to its conventions. And to be clear: it’s valid to hate the theme of things being fated. But again, that’s like hating they serve bread and olive oil at the Italian restaurant; you should probably simply not go to Italian restaurants.

Another example that is my personal source of irritation is the obsession with radiation as a factor in Burrow’s End. Setting aside my original irritation at just good old-fashioned lack of reading comprehension with the conflation of the poison and the Blue/the Light, the idea that the intelligence was induced by radiation is really…not genre aware. Like, I recognize I’m coming at this with rather more knowledge than average (from a scientific rather than genre-aware perspective no less) but to get back to genre, I take no issue with, say, radiation in comic books. I know the premise of Spider-Man or of Doctor Manhattan’s origins is absolutely ridiculous; but that’s the genre. Radiation in comic books exists to be an easy origin story so we can get to the point of “here’s a guy with powers”. However, in a show that derives its narrative language from Watership Down and Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh, the idea that the magic and the lightning and the source of intelligence are radiation makes little sense. Another example is the weird response to Skip in Starstruck; the idea of an alien brain parasite like that is so genre-typical to space opera it feels like, again, someone going to an Italian restaurant, pointing at the bread, and saying “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? HOW DARE YOU!”

I think my particular frustration with both of the above (and when I talk about Worlds Beyond Number) is that those people ignorant of genre and not letting it wash over them a la Sam will often fall back to the real world (although, unfortunately, not when it comes to radiation) when trying to make sense of the narrative without the signposts, language, and tropes of the genres to which they belong. To understand the subversions or deconstructions that are likely to occur in, for example, the upcoming exploration of the Citadel in Worlds Beyond Number, you need to be open to the idea that it is a complicated place and not simply The Evil Empire That Suvi Will Definitely Leave; if you’re utterly suspicious of everyone and refuse to try to understand why this is a place people enjoy let alone will die for, you can’t actually experience the story. We are going into the Citadel arc; these wizards will be humanized, and if you have closed off your mind to them already you have set yourself up to be miserable. I do think it’s great that actual play has found an increasingly large audience, but the medium of actual play also carries a certain lexicon and ignorance of it will skew one’s interpretations. My personal bugbear here is of course interpreting bog-standard tanking strategies as either romantic or self-sacrificial in intent, but in general, any resistance to the mere concept of gaining power, the existence of concrete deities, combat, and the placement of plot above romance in D&D are all signs of this ignorance. And again: ignorance is fine! But with all of the above there also often comes this entitlement to a story that is familiar, in blatant disregard for those parameters of genre and medium, and I have to wonder, again, why people mad that a fantasy story is leaning heavily on fantasy story norms, or why D&D has combat, are still showing up to the fantasy D&D story. To return to the Italian restaurant, which is getting a lot of terrible patrons in this metaphor, it feels like a lot of people are showing up to this restaurant because they heard it was good, but then becoming furious it won’t serve them peanut butter and jelly. People who are not familiar should still be welcome, but that lack of familiarity needs to be accompanied by an openness and desire to learn, rather than the entitlement that is so often present.

[eclecticwitchbitchsworld]

Homemade Attraction Oil (for attracting money/success/ect.)

Hi! first thing's first, this is an easy way to make attraction oil that is not to be confused with attraction oil used for attracting love or potential partners. This oil is specifically intended for attracting other things and opportunities. Again, this oil is not intended for attracting love or potential partners, but rather opening up new opportunities for you in life and opening new doors. This oil is made to increase your luck and prosperity, so if you feel like you're in need- please try out this recipe! Any ingredient listed can be substituted out for one of similar correspondence to really make this working your own- just do what feels right. This is a recipe brought to you straight from Lazarus and I, so I do hope you try it and enjoy. -Leviathan

Step 1: Find a jar or container to hold your oil- substitute the amount of each ingredient depending on the size of your container.

For us, we chose one glass bottle with a cork for each of us - and filled them up about a quarter of the way full with a carrier oil. Our oil of choice was extra virgin olive oil, though you can substitute that for coconut oil or almond oil if you prefer. It is ultimately up to you.

Step 2: We began adding our ingredients in this order:

clear quartz and citrine crystal chips

frankincense resin (an odd touch from Lazarus but fuck it, we ball)

gold mica powder for a little umph (it is not necessary for the attraction oil itself, do not fret)

at least 5 pieces of Star Anise

several juniper berries

a healthy pinch of rose buds

some ground ginger root

next, we moved on to the essential oils.

sweet orange, juniper, and the smallest pinch of rose. Remember, this is a different kind of attraction oil.

Step 3: Creating a sigil for the bottom of the container/side of the container to really set our intentions

Using one of several methods available to us, Lazarus and I workshopped an attraction sigil to put at the bottom of each container we made. Once we agreed upon our sigil, the working was done and we had finished our attraction oil. :

Each ingredient amplifies our intention in different ways. The star anise amplifies your luck, the clear quartz chips amplify any and all intention, citrine attracts wealth, abundance, success, ect. Juniper berries for attraction, good luck, and prosperity, ect. As you can probably tell, each ingredient was carefully chosen to promote a different intention, all leading to this very powerful concoction we like to call our own brand of attraction oil. Try it for yourself and see how you fare!

[justjasper]

i love your E rated/smut writing. do you have any tips for writing smut?

most of these are about reality/modern-based sex writing rather than fantasy stuff where all the bets can be off!

there is literally no god word to use for balls/testicles, it's fine

USE CHARACTER NAMES. no "younger/older" woman, "darker/paler" man, just use their names especially during a sex scene

do learn some basic anatomy, please look up where the prostate is, where the g-spot is

but fanfic sex doesn't need to be instructional, you are not teaching people how to have sex. it very much shows when you write like this

fanfic is also not consent 101. it's fine to just let your reader assume they're 100% into what they're doing, and i think "unnegotiated kink" should be reserved for scenarios where the kink is spur of the moment, not just "involves kink but no explicit discussion of it" (unless they're not meant to be, which one assumes would be made clear in tags or descriptions!!)

that said, writing about discussing consent can be really fun, doesn't mean you can never do it. you just have to vibe out whether it's adding to the fic or not

talking really helps break up sex scenes, so write at least one character who's chatty lol

plan out your sex scene so you don't get stuck with what's happening next. remember you can go back to it to flesh it out/work on the pacing. honestly most of my sex scenes start on the page as a list that goes: LICK LICK CIRCLE CHAT SUCK SUCK STROKE LICK SUCK GAG SUCK TALK BIG CUM

speaking of going back to pacing, literally invoking time can help make a sex scene seem longer without saying "they fucked for seven and a half minutes". "a long moment later" "by the time X, the sun had begun to rise/fall", "long into the night"

lube is preferable but optional, even for butt stuff. sex without lube doesn't mean it's painful or dangerous, especially for experienced butt stuff doers.

spit as lube is not a cardinal sin and is miles better than things that are actually dangerous (engine oil? things w sugar like honey? baby dont give your chars a yeast infection)

olive oil is fine but it's messy and it doesn't play w condoms, but fine if you're going historical

speaking of which, from my experience people in established relationships forego condoms way quick. and in general people forget to use them all the time. again, this isn't Safe Sex 101, it's fanfic.

but on the flip side, its sexy/funny when characters have lube and condoms to hand. there is no funnier environmental storytelling than there being a bottle of water based lube in the kitchen cupboard with the peanut butter.

simultanious orgasms are a pain to time and sure they're romantic but there's other fun climax dynamics. maybe one character feels duty/honour bound to always make sure their partner comes first

come/cum? it doesn't matter, just keep it consistant per fic

similar, be consistant with your body part names, even if you use a few. e.g. you use "cunt" in narration, but character A uses "pussy", keep that consistant.

you can still euphamise genitals without it sounding like you're afraid of them - sometimes six instances of "cock" in a row doesn't flow, that's when you should be utilising your "hardness" and "shaft" and "length"

the brain is a sex organ, and all the senses are engaged during sex. you can bulk out yor sex scenes and give great insight into the character experiences by describing what they're experiences with non-touch senses (or the lack of them, e.g. when blindfolds are in the mix)

even in pwp works, you're saying something about the characters who are fucking. you can give context and inferred complexity without plot. are they familiar with each other's bodies? is this new? are they confident, or nervous.

write for you! if you are a person who experiences sexual response to erotic fiction, then a good measure of your own work is if it makes you horny to write/re-read it. there's absolutely no shame about being aroused during the process. there's no harm in taking a wank break.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I would leave (if only I could find a reason)

More Painter Husk au! Featuring Molly! This AU's going to be going some rough places after this so enjoy the soft for now! Huge thanks to @minky-for-short who co created this AU with me <3

cw: mentions of past child abuse, period accurate homophobia

Please consider reblogging and commenting over on Ao3!

---------

Husk could still remember his first day in the city. The day had been close, the sky had been gray, just like today, and as he’d stepped off the train, he could actually remember thinking that it would be a fresh start. 

He’d told himself that, away from home and the flashing lights and beckoning fingers at the tables, the debt he’d built up from answering that call one too many times, he’d have a chance. He’d taken a lungful of air, scented with the river instead of desert sand, and he’d hoped, just for a moment. 

And in that moment he’d been a fucking fool. 

Husk should have known that his demons didn’t need tickets, they didn’t need passports. They’d followed him out of Las Vegas, they’d marched beside him on every tour of duty, to Germany and Italy and Japan, across the whole damn planet in the wake of yet another war to end all wars. Why had he thought the span of the Hudson River would be enough to keep them at bay?

He knew better now. He was still a fucking fool but at least he was an old one, one who’d made a meal of that poisonous hope only to realise he was still empty inside. He wasn’t surprised by the voices clamoring in his head as he strode quickly through the city streets, he knew what they would tell him. 

They whispered about the place down on fourth street where the whiskey was sour as bile but he had enough in his pocket to afford three. They wondered if there was a card game going down in the basement of the Black Olive, pointing out that the bouncers and back room staff would be just drunk enough that he could take them for all of their tips. They told him that the heaviness in his heart would ease with a drink, that the itching in his fingertips would go away and be replaced with a rush of dizzying euphoria if he could just roll a dice. 

Husk knew all that. He’d been hearing that kind of shit his whole life, he’d been born with these voices in his mind. What was new was the fact that they weren’t winning. 

He didn’t even realize it until he was a block away from his favorite art supply place, where he’d told himself he was going when he’d stepped out of the apartment. Shouldn’t really have been a fucking revelation, but he shouldn’t have made it this far. The voices had been plucking at him since he’d left, tugging at his sleeves pushed up against the sudden spring heat, trying to pull him towards his well worn vices. 

And it should have worked. Any other day it would have, Husk would be ankle deep in some kind of debauchery by now, pissing away the rest of the day only to wake up the next morning with a dry mouth and an aching chest and still no fresh brushes. Ready to do the whole song and dance again. 

Husk shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and ducked into the store, his mind easing at the comforting smells of old paint, turpentine and fresh cut canvases. He didn’t need to wonder why he’d managed to stay on track today, he just needed to get his errands done. He needed more draft paper, more pencils, maybe some new oils if any colors took his fancy. He had more commission requests than he’d had in years and if he was going to pretend he was functional, he at least needed the props. 

And you know why you didn’t stop. 

Husk’s hand froze over a set of brand new brushes. He didn’t like this new song the voices were singing, the new refrain they’d picked up in the last couple of months. It was enough to make him try and push them away, even though he knew better. He tried to focus on the candy land in front of him, rows of brushes soft and fine as feathers, pots of every color he could imagine arranged in just the right way so his eyes slid right across the rainbow as he scanned the shelves. And he actually had enough in his pocket to buy whatever he wanted, given that his advances had survived the journey. Getting his life together was paying off, figuratively and literally. 

But no joy kept the voices away completely, as Husk well knew. It didn’t help when running his thumb over the brushes made him think of white blonde hair just as soft carding through his fingers, when his eyes were drawn to a soft, dusky gold perfect for freckles he’d once hunted down and kissed every one of. When every thought was pulled in the same direction, a galaxy spinning inwards on itself, down to the one star in the very center. 

Not a new vice, not a new addiction but it was close. Something so much more dangerous, the same thing he’d tasted on that very first day in New York. A new reason to hope. He had Angel Dust.

And it’s going to end the exact same way.

Husk’s mouth twisted, that thought sliding between his ribs to hit somewhere soft. Because the voices didn’t lie. They were cruel, they played dirty, they did everything they could to ruin him. But they didn’t lie. 

And what did Husk have to prove this new hope wouldn’t whither and die like all the others before it? He had an honest, endearingly gap-toothed smile hidden to everyone else but him, a crude sense of humor that went through Husk’s walls like a wrecking ball, a burning desire he thought had long guttered out of his life. He had a marker painted directly onto the wall of his studio, the total they were aiming for written at the top in Angel’s own hand because Husk had been too short to reach. It seemed like an impossible amount but, day by day, the tally was growing, the painted red line was creeping up towards it. 

Between the commissions flooding in now Miss Morningstar was deliberately gushing about him to her high society friends, between the money hidden under Angel’s mattress at the club that was supposed to be spent on blow and booze, the tips he was skimming from clients, they were climbing towards his freedom. 

But it still felt like the biggest gamble Husk had ever taken. 

Sighing, Husk pressed his thumb into a sample pot of red pigment, drawing a line across the palm of his hand to see if it was bright enough. Red as blood, red as love, red as a heart that had only just remembered how to beat for someone else again. Red enough to save the man he loved.

Because however unsure Husk felt, however much doubt the voices planted in his mind, he knew Angel Dust was sacrificing more. He hadn’t told him everything, some things were too hard to say, putting them into words brought them too close for comfort. But Husk had met Valentino’s kind before, they grew right up out of the sand in Vegas, flourishing where nothing decent would. He knew what would happen if Angel’s pimp found out what they were planning, if Angel proved he was more trouble than the money he made was worth. 

And, maybe even more than that, the faith he was putting in Husk. Valentino had given Angel ample reasons to cut and run but Husk had to stand there and wonder what it was about himself that made Angel brave enough to try. He loved him, he could be sure of that, he’d tried to show it in every way his dusty old heart knew how, but it seemed like a pretty poor stake all the same. If Angel took his freedom at the end of this and fled Manhattan for good, Husk wouldn’t blame him. And he’d still say it had been worth it. 

All he had to do was not screw it up. Just succeed where he’d failed so many times before, with so much more on the line. And with nothing more than the paints and brushes in his hands and the fragile hope fluttering inside him like a bird snapped at from all sides by the snakes lurking there. 

There really was no fool like an old fool. 

By the time Husk was done indulging himself and talking shop with the lady behind the counter, the city crowds had thickened. The heat had dissipated slightly, slipping through the clutching fingers of the skyscrapers so the people jumped at the chance. Children dragged their parents by the hand, going to spend a few hours in the park to burn off their energy before bath and bed. Couples strolled more leisurely, men and women in perfect, matching pairs off to the pictures or a restaurant or the theater, maybe for the first time, maybe for the last time, maybe on the road to having children of their own tugging on their sleeves. Elderly people settled into favored benches to toss crumbs to eagerly waiting pigeons, maybe finding some kinship with the forgotten, ignored birds, or maybe just pleased to find something to still need them. 

Husk shifted the paper wrapped canvas under his arm, trying not to bump into anybody, ducking and weaving through the press. His thoughts zig zagged in a similar way, trying to wander towards other things but every path seemed to lead back to Angel. 

He wondered what he was doing right now, where in the vast expanse of the city the other half of his heart was beating. Maybe he was sleeping, his work schedule left him damn near nocturnal from what Husk had observed. Maybe he was with his friends, drinking wine on the fire escape with Cherri or even Miss Morningstar, whatever it was an escort and the daughter of the richest, most powerful man in the city did together. Or maybe it was already too late, maybe he was trapped in the club, putting powder over bruises so they wouldn’t show under the stage lights, not allowed to even see the sunshine everyone else was enjoying. 

Or maybe he was sitting in the window of the diner just across the street. 

At first Husk wasn’t even sure it was his Angel. He was dressed so plainly, in a simple white shirt and dark jacket that any respectable young man might wear, which should have automatically disqualified it from Angel’s wardrobe. His blonde hair was stuffed into a battered old ivy hat, brim pulled low to shadow his face, free from any kind of cosmetic. Like he was trying to blend in rather than stand out, the complete opposite of his usual flamboyant defiance. A mug of coffee that looked bad even from this distance congealed unnoticed between his cupped hands, his eyes fixed on something else across the street. He looked like any of the hundreds of overgrown, but not overgrown enough, kids haunting New York, looking hollow eyed and downtrodden, the slope of their shoulders telling you how far they were down the slippery slope towards a life they’d never imagined they’d be living. 

But Husk had spent far too long lovingly sketching that face to not recognise it, he’d spent days mixing half a hundred shades of blue to get those eyes right, he could map those freckles the way a sailor who’d spent his life at sea could map the stars. That was Angel, sitting in a shitty diner and trying not to be noticed. 

Of course by the time Husk realized it really was him, he’d been staring too long to get away with it. 

Like a bird feeling the gaze of a cat, those blue eyes shifted to Husk. At first there was only panic, like he’d been caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t. Husk winced until those eyes suddenly softened, relaxing into something fond. One of his hands turned, long fingers beckoned Husk over in an uncharacteristically shy wave. 

Husk didn’t even hesitate, winding through the cars scurrying like ants across the street, ducking into the diner. It looked worse on the inside, though at least it wasn’t so nice he had to worry anyone would stare at a black man taking a seat across from a white man. 

Husk smiled, wishing he could reach across and take his hand, try and shake some of that lost look from his eyes, but no place would let them have that, “There’s no way I can avoid looking like a creepy stalker, huh?”

Angel gave him a small smile, “Well, you can join the club I guess…”

Husk lifted an eyebrow, unable to deny the spike in his curiosity but he knew how things worked with Angel. Gentle steps, kid gloves, hovering on the stoop long enough to prove he really was interested until Angel opened the door.

“Figured there was a reason you were in a dive like this,” he hummed, eyeing the coffee, “A reason other than that shit.”

Angel tipped the mug, laughing grimly, “Oh yeah. Would you believe the cherry pie here is actually incredible? It’s the only thing on the menu that’s edible but, y’know. They got one thing right.”

Husk chuckled, “Well in that case…” 

The place was fairly dead, it didn’t take long to flag down a waitress and order two slices, a la mode for Angel because Husk remembered him saying that eating pie any other way was heresy. The expression on the younger man’s face was worth not being able to reach across and take his hand, a slab of golden crust and berries red and shiny as Christmas tree ornaments was apparently a good enough substitute. 

They were halfway through before Angel eventually shifted and murmured, “I ain’t looking to score if that’s what you were worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” Husk lied smoothly, drowning out the sour taste of guilt with cherry syrup, “This place is a dive but it ain’t rough enough to have drug deals going on under the table. Besides, you said you were clean.”

Angel gave him a soft, grateful smile, like he wasn’t used to his promise being enough. His eyes wandered back across the street, like there was some magnetic pull drawing them there. Husk could tell words were hovering on his lips, crowding nervously like baby birds afraid to take that first step into open air. 

Husk reached across and snagged that mug of muddy looking coffee, dragging it to his side of the dented metal table. He took a drink, right where Angel’s lips had touched it, feeling the warmth of them there. 

It was a poor excuse for a kiss, secretive and indirect, but it was the best he could do in public, a lukewarm substitute for the way he wanted to comfort his lover. But Angel received the message loud and clear, eyes misting slightly and sighing in the unmistakable sound of pressure being released. 

“The candy store across the way,” he murmured, fingers tapping anxiously on the table, “You see it?”

Husk looked, having to squint a little now his eyes weren’t what they used to be. The store looked like a kid’s dream, just looking at it made his teeth ache at the roots. The walls were just shelves crammed with rows and rows of jars, the old fashioned kind, each with a different treasure inside. Bright, crystalline hard candies, pillowy marshmallows, stark black and white humbugs. It was a riot of color, artificial color right out of a bottle, but it was the kind that made your mouth water. After the long gray days of the war, that store was something close to heaven. 

“She always did have a sweet tooth,” Angel murmured, voice soft and sad, “Guess we both have a thing for harmful, addictive substances. Just that her’s ain’t illegal.”

At first Husk was confused but then it hit him. The girl behind the counter, currently smiling kindly down at a pair of wide eyed kids, clearly an older sister and younger brother. By the looks of her delighted expressions, there were a lot more lollipops going into that bag than they actually paid for. If the blonde hair that seemed to have a mind of its own or the freckles or the height or the crooked grin didn’t give it away, that act of kindness would have done it. Maybe Husk’s eyes weren’t what they used to be but he could have been blind in one eye and still seen the family resemblance. 

“I know it sounds crazy because I could just look in the mirror but I can’t believe how grown up she looks,” Angel’s voice was heavy, bowing under the weight of the emotion in it, “In my head, I was always picturing the girl I left behind. But she changed too, I just…I just wasn’t there to see it…”

“Good looks run in the family, huh?” Husk swallowed hard, feeling a physical pain in his chest from how badly he wanted to take Angel’s hand. 

“Oh Molly always looked pretty damn angelic. We were about as identical as a boy and a girl could be. Used to dress up as each other sometimes to see if anyone would notice. Only Nonna ever would.”

Husk watched sadly as the girl- Molly- waved goodbye to her customers with a smile just like Angel’s, “Guess you haven’t spoken to her? Since you left?”

He swallowed hard, like the words were having to get past something in his throat, “God, Husk, she probably doesn’t even know I’m still alive. Last time she saw me, my father was throwing me down the stoop and calling me a faggot for the whole neighborhood to hear.”

They’d been together long enough now that Husk didn’t have to hide his pained expression, hating the gaps in his words where the softer, gentler words for their love should go but couldn’t, just in care they were overheard. Hating that they still had to duck and hide from that kind of poisonous hate.

“But there’s a reason you’re sitting here. A reason you’ve been sitting here enough times to know the only good thing on the menu, I don’t think you’d do that for a sister who wouldn’t care if you were still kicking.” 

Angel’s expression twisted, memories of that day clearly painful to touch, “She got right in his face, he was twice her height, towered over all of us but she met him nose to nose. Told him the only one who oughta be ashamed was him, throwing his own son out like trash. Quoted the damn Bible at him, told him he had too many sins of his own to be casting stones at me.”

Husk’s chest burned fiercely, “Smart kid.”

But Angel only closed his eyes against a rush of remembered pain, “And then he backhanded her right across the face. He’d never hit her, not once, he saved that for me and my brother, but that bastard did it, right in front of everyone. Knocked her to the fucking ground. It was the only time Johnny looked at him like the monster he was.”

The bitter taste on Husk’s tongue had nothing to do with the bad coffee and everything to do with not being able to get his hands around the throat of a man he’d never even met. 

And with knowing exactly what was going through his lover's mind.

“Angel,” he murmured, “You can’t think that was your fault.”

“Husk, she got hurt defending me. Loving me put her in the damn firing line,” a desperate anger bled into his voice, “No fucking wonder she never tried to track me down or write me or anything. She did the right thing and, before you say a word, I ain’t going over there to drag her back into my bullshit. Not when I turned into everything the old man said I would.”

“Angel…” Husk groaned.

“No,” he shook his head tightly, fingers still tapping, keeping time with his racing heart, “Knowing she’s okay is enough. And if I go over there, all I’ll do is make it so she ain’t. Better off she thinks I’m dead, that way she still got a hope of loving me. A dead brother is better than a living whore.”

“Angel.”

He felt it come out harsher than he’d meant to but it did what he wanted, it was a hand thrust out to catch Angel by the collar before he fell any deeper. The younger men fell silent, his hollow eyed stare becoming something desperate as he stared back at Husk, something pleading. Husk didn’t dare ask if he was begging him to pull him up or just let go. 

Not that it mattered. He’d pull him back, every time. 

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have snapped,” Husk shook his head tightly, exhaling deeply, “Listen. You can tell me to mind my own damn business after, if that's what you want, but can you just let me try?”

Angel swallowed hard, “Alright…”

“Look, I know how much you’re running from. No kid should have to go through half the shit you did and if I ever meet your daddy, I won’t waste my time quoting scripture at him, I’ll tell you that for free,” Husk growled before forcing himself to relax, his fingers to unravel from the fists they’d made on the tabletop, “But Molly…I think you got to ask yourself why she’s even still here. By rights, she should have moved halfway across the country, put as much distance as she could between her and your daddy’s rotten business. Hell, you both should. I don’t know why either of you are still here, there’s so many reasons you should have run for the hills.”

Angel fidgeted, his eyes drawn back across the street, as if to make sure Molly was still there. 

“But you’re both still here,” Husk murmured gently, “And my guess is…well, that you’re both still hoping. You want a fresh start but there’s some things you ain’t ready to leave behind and why should you have to?”

Angel’s blue eyes were swimming, his voice sounding like it scraped his throat on the way out, “Hope’s a dangerous thing…but God, what the fuck do I even tell her? About Valentino, about the club, about anything?”

Husk shrugged, wishing he had a better answer but sometimes the truth was all there was, “Tell her you’re in a bad spot but you’re trying. That you’re doing your best. What else is there?”

“And you think that’s going to be enough?” Angel bit his lower lip. 

“I’d put money on it,” Husk smiled crookedly, “Were I a betting man.”

That made Angel laugh, a weak, raspy, sarcastic thing but Husk treasured it more than anything, “Well, I’m sold. After all, when was the last time you made a bad bet?”

“Not since I met you,” Husk promised, with a smile as honest as he’d ever given. 

Angel took a shuddery breath, clearly steeling himself, the same way he did for Valentino’s club. Even without all the makeup and glitter and the knife smile, it was the same bravery. Husk hadn’t known him as a soldier but it was there in his face, a familiarity with shutting off that instinct to turn and run, to just putting one foot in front of the other. 

“Will you stay here? Wait for me?” Angel’s voice shook a little even as he asked for that small reassurance. 

Husk damn near melted, meeting his eyes without hesitation, “I won’t move a muscle. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”

Angel relaxed slightly, nodding and standing up, taking that promise with him out of the diner and across the street. He did glance back a few times, blue eyes wide and uncertain, but he always kept going at a gentle nod from Husk. They probably both breathed a sigh of relief when he actually managed to cross the threshold of the candy store. 

Husk liked to think he’d gotten his tells under control after so many years with a gambling addiction but his leg was bouncing hard enough to rattle the table, accusatory ripples in the surface of the coffee. He ignored it, taking a long sip and finding it wasn’t so bad when the warmth of his lover’s lips still clung to the rim, his eyes clinging to Angel. 

Molly was wiping down some empty jars, her back turned to the door when he walked in, though her mouth moved, probably a promise that she’d be right there. Husk didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, watching as Angel took off his hat and hovered in the doorway. The whole damn world seemed to be holding its breath, even the voices in his head bit their tongues for once. 

Until finally, in a flinching moment made of equal parts relief and horror, Molly turned around. Instantly her face froze, shock crystallizing her features, like a ghost had just walked through her door. They looked so alike, standing across from each other, there may as well have been a mirror between them. Not just in their features, in the exhaustion that hid behind their mouths made for smiling, in their eyes that looked so much older than they should, in the shadows that sleepless nights had carved onto their faces. They were twins in more than just a physical way, they were twins in grief, in trauma, in hurt. 

But despite that, in that frozen moment, Husk didn’t see how they fit together, it seemed like their edges were just too jagged. 

Please, Husk willed fiercely, the same way he’d once willed cards to show a straight flush, the way he’d stepped off a train all those years ago and hoped, please.

But this time someone was listening. The man upstairs or their Nonna or maybe he was begging loud enough for Molly to hear him across the street but someone heard and someone took pity. With a soft sob, she dashed forward, throwing herself into Angel’s arms so hard he nearly fell over. The two of them clung so tightly to each other it was like they were afraid the other might disappear, two pairs of shoulders shaking with tears Husk couldn’t hear. 

Blinking back tears of his own, he pulled his eyes away, getting the sudden sense that this moment was too private for an audience. But he’d promised his Angel so he stayed in the booth, pulled out one of the fresh sketchbooks he’d just bought and set it on the table. He’d bought fresh pencils but old habits die hard and ones from times you were so poor you could manage one meal in three died the hardest. He would use the one he carried in his pocket until it was down to nothing. 

Husk signaled for another coffee- it was actually starting to grow on him now- and let his pencil move across the page. He glanced across to the store a few times as the sunset washed the world in orange, as the candy store became a square of golden light surrounded by shadow that couldn’t touch it. Angel and Molly were sitting on the counter, never talking anything less than a hundred miles an hour, looking like the light was coming from their smiles. They were laughing, they were crying, they were hugging tight, it depended on when Husk looked over but it always made him smile. They could have as long as they damn well wanted.

By the time the sketchbook page showed a study of the two of them and he’d drunk three more coffees in sheer defiance of the hour, Husk felt the prickle of eyes on him. This time when he looked up, Angel and Molly were there to meet his gaze, Angel gesturing to him and saying something that made his twin’s smile grow and soften. She waved excitedly, beckoning him over, Angel giving a reassuring nod behind her so he knew it was okay.

They met him outside the now dark candy store, Molly rushing up in a way that told Husk she was only barely restraining herself from giving him the same bone crushing hug Angel got. 

“Thank you!” the first words out of her mouth were breathless, leaving her in an ecstatic rush, “Thank you so much, Tony’s told me everything about how you’ve helped him get clean and try to get away from that awful man and how you helped him be brave enough to come talk to me, just…thank you. Oh, I’m Molly!”

Husk smiled warmly, taking off his hand and inclining his head, “Husker, ma’am. And there ain’t no thanks needed. It’s my pleasure, I’m just glad your brother lets me.”

Angel smiled at him gratefully, turning to Molly, “You’re sure you have to go?”

Her face creased in disappointment, “Sorry, I’ve got a night shift to get to…but you’re going to come by tomorrow, right?”

Angel nodded, “I got the whole day before work, I’ll be right here.”

She kept smiling but some of the light in her blue eyes dimmed, “Promise?”

The fact that she had to ask clearly stung but there was understanding in his reassuring nod, “I promise, Moll, I’ll be right here as soon as your shift starts. Husk will keep me honest.”

That earned him another thousand kilowatt smile as she reached out and took his large, scarred hands in her own delicate ones, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, Mr Husk.”

“Likewise, ma’am,” he smiled, startled in a good way. 

“Good…oh! I meant to say!” she tilted her head sweetly, “If you ever break my brother’s heart or hurt him, I’ll break your legs. Okay?”

There was a moment’s pause before, simultaneously, Husk burst out laughing and Angel gave a scandalized squawk of disbelief. 

“I appreciate you saying that, ma’am,” Husk grinned, “And believe me, I ain’t gonna give you reason to. Angel’s not going anywhere…and neither am I.” 

“Glad to hear it,” she shouldered her bag, “And call me Molly. See you tomorrow!”

She gave Angel a last kiss on the cheek before disappearing into the nighttime crowds, waving until the corner took her out of sight. It was a long moment before Angel could turn away from the spot where she disappeared but when he did, his eyes were shining. 

“Husk…” he shook his head, unable to find the words, “Husk, I can’t thank you enough..”

“You can start by coming home with me,” he cut across him gently, “Get off this damn street so I can hold you the way I’ve been wanting to all fucking day.”

Angel opened his mouth at first, like he was going to protest that it wasn’t enough, that Husk should ask for more than just himself. But after a moment, he closed it again and just smiled. 

“Yeah. That I can do, baby.”

And that alone was worth more than anything. 

They walked through the streets together, as close as they were allowed, letting their fingers brush and tangle whenever they were out of the puddles of streetlight. And it didn’t feel like a compromise, it didn’t feel like a watered down version of everything exploding inside their chests right now. It just felt like a promise for later, a moment in a future they were both really starting to believe in. 

Husk found himself remembering his first day in the city again, a younger man still old before his time, daring to hope that the paintbrushes and pencils in his pocket would be enough to make people notice him. That he’d leave his demons behind and become something great. 

Husk took a deep lungful of night air, still sharp with the smell of the river and softened by Angel’s perfume. It wasn’t the life he’d imagined, it was tangled and thorny and fucking hard. The voices were still lurking, muzzled for now but he knew they’d come back in the quiet moments, when Angel’s fingers weren’t entwined with his own. 

And maybe they were right, just like they had been every other time before. Maybe this was another bad hand, another roll of life’s fixed dice. 

But Husk supposed he was still a fucking fool.

[bi-numi-aliyani]

Shulmu 𒁲𒈬, my friends! I wanted to let you know I haven't forgotten about this place whatsoever. I actually started writing something big, but I got sidetracked with various other things. Again, though, I haven't forgotten and I'm gonna commit to making sure I don't neglect the Shrine! To make up for it, I'd at least like to share some sketches I've made in the meantime :)

First up are some more Deity symbols! The Seal of 𒀭Ashtart-Shala, going on my perspective that West Semitic 𒀭Ashtart and East Semitic 𒀭Shala are the same Goddess, is based on designs associated with the "Storm God's Wife" type in different regions as well as an Ugaritic Astral symbol. I also see it symbolizing something of the Celestial Realm in general, interestingly enough.

The Four-Pointed Star is associated with 𒀭Hadad in ancient times. The “War” variant is based on a metal standard from Ugarit (I'm not sure on what basis it's called a Hittite symbol, perhaps that version comes from Anatolia). There's also a Sun-and-Moon symbol (doesn't it just barely remind you of something very... Catholic?) and the Lightning-Fork, the East Semitic precursor to 𒀭Ba'al's Arzu (Cedar) in Levantine myth and iconography. Both of these are from an Old Babylonian cylinder seal.

With 𒀭Ashirat, there's two Sacred Tree symbols and what looks to have been a fertility motif from Canaanite pendants. There's also a design from a Megiddo cylinder seal (I was thinking of something else when I wrote “Old Syrian”) which I didn't finish drawing and you can even see where I erased some elements which I still mean to redraw so I can finish the thing.

Next are two drawings of 𒀭Milqart! The first one started out in concept as a sort of Seal, but to be honest I just think it turned out an alright drawing if I may say so. The basic design comes from Tyrian coinage, albeit I chose to reinterpret it with more Ancient Near Eastern as opposed to more Hellenic symbolism (no disrespect for Hellenism!). The King of Eternity's bespoke apparel and wings are mostly based on the Assyrian “genies”, although I certainly do not intend to imply any connection with that. His garment also draws from a Phoenician-influenced engraved silver bowl of the Latin culture (which shows Him bodying a fucking gorilla btw). His Crown has horns and a long tassel much like Ba'al's is sometimes portrayed along with some geometric motifs inspired by Atef. I decided to do something geometric with the Celestial symbols as well. He holds His two Attributes representing Life and Death, the Ankh and the Phoenician Fenestrated Axe respectively. Life is symbolically offered up on the Horned Altar inspired by an actual one from the Roman period.

Tyre's founding myth of the Ambrosial Rocks is also portrayed with the Eagle and Snake living together in harmony in the Oil (Olive) Tree which the Rocks wandered around in the midst of the Sea until 𒀭Milqart told them where to settle. I originally decided to put a proto-alphabetic Alef and Bet ;) on the Rocks based on the assertion the term “Ambrosial” is derived from Semitic Amm Beruth meaning “Mother of Wells.” I couldn't find any good evidence for that, but I decided to have them there anyway to symbolize beginning (albeit I realize now they should be in reverse). The Eagle offers 𒀭Milqart a Wreath Crown with the Pillars of the Two Tyres. On the lower register is the myth of 𒀭Milqart's Dog biting a Murex Shell which led Him to discover the precious Tyrian Purple dye and the whole composition is framed by Wreaths.

The Head of Milqart was purely a creative/inspirational outflowing with some slight tweaks made in post.

This next one is something of a personal seal for me. It's mostly based on the 𒀭Ashtart-Shala symbol and this is to ask for protection. The triple-Alef in the midst of the Hexagram represents my chosen Pagan name to that effect. The Name of 𒀭Qadesh-Ashtart-Anat, Who is a “composite” Goddess in my view, is written on the Lunar Crescent and I recycled some of the Tyrian symbolism as well. The two symbols on either side are based on designs of sceptres held by ancient Images of 𒀭El, one representing His House and the other a Solar symbol.

The Head of Ba'al here is in the same category as the Head of Milqart.

Thanks for checking out my work, I really hope you enjoyed it :)

[harrison-abbott]

Canned Tomatoes

I was supposed to get the posh canned tomatoes at the store but they only had the cheap supermarket kind. Everything else on the list was ticked off. Her alcohol. Of course. She came downstairs when I got home and she lifted the bottle out of the bag and retired again to her bedroom and drank. You could hear the TV through the floorboards. Always had the volume on full blast and it never mattered what was on; unless it was sport, or a movie that she found boring: she detested soccer and most films put her to sleep within 15 mins of showtime. But yeah, anyway, I was supposed to make the dinner for eight o clock. And around about seven I thought I’d crack on with it. To prepare the food. I heard her shout at something upstairs. This didn’t bode well. I wondered what thrill she got out of her habits. Whether she actually liked anything on the television. She did like those dance show things, where they get the celebrities to do the ballroom dance shit and then the audience watchers across the country annihilate one couple each week, as if that’s a nice thing to do. How they managed to make dancing like sport. Meh. Then I heard her come down the stairs as I was chopping the onions beside the cooker. I had the ingredients by the board. She came into the kitchen. She obviously needed a new bottle of fizz to mix with her spirits upstairs. Into the room she blundered and in the corner she fumbled about looking for a coke bottle. And found it. Then looked over at me. And paused. I could feel her in my corner vision. “Did you do it again?” I asked her what she meant. “The canned tomatoes,” she hissed. “I told you – you’re not supposed to buy them. They’re carcinogenic, those ones: I told you this before! Why can’t you listen?” If I had just started the sauce a little earlier and then put the empty canned tomatoes cans in the recycling bin outside then she wouldn’t have known they ever existed. The posh tomatoes didn’t taste any different. But, it’d set her off. And she stood there yelling at me. With bits of saliva sparking from her lips. Mashed in to the tirade were the typical insults. How useless I was. How I couldn’t organise myself. All of this bollocks. Until I snapped. I actually hadn’t snapped at her in such a long while. Not ever, actually. At least, not physically. She did that a few times when I was a kid. Hit me. Slapped me in the face. One time she got me on the floor and kicked me in the stomach. So, tonight, that night, I finally snapped. I picked up one of the cans of chopped tomatoes and I hurled it at her. I don’t know whether I intended for it to smack right in her face. It narrowly missed her skull by a few inches. And it flew past and smacked into the far wall and the thrust was strong enough that it burst all over the wallpaper. Gory tomatoes like some horror movie splat; it was as if I’d shot her and her brains had gone over the wall. But, she wasn’t shot. She didn’t move. She had, however, shut up good and proper. And stared at me wide eyed. The oil was still on on the pan. Olive oil, getting hotter. I turned it off. The oil bubbled in the corners. And I thought about going over and pouring it over her head, or flinging that in her face – and being on target this time. But, I didn’t. Her silence was good enough for now. I took the pan off the hob and put it on one of the cold ones at the back. Then I quit the cooker and washed my hands in the sink, and I moved past her, out of the room, and left her standing in the same spot. I quietly went upstairs to my own room. Where I could get back to some reading. Wasn’t going to make the meal tonight. Fuck that.

[apolloendymion]

listen to me. i am talking directly in your ear now.

save your kitchen scraps. I'm talking carrot tops, peels, and greens. the tops & skins of onion and garlic. celery leaves. squash rinds. citrus peels. apple cores. tomatoes and lettuce that are just a little too wilted/mushy to be palatable. eggshells. cheese rinds. chicken skin. potato skins if you washed the dirt off. the water/oil from canned foods. BONES!! skins, peels, stems, leaves, anything that isn't poisonous but you wouldn't normally eat. we're going to make some fucking Broth.

(note: cruciferous veggies like brussels sprouts are ok in small quantities, but keep in mind that they're bitter and may bitter-ize your broth in larger amounts.)

put those scraps in a bag in the freezer. I'd recommend storing the liquids in a separate bag from the solids. add scraps whenever you've got em, until you've accrued about half a gallon ziplock of solids. now, you're Ready.

put a little oil at the bottom of a soup pot. just enough to sauté your solids. add some minced garlic and herbs/spices, if you have them (dried is fine, but i don't recommend powdered spices unless they're all you've got.) i like warming spices like star anise and cardamom pods; they make it taste like pho, sooo cozy. and of course, bay leaves!! if you have them, put at least 3 in there. minimum. trust me.

(if you don't have/want animal parts, add a little more oil than necessary for sauteing. you're gonna want the extra, believe me. I'd also sauté for longer, and pick an oil with a little flavor if you can, like olive. canola/vegetable is perfectly fine though.)

add the solids and sauté. i usually just thaw them in the oil, but if you're better at planning than me, you can put them in the fridge the night before. ideally you should sauté until the veggies start to brown. I'm not always that patient. it's fine. just make sure everything fully thaws and separates from one another. get a thin coat of oil over everything.

next, add the liquid ingredients and fill the rest of the pot with water (taking care to leave some space in case it boils over.) bring the pot to a boil, then turn it as low as your stove allows and leave it to simmer for as long as possible. this is KEY. let that shit MARINATE. let it STEW, no pun intended. i usually try to start this project in the morning, so i can leave it for the rest of the day. i have left it on overnight before but i can't recommend that in good conscience. do not burn your house down for broth. 2 hours would probably be my absolute minimum. stay close by, and stir it every so often so it doesn't boil over. chill on the couch. watch tv. enjoy the smell that permeates your house and makes it feel like a home. it's cozy time.

add salt, tasting as you go. you don't want to overdo it. some folks say to add the salt at the sauteing stage, but i feel this gives me too little control over the final product. i need control. I've got anxiety. but you do you. live your life. I'm not your boss.

once it tastes how you want it, strain out the solids. if I'm going to make soup right away, then I'll strain the liquid directly into another pot, throw in the soup ingredients, and simmer till everything's soft. otherwise, put it in a container you can freeze for later.

rejoice. broth be upon ye.

sip it when you're sick, make it into soup, use it in a casserole, cook rice with it. give a jar to your neighbors. you are the broth god. you are unstoppable. you will never waste a vegetable piece ever again.

go forth and Experience The Broth.

[punkbakerchristine]

october 7th marks 1 year since hamas invaded israel. the terror group massacred 1200 people, rampaged the city of sderot and the nova music festival, kidnapped 250 people from all walks of life, from literal infants to little old ladies, from americans to british to thai to israelis, from jews to bedouins to druze to christians to actual muslims, and started this godforsaken war. it was a terror attack, a crime against humanity, an act of genocide, and if you’re going to point fingers at anyone for starting it, blame donald trump (he sold intel about israel to russia, an ally to iran and the base of hamas, which is how they were able to break through the iron dome). israel are not the genocidal ones, and they never have been, either. hamas is. radical islam is. radical islam doesn’t give a single fuck who you are, not even muslims.

it also marks 1 year since i started baking bread. i literally made my first bloomer when it happened (and i was like that guy back east when the pandemic hit, and he was living off the grid and had no idea why everyone was masking up, so he went into a gas station like “can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?!”).

so, i’ve made a bloomer again as both a means of coming full circle and to remember the attacks.

this recipe is based out of the standard bloomer, as every culture has a loaf of bread, and inspired by a cheesy jalapeño loaf from schat’s bakery up in bishop, california, and also chilean flavor profiles (i’ve been on a chile kick lately). the pungency of the cheese and the garlic is like a direct opposite of the sweetness of the foods served at rosh hashanah to commemorate how painful this whole experience has been, and the chili powder, which is piquant and earthy, is meant to be ironic as this conflict is not about land. flavor-wise, it gives a dimension to the garlic and an earthy feeling to the cheese. it’s an oil bread, so it’s kosher. ***i just read that cheddar is not halal unless it’s made by tillamook. otherwise, i’d recommend using a different pungent cheese that’s made with a vegetable rennet. if you’re not a fan of sharp cheese, you can use a milder one like havarti!

nevertheless:

500 grams of all-purpose flour

10 grams of salt

7 grams of fast-action yeast

40 milliliters of olive oil

320 milliliters of cool water

1 tablespoon of minced roasted garlic

1-1 1/2 cups of shredded sharp cheese

1/8 - 1/4 teaspoon of chili powder

***my loaf was actually made with 375 grams of flour (or roughly 3/4 of the measurements because we’re running low on flour as of writing), but the measurements still stand.

***if you’d like an authentic middle eastern version, swap out the chili powder for sesame seeds and za’atar seasoning!

tip the flour into a metal bowl with the salt on one side and the yeast on the opposite (salt can stunt the behavior of the yeast and slow the proving process so it’s best to keep them separated). add the oil plus 240 milliliters of the water. with one hand, stir the ingredients together and begin incorporating them: add more water if the dough is too dry. once you have the dough going and all the flour is mopped up, place on a lightly oiled work surface and begin kneading. put your hands, arms, and back into it!

the kneading should take 5-10 minutes (or longer if you’re new to bread making): you want the dough to be smooth like the inside of your arm.

place into a lightly oiled glass bowl and cover with either plastic wrap or a tea towel and let proof in a warm place for at least 90 minutes (or longer if your kitchen isn’t very warm). you want the dough to double in size. i like to tuck it into the oven so the air is still and the temperature is constant; on a cold day, turn on the oven as you’re kneading to 200° f, and then switch it off once you put the bowl in.

once doubled, gently tip out the dough and begin “knocking it back”, where you’re folding it back and pushing it with the base of your palm to knock out the extra air bubbles made by the yeast. after a minute of knocking, spread the dough flat before you and sprinkle half the cheese, half the garlic, and half the chili powder over the surface. fold the dough over and finishing knocking—it might require some more muscle as there are new things incorporated now.

flatten the dough as best you can into a rough rectangle. fold the long edge furthest from you towards the middle, and then fold the edge closest to you into the middle so you have a seam and somewhat of a log shape.

carefully turn over so the seam is on the bottom. cup your hands on either side of the log and begin tucking in the ends. turn the dough about so the top is smooth and rounded. gently rock it about until you have an oval shape.

place the loaf on a baking sheet lined with either parchment or silicone matting (i prefer the silicone), then place inside a large plastic bag to proof again for 1 hour or when doubled in size. the dough is ready when it springs back slowly upon tapping the surface.

heat up your oven to 425° f / 220° c and place a roasting tray at the bottom rack. pour 1 liter of water into the tray for some steam, which will give the loaf a nice chewy crust.

with a sharp knife, score the top of the loaf (a basic bloomer has four diagonal slits about 1 centimeter deep) to help it “bloom” and steam out. lightly spritz some water over the top of the loaf, then lightly dust with a small handful of flour, followed by more cheese, garlic, and chili powder. be gentle during this step: you don’t want to knock out more air.

bake for 25 minutes, then bump the oven down to 395° f / 200° c and bake for a further 10-15 minutes. you want the loaf to sound hollow on the bottom and the cheese to be browned and melted. let cool on a wire rack, and enjoy 🙏🏻

[fuckkbrunch]

Another cold one for a heatwave week. I was pointedly less excited for this one.

My new phone seems to be taking these title text photos like shit. Need to look into that...

Now, I'm used to gazpatcho with tomatoes. Or cucumbers. Not bread and almonds.

This should be illegal. Feels bad, man. After this photo, I realized I was supposed to remove the crusts before I soaked it, so I had to pour water over two different bowls of bread. Gross.

I bought fancy garlic from the farmers market for this one, since Tony emphasized that the garlic should be fresh. The cloves were huge, that part in the photo was just half of one.

Squeezing the water out of the bread is incredibly unenjoyable. Toss the squeezed bread in with garlic and ground almonds and blitz with fresh cold water.

Once it's pasty, pour in the oil with the machine running to emulsify. Season with kosher salt and toss it in the fridge for at least an hour.

The only required garnish was the croutons, but Tony offers a bunch of optional ones. Thinly sliced green grapes, lightly toasted almonds and fried capers. I figured since this was a pretty simple recipe on its own, that I'd do all of them.

I did them rapid fire style. First I toasted some sliced almonds in my dry cast iron. Then I added canola oil to fry the capers in. While the oil was still hot I fried the croutons. It gave the croutons a little hint of capers, which was nice. While all of that was happening, I thinly sliced some green grapes. This was the weirdest garnish.

So, fried capers look like dead flies. This must be an old-man-from-the-80's thing again.

I chilled my bowls before serving, topped with everything plus a drizzle of olive oil. And you know what? It wasn't bad. It really wasn't. The garlic and the cold grapes went oddly well together, and all the different textures of the capers, croutons, and almonds was very nice.

This definitely wouldn't be as good with any of the garnishes missing. They should all be required.

| White Gazpatcho |

Taste is a 3.5 out of 5. A bit on the salty side - even though I was conservative with the salt according to the recipe - but surprisingly tasty.

Difficulty is a 3 out of 5. I'm including all the garnishes.

Time was about an hour, plus the hour wait for it to chill.

Tony says this should be made with fancy bottled water, or at least filtered tap water. I took a risk and used straight from the tap British Columbia tap water with some ice from my ice machine, and it came out pretty good, so don't go crazy.

The only way I can accurately describe the flavour is that it tastes as if garlic bread was a cold soup, in a good way. I realize it sounds fucking gross saying it that way, but seriously. Pretty tasty for what I thought was going to be a big cold flop.

[devondespresso]

WIP WhhhMonday Nightish

Once upon a time Devon was tagged in a wip wednesday by @eriquin and meant to do it but missed both wednesday and the weekend before remembering again. totally unrelated, Devon is working on getting their official adhd diagnosis.

i also noticed that the past snippets shared in wip-whatever posts have been purposefully the least interesting parts because i was worried about spoilers, which is dumb because that's created the unintended consequence of my tag is full of everything i don't like as much and a very different impression of what my fic is (as seen by most of these snippets being my rewritten scenes despite the actual fic being mostly new in-between scenes)

TLDR: WIP Whatever-day-it-is: But Actually For Fun This Time

The Rules

Post the file names of up to 5 of your WIPs for people to send you asks

Post a snippet of one of those WIPs

When people send you an ask with the name of one of your WIPs, write 3 lines of that WIP.

(Optional) Post the lines you wrote.

You can send multiple requests especially since this is going on through the weekend!

The WIPs

we're doing bulleted chapter titles to share from since that was my favorite and genuinely most productive format I've used. Feel free to ask for as many as you want, I plan on working on this basically all week

Karen Wheeler POV Bonus Chapter (Prologue kinda? side story in the same universe?? Bonus chapter set after season 1 and way before ch 1)

Steve, are you okay? Are you okay, Steve? (ch 9)

What's this? The consequences of my actions? (Is that a motherfucking Lovejoy reference?) (ch 10)

Kidnapping? no. surprise adoption. (lol get taken care of BITCH) (ch 11)

NEXT CHAPTER BC IDK HOW TO TRANSITION (ch 12) (a very tentative title for the next chapter to be written)

The Snippet

here is my favorite and most recent scene I've written, which takes place before they junkyard where Steve and Dustin are at the grocery store to get that ungodly amount of raw meat they have to toss around (also i've split chapters up a bit in the name of structure so the third chapter is now called "Mommy Issues Central". Lemme know any goofy vine reference ideas you guys have or if it should stay like that) (fear not, Get Yo Fucking Dog Bitch lives on still as chapter 4)

___

They turned down the next aisle, lining the edges of the cart with some other pasta-related shit that he could still probably use. They heard someone coming over from the next aisle and before he could turn the cart around Mrs Wheeler pulled up.

"Oh, Steve ...and Dustin. What're you boys up to?"

He took a short breath to work their story into something without Mike, but Dustin beat him to it.

"He's teaching me stuff." 

He was imitating the tone Steve used but still way too vague. Mrs Wheeler held up a smile, her brows slightly lifted.

"Y'know, like cooking-" Steve said, throwing in a little gesture to the cart.

"And cars, changing oil and things. Y'know just.. dad stuff."

Dustin's part convinced her, Mrs Wheeler's expression softening into a real smile.

"Well I won't keep you long," 

She nodded off to the side to talk to Steve one-on-one.

Great.

“Are you and Nancy okay?”

“Wh- we’re- Why? Did she say something?”

“No, no, she’s just been… closed off, lately. And I drove her to school the other day, she didn’t say why.”

“Sh- yeah, that- that’s on me. Sorry.”

“Did you break up?”

“No no, definitely not. We’re kinda… we’re working on it. I’m going to try and make it better, after y’know..” he gestured to Dustin behind him.

“Right.” she smiled again, “Let Nancy know she can talk to me about any of this? Please? I tell her but- I don't know, maybe it’d be different coming from you.”

He held up a smile for her.

“Yeah, sure. Mind if we..” he jutted a thumb towards the end of the aisle.

“Yes, go ahead.”

He gave her a short wave and turned back to Dustin, who studied random shit in the aisle like Steve would believe his sudden fascination with olive oil outweighed childish curiosity.

“Steve-”

He turned back around, seeing Mrs Wheeler coming back up to him and whispering again.

“I know I’m not your mother, but you can talk to me, too. Both of you, okay?”

He kept the smile in place and nodded again, and she finally went back to her cart.

Dustin “Definitely-Not-Eavesdropping” Henderson followed him out of the aisle, thankfully waiting until they were out of earshot to ask.

“What's going on with you and Nancy?”

“Thought we had ‘much bigger problems than my love life’?”

He pulled up to the deli, stopping to pretend to look at the options.

“We’re not dropping everything for it but we can still talk.” he groaned.

“I’ll tell you later, kay? Not exactly the best place to talk.''

___

Tags

@stobinesque @spoookysix @marvel-ous-m @alexcharmsyou @museumgiftshoperaser @blushweddinggowns @sharpbutsoft @fag4dykestobin @findafight (no pressure ofc and feel free to switch it to actually wednesday fhuhjdklashj) (also just let me know if you don't wanna be tagged in these)

[idratherliveinmymind]

I've seen it mentioned before but I'm posting it again with some more details- Equal Exchange.com is selling Palestinian olive oil and dates in bulk and works with the nonprofit Palestinian Agricultural Relief Committee (PARC) which provides social services in the West Bank.

Olive oil comes in 6 half liter bottles priced at $85 USD. That's only $14 each if you and your friends want to pool some money for everyone to get one. It comes from an indigenous Palestinian variety called Nabali olives which produces high quality oil. With over 300 reviews, Equal Exhange's page for this oil holds a 4.9 star rating.

The medjool dates are on sale as of Jan 11 at 15% off. I know dates are normally on the more expensive side for snacks here in the US (in my experience), but these are a five pack of dates at over a pound each (17.6 oz) for about $58 ($57.80). That's about $11.50 for over a pound of dates. (I don’t know about you but I fucking love dates, and I've seen half a pound or less going for at least $6 at Target, you should get some if you can.)

Palestinian farmers are having a hell of a time right now. It's harvest time for olive growers but it's extremely dangerous to travel very far from home to reach all the trees due to constant bombardment. This year's harvest is expected to be half of last year's because of both the war and climate change's effect on the trees.

[simon-x-billy]

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: March

March prompt: Acceptance

Meet my OTP: Simon Lewis, author of a best-selling paranormal book series, who keeps writing himself into his novels; and Billy Delaney, Irish handsome devil and nomadic man of mystery, who chefs internationally. AN: Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m first-time-bi fic (nsfw at ch. 7). TW: References to the pain of being cheated on, language, Irish-isms, massive rewrites. Event details || ao3: Full Event || @yearoftheotpevent

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan Ch. 1 || Prev: Feb Ch. 2 || Here: Mar Ch. 3 || Next: April Ch. 4

————/-/—————

March Chapter 3: My red stripe of pain

———/Simon/———

Ooh, my ass is sunburnt. In a slightly-but-mostly-not sexy way. Look at that. I’ve taken on a rather tomatoesque appearance after four hours in the meaty embrace of the sun at midday without sunblock. But even pain can’t spoil this utter relaxation and bliss I feel.

Huh. I’ve just realized I’ve never done this before — traveling to another country alone. Maybe it’ll turn lonely again later. But right now, watching a boat streaking across my view, I feel free.

And slightly dehydrated.

————/-/—————

“You have a stripe on your arse. That’s what yer tellin me, is it.”

“Yes.”

“A stripe of pain. Have you been naughty, Simon?” Billy asks with the most obscenely good looking smirk. Ew. How dare he.

“Don’t grin at me like that, you barbarian. My red stripe of pain isn’t worthy of that kind of interest, trust me.”

“Why not?” He’s pouring me his favorite wine at the hotel bar, while I wait for my table at the very-big-deal restaurant outside.

“Why n- Are you- My red stripe of pain is a boring kind of red stripe of pain, I assure you.” After a second’s very deep reflection, I’ve realized I want to know, “Why are you so focused on my red stripe of pain, anyway? Never mind. I’ve changed my mind about wanting to know that. Ugh, look at this place. I have no words,” I sigh as the sun dips toward the horizon.

“Finally noticed you’re in Italy, did you,” he chuckles. He’s chuckling. Great.

“Even I had to notice sooner or later. And though it was a little, ok fine, quite a bit later, it’s ok. I’m good with that. Look, the point is…” What was my point? (I am the essence of cool rn.)

Now he’s raising one of his eye caterpillars at me.

He squawks out a laugh and then ducks, as a few of the other patrons look up at the bar.

“Tell me I didn’t say that out loud,” I ask weakly.

“You didn’t say that out loud. But the truth is, yeh said that out loud, mate. And I’ve never heard quite that arrangement of words, ever. Eye caterpillars,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I bet they keep your face warm come winter. But don’t worry, I was once described as having eye caterpillars, too.” By whom I can’t remember. But am I admitting to furry eyebrows? Fuck no. His are far furrier than mine.

“Mate, looks like your seating is ready.” He inclines his head to the side to indicate the host coming to claim me.

“Oh. Ok. Have a good night Beelee.” I waive as I say, “Ciao,” then cringe. “Oh kill me now, I said ciao.” All I can think every time I hear it is puppy chow. Or puppy ciao.

“Keep using it, til you don’t think about it anymore,” is Billy’s random advice. ”Ciao, Seemon.”

“Does he talk dirty to all the guests?” I mumble as I’m seated.

“The list of the wines, signore.” The host hands me a binder so freakin big it requires tabs. Oh look, there’s another one for their selection of olive oils, too.

I never was any good at languages. I’m thinking maybe I should have spent some time on important things, like “Where’s the bathroom? Right and left. Do you have a cell phone charger?” The essentials.

I was too focused on setting everything up for the proposal. The one I’d planned for tonight.

…Fuck, man, I miss her. Why? Why the fuck do I miss her? Why does she get that from me, karmically? It’s so unfair.

I mean, at least I finally feel buzzed. But it’s not cheering me up. It’s just making me all moony.

…I’ve never seen a lavender sky before. Have you? This would be an impossible place to contemplate suicide. Not when you get this sky every day.

…Why does she get to have me miss her? That’s just not cool. “What did I ever do to you?” Maybe I really shouldn’t shake my fist at the sky in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Even when there isn’t somebody here to get embarrassed by me. So I’m hereby mentally shaking my fist at the sky. Screw y-

Whoa. Look at that.

Is that a freakin schooner? I mean that looks like the Pirates of the Caribbean came to the Mediterranean. I just- I can’t- It’s- It’s a freaking cruise ship. A sailboat version of a cruise ship. My god.

That is simultaneously brilliant and an unholy alliance of two things that should not exist in the same paragraph on a travel brochure. I dunno. I’m just jealous. I’ve always wanted to be in Pirates of the Caribbean.

…You ever wonder what he or she saw when they looked at you standing there at the end? I can’t stop thinking about it. What had I turned into in her mind, right before she finally got the balls to say and do what she wanted to? How long? Why didn’t I notice the change? How much of this can I blame on myself? Because I will find the things I can blame on myself and then I’ll chew on them like an old piece of beef jerky. And my whole head will ache after, because of all the chewing.

…Towns lit up, like a diamond necklace draped aaaaaaaaaaall along the bay. I would have bought her a diamond necklace. I totally would have. I already bought the ring. Would have felt obligated to keep it in my underwear, so, at least there’s an upside to her dumping me. Oh hey look, that must be Vesuvius. Why would you want to live near Mount Vesuvius? It’s alive.

…I shake my head back to consciousness as someone steps in the way of my view and leans toward me over the back of Elijah’s seat. (That’s a joke. An empty chair for Elijah. If you’re Jewish you get it.)

“How you doin there, mate?” It’s Billy.

I don’t much like that careful, quiet tone he’s using.

“Yeah, totally. Amazing restaurant.”

“Em,” he looks back over to the kitchen and says quietly, “Mate, you didn’t eat.”

“What? I ate!”

“You ordered olives. At a Michelin-starred restaurant that people can only reserve a year to the day ahead of time. Everything ok?"

Or you call and bribe them. That can get you a table, too.

“Yeah, the olives were good.” And are still largely untouched, I see as I glance down at my plate. Yet I’m certain I’ve ordered something. Beyond the wines, I mean.

“Shit.” I now realize that the staff of the restaurant are waiting for me. “This outdoor patio is a patio all day. Doesn’t it just turn back into a patio at night? Like when the clock tolls midnight?”

“Sure but midnight’ll still be two hours away.” He pauses to look behind him and motions to someone that he’s going to sit down with me.

“Um…” I don’t know what to say. Cuz I really don’t want to talk to him rn. It’s not that I don’t - I just - I don’t want to have to try so hard to speak in complete sentences.

“You’d rather that I didn’t join you. Well, if you can put up with my less than ideal company for the next half hour, then the kitchen will be locked down and you can sit out here staring at Naples all night by yerself. Or is it me specifically?”

I snort.

Billy shifts in his seat. “Simon? You didn’t actually answer the question. You just sort of breathed loudly at it.”

I shake my head, not sure what he’s talking about.

“Leave by yourself, or sit for 25 more minutes with me.”

I feel like he’s speaking a different language and frown at him. Why is he looking at me like that?

“Mate, you’re thinkin out loud again. And for your information, I’m speaking English, with an Irish accent, which really isn’t that different to all other versions of English. Because it’s English. And I’m lookin at yeh like this cos you’re startin to scare me, yeah?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? I’m not sure that was a question at all.”

He slides his chair back looking kinda pissy.

“What did I say?! Don’t look at me like that,” I finish in a mumble.

He stands. “Em.” It’s Billy, who is annoying the fuck out of me rn. “You’re not looking too-”

“Fuck it. Where can I sit?”

Billy takes a step back, definitely looking pissed off now, and raises his hands in an “I give up” kinda gesture. “Enjoy your solitude. I’ll just tell the owner to turn the lights off on yeh, then.” He turns and starts to walk away toward the kitchen again.

“Yes! Thank you. I’ll be able to see the view better,” I say, tapering off at the end. I hear the kitchen door close.

I go to take another sip of wine, but my glass is gone. All that’s left is the last bottle I ordered, already uncorked, thank god.

The lights go out. Finally.

————/Billy/————

“Well if it isn’t the lovely Rosalina. What brings you my way this early in the day, love?” She always blushes when I greet her this way. If she didn’t work here at the hotel, I’d be finding all the places I could make her blush. Christ, she’s beautiful. They grow ‘em like that here. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“It is the American on the roof. You come, please.”

That can’t be good. “On the roof?”

“Or maybe I do not speak it well. He is on the floor of his room, on the floor next to his room. He sleeps there. Maybe he drops his key in the sea? Or the window?”

“He’s asleep on the floor?”

“Si.”

“But not in his room?”

She shakes her head. So do I. What now, Seemon.

Haven’t laid eyes on him in a coupla days. Hoped he’d be doin better.

She looks very serious now. “And I do not like to see the other girls also seeing him when they go to clean. You speak English to him and you are tell him to go to his room for the sleep.”

That’s really very sweet -- she doesn’t want to embarrass him. “I do not like them seeing him like that, either, Rosalina. Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Kind?”

“You have a beautiful heart,” I say, tapping my chest. No use listing everything else beautiful about her. “And your English is improving.” She smiles, and twists away so I can’t see her blushing. Why do women do that? When are they more lovely?

She’s a coworker, Billy, she’s a coworker. I already regret my feckin principles.

She shoos me toward the stairs to the top floor, and all but flees down the hallway when I aim a smile her way. She’s sweet.

————/-/—————

Even before I top the stairs, I can already hear him snoring.

Actually, that sounds more like choking.

Aw, mate, this isn’t good. He snores until his head lolls too far to the side, then he chokes, making his head roll back against the wall, where he starts up with the snoring again. Jesus Christ, has he been choking like this all night?

He’s sat propped up next to the door to his suite. The closer I get, the more I smell fumes. It’s sickly sweet, and oof, he’s got sticky-looking drool migrating in a slow stream from his mouth down the side of his chin.

The label on the half-empty bottle says Limoncello. “Aw, mate. The pain you’re about to feel is a unique suffering.” I hate to get in his face to wake him up. Something tells me Simon’ll be mortified, but there’s nothin for it.

The hall is dim with the storm shutters bolted tight from the inside. Maybe if I shed some light on the situation… Result!

Simon choke-snorts, then groans as he attempts to shift away from the source of light. So the – oof, they stick – shutters at the far end of the hall are open. Result again.

He mumble-whines. “Mmmfm mmmmbnnnaway.” Then there’s groaning, as if the sound of his own voice is too offensive to bear. Then growling and groaning. Until I finally hear some English I recognize. “Ow? Owwwwwwww. Nooooooo. Make it ugly again. n’Go away.”

“Make it ugly?”

“Dark. Too pretty. Hate it.” Followed by whimpering.

“How can something be too pretty?” I mumble under my breath.

“Just can.” Then he tries to roll his head toward the sound of my voice and fails. “Owwwwww?”

Probably needs a hand up. Leaning down, I can see his pulse pounding in his temple. I’d take the pain away if I could, mate. I would if I could. “Let’s get ye to bed, get ye down for a kip, mate. It’ll make you feel better, promise.”

“s’Too pretty in there. Don’t want pretty. You’re too pretty, go’way.”

I can’t help snorting.

“Said go’way.”

“Sorry, mate. Not happenin. Anyway, I can shutter the windows in there to keep it dark. The bed’ll be more comfortable for yeh to sleep it off than this floor, at any rate.”

“Don’t wanna be comfortable.”

Hm. “Here, man. Take my arm. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Go’way!” he shouts, then clutches his head and whimpers. “n’Stop being so nice. s’Disgusting. Don’like it. Don’like you. Go’way.”

“Yer lucky I’m pretendin to be hard of hearin, or I’d go ahead and leave ye here. Now take my arm and-”

“Stop it!” He tries slapping my hands away. And misses.

Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.

“Can do it myself,” he demands. But no, he really can’t. He gives standing a go, and all he manages is a high pitched sob.

“Aw, man. Go on, lemme help yeh.”

Apparently there is a threshold of stupidity with Simon Lewis, thank Christ. He holds out his arm.

But before he takes my hand, he squints up at me. “Never speak of this,” he says with deadly seriousness. “Never happened.”

As I shutter the windows and draw the curtains, he shuffles into bed, fully clothed. “Gross. Why am I sticky?”

“Aw, mate. Ye don’t want to be sleepin in those clothes. I promise yeh, mate. You get your kit off, and I’ll fetch you a wet cloth.” I hold up my hand to stop the inevitable complaints and refusals. “Enough whingeing, man, just do it.”

I come back from the bathroom to find a pile of clothes on the floor, and Simon snoring away with the sheet stuck to his face. It would be endearing if he wasn’t such a feckin pain in my arse.

————/-/————

Simon’s been silently staring out the window for 45 minutes. But not out the window with the gorgeous view. He’s staring at the rock cliff face blurring past too fast to see much of anything.

I want to reassure him that everything will be alright. But it’s not my place, and he’s not for hearin it, anyway.

And what if it isn’t alright.

I try to just leave it be, but I can’t help myself. “You alright man?”

“Why.”

“You’re usually a lot gobbier than this. I’m worried about yeh.”

“Italy was a bad idea.”

“Italy is never a bad idea.”

“Says the man not living my life.”

He’s got me there. “Ok.

As I’m pulling his bags out the boot, I feel like I can’t leave it like this. I don’t know why. It’s just unsettling seeing someone in pain like this, and not bein able to help. I wasn’t lyin -- I’m worried about him.

“Thanks, Beelee,” he says, holding out his hand.

We shake, and before I give him his hand back, I find myself saying, “Text me in 6 months and let me know you’re alive, yeah?”

He huffs out a breath and looks at me. After a moment he shifts uncomfortably, and finally says, “Yeah.”

I’ve no idea why I feel so relieved. “What’s yer number, I’ll text yeh.” Shocked be fuckin I when he gives it to me.

“Thanks, Billy. You’re a good guy. Appreciate you.” And then he’s gone.

————/-/—————

Start: January Ch. 1 || Prev: February Ch. 2 || Next: April Ch. 4

————/-/—————

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Spicy “Just wing it” chicken & champignons à la sheiruki

Read first please:

Fuck it, I wanna share my favourite recipe creation so far because I'm proud of it. All amounts are estimates (Hence, "just wing it"). Also, know that I'm literally just fucking around in my kitchen; I know jack shit about cooking besides "tastes good" and "doesn't taste good". I cooked this as dinner for myself without any side dishes so I'll view this as one portion. Can be split in 2 if served with something. I'd probably go with a type of flat bread...

For 1 Portion you’ll need:

Chicken steaks/breasts (~400g)

Champignons (250g)

1 Onion

Harissa paste (hot paprika & spice paste found in many MENA dishes)

Tomato paste (concentrated)

Puréed tomatoes

A few pods of cardamom

Sweet paprika powder

Allspice

Sugar

Extra virgin olive oil

3 cloves of garlic

Salt

Pepper

Chili flakes to taste

Sesame seeds (garnish)

Spring onions (garnish)

Something lime or lemon-y (garnish)

1 flat and 1 deep/spacious frying pan

You could probably do everything in one pan but I used two because I first tried searing the chicken in all of the marinade and thus couldn't get that nice, roasted aroma.

Marinade:

Add a generous amount of olive oil to an airtight or at least well sealed container. Peel and press the 3 cloves of garlic (you want garlic purée) and add them to the oil. Add ~2 tablespoons of tomato paste & 1 Tablespoon of Harissa paste (guessing values here but you want more tomato than Harissa). Add ~ 1 tablespoon of sweet paprika powder and ~½ tablespoon of freshly ground allspice. Roast, Peel and add the cardamom (I think I used 3 pods) & maximum a piled tablespoon of sugar. Idk if honey would work here but the types of honey I have were too malty. You want a sweet touch. Mix it all well.

Prepare your chicken, put it in the marinade, close your container and give it a good shake. Put it in the fridge and let it rest for a day (shake in between). The olive oil will eventually congeal slightly but that doesn't matter; the moment you add it to the hot pan it’ll become liquid again. Your chicken may still look pale but don't be fooled.

Frying:

Always make sure you really heat up the marinade-oil to kill off potential bacteria carried by the chicken.

1. Dice your onion and put it aside

2. Quarter your champignons (unless you got the super small ones) and put them aside

3. Take a normal frying pan, add a bit of the marinade so you don't have to add extra oil unless absolutely necessary, and fry your chicken at high heat until it's nicely seared on the outside but not cooked through yet. “Extinguish” with a splash of puréed tomato (~100-200 ml, you don't want to make soup). Turn the heat to low and let it cook for a bit while you focus on the champignons.

4. Take a deep pan, add the rest of the marinade, wait until it's hot and add the onion. Sear at high heat until glassy. Add the champignons and sear the until they shrink and turn brown (taste to check if they're good. They shouldn't be too mushy).

5. Add the chicken-tomato mix, stir well, reduce the heat and let it all cook together.

6. Add salt, freshly ground pepper (black), chili flakes and potentially more harissa to taste. Stir.

7. Once everything has a nice brownish coating of sauce/marinade*, check if your chicken is juicy but completely white inside.

*There can be a bit of extra sauce but most of it should be coating. It mustn't swim in sauce.

8. Garnish with chopped spring onions, sesame seeds and something “fresh” (I used chopped lemon balm but something lime-ish would fit even better. Get creative.)

Enjoy 😋