#boston brown bread

[cookguider]

🍞✨ Oat Molasses Bread Recipe: A Taste of Maine in Every Bite! 🏞️ | Easy, Healthy & Irresistible!

Bring the cozy flavors of Maine into your kitchen with this Oat Molasses Bread Recipe! 🌾 Perfectly sweetened with molasses, packed with hearty oats, and baked to golden perfection, this bread is a must-try for anyone who loves homemade goodness. Whether you're a seasoned baker or a beginner, this recipe is simple, wholesome, and guaranteed to fill your home with the warmest aromas. 🏡✨

👉 Why You'll Love It:

Healthy & Nutritious: Loaded with fiber-rich oats and natural sweetness from molasses.

Easy to Make: No fancy ingredients or complicated steps!

Perfect for Any Occasion: Breakfast, snacks, or even as a gift for loved ones.

📸 Tag a friend who needs this recipe in their life! Let’s bake together and spread the love of homemade bread. 🥖💛

Pro Tip: This bread pairs perfectly with a cup of coffee or tea for the ultimate cozy vibe. ☕

Get Full Recipe For Free >>> CLICK HERE

👉 Click to save this recipe and share it with your foodie friends! Let’s make this Oat Molasses Bread go viral! 🚀

[rifoodwars]

Food Shortages

Here you can see what foods were available at local markets in 1918. Notice brown bread listed at the bottom. Bakers turned to their ancestor for inspiration when wheat and sugar were rationed. Brown bread is a New England classic! Fannie Farmer's Boston Cooking School cookbook recipe uses 1 c. rye flour, 1 c. cornmeal, 1 c. graham flour and molasses. It's commonly steamed in a can.

Read more about on Nucoa nut margarine

Newman Bros. Aug 28, 1917

Liberty Market May 28, 1918

Newman Bros. Market June 4, 1918

Bristol Economy ad July 26, 1918

[therecipelibrary]

Boston Brown Bread

Handwritten recipe collection circa 1880

2 cups flour, 2 cups corn meal, soda or baking powder, 1 cup molasses, milk To make a batter, salt, steam three hours, bake in oven afterwards, 1/2 or 1 hour

[diegogarciamusic]

Breakfast Bread - Boston Brown Bread III Molasses and brown sugar sweeten this bread made with whole wheat flour and buttermilk.

[trochoco]

Boston Brown Bread III Recipe Molasses and brown sugar sweeten this bread made with whole wheat flour and buttermilk. 1/4 cup molasses, 1 cup all-purpose flour, 2/3 cup firmly packed brown sugar, 2 cups whole wheat flour, 2 teaspoons baking soda, 2 cups buttermilk, 1 teaspoon salt

[disneyshiddenmagic]

Boston Brown Bread III Recipe This bread, which is made with whole wheat flour and buttermilk, is sweetened with molasses and brown sugar.

[ltwilliammowett]

Cooking like a Sailor - New England Clam Chowder

However, a warm savory steam from the kitchen served to belie the apparently cheerless prospect before us. But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends! hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. - Moby Dick

What Herman Meville describes here is a very famous New England dish - the clam chowder. A chowder is "a soup or stew of seafood (such as clams or fish) usually made with milk or tomatoes, salt pork, onions and other vegetables". Whilst there are different types of chowder, clam chowder is undoubtedly the best known. The definition of chowder varies depending on the part of the country, but most contain clams, potatoes, onions and some form of pork. Some use milk or another type of broth, but this type of dish was very popular on board ships where it was cooked and served in different ways. According to Savouring Gotham: A Food Lovers Companion to New York City, it is believed that New England chowder was introduced to the region by French, Nova Scotian or British settlers and became a common dish in the region around 1700. The chowder grew in popularity over the years and, according to What's Cooking America, was served in Boston as early as 1836 at Ye Olde Union Oyster House (the oldest continuously operating restaurant in the country).

But let's get to the recipe so you can cosy up at home with your copy of Moby Dick and enjoy a nice serving of clam chowder.

What do you need: 1 small onion 1 kilogram of salted pork 2 medium potatoes 1 1/2 cups of water 1 tin with about 200 grams of clams 1 bottle with about 350ml clam juice

1/8 teaspoon of pepper 1 1/2 cup of milk

To prepare:

cut the meat into pieces of about 2.5c and brown in a pan over a medium heat. Then set aside.

chop the onions and fry them in the pan, in the meantime cut the potatoes into small pieces and add them to the onions, cover with water and cook until the potatoes are soft.

add the clams and their juice and season with pepper. Cook over a medium heat until they are steaming.

Add 1 1/2 cups of milk. Heat over a medium heat for 5 minutes.

Add the meat and serve. Best eaten with ship's biscuits or fresh bread, if available.

Enjoy your meal.

[greenwitchcrafts]

August 2023 witch guide

August 2023 witch guide

Full moon: August 1st in Aquarius

New Moon: August 16th

Blue moon: August 30th Aquarius into Pisces

Sabbats: Lughnasadh August 1st



August Sturgeon Moon

Also known as: Corn moon, harvest moon, ricing moon, barley moon, dog moon, fruit moon, grain moon, herb moon, red moon & wyrt moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Leo & Virgo

Animal spirts: Dryads

Deities: Diana, Ganesha, Hathor, Hecate, Mars, Nemesis, Thot & Vulcan

Animals: Dragon, lion, phoenix & sphinx

Birds: Crane, eagle & falcon

Trees: Alder cedar & hazel

Herbs/plants: Basil, bay, chamomile, fennel, orange, rosemary, rue & St. John's wort,

Flowers: Angelica, marigold, sunflower

Scents: Frankincense & heliotrope

Stones: Carnelian, cats/tiger's eye, fire agate, garnet, red jasper & red agate

Colors: Gold, orange, red & yellow

Energy: Authority, appreciation, courage, entertainment, finding your voice, friendship, gathering, harvesting energy, health, love, pleasures, power &vitality

Sturgeon moon gets it's name from the high numbers that are caught at the Great Lakes & Lake Champlain in North America during this time of year. The names come from a number of places including Native Americans, Colonial Americans & European sources.



Lughnasadh

Also known as: Lammas, August eve & Feast of bread

Season: Summer

Symbols: Scythes, corn, grain dollies & shafts of grain

Colors: Gold, green, yellow, red, orange, light brown & purple

Oils/incense: Aloe, apple, corn, eucalyptus, safflower, rose & sandalwood

Animals: Cattle & chickens

Stones: Aventurine, carnelian, citrine, peridot, sardonyx & yellow diamond

Foods: Apples, grains, barley cakes, wild berries, cider, honey, potatoes, rice, sun shaped cookies, blackberry, corn, nuts, breads, blueberry. berry pies & grapes

Herbs/Plants: Alfalfa, aloe, all grains, blackberry, corn, corn stalk, crab apple, fenugreek, frankincense, ginseng, goldenseal, grapes, myrtle, oak leaves, pear, rye, blackthorn &wheat

Flowers: Sunflower, cyclamen, heather, hollyhock & medowsweet

Goddesses: Aine, Alphito, Bracacia, Carmen, Ceres, Damina, Demeter, Freya, Grain goddesses, Ishtar, Kait, Kore, Mother Goddess, Sul, Sun Goddesses, Taillte, Zaramama, Ereshkigal & Ianna

Gods: Athar, Bes, Bran, Dagon, Ebisu, Dumuzi, Ghanan, Grain Gods, Howtu, Liber, Lono, Lugh, Neper, Odin, Sun Gods & Xochipilli

Issues, Intentions & Power:  Agriculture, changes, divination, endings, fertility, life, light, manifestation, power, purpose, strength, success & unity

Spellwork: Sun magick, rituals of thanks/offerings, bounty, abundance & fire magick

Activities:

Bake fresh bread

Weave wheat

Take walks along bodies of water

Craft a corn doll

Watch the sunrise

Eat outside with family/friends/coven members

Donate to your local foodbank

Prepare a feast with your garden harvest

Give thanks to the Earth

Decorate your altar with symbols of the season

Clean up a space in nature

Plant saved seeds

This cross-quarter fire festival is celebrated on August 1st or the first full moon of Leo & the seventh sabbat of the year. It represents the first harvest when the Earth's bounty is given for the abundance received.

Some believe this is the time where the God has weakened & is losing his strength as seen in the waning of the day's light. The Goddess is pregnant with the young God who will be born on Yule.

In some traditions, this day honors the Celt god Lugh, the god of craftsmanship; He is skilled in many things including wheel making, blacksmithing & fighting. Though there is some discrepancy as to why Lugh is honored on this day. Some tales say it's because he held a harvest faire in honor of his adoptive mother, Tailtiu.



Sources;

Farmersalmanac .com

Boston Public Library- The Origins & Practices of Lammas/Lughnasadh by Dhruti Bhagat

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

[thesimulationswarm]

Garden of Earthly Delights - one shot

sub!Joel Miller x f!dom!reader

A/N: I've been sick and sort of in a feverish fugue state for a couple of days and I wrote this. Definitely inspired by reading this excellent sub!Joel fic by @haylzcyon, but it turned out quite a bit darker. So, welcome to my horny fever dream I guess? Summary: Joel gets dommed by a bratty shopgirl he meets in the Boston QZ and discovers a very unexpected side of himself Rating: explicit 18+ MDNI Word count: 3.5k Warnings/tags: no use of y/n, hard dom!reader, irresponsible dom behavior that would be abusive irl (don't dom people you meet on the street kids. And for god's sake, use active consent and a safe word), reader described as young and has hair, slapping, spitting, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex, premature ejaculation, cum eating, praise, degradation, pet names (good boy, baby boy, kitten, mama), submissive produce washing

Joel was tired, and hungry, and he wanted to go home. At home he had half a bottle left of some dark moonshine that approximated whiskey, and a day off tomorrow to sleep through its aftereffects. But his cupboards were otherwise empty, and he knew he needed to lay in some supplies.

Unfortunately, it was the end of first shift and half of the goddamn QZ was thinking the same thing. The line snaking up to the counter at the ration shop was moving slower than he even thought possible, and he shifted irritably from side to side. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to find a way to stand that didn’t make his whole body hurt.

Even more maddening, only one person was working the counter today. He was sympathetic with operations being short staffed, but that clearly wasn’t the case. He could see right past the greasy hair of the young guy doling out food, and another person was back there, just leaning against the wall. Looking bored.

He watched you as you idly checked your nails. He watched you as you ran your fingers through your hair. He watched you cock one hip to the side and lean down to pull a shiny red apple from a burlap sack, then toss it loosely back and forth between your hands. Like you had all the time in the goddamn world.

You were beautiful.

You were young.

You weren’t bothered one bit by the grumbling line of customers stretching down the street.

He fucking hated you.

Finally, he reached the front, throwing down a thick sheaf of ration cards. “Two loaves a’ bread. Cooking oil. And a couple apples,” he grunted out.

“Sorry, out of apples,” the gormless kid answered. Behind him, he watched as you lifted the smooth red fruit to your lips and bit down, hard, the flesh giving way with a gratifying crunch. You noted with satisfaction that it was a particularly good apple— tart, sweet, crisp.

The shop boy saw Joel glaring and shrugged. “Last one.” Joel looked over at where you stood again, one knee bent with your foot pressed oh-so-casually against the cinderblock wall. Beside you, the burlap sack bulged with the shape of a good dozen round, suspiciously apple-sized lumps. 

A thin rivulet of juice dripped out from the fruit in your hand, sliding down the curve of your wrist. You saw him watching you, and you bent your head to run your tongue along your skin, lapping up every last, sweet drop.

You liked the way he was looking at you. An older guy, gray streaking through his dark hair and down his stubbled jawline. But fucking built, the solid shape of his shoulders stretching out the worn chambray of his work shirt. His eyes were narrowed, his strong brow pinched. The cut of his jaw practically vibrating with tension.

He wanted to kill you. He also, definitely, wanted to fuck you. Maybe both at the same time. And below all of that simmering ferociousness, there was a hint of something else in his big brown eyes. Something that definitely interested you.

He’d been halfway home when a FEDRA sweep forced him back in the direction of the shops. He wasted a good hour waiting for a bunch of fifteen-year-olds in body armor to “clear the area,” then finally got back on his way.

He was deep in thought, thinking about a smuggling trip he was planning for late next week. Wondering if the soldier he was bribing for intel was too far gone on oxy to be reliable anymore. He didn’t want a repeat of last November, inches away from being gunned down as his crew sprinted across what was supposed to be an unguarded field at the edge of town.

So he didn’t see you coming until you were only a couple yards in front of him, walking home yourself— bag of apples slung over your shoulder.

When his eyes flicked up, finally, you’d stopped walking and were standing there in a wide stance with one hand on your hip. You saw the way his eyes widened briefly, then narrowed again, shining darkly as you watched him watching you. You ran your tongue around the perimeter of your lips, and his gaze followed its slow swirl.

Then you reached into your bag and pulled out an apple. You gave your arm a desultory swing and let it loose. It bounced to the ground, rolling toward his boots, then came to a stop just an inch away from him.

He looked at the apple.

He looked at you.

“Thought you might like a taste.”

The loathing that poured over his features was so intense that for a moment, you thought you might’ve misread things. But no, you could see it there in his face again. That bloom of need.

This poor, beautiful man needed to be taken care of.

And sure enough, you watched as he crouched down there in the street to pick up the apple. You watched as he straightened himself up, his knees crackling audibly.

“Good. Now take a bite.”

The apple, tasty as it was sure to be, had just rolled across the godforsaken ground of Boston QZ. Across dust and ash and human detritus, ground down to a smudging blackness that covered every surface here. He didn’t even know why he’d picked the thing up, and he sure as shit wasn’t going to put his mouth on it.

He shook his head, lip curling in a sneer.

“Don’t think so, honey.”

You tutted softly, walking forward to close the gap between you. He held the apple down at one side, the other hand hooked into his belt loop. Shoulders squaring up to you as you neared. Even as he was doing it, he felt like a fool. What exactly did he have to prove to this bratty little shopgirl? And why wasn’t he walking away?

“That’s really too bad,” you said, letting your words drip slowly from your mouth. “I thought you were gonna be a good boy for me.”

You were right in front of him now, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing quickened.

“‘Cause I know how to take really good care of good boys.”

Joel closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t understand why, but his cock had swollen to half-mast just from crouching down to pick up that apple while you stood over him. And every time you spoke he felt more warmth pooling in his groin. He wasn’t sure if he was going to have to pay for what you were offering, or if you’d do it for free. But he knew he wanted it, unexpectedly, very badly.

He clenched his hand around the smooth skin of the fruit, and against his conscious judgement he felt his arm lifting it up toward his face.

You watched him moving, his eyes still closed, a smile slowly spreading across your face. As the fruit approached his gently parting lips, you reached up to grab him by the wrist, stilling him. You could feel the jump of his pulse below the rough skin.

“Not so fast, boy.” His eyes blinked open, their soft brown blown out to black. “I think since you’re being so good, we can go back to your place and get that apple nice and clean for you. And then you can show me how pretty you are when you eat.”

His place was nicer than many, a handful of rooms that were worn but clean. Functional furniture, a radio, a shelf with books. He clearly was doing okay for himself. The ones who needed this the most usually were.

He led you inside with a nervous energy that told you he hadn’t done this before. He’d surely brought women to his apartment, with those broad shoulders and that roughly handsome face. But never someone like you. And he wasn’t sure what to do. He stood in the living room, still holding the apple in one hand, his other hand clenching and opening at his side.

You looked him up and down. “What’s your name?”

You saw him hesitate. Wondering if this was a good idea— if you were a psychopath about to rob him or worse. But then he swallowed.

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you purred. “Do you have soap, Joel?” He looked blank for a second, then nodded. “Then go and wash that filthy apple off like a good boy.”

He paused again, and then gave a bewildered shake of his head before walking off toward the kitchen. There was a table in the room, across from an unmade bed. You pulled yourself up to sit on top of it, resting your feet on the seat of a battered old chair, and waited.

Joel returned after a minute, holding the now damp and glistening apple. He still wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Or his body. He held the fruit out to you, watched the bored way your eyes ran down his form as you sat there.

You made a soft tsk. “I see a speck of dirt. Better try again, boy.”

Joel looked at the spotless apple, then back at you. His heart felt like it was going to beat right through the wall of his chest. 

He hated you. 

And he wanted to hear you call him a good boy again. 

He stalked off to the kitchen and stood by the sink, carefully running the damp, soapy washrag back and forth across the smooth, hard peel. The apple was a deep red, flecked with burgundy. Joel held it up in the light that filtered through his window, turning it in circles to inspect for any blemish. When he was satisfied, he carried it carefully back to you. Despite himself, he could feel his brow draw up, his expression pleading, as he offered it again.

You gestured desultorily at the table beside you, and he set down the apple gently. You ignored it.

He was uncomfortably hard now, straining against the too-tight denim of his pants. You looked down at the thick shape of him, and raised a single eyebrow.

“I think you better take your clothes off, kitten. Before you make a mess of yourself.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

You watched as he unbuttoned and zipped down his fly, the relief washing over his face as his cock sprung free and bobbed up toward his stomach. You had to fight to keep your face impassive as you took in the sight— you were impressed by the sheer size of him, thick and long and richly veined. The swollen head was stained almost purple as the blood pulsed through him, slick from where he’d been weeping against his boxers.

You had a good feeling about this one. A very good feeling.

“All of your clothes.”

You waited, arms crossed over your chest in a posture of impatience, as he slid all the way out of his pants and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the curving planes of his muscles and the dusting of dark hair. A little soft right around his tummy and thick thighs, the perfect counterpoint to everything that was hard and rigid about him.

He saw how you were looking at him, and he moved toward you, desperation painting his face.

“Please, baby— I—I need you,” he stuttered, his dark eyes wide and desperate.

Your hand slapped across his face, hard and fast.

He stumbled backward, stunned momentarily as his hand flew up to cup his stinging cheek.

“Did I tell you you could speak?”

Part of him wanted to throw you against the wall, and part of him wanted to fall to his knees and beg your forgiveness.  He felt his cock twitch, growing somehow even harder, a thick bead of precum oozing from the slit.

You watched him, smirking. “I think you liked that, didn’t you, boy?”

A hot blush seeped up his neck as you looked down at his needy cock. He knew you were right. If you kept slapping him like that, looking at him like that, talking to him like that— he’d come harder than he ever had in his life.

“Now,” you said, pointing down at the floor. “Kneel for me.”

Joel lowered himself to the hardwood floor, unconcerned with how his knees were going to feel tomorrow. He watched as you pulled the fabric of your skirt up around your waist, revealing a thin pair of cotton panties, sopping wet where the fabric ran between your legs.

“See what you can do for me when you’re a good boy?” You ran a finger up and down along the slick cloth, ghosting over the shape of your slit.

Then he watched, mesmerized, as you slid the underwear down your legs. Leaving your pussy bare, drenched, and just out of reach.

God, you were perfect.

His tongue darted out to moisten his lips as he stared at you, desperate for a taste.

You smiled. “It looks like you’re ready to serve me already. And you’re very, very lucky today. Because I’m going to let you eat me out, if you just ask nicely. Are you ready to ask nicely?”

He nodded eagerly. You noted with satisfaction that his face was loosening— the jaw no longer so tensed, the deep furrow between his brows softening. He was relinquishing himself to you, little by little. You reached down with one finger and tipped his chin upward, to look into your face.

“Okay, sweet boy. You can ask me now.”

“Please, please let me eat your pretty pussy,” he spoke, his voice hoarse with need. His eyes, looking up at you, were all pupil— hungry pools of black.

You nodded appreciatively, then you reached your hands around to the back of his head and pulled him into you. Your fingers threaded through the thick, salt-and-pepper curls, holding him tightly in place as he began to lick. His beard was scratchy against your sensitive skin, but his lips were surprisingly soft.

You gave him directions— how hard to suck against your swollen clit, how fast to draw his tongue through your folds— and tugged him by the hair to adjust his angle. You could feel the vibration of him whimpering against you.

“Good boy,” you cooed down at him. “Eating that pussy so good for me.” And he was, following your every instruction, responding to the subtlest tap and tug. Like he was born to do this. As you felt your orgasm building, you pressed him deeper against your core, squeezing him between your thighs. He was trapped, and clearly loving it. Below you, you could see the muscular swell of his ass, clenching as he thrust his hips up against nothing.

“That’s it, that’s it. Make Mama come like a good boy.” You pulled hard on his hair as you pressed your hips forward, toes curling, waves of pleasure crashing through you. He moaned just as loudly as you did, your cunt spasming against the press of his hot tongue.

You took your time catching your breath, still holding Joel by the hair. When you finally pulled him free of you, the sight was delicious. Skin blotched and red, your glistening juices smeared everywhere. Hair tousled and sticking out, breath coming fast and hard.

You smiled down at him.

“Don’t worry, pet. We’re not done yet. Now—” you pointed over at the unmade bed—“you’re gonna be my little toy. You’re gonna lie down over there and let me ride you.”

Joel felt a rush of relief at the thought of you finally touching his achy, leaking cock. He nodded up at you, rising to his feet. The sheets of the bed were cool and smooth against his flushed skin.

You took your time, sliding down off the table top and languidly stretching your arms out. Enjoying the way Joel looked lying there, waiting for you with his giant erection jutting up into the air. Finally, you made your way over to the mattress and climbed up on your knees, straddling him.

Your sweet cunt was hovering in the air, inches above the tip of his cock. You paused there, and smiled condescendingly down at him.

“Beg me for it, little boy.”

“Please, please, please.” The words spilled out of his lips, his voice cracked and shameless.

“Please what?”

“Please ride me. Please fuck yourself on my cock like it’s your little toy.”

You reached down and wrapped one hand around his thickness, the grip sending sparks through his body. Then you began to slide his head along your drenched lips, wetting it down. Instead of moving him toward your entrance, you guided the tip to nudge against your clit, and began to tap it against the swollen nub, again and again. His poor, sensitive cockhead was so engorged by now that it hurt, and he whimpered each time you pressed against him.

Then, finally, you slid him down to the hot, wet center of you. You drove your hips down, throwing your head back as you filled yourself with him. He could only fit halfway in your tight little pussy on that first downward thrust, and you whined as you reared up and down again, spearing yourself on his cock. He felt his thighs shaking as you pushed yourself further and further down, until finally he bottomed out inside you. You paused there, letting yourself settle around the heavy length of him.

And then— fuck— he felt that familiar warmth growing in his abdomen, his balls tightening upward. His face screwed up, as he tensed and fought to pull back from the edge.

“Oh, poor boy,” you said, smiling down at him as you began to move your hips in a slow, easy roll. “You’re trying so hard not to come, aren’t you?” The warm slide of your pussy was unbelievable, and Joel’s mind scrambled for something to distract him— think about work detail, plumbing repair, fucking baseball, anything.

“But you can’t hold back, can you? You’re not even gonna make it another minute in this tight little cunt, are you?” You were right. Of course you were right. He grabbed fistfuls of bedsheet in each hand, gripping as hard as he could, knuckles going white as he fought against his hips that wanted to thrust, thrust, thrust into you. He screwed his eyes shut tight.

His eyes flew back open as a spray of warm spit hit his face.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Your voice jolted through him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he moaned.

“Tell me you’re sorry for coming so fast, you filthy little boy.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m a filthy little boy and I’m going to come.” The words poured out of Joel, his hips bucking uncontrollably as the electric warmth spilled over. “I’m sorry Mama, I’m coming, I’m so sorry, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He began to shoot into you, spurt after helpless spurt, coming so hard he thought for a second he might pass out.

It was only when his cock and his hips finally stilled that he realized he was crying. Hot tears rolled down the sides of his face to pool against the sheets.

You leaned down, stroking your hand along his stubbled cheeks. “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay baby. Mama forgives you.” You slid yourself off his sticky, half-hard cock and moved forward, still straddling him. Your soft hands gently combed through his messy curls.

“Don’t worry, baby boy. You can clean up this mess and I’ll be good as new.” Your hips pushed forward, and you pulled one hand back to hold yourself open, showing Joel where his milky seed was dripping down between your folds.

He nodded, looking up at your encouraging smile. His tongue slipped out between his lips, and he took a first, tentative lick along your slit. The sweet tang of your slick mixed with his own bitter, salty spend.

“That’s a good boy. Clean it all up.” He lapped at you, gathering speed. His tongue pressed inside you, curling against your walls to release every last drop.

Finally, when you were satisfied he’d done his job, you pulled away. He released his mouth from you with a mournful groan, and you sat down against the head of his bed. 

You looked him over from head to toe. He was a fucked out mess of a man. Flushed skin, limbs sprawling. Sticky cock still swollen against his thigh. Lips slick with his own come, and yours.

“Come here, sweet boy,” you murmured softly. You pulled his head into your lap, cradling him there as you gently petted him. “You did good. Close your eyes, Joel. I’ve got you.”

His eyes drifted shut, and in less than a minute he’d fallen asleep. Dark, deep, dreamless sleep— the best sleep he’d had in a long, long time.

When he woke up, it was morning and you were gone. On his table, you’d left the core of an apple, its sweetness slowly turning brown.

[beggars-opera]

Shrieking at this buzzfeed quiz that claims Boston brown bread was originally made in coffee cans in the 17th century.

"Alas, Goodwife! Our coffee supply be depleted. Fetch the row boat and I shall set sail for Nantucket. The packet ship bringeth talk of a Goodman Folger there who hath sealed his beans in tin to stay fresh. 'Tis Quaker witchcraft, I hear"

[novashelby]

Things Will Be Better-Pre-Tommy Evelyn and Cindy

Summary: Cindy promises Evelyn that life will be different in Birmingham for them, but little Evelyn knows better. Life is never better, life is never different. Warnings: Child abuse, foul language, prostitution, mention of CSA, mention of prostituting a child. *Just because these things are written, does not mean the author supports them. Writing(and art) are meant to represent all things that represent life. Unfortunately that means the ugly, too.

So, you all get to finally meant the awful woman. Cindy Walsh.

“Things will be better, Evs,” she said. Just like anytime they moved, things will be better. Things were never better. But for Evelyn Walsh, she never knew what better was or what worse was. She only knew up and down, up and down. Cindy’s ups and Cindy’s downs. Every time before a move, it was an up. 

Things will be better.

Boston never made them better. New York City never made them better. Paris never made them better. Liverpool never made them better. Evelyn sat on the creaky wooden stool, her only seat in the slummed flat above the pub. She ate her morning tea there, did her school work there, drew there, practiced her letters there, and watched her mother work from there. The table was nothing, but a lopsided table bought from a butcher bearing the blood within its wooden cracks. Evelyn didn’t know much about life or butchers, but she felt like an animal. Slightly chained down and killed, except her killing was little by little. 

“And you’ll go to a new school!” Cindy said, rushing to the bedroom to collect her clothes. Back and forth, back and forth, she ran. “And-and! Oh, Evs...why the fucking face, huh? We’re going to a new city! A brand new place!” Evelyn watched as she effortlessly shoved everything in one suitcase. “Evs, come on, huh? You’re just sitting there and I need you to help. You need to help mommy!”

Evelyn sighed to herself, jumping off the stool and going for her belongings. It wasn’t that long ago they were in Paris, sleeping in a brothel. She grabbed her school bag, and before she knew it, Cindy threw the contents in the bin. “You don’t need your fucking school bag!” Evelyn frowned, quicking shuffling through the bin, grunting and panicking.

“Mommy! My drawing book-”

“I’ll buy you a new one, Evs,” she said. “A new one….A brand new one with all new, empty pages.” Evelyn sank away from the bin with a frown, watching her belongings be covered in trash. “Besides, you’re not a fuckin’ Monet or something…A Picasso or I don’t know….” To a little girl who only had her broken pencils and notebook, it felt quite awful. Poor Evelyn, never quite good at anything, only wanted to enjoy her drawings. Even if they were nothing, but stick figures and lopsided houses. Besides, the lopsided houses were certainly better than wherever she lived. Cindy took a smoke break. She had bought those that morning instead of the loaf of bread in the bakery next door. She leaned on the wooden door frame and rolled her head back, moaning as she blew a long stream of smoke. “Fuck! God, Evs.” She looked back at her daughter, and snorted. “Picasso. They say he’ll be one of the richest artists in a year's time. Could you imagine?” Evelyn half listened, keeping her eye on the little hole in the skirting of the wall. A little brown and white mouse every so often popped his head out. “Mmmmhm, could you imagine, Evs? Marrying a rich man? A fuckin’ artist!” Cindy hugged herself, dancing a bit with her eyes closed. Ashes from her cigarette fluttered to the ground. “To paint me? Mmmhm. To buy us all we want. To buy you all the toys, food, and whatever else it is that you want? God, I’d have diamonds, Evs. Real diamonds!”

“Maybe I can be a rich artist one day,” she said, almost in thought more than to her mother. 

Cindy snorted, opening her eyes, looking at her daughter. One, two long strides over, she gripped the girl’s chin. Evelyn was used to it; her mother’s long, red nails digging into her skin. If she’d whine, Cindy would dig deeper. “We’re whores, Evs…. Your mother is whore, do you know what that means, Evs?” She shook her head. “You’ll be a whore, too. A little fucking whore.” From whenever Evelyn could comprehend words, she heard her mother say that in some variation. Just like mommy, you’ll be a whore. 

“I don’t want to do that-”

“It only sucks the first time,” she explained. “And then all you feel is money.” Cindy studied her daughter’s uncomfortable stance. “And hopefully fucking soon…. You eat everything. I can hardly keep up.” The small room echoed with her little cry as Cindy pinched her tummy. “Besides, mommy’s back is starting to hurt. Lying on those dirty mattresses kills you.” 

Evelyn sighed, still rubbing the feeling of her nails away. “Maybe there won’t be any dirty mattresses in Burningham-”

“There are dirty mattresses everywhere, Evs,” she sighed. “Every fucking where you go, there are dirty matresses. And it’s Birmingham. You want to be an artist? Hm?” Evelyn nodded. “How? Hm? Stupid little girl,” she said, finishing off her cigarette. “It’s not the worst job what mommy does. Better than working in a factory or having a boss….” The cigarette butt was flicked on the floor. “If you’re lucky, sometimes you get a little extra from it….”

Evelyn forced a smile. “Is that when we get to buy meat?”

She nodded. “Mmmhm. It feels like meat money. Especially when they’re young. Maybe in Birmingham, I can find a young man that works hard and I won’t have to be a whore anymore. He and I can live quite nicely-what?” She paused, looking at Evelyn who had this very tiny sparkle of hope in her eyes. “Ah, ah, ah…no, no, no. You don’t get to have an easy life, Evs. No one gets an easy life for free. We all start by whoring ourselves in some way. That means you, too. It’ll pay for your room and mattress….” Evelyn didn’t laugh, but her mother did. A lot. “And meat…meat for meat-fuck! I need a drink…” 

“A what?” Evelyn tilted her head, biting at her lip.

Cindy paused her laugh. “A cock. Maybe you aren’t ready for Birmingham after all….”

[theinfamousdoctorf]

This is the kind of thought progression that grips me some days.

Realizing I have several kinds of shelled nuts Looking up a recipe for bread with mixed nuts because I've been making kind of… calzones on my plug-in grill. [I don't have a working oven currently] Didn't find anything. Retrieve orange roll recipe for modification. Realize the nuts won't cook thoroughly on the flat top. Retrieve Boston Brown bread recipe as well Realize some fruit would help hold liquid if I'm going to boil nuts anyway Break pecans, cashews, walnuts and peanuts in a bag with a small hammer. Chop dried cherries, cranberries, raisins and add to broken nuts Add water, butter, shot of spiced rum, cornstarch and baking soda and boil it until it's goop Make bread dough and add dribble of molasses, sugar, ginger, cinnamon, cardamon, chai spice and cloves. Let it RISE FROM IT'S BOWL Make pockets and put the nut and fruit goop inside Brush them with butter and cook them on the grill.

Have… something. Lie says the spices make her mouth tingle and she doesn't like it. [Black pepper is too spicy for her] Take a bite. Take another bite. Eat the whole damn thing cold.

I don't know what it is, but it's a winner in my book. :) I love experimenting!

[renee-writer]

Loved Her First Chapter 108

This chapter is all by the brilliant @omgbarbiegurl 😁

AO3

Mercy wiggled against her bonds, desperately trying to figure out where she was.

 

She jumped when she heard a door unlock, and then open.

 

The echo told her they were in a small space, perhaps a cabin? Footsteps tapped against the floor before the blindfold was pulled off.

 

She took a quick glance at her surroundings. She was right, they were in a Cabin, sparsely furnished. Not any weapons she could see, but she could make a few on the run if needed.

 

Maybe.

 

She moves her gaze to the captor and almost wants to laugh.

 

Of course, it would be Adam, like the idiot Browns, morons never give up.

 

“Hello Adam.” Mercy said politely. 

 

He looks surprised, like he expected her to be hysterical or some other nonsense.

 

She was raised in the wilds of North Carolina; had witnessed death, pain, childbirth, and Hope nearly being raped.

 

She had also witnessed a murder, but she was sure no one knew what she had seen.

 

Modern things would always make her nervous, but villains that kidnapped were nothing new in her world.

 

“Well you seem fairly calm, I expected you to be hysterical.” Adam said.

 

“Why would I be hysterical? That would slow down my ability to escape.”

 

Adam blinked, and then started to laugh.

 

“Please Mercy, we are miles into the woods-”

 

“Boston doesn’t have woods, well they do, but no place a person can have a cabin.”

 

“Well perhaps we are a little away from Boston then.”

 

“You wouldn’t go far, you like having access to things.” 

 

Ian had changed into some new breeks and a shirt that David had given him. They were close to the same size and while strange, he liked them.

 

David had not been able to tell them much, just that he had been hysterical enough that the Police had been called by Campus Security when David found Mercy’s things messed up.

 

“She is very studious; she is never one to just leave her books scattered around.”

 

Faith nodded. “Do you have her things, maybe if we look through them, we can find something.”

 

David handed her parents her bag. Faith and Ian went through it very slowly, sifting through the items.

 

Faith smiled at the picture of herself that Joe had taken with his camera, but she was startled by a folded-up piece of paper next to it.

 

She unfolded it, and her heart stuttered.

 

It was a realistic drawn picture of Ian, eyes warm and welcoming, lips parted in a smile.

 

She showed it to her husband, fingers trembling.

 

“She kept a Likeness of me.”

 

“Clearly she missed you more than she let on.”

 

He nodded, tears in his eyes. “We are going to get her back.” He said firmly.

 

He turned to David. “Now tell me everything of this Adam.”

 

Mercy rubbed her wrists. Adam had finally untied her, and left again with an order for her to make some food.

 

There were cold cuts and some bread. She could make sandwiches, if he was expecting a full meal, he was not going to get it.

 

Before she started, she did a quick cursory look for something sharp. There was nothing, not even a fork, just spoons.

 

“Damn.” She muttered the curse under her breath, but grabbed one of the spoons from the drawer and tucked it into her pocket. She grabbed another and set to work making some sandwiches.

 

Her thoughts of what to do were startled as the door opened.

Adam appeared with some firewood.

 

The pair looked at each other, before Adam spoke. 

 

“I have some contacts in Boston, ears to the ground as it were. Apparently, your parents have come into town.”

 

Her hand faltered, but she steadied it.

 

“My Daddy is quite the hunter; he learned from an actual Native. He will find you, and he will kill you.”

 

“Please, I have covered my tracks well.”

 

She turned to offer him the sandwich on a plate. “So you think.”

 

His face contorted, and he slammed his hand down onto the offering, which caused it to crash to the floor.

 

“So I know. You think anyone is going to rescue you? Be able to find you? Please.”

 

Mercy said nothing, merely dropped to her knees and started cleaning up the mess on the floor.

 

Adam stomped off, not noticing when Mercy stuck a shard of the broken plate into her pocket.

[weaselsblaugh]

I had written my response as tags but I think it deserves more visibility than that. I am voting for the canned food - if only because, when you think about it, a lot of kinds of things come in cans that aren't necessarily just ready-to-eat meals. If I get to choose what cans I get, this challenge is already in the bag.

My preferred canned meals are things like Chef Boyardee noodles, Stagg chili, and of course one can't go wrong with soups. That's easy enough to do, but of course, variety is the spice of life and I'd want plenty of that. Side dishes? Canned vegetables like green beans or San Marzano tomatoes, water chestnuts, baked beans maybe.

I imagine that the terms of this agreement dictate that anything not explicitly from a can is verboten. Means no crackers with my soup, no salt or pepper or other common condiments. But you'd be surprised the kinds of condiment-like things that come in cans. Cream of mushroom soup (or cream of chicken soup) gets used a lot in pastas or even tex-mex cuisine in my household. But also, enchilada sauces, canned chip dips (queso or bean), and so on.

So that covers lunches and dinners. What about breakfast? Well, let's start getting into less common choices, like canned brown bread (sweetened with molasses, Boston style). Canned coffee isn't hard to find. If any of it needs sweetening or, uh, creamening, a can of sweet condensed milk would not go amiss. And as much as brown bread tends to come out slightly sweet, not much stops a guy from putting, say, canned tuna over it. Want to turn it into a tuna melt...ish? Can of queso dip could bring about that kind of satisfaction.

Any further experimentation would require really getting into the philosophical weeds of what is or is not a "can."

[brandochunderdarkseas]

Ok, I have a question: of the various food things that have Boston at the front, used as an adjective (e.g., Boston baked beans, Boston brown bread, Boston style rum) does that just mean molasses? Is Boston just a more polite way to say molasses?

I’m aware that I’m from New England, and should probably be able to answer this one my own.

[stonewallsposts]

2024 New England: Friday Oct 11

I have been on a mission to see all 50 states. We decided to knock out the six states comprising New England this fall, hoping to catch some of the foliage changing colors while there.

At this point I’ve now visited 43 of the states, with only 5 left in the continental states, plus Alaska and Hawaii.

We left early Friday on a Delta nonstop flight from LAX to Boston Logan.

Catalina island sticking out of the morning fog over the Pacific.

Boston from the air.

I wanted to arrive earlier on the east coast because the plan was to rent a car, then drive that afternoon down to Providence, Rhode Island.

The distance was only 50 miles, but it took two hours with the Friday rush hour traffic. We got to Rhode Island just before dark at 6pm.

Stayed at the Aloft Downtown Providence, which was kind of a cool place with a stylish vibe.

Outside of Boston, Providence was the only place I planned on staying more than one night.

We went out to see the Providence river ...

and get a few sights in...

before heading to a place called Hemenway’s for dinner.

I had tried to do a bunch of research about each of these cities/states before arriving. I wanted to know what the local food specialties were, and the historical sights to see. The foods for Rhode Island were clam cakes, lobster, a coffee drink they call coffee milk, Irish brown bread, and johnny cakes, a cornmeal pancake.

We ended up getting shrimp and scallops at Hemenway's, not on the list, but seafood all the same.

Pretty much just went back to the hotel and crashed after that.