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zitrolena · 5 years ago

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What’s meant to be will always find a way (7/7)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7: On our own

So guys, this is the last chapter of the fic and I’m really happy that some of you liked it and commented on it and sent me asks about it - It all has been pretty amazing and it made me want to keep on writing and it's actually the first longer story I finished, and that's all because of you, so thanks! :) Hope you like it!!

~ As you awaken, you will come to understand that the journey of love isn't about finding "The One". The journey of love is about becoming "The One" - Creig Crippen ~

It’s Friday night and she’s alone in her room, laying on her bed, hugging the same pillow that she has been hugging for the past 2 days. It’s crazy how many ways there are to miss someone. You miss the closeness you had with them. The calmness or the heat that they caused in you. You miss what they said and did and how they made you feel. You miss the way they’ve loved you. But you also miss the way you’ve been with them; because of them; for them. The way they let you love them. And right now Cris misses Joana with everything she is.

It’s weird how when love is lost, some people lose themselves as well, because they do not know who they are without the other person. But it’s exactly the fact that we think that we are defined by our environment that we do not realize that we often don’t know who we are on our own. And deep inside some people think that they need someone else to show them who they are. But nobody really tells you that loving someone isn’t always the right way to find yourself. And just like knowing that people love you isn’t always enough, loving people isn’t enough either, if none of your love is directed at yourself.

And then you’re left realizing that wanting isn’t the same as having and having isn’t the same as needing and needing isn’t the same as loving and it’s all just a big mess of emotions no one really understands.

And sometimes you lose yourself. Without any special reason or trigger or warning and it is on you to find yourself again. But no one teaches you how to do that and nobody really explains to you that it’s something you actively have to work for – At least for Cris. The hardest part of it all is that you have to choose for yourself if you want to change or learn to love yourself the way you are.

‘Love shouldn’t need to be fixed’ Joanas words still echo in Cris’ mind, swallowing her whole when she’s trying to fall asleep. The letters spreading a bitter taste when she eats. Causing her chest to ache whenever she breaths. She doesn’t want her to be right.

She’s writing in her journal, something therapeutic she had started during her travels, when she gets a notification on her phone. She looks at it, her eyes heavy from the lack of sleep and all the crying; so, she squeezes her eyes together so she can read the text.

“Dear Cristina Soto Peña,

You attended the online entrance examination for Psychology 2 weeks ago and we’re happy to inform you that you achieved to be under the top 500 and we’re looking forward to have you as a new student at our university.

A warm heat rises inside Cris and her whole body shakes as she feels like a living being for the first time in two days. And in this moment the first thing in Cris’ mind is Joana and how everything inside her wants to tell her the good news.

Maybe that’s then thing about love: That you want them with you when you’re happy because being with them, makes you even happier than you are alone. That it’s not only about being there for each other through the good, the bad and the worst times; but also the best. That you want that specific person next to you when everything is right.

Cris wants Joana near her, wants to tell her the news and tell her that she loves her over and over and over; making up for all the times she has missed saying it while she was away. She misses saying it; just as much as she misses hearing it back.

Cris studied for the admission test when she was still in India; sitting in the hostel room with the fan on, studying while the other ones went out to party. She decided that it was worth fighting for. So she worked to get in, and now she did. She earned it because she fought for it.

In a fast motion she rips out a page of her journal and searches for a lighter to burn the edges; making it look like all the letters Joana had sent her in the past. And then her mind goes completely still as the pen touches the paper and her heart speaks for her; it’s messy and confusing and repetitious but it’s everything she is.

Dear Madame Joana,

You said love shouldn’t need fixing and maybe you’re right about that. Love shouldn’t be about damage control, but it’s okay when love needs fighting. Love is the only thing worth fighting for. And I don’t mean that only in the romantic sense but overall. If you want to get into university, you study hard for it. If you want to achieve something, you work for it. If you love someone you need to show them how much.

Fighting for you is no different. The whole concept of fighting for something is the belief that they are worth the possible suffering. And you’re worth everything.

I can’t give you an explanation that will make all this okay. I didn’t leave because someone pressured me to. I didn’t miss to call you because a monkey stole your phone number. I didn’t have a near-death-experience that made me come back. I know I hurt you, and even if I never meant to do that, I have to make peace with the fact that I did. All I can tell you now is that I’m sorry. And I hope one day you’ll forgive me, because you deserve it. You deserve all the happiness in the world and I’m so happy that you’re good; that your life is on track. You started studying and moved out and are such an adult, it’s crazy amazing. You’re the strongest person I know, Joana, and I’m working on being just as strong.

Do you remember when we talked about our wishes for our future and I couldn’t really answer it? It took me a while to understand that you should want things; I was always so scared to want anything, accepting that I want you was so much harder than it’s supposed to be. But life is nothing without wanting things. And well, I have a list for the things I want to achieve and I’m working on fulfilling one of the tasks right now.

I went on travels in search of me, I thought I would find the answers to things I couldn’t find here. I was lost and I didn’t know who I was or who I wanted to be. I thought that I would find the answer if I searched for it long enough and got out of my comfort zone. I wanted a clear answer to who I am.

But now I know that there’s not just one answer. I was different before, I changed during my travels, and I’m still changing. I am not just one thing. I am a million things in one body. I am daughter and a sister. I am a friend. I am a will-be student. I am a party-girl and I am a couch-potato. I’m confused, and I’m certain. I am strong and I am weak. I’m a good person that sometimes does stupid things. I make mistakes and sometimes I make up for them. I am an asshole and an idiot. I am bisexual. I am a paradox, and I’m easy to relate to. I am a fighter and I am pussy. I’m a girl in search of herself. And I am a girl in love.

I read so many articles on how to get your ex back, you’d actually make fun of me for it, and I’m breaking all the rules. They say that I should give you time to breath. I should try to make you jealous and show you how happy I am. I shouldn’t talk about how much I missed you and I shouldn’t talk about getting back together right away. And most importantly, I should not be clingy; and I should wait for you to want me again. But I can’t. I can’t wait. I’m so desperate for you.

And I know you may think that I only want you back because I’ve never been with anyone else or because I am lonely or that I want you back so I can forgive myself for what I did. But I don’t.. I want you back because I love you and I want you back because it’s the only thing that makes sense and I want you because no matter where I went my heart was with you. And I want you because it’s you and I want us because it’s us.

I missed you so much; I spend every Sunday morning with you even though you weren’t there. I walked around wherever I was, imagining being in our park and talking to you like we always did. I told you about my fears and I dreamed that you were less fearful than I was, telling me to face my fears and not run from them. You were with me; then and every single day.

And I want to tell you so many things.

I want to talk to you about the memories I made and what weird things made me think of you; like the fact that a German asked for oregano and the waiter had no idea what it is.

And I want to tell you of the time I screamed your name from the top of a mountain at sunrise and I felt like it reached you.

And I want to tell you that the way I miss you, hurts in my whole body, but I survive it.

And I want to tell you that you smell the same like all those months ago and that our bodies fit together like a key into a lock.

And I want to tell you that I missed my favorite place and that I want to hold you and I want to lean back into your arms, knowing that you’ll catch me.

And I want to tell you that the idea of spending my Sunday morning in Madrid without you instead of strolling around in the park together, is ripping me apart, but I understand if you need time.

And I want to tell you that I love you and that it’s something that makes my tongue tingle out of excitement as if we just met.

And I want to tell you that I want you, every day and that wanting you is my favorite thing.

I spend 15 months travelling, meeting people from all over the world and the only person I ever wanted is you. If nothing means anything, then that does. We’ve loved with a love that is more than love. I can’t explain it, but If someone understands, then it’s you. And if you ever decide to trust me again, I know we’ll be stronger than ever.

I love you. I’m in love with you. Both. Everything. I feel everything for you. I get why it’s hard to trust me again and I will fight for you and prove to you that I mean it every day in every possible way.

I love you and I won’t give up cause we are worth fighting for.

Yours forever,

Cris.

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It’s Sunday morning and Cris is in the park as if she had never left. The sun is throwing shades behind her body, keeping her company. She’s lurking around, looking at the trees around her, notices how the leaves fall off them, like children letting go of the hands of their parents on their first day of school. She’s strolling up and down the little hill; the wind touching her face, showing her that she’s alive. She walks underneath the bridge, the tunnel as she calls it, where they had that big fight at and where they also kissed 5 weeks after that in public to make up for that. All the memories are a blur and still everything is so clear.

She remembers how the whole ritual in the park started; the way Joana explained to her why it became her favorite place. Her second favorite place after she met Cris; Cris’ arms becoming her favorite place after a while. Cris recalls how important it was for Joana that Cris liked it too, just like Joana liked Cris’ roof.

When they went there together for the first time, arriving and leaving together, Joana showed her the tree she sat down under after she had her first doctors appointment after they moved to Madrid. How everything suddenly was okay.

It became their place from then on, spending Sunday mornings there together and sitting under the tree, body on body, talking about nothing and everything.

Cris touches the giant tree and leans onto it, wondering if trees ever wish they could leave and if they would if they could. And then she looks up and sees her and everything inside her goes numb. Joana looks even more vulnerable and tiny from far away; holding herself as she walks down the hill, her hair loosely falling around her cheeks. And then she looks up and they lock eyes from the other side of the park, the tunnel being the only thing separating them.

The thing about tunnels is that what you see depends on where you’re standing; and from what angle you’re looking at it. If you’re standing right next to the tunnel, it looks like a blockade; something that cuts the street, separating it forever. But when you take 3 steps to the side.. and you stand right infront of it.. you realize that you can look through it. You see the continuation of the way, the thing that you didn’t even know could exist.

And right this second, Cris and Joana are both standing at the beginning of the tunnel, seeing each other from the other side. Time is dragging so slowly, and everything’s blurry and dreamlike.

Their eyes are fixated on each other drawing their bodies closer and closer; both of them equally scared and sure; until they are standing right in front of each other. Right underneath the bridge of the tunnel. Cris’ breathing speeds up and her fingers start tingling.

“Hey”. Joanas voice is soft and her eyes vulnerable, reminding Cris of the last time that she went to Joanas place, when so many things were still unsaid. Joana wasn’t ready then, and maybe she isn’t yet either, but she’s here, and that’s what matters. Joana tries to focus on the warmth of her shoulders and not her heartbeat going crazy. Anything to keep her centered and stop her from biting on her nails.

“Hi”, Cris’ voice breaks and her neck is hot, aching to get closer to the girl in front of her. Her mouth is delicately opened, too overwhelmed with feelings to fully close it. Her legs feel wobbly but her mind is clear.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. And when Cris opens her mouth again, she doesn’t even know what she’s about to say, before the words slip out of her tongue. “You’re here”, she breaths out, not fully processing anything but the heat in her chest warming her whole body.

Joana wears a warm smile on her face, the kind that Cris only gets so see, when Joana fully lets her guard down. And her hazel eyes are looking right at her, the sunlight shining on her face, making her whole face glow like a light in the dark. “You’re back”, Joana mouths.

#what's meant to be will always find a way fic #crisana fic #skam España #crisana

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toddlazarski · 4 years ago

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Last Suppers Vol. 2

Shepherd Express

In the days B.C.(Before Covid), when normal life, and more importantly, sports, proliferated and dotted the rote landscape of daily routine, I held a superstition with any of my real or fantasy teams: they wouldn’t play well if I actually watched. It was best I averted my eyes, distanced my associative bad juju. Nowadays, I do the same, except with the only statistical options: infection rates and confirmed cases and total deaths. I don’t look at virus numbers all day, then, when the house is quiet, the dishwasher humming, the lights half-off, I sit at the tiny kitchen table with a spoon and a pint of something chocolatey and my desperation and my phone and the giddy anxiety dread of a fresh-inked boxscore. It’s like I’m an immunologist with a gambling problem. Some combination of the ultimate-stakes card game scene in Casino Royale and the uncontrollable absurdity of Kramer betting on which flight lands first at Laguardia. Come the eventual loss, and then the shoulder-shrugged resigned finger-stabbing, the desperate working of the back triangle, the scrolling down, there is always a path to the only spot of hope in any news source today: an updated list of open restaurants and takeout offerings.

This is how I eventually stumbled on MobCraft, or, rather, remembered it was there, barely safely social distanced outside my once-normal morning cycle of coffee and work, just another place before, another option, yet another in a too long list of new breweries, one I didn’t know how to take seriously before all this because I have a middle-aged mistrust of anything “crowdsourced.” In my mind it suddenly began burgeoning like a lighthouse, with the irresistible notion that homemade craft beer, and nearly equally curated pizza, could be brought to my car as I idled with my Spotify playlist and the safe removal of the other half. There are plenty of places to get either, there are plenty within blocks—Fixture has better pizza, Indeed has better beer—but here is both. Two birds, one stone. Or, as the day-appropriate analogy runs: two vices, half the infection chance.

Later, as I ignored common sense to waste ever-precious paper towel squares on wiping down the rectangular boxes, I noticed the packages are ink-branded: ‘Hidden Kitchen.’ How apt. In the age of hearth-cooking and HGTV-backed open concepting, how hidden they’ve suddenly all become. Though here I wouldn’t really know, as I’ve still never set foot even on the curb outside. And, really, you’d think no one has, judging from the streets on a recent beer and pizza run evening. There was a couple with matching face masks at the corner of 5th and Bruce, and one guy on a bike, also in a mask that maybe you could convince yourself was a scarf, if you wanted to make it all seem less Cormac McCarthy, which I often struggle to do, telling myself the usual: “Well, it’s Sunday.” You could also just blame the weather—there’s still time in the season for that. Everyone just wants to be inside, sure. Or maybe he is, maybe they are—maybe we’re all—bank robbers. But getting off the Hoan at the Lakefront, circling up Clybourn and through the Third Ward, by the shell of the Public Market, a cold Colectivo, the only sign of life or movement is generally the streetcar, empty, running like a phantom reminder of how petty all our social media grievances once were. The city looks like a darkened backstage set, waiting. It feels recently completed, clean, ready, an up-and-comer, Cream City brick and Rustbelt charm and hints of the river rubbing against new development, Shake Shack and West Elm framed by turn-of-the-last-century port city industriousness. It’s an attractive potential leading man, wizened but spruced, primed for today, for a turn in the spotlight. To play part, the setting and co-star both, in the historic naming of someone—whomever!—to lead us out of this national nightmare. Now tumbleweeds blow down Water. 1st Street’s major pulse is two just-hanging-on taco trucks. Instead of simply taking the bikes away, Bublr has placed plastic bags over each individual docking station, they billow in the wind like a line of waiting ghosts, emphatic in doom declaration. Steny’s, empty, makes it feel like it’s too early. Anodyne, empty, like it’s too late. The expectation, the possibility here, is only for pizza and beer to take back to your little abode that by now feels half sanctuary, part jail.

And once you are home, hands washed, boxes washed too, psyche shaken of the jarring urban emptiness, distracted just enough by HBO or Netflix, what is there but to eat and drink and discuss said eats and drinks? Yet, first, as a collective, writers, judgers, hall monitors and such, very clearly, as a commandment or some other kind of religious term, should agree: objectivity is rightly dead. There should currently exist no pretense of criticism. Any words spent on food or drink should simply be a celebration that we are still around, have health and funds enough to still eat and drink. Every meal is worth only the comfort it brings. My recent birthday dinner selection was Pizza Shuttle, and was met not with laughs, scoffs, but gentle understanding nods. This is for your soul, not your tongue, forget your mind. None of us are seeing our doctors for normally scheduled tire-kicking and blood death panels anytime soon anyways. In that spirit, Mobcraft might be the greatest restaurant in the world right now.

Opening the boxes reveals a sort of paradigm of the flat bread-y, happy hour shareable brewpub pizza. It is in some way reminiscent of those things we are all missing the most: where you don’t feel like going out after a long day, then you go out anyways, and have something hoppy and local and loosen up, and unexpected alliances are formed by ABV, and there are ‘nother ones, and excuses made to selves and to significant others, and the coming weekend seems suddenly endless, eternal, what, in hindsight, feels almost, yes, maybe, blessed. And there is the realm of “one more” and somebody orders something from the bar to share, and everybody gets a wedge and pulls without cootie and corona paranoia, and the collective cheese pull is beautiful, pizza delivery commercial Instagrammable. The soft, deep, focaccia-like layers house typically creative topping combos: mac n’ cheese with pulled pork, a pungent gyro number with shaved lamb, a reuben pie with sauerkraut for those that prefer to sleep alone. Or there are more standard takes—pleasing marinara and pepperoni, with stretchy, blankety mozz, pleasant dusty crust flour fallout that snows softly down on the sweat pants and couch, lovingly sprinkled oregano flecks, cheese and edges just going brown toward crisp, but everything immeasurably pillowy, like a salty, saucy padding to smooth life’s edges just a bit. The “Pollo” has become an overnight favorite, featuring chicken chunks, the underutilized brotherly punch-in-the-arm of poblanos, bacon bits, velvety, guilt-inducing Alfredo sauce. It’s neither Italian or Mexican, craft or common. It is simply a feel, that of comfort pizza done with deft touch, a happy taste experience, now especially, arriving on the nostalgia spectrum somewhere between a Grandma slice from a Brooklyn street corner, whatever doughy carb-and-sauce bomb you used to get way too late at night in college, and elementary school cafeteria pizza day square.

But you also can’t leave a palate sodium-parched. So there is the accompanying, expected microbrew tome of types and tastes—a cranberry farmhouse ale, a coffee brown brew, things fermented in barrels, limited offerings of ideas pitched by the public and then voted on by any Joe Six Pack with the internet, the flavor winner then brewed in house—most any to be jogged to your car in the ultimate “this is more like it” lesson we can take away from pandemic times. But it is mostly the distinct, pungent mouthfeel of a hazy IPA—”Squeezin’ Juice,” dry-hopped and 6.7% potent—that acts as total counterpoint to the state of existence right now. There is something of a citrus dance, a zest, a subsequent scrunched-up-face of bitterness showing reaction, any kind of reaction really indicating a defiant act of living. Even if it comes from a sip taken sitting on the couch, in the basement, solo cheersing another year gone by, alone, knowing everyone in the world is mostly doing the same, is in some state of either worrying, or sleeping, or dying. This is probably why even the fizzy astringency of kombucha tastes good to me right now. And probably why the thought of a crowdsourced brewery, whatever that really means, is totally fine.

By the time the pizza is done and the ice cream too, once the music and news of the day has been faced, when the blindfold is ready for donning, it’s like the next year wish all sports fans know too well. Tomorrow, for sure. The numbers will tumble with lead boots-weight in the right direction, a vax will appear imminent, a treatment will truly show promise. If not, there will be some leftover pizza. And maybe one juicy IPA to sink down with.

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natalexisnava · 4 years ago

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Mozzarella-stuffed Plantain cakes with Mango-Avocado salad & Cuban Mojo

I’ve been dabbling in recipe creating lately, on a journey to find what my personal style may be. I have worked through so many different “diet” concepts – the bodybuilder diet, vegetarian, Juicing, raw vegan, even the junk food vegan (I’m playing hard in that category at the moment.) Two things I’ve learned about my preference is that I can’t stand monotony and I refuse to compromise flavor. What originally drew me to plant-based cuisine is the beauty of the presentation and creativity of flavor combinations.

For over 6 years now, I have immersed myself in the culinary world, falling into more of an obsession over time. I reflect my biggest inspirations, for they are the ones from whom I learned the fundamentals. From my ancestral roots – Cuba, Uruguay, Spain, Italy, Morocco – I am influenced through their food and culture. I admire the history of food, from cultivation and travel, to the cultural, economic, environmental, and sociological impacts. I love exotic spices, traditional recipes and a story behind it. Even though I was only four years old when I went to my mothers’ native country of Uruguay, I surprisingly remember it vividly. Parrots, Banana trees and my grandmothers Koi pond are some of my strongest visions from my memory. My mother is an excellent cook, whose signature dishes are Italian pastas and empanadas. When she had two work 2 jobs, there were lots of beans-n-rice days (a balanced and budget-friendly meal I appreciate even more after going vegan.) My father fled Cuba with his family in 1959 when he was 3 years old. I have always had a strong influence of the Cuban side of my family and spent much of my life in Miami growing up. I think Caribbean cuisine is especially beautiful, built on indigenous, French, Spanish, Italian, African, and Indian cultural staples. Tropical fruits and exotic spices. Being raised in the largely Latin-populated city of Houston, TX – I was also brought up heavily on Mexican, Salvadorian and Colombian food.

Through my burning fascination of all world cultures and my travels over the years, I have absorbed new perspectives, inspiration and acquired experiences that give me a different view point on the art of culinary cuisine.I’ve always yearned to build a stronger connection to my roots. Having been so young when I went to Uruguay and never having been to Cuba because of political complications, has always made me feel like I have unfinished business. Although I am heavily surrounded by many different Latin cultures, each country is beautifully very different – in dialect, history, tradition, and arts. Deep down, I’ve always felt out of place and searching for a community to relate to. I feel most connected to the motherland when I am listening to our music – Salsa, Guaguancó, Samba – and when I am eating our food. Avocado, Mango, Plantain, Yucca – that feels like home.

I made this dish because I wanted to do something for the culture. Making the Mojo from scratch made me feel like my Abuela would be proud. I’ve also been working on learning the art of picking the right plantain. This dish was originally inspired by Colombian aborrajados (deep-fried plantains stuffed with mozzarella cheese.) I was all over that. Give me a reason for CHEESE because I MISS IT! Keep in mind , this recipe is 100% vegan and I used vegan cheese! I decided to make plantain cakes and just layer the cheese inside so as to not have to deep fry it. I shredded a block of Follow Your Heart vegan mozzarella shreds with the finest grater (the finer the cheese grate, the more it will met.) This vegan cheese is incredible – and I believe it is soy-free! The first few ingredients were coconut oil and potato starch. Genius.

Mojo is a sauce in Cuban cooking consisting of citrus juices, garlic, olive oil and other spices. The mojo I made was with my favorite oranges – Cara Cara. The sweetest I’ve ever tried. I used cornmeal for the plantain cakes and I think it was perfect. Regular flour would have been to fluffy and soft. I went ahead and made a jar of fresh coconut milk for the next few days so I could use it in the cakes. The denser cakes held up the salad and dressing nicely. I put a few tablespoons of olive oil on the pan and cooked each side about 4 min on medium high.

After I layered the plantain stacks and cheese and allowed it to melt. I topped them with a mix of spinach, arugula, collards and baby Romaine lettuce, sliced red onions, cubed avocado and mango, and drizzled it heavily in the Cuban Mojo. The dressing made it. The beautiful combination of the saltiness of the mozzarella with sweetness of the mango was a win-win. I felt such satisfaction upon completion of this dish. I think I may be on the path I was searching for..

Mozzarella-stuffed Plantain cakes with Mango-Avocado salad & Cuban Mojo

Cuban Mojo

makes about 1 cup

1 small head of garlic, peeled and separated

1 tsp. salt

1⁄4 cup fresh orange juice or 4 tbsp. fresh lime juice

4 tbsp. fresh orange juice

1⁄4 cup olive oil

1⁄2 tsp. fresh oregano, chopped

1⁄4 tsp. ground cumin

1 pinch dried oregano, crushed

Salt to taste

Crush together garlic cloves and salt with a mortar and pestle, and put into a medium bowl. Stir in fresh bitter orange juice or fresh lime juice and fresh orange juice, olive oil, chopped fresh oregano, cumin, crushed dried oregano, and salt to taste.

recipe via saveur.com

Plantain Cakes

Serves 2-4

2 large overly ripe plantains, peeled & grated

1/2 cup cornmeal

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

2 tbsp coconut milk

1-2 cups shredded Follow Your Heart Mozzarella shreds (vegan)

Mash the plantains with a potato masher in a large bowl until you reach a pureed consistency. Add the cornmeal, milk, salt, garlic, and cayenne pepper to the mashed plantains. Heat a skillet with 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Use a medium sized ladle to pour the plantain batter into the skillet. Fry each side for about 5 minutes or until golden brown. Fine grate shred the cheese in between stacks and let melt.

Mixed greens

1 mango cubed

1 avocado cubed

sliced red onions to taste

Top with mixed greens, cubed mango, avocado, sliced red onions, and drizzle mojo over stacks generously.

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