#falafel pockets

[therealcoolfooddude]

(via Traditional Chickpea Falafel Pockets) For these chickpea falafel pockets, a 24-hour soak ensures soft chickpeas, resulting in a moist and light mixture that's easy to digest.

[abbylovesfilm]

Main Dishes Recipe Try this reimagined version of a traditional Middle Eastern sandwich with oven-baked falafel to reduce calories.

[souliebird]

[[lately, you've been trying real hard]]

series: daredevil | pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader

summary: in the same universe as dance of the little swans & I will never let you down

an unexpected event leads to a change in your relationship with Dex

triggers: suicidal ideation & other typical daredevil content tags

The hand on the small of your back is the only thing keeping you sane. The air is hot, and humid, and sticky and you want nothing more than to return to your air-conditioned hotel room - but you are on a quest and you cannot go back until you complete it.

It may be a tad bit dramatic to call trying to find fresh pressed juice at the farmer’s market a quest, but that is what it has become. Despite dozens of vendors and stalls, not one person seems to be selling what you desire. You could have been done shopping twenty minutes ago if you weren’t so keen on having something refreshing to drink, but it has long since become a point of pride, and if there is juice for sale, you will find it. 

Dex has been a saint the entire trip, even though he very clearly became bored of it before you even got to the market. He’s been dutifully at your heel, carrying your tote bags full of goodies, and only making his presence known when you need to pay for something. It’s been like walking around with a big scary dog and you have enjoyed that he has been making sure that no one talks to you or bumps into you. 

Plus, his sniper eyes are amazingly useful and he once again proves it by saying, in the blandest voice you’ve ever heard from him, “eleven o’clock.”

You whip your head to your left and begin to scan the stalls ahead with greedy eyes. You’ve gotten to the section of the market that mirrors a food court - there’s vendors for hot dogs, popcorn, barbeque, and falafel, but you don’t see anything advertising what you want. You trust Dex, though, and start to head that way. You must not be going in the right direction, as almost immediately there is gentle pressure on your spine from Dex’s fingers, guiding you to where you need to be. You let him direct you like a puppet and soon enough you are in front of a stall selling hummus and other dips. 

On the back table, in a little ice chest, are various bottles of fresh juice and you almost laugh with relief. 

You wait until it is your turn to be serviced, then step forward and motion towards your liquid treasure, “can I get two of each flavor?”

The woman who runs the booth simply nods and pulls out two tote bags from under the table before turning and starting to pack up your things. Dex’s hand leaves your back to take out his bill clip and you smile brightly at him as he pulls free two twenty-dollar bills. The hard lines of his ‘don’t fuck with me’ scowl soften and that just makes you all the more giddy. 

You try to take one of the heavy looking bags from the seller when she passes them over, but you get a stern look from your companion. You feel guilty Dex is becoming your pack mule, but you suppose all his amazing shoulder muscles must be good for more than throwing knives. All your strength is in your legs and hauling around all the groceries would just make you sweatier, but he looks unbothered by all the extra weight. 

You collect the change from the vendor, and as she turns to deal with her next customer, you step closer to Dex to tuck the bills into the front pocket of his jeans triumphantly, “I think that is everything.”

He looks down at you, one brow rising up, “are you sure? I think there’s still room in the bags.” 

You huff at his teasing, then put both your hands on his chest and lean into him, “it’s only supposed to rain over the weekend, and if by some miracle we run out of food, there’s room service.”

“You don’t like room service,” he counters, tilting his head just a bit so he looks cocky, “Something about no one should pay twelve dollars for scrambled eggs.”

“I like the idea of you going out in a hurricane even less,” you tell him, letting your lips fall into a pout as you pat over his heart, “I’d rather have you safe with me than out trying to get a chopped cheese.” 

Your words have an effect on him, just like they do every time you confirm you want him around. For a split second, he gets this dopey look on his face before he smooths it back out to his neutral in public expression. “Is this you telling me we’re stopping by that bodega you like so much on the way back?”

You pull away from him, being a bit playful as you turn to go back into the flow of the market, “I don’t know, do you want a chopped cheese?”

Dex is back at your heel instantly, his broad silhouette becoming your shield as you weave towards the nearest market exit. You didn’t plan on getting lunch to bring back to your room, but something from the bodega does sound nice after such a long shopping trip. No one ever wants to cook after getting groceries and that very much includes you. 

As you make your way back to the front of the market, music you had previously tuned out catches your ear. It is something you vaguely recognize from your childhood, and it tugs at your heart in a way you have not experienced in a very long time.

You have been avoiding music and dancing since you dropped out of the production of Swan Lake. Being Odette had been your dream since you had first learned of her story and everything that had burned so brightly inside you over it had been so heartbreakingly snuffed out. The passion you once had seems like a far-off memory and part of your self-recovery journey has been accepting that it was no longer your life. There are no more early morning training sessions for you - no late-night rehearsals. You have been content to let Dex take care of you, and he has been more than happy to provide. 

But the guitar notes are calling to you and you are as helpless as a sailor caught in a siren’s song. 

You don’t mean to push your way through the crowd, but you do. You can see a small clearing of people off to the side of a booth and that must be where the band is, and as you get closer, your guess is confirmed. 

There are two men playing instruments, with one of them singing into a microphone, and to your great surprise, there are two couples swirling around in front of them - enjoying themselves like they are the only ones who exist.

And you yearn.

Each strum is making your soul quake and your joints ache with need and all you want is to get lost in the music like you used to do when you were happy. 

You used to be so happy and now you don’t really remember what it is like to experience real joy. In that moment, you feel so empty and lost. You hate that your light was taken away so cruelly and you've missed so much the way dancing makes you feel.

You watch the couples spin and twirl and do a poor rendition of a salsa and you are so envious. You want to join but you know you can’t. You can’t draw attention to yourself and the assassin beside you and you know very well Dex would not be interested in such an activity, anyways. 

You know you should leave, turn away before you become too emotional, yet you stay rooted in your spot, twitching with a desire and feeling like if you don’t start moving your body, you are going to throw up. 

You try to start to take a deep breath, to try and steady yourself, but before you are even halfway through your inhale, a thick, Baltic accent comes from your right.

“You’re a dancer.”

To your credit, you don’t jump - you just turn to face an older gentleman so quickly you almost give yourself whiplash. “What?” 

“You’re a dancer,” he repeats, gesturing at you. He is a gruff and hardened old man, but there is a bit of a twinkle in his gaze. “My wife, Yvette, she was a dancer. She had the same look in her eyes. Every week, she made me dance with her. Every week for sixty-three years. She died last year, but she made sure we danced beforehand.”

“I’m s-sorry for your loss,” you stutter, embarrassed that someone - a complete stranger - was able to read you so easily. You feel the minute movements of Dex tensing beside you - ready to strike for any perceived slight towards you. Your hand quickly finds his wrist and gives it the slightest of squeezes to signal that everything is okay. The old man doesn’t know your trauma.

“Thank you, she died peacefully, in her sleep,” he says solemnly, before turning his lips up into a wistful smile. “Death was too scared to come for her while awake. He knew she would chew him out for interrupting her day.” He looks you up and down - taking you in, before declaring, “you should dance with your husband.”

Your eyes go wide, and you rush out, “we aren't married” at the same time Dex says, “I don’t dance.”

The gentleman scoffs, before holding out a knobby hand to you in a clear offer, “then you do not mind if I ask the young pretty lady to dance with an old widower. For my Yvette.”

Your cheeks start to heat up at the question while all sorts of emotions start to fly through you. 

How long has it been since someone asked you to dance? Do you even remember how to salsa? Are you going to make a fool of yourself by finding out your inner flame has really died?

Do you even still love to dance?

You look to Dex, needing to know his reaction, and he is clearly not pleased at the request. His jaw is just barely clenched, and his hazel eyes are stormy. He is so good at putting up a steely facade, but you see past it so easily. To anyone else, he may look mildly annoyed or bored, but you know his rage is building and he doesn’t have the highest of breaking points. 

So, when he looks you right in the eye and dips his chin just slightly in approval, you are beyond shocked. You know he is possessive of you - protective and obsessed in a way that worries you sometimes while making your heart flutter. You know he doesn’t like others touching you - he broke a man’s hand for daring to accidentally touch your thigh on the subway last week - so you search his face, trying to figure out if this is a test.

Dex nudges your foot with his own pointedly and you take it as a sign to obey - but before you do, you place your hand over his heart and lean up to press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. 

A silent thank you and promise to return to his side. 

The old Baltic man is far more nimble and experienced than you expect as he leads you around the small clearing. He makes you work to keep up with him and you don’t even have a moment to doubt yourself or think as your body gives into the music. You just move. You twirl and turn and allow yourself to show off for the old man, the crowd, and Dex.

Your skin feels electric, and your cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling, but you don’t care - you have no thoughts beyond the beats of the song. When the music starts to swell and build to the big finale, you are sent out into a grand spin, and you know just how to get your skirt to flip up to give yourself flair. 

You begin to laugh as he pulls you back and you come to stop as the music dies. 

Your glee quickly disappears as applause erupts around you. Embarrassment and a weird sense of shame overcome you almost instantly and you barely thank the sweet gentleman for the dance before you are hurrying back to a stoic looking Dex and disappearing into the market crowd.

As always, Dex falls into step behind you, and you don’t want to turn to look at him, fearful that his own mental illnesses are bubbling under the surface. The silence is thick between you, and you decide you need to thank him properly for his patience with your antics.

But before you can, he is speaking in a cold, measured way that makes you remember why you are supposed to be afraid of him.

“You looked happy.”

You know you can’t lie to him, so you don’t even try, “I was. It was...I had fun.”

“Fun,” he repeats dully and fear spikes in your heart - not for yourself, but for the old man. He would never hurt you, but someone who threatened his relationship with you was fair game and both of you knew it. 

You pivot so you are facing Dex, and for the third time in mere minutes, your hand goes to his heart. You step to be flush with him, your hand trapped between you and place your forehead to his shoulder. He stills under and you worry you are toeing the line too much.

“Thank you,” you mumble against his shirt. “For letting me do that. For keeping calm and not hurting him.”

You can practically feel Dex thinking as people walk around you, unaware of who is in their midst. His muscles twitch under you and guilt pools in your belly over how you dragged him over to musicians without any warning. You caused this upset and if anyone should be punished, it should be you.

“He made you happy,” Dex states in a low, controlled voice and you press yourself impossibly closer to him.

“You make me happy,” you say, turning your head to whisper into his neck. And it is true, Dex does make you happy - as happy as you can be given everything that has happened in the last few months - and it's happier than you've been in about two years. “You make me happy, Dex.”

It feels like ages pass as you stand there, tucked against the man otherwise known as Bullseye while the world moves around you. You know how hard it is to get out when you get caught up in your own head and all you can try to do is anchor Dex until he climbs out of whatever dark place he’s gone to. You fear someone is going to bump into you and set him off, but New Yorkers easily move around obstacles in their way - too caught up in themselves to bark at you to move out of the middle of the path. 

Finally, finally, his nose brushes over your temple, and in a voice, you are far more familiar with, Dex asks you, “do you still want to go to that bodega?” 

Your lips twitch up into a timid smile and you nod against him, thankful he has regained his control, and you didn’t cause a massacre with your foolishness, “yeah. Yeah. Let’s go get a chopped cheese.”

-----

It’s the heavy sound of sheets of rain hitting the windows that wakes you from your deep slumber. 

You groan as you are forced into consciousness and you attempt to roll away from the offending noises, reaching out your arm to find the warm body that is supposed to be beside you so you can hide your head against it. 

But there is no warm body. The other side of the bed is cold. 

You pat around, hoping you aren’t reaching far enough, and only when you are sure you do not feel Dex, do you open your eyes. 

His pillow is still under the covers - a clear sign he has yet to lie down for sleep at all. 

You sit up and blearily look around the bedroom of your suite, expecting to see him in the shadows, acting as your guard, but you are alone. You know he won’t leave to go out in the middle of the night without some sort of heads up, so you roll out of bed to see if he is out in the main room. 

You don’t bother with a robe as you shuffle into the small hallway and your lips go up into a smile when you see the familiar glow of Dex’s laptop reflecting in the windows. 

The assassin is sitting at the dining table, headphones on and seemingly not aware you’re awake. He is shirtless, something he’s only started doing recently, and his hunched-up shoulders shows how muscular and in shape he is. It also tells you he is intensely focused on whatever he is watching - Dex’s OCD usually has him having perfect posture unless he’s trying to appear relaxed to others. Whatever he is doing, it is drowning out his obsessive urges.

That fact gets you curious, and instead of going back to bed and leaving him be, you move closer. You hear the faint tinkling of music that you most definitely know, and you crane your neck to try to confirm if Dex is really listening to something classical. 

The movement gets you caught - not that you never expected to be able to sneak up on him, anyways.

Dex hits the spacebar to pause his video before turning to face you, pushing his headphones down to rest on his neck as he does. He doesn’t look annoyed at you trying to spy on him, only concerned that you are awake.

“You should be sleeping,” he states, eyes darting up and down your frame to make sure you didn’t somehow injure yourself while in bed. 

“The storm woke me up,” you tell him as you give up walking slowly and hurry over to be nearer to him. “You weren’t in bed.” You hesitate, debating your curiosity, then ask, “are you listening to Shostakovich? I didn’t know you liked that type of thing.”

Dex turns his head away from you, very suddenly looking like a puppy you caught chewing on something it shouldn’t have. His demeanor shifts from the confident man you know to someone unsure and slightly flustered and that has you pausing mid-step. If he is uncomfortable, you don’t want to make it worse by overcrowding him.

“I...don’t like it,” he starts slowly, clearly overthinking his words. “It’s boring as fuck, but you like it.”

You fail to suppress a smile and a warmth blooms in your chest. Dex’s fixation with you often has him ignoring his own preferences to mimic yours, no matter how many times you tell him he is allowed to have his own tastes. As creepy as it may seem to other people, it only makes you that much more fond of him. 

You close the distance between the two of you, reaching up to cup his jaw with both hands and smoothing your thumbs over his cheeks, “it reminds me of all those old movies where they have choreographed ballroom dances.”

Dex’s eyes flutter close and he presses eagerly into your touch, like he is starved for it - despite the fact you were cuddled up with him only hours ago. He mumbles out, “I know,” before nuzzling into your palms. You continue to pet him, soft and gentle and so amused this is what he does with his free time.

After a few moments, he opens his eyes again, and gone is the sweet puppy look - replaced by the hardened gaze of a killer. 

“I didn’t like him touching you.”

You don’t need to guess what he is talking about. You squeeze your eyes shut as guilt floods your system, “I know, I’m sorry. I won’t do -”

“It should have been me. I should be the only one who dances with you.”

Your heart pangs for him - and yourself. Dex isn't exactly known for his interest in arts or music - he doesn’t watch television on his own except for the news and the only songs on his phone are heavy metal that he uses to block out others when in the hotel gyms. He’s picked up pop culture references from you - and others over the years - but he has told you he doesn’t have a favorite movie and he’d rather be doing the action than watching it.

You are pretty sure he doesn’t have an ounce of rhythm in him, and you can’t picture him enjoying being in a crowded club. 

You chew on your bottom lip, unsure what to tell him. You can promise to not dance with anyone else - as much as you miss it some days, you have no plan on returning to your company - but you aren’t sure if he’s wanting you to not dance at all. 

Dex must see your uncertainty and doubt - he searches your face intensely, before turning his head in your hands to look back at the laptop. 

“I’m…learning. So, no one else can take you from me again.” 

Confusion and shock hit you in the chest like a bullet. What does he mean he is learning?

You finally look to the screen again and your eyes go wide as you take in what you see. 

Dex is on Youtube and a video titled ‘Waltzing for Beginners - The Basic Moves You Should Learn’ sits paused, waiting for him to hit play again. You stare at the frozen instructor in wonder, not believing what you are seeing. 

Benjamin Poindexter - Bullseye, the psychotic and feared assassin of New York who never misses his target - is learning how to do a box step. 

For you. 

Because he doesn’t want anyone else to dance with you. 

Tears start to gather in the corner of your eyes, and it takes everything in you to not burst into a sob. 

Even if his motives are due to his possessiveness of you, no one has ever done something like this for you before. He could have so easily said he’d kill anyone who dared to try to lure you on to a dance floor again. He could have demanded you give up your passions. He could have ignored all of it.

But instead, he is up in the middle of the night, straining his eyes to memorize the most fundamental principles so he can be the one who spins you around. 

You can tell he is waiting for your response, but you don’t know what to even say. No words can compare to how you are feeling, so your brain jumps to something completely different. 

You drop your hands to the headphones around his neck and remove them, setting them on the table, before holding your palm out to him. He watches you with a potency only he can achieve, seemingly trying to gauge your response to his confession. 

“Show me?” you manage to choke out.

Dex takes your hand and slowly rises into standing, gently guiding you back into more open space as he does. You easily let him take the lead, wanting to know what he has taken in so far. You know he is wickedly smart and skilled, but dancing is a far cry from a military drill his muscles already know. 

He moves your hands into a good enough position - proper structure is more rigid, but you don’t give a damn about that - and he very adorably looks down at his feet before starting the simple steps. You can practically hear him counting in his head. 

Tears start to slide down your cheek and your heart yearns again for the second time that day - but not for dancing or music or a sense of happiness. 

You yearn for Dex. 

You yearn to be in his arms for the rest of time and to never, ever stop being his obsession - his North Star - his Angel. 

You know you’ve developed a toxic and completely dangerous codependency with him. He’s told you countless times he’d kill you if you left him, and you would probably end up killing yourself if he was the one to leave - but you’ve weaved together so tightly, it’s like you know him inside and out, just as he knows you.

How many times have you laid together on the floor, in bed, on a couch, wrapped around each other and just openly talking? You’ve hidden no secrets from him, and you doubt he’s been holding back from you. He’s told you about his childhood, about the first person he killed and how much he enjoyed it. He’s told you all about Dr. Mercer and Julie - about Fisk and being in the FBI. He told you how being let loose as the fake Daredevil made him feel like himself for the first time and how he prefers knives to guns. He’s told you about his spiraling thoughts and what his new mission in life is. 

And you’ve told him just as much about you. 

He’s held you in the shower as you cried. He’s stayed up with you for days at a time because you were too scared to sleep. He’s taken you anywhere you want to go, without complaint, just to make you smile. 

He’s never made you feel uncomfortable or unsafe around him - save the first night you met. He had planned to kill you then, but that seems like a lifetime ago.

He’s always respected your boundaries, and your safety and happiness has been his priority for months now. 

So, why have you never let yourself admit you love him?

Because society has told you he is a villain? 

Because Matt told you he was a violent, psychotic man with no sense of empathy? 

If you aren’t allowed to love Dex, why were you allowed to love Matt? 

Matt has painted himself a villain plenty of times, and he is far more violent than Dex is. Dex prefers a neat kill from a distance but Matt beats people into comas with his fists. 

Matt is the one who left bruises on you, after grabbing you during your final fight. Matt is the one who left you alone in the middle of the night for a year, not knowing where he was or if he would even return. Matt is the one who missed every single performance you had while you were together. Matt is the one who dismissed your concerns about needing a therapist because your thoughts were becoming too dark.

Matt is the one who walked away from you when there was a gun pointed at your head. 

Matt is the one who chose Hell’s Kitchen over your life. 

Matt never even once asked you to dance. 

So why was it okay to love him but not for you to love Dex? 

How is Dex’s obsession with you any different than Love? 

He has scripted responses for different emotional situations - but at least he is there. He listens to you, puts in an effort to help you. He’s offered to help find you doctors - he’s offered you the world. He’s offered you his heart - quite literally once.

When Dex spirals, he tries to regain control - he knows how to soothe himself even if his outbursts can be intense and destructive. He doesn’t rage at you, yell at you like you don’t understand him, then disappear. 

Dex treats you like you are something special, something to cherish, and hold close. You know he has put you on an impossible pedestal, but when you falter and fuck up, he is there to catch you - to reassure you. 

Dex will never leave you. 

Dex will never let you go. 

And you can’t understand why that is so bad. 

You’ve always kept a hard line between you and him - platonic snuggling and cheek kisses, simple affection was okay, but nothing on the lips, nothing remotely sexual. 

You weren’t ready for it. 

You were scared of it. 

Yet, you can’t remember why you were so frightened of that intimacy. 

Your heart yearns for Dex and there is no reason for you to hold back. 

Because Dex loves you, and you love him. 

You whisper his name, and hazel eyes jump up to yours, wide and clearly worried he has messed up his box step. You can’t help but smile softly at him before pulling your hands from his so you can oh so gently cup his jaw again. He stills under you; lost to all the mental gymnastics you have just gone through. 

“I love you,” you whisper as you close the short distance between you and press your lips to his. 

His reaction is like a tidal wave. He kisses you back with a ferocity that seemingly engulfs you - he mirrors you in grabbing your face so he can pull you flush against him. You melt into Dex as he holds you up, pouring all of his desire and need into you, and you take it greedily. 

“Say it again,” he begs into your mouth, refusing to let any of you stop touching him. 

And you do. 

Over and over again. 

You tell him as he picks you up and carries you back into the bedroom. You tell him when he drags his tongue down your body until he can bury it into your core. You tell him when he crawls back up to you, and when he pushes his cock deep within you. You tell him as he oh so sweetly gives you orgasm after orgasm as he worships you. You tell him as he spills his seed into you. 

And Dex tells you, with every look, with every touch, with every moment you are with him, that he loves you, too. 

[geddyqueer]

👽🕺🫄🧆

hi gonzo. this takes place directly prior to the one i posted earlier:

Maddie blinks a few times. "There's coincidence, and then there's fate," she says. "Imagine if they had to get rescued off that thing. I guess the coast guard flew a helicopter into a hurricane to find them."

"Helicopter pilots are a special kind of crazy," Buck says. He should know—he's kissed Lucy. 

"Anyway, are you going to tell me why you've been so hard to get ahold of for the last few months?"

Buck sighs, and picks a watery tomato out of his sandwich. "You remember Natalia?"

"Yeah," Maddie says. "I thought you two broke up?"

"We did, yeah, but we stayed friends. She's been, uh, introducing me to her people, and we've been having fun, you know?"

"Okay."

"And, well, a couple months ago she took me to a drag show at a gay bar."

"Oh! Was it fun?"

Buck smiles wistfully. "Oh, it was incredible," he says. "And then, after it was over, I started dancing with some people. Some guys, actually. And then I saw him."

Maddie pauses, falafel halfway to her mouth. "Saw… who?"

"The most beautiful man on earth," Buck groans. He reaches his hand into his pocket, feels for the earring he's been carrying around like a talisman ever since that day. "He was tall, and wide, and he was wearing a v-neck, and he had—hair, I dunno, and—and a jaw, and a cleft! And earrings! And he was looking at me, and I was looking at him, and then we danced, and we made out, and then we hooked up in the bathroom, and I pulled his earring out of his ear with my tongue, and he really liked—"

"Oh my god," Maddie says, flinging her falafel onto the floor as she covers her ears. "Sorry, pause, what? Are you—I didn't know you liked men?"

"I didn't, either," Buck says. He pulls the earring out of his pocket. "Until him."

"Wow," Maddie says. "So, did you get his number?"

[najia-cooks]

[ID: One puffy circle of bread, and three which have been halved to show an internal pocket, on a striped blue and white kitchen towel. End ID]

خبز الكماج / Khubiz al-kmaj (Palestinian flatbread)

Khubiz al-kmaj is a thin flatbread with an internal pocket. It is commonly eaten with breakfast to scoop up dips such as hummus, used to eat stews, served alongside main dishes, and used to make sandwiches and to wrap falafel. "خُبْز," pronounced "khubz" or (in Levantine varieties of Arabic) "khubiz," comes from the root خ ب ز (kh-b-z), which also produces the word "خَبَزَ" "khabaza" (Levantine: "خَبَز" "khabaz"), "to bake."‎

This bread is eaten across the Levant and in Greece, with slight differences in terminology and style. It is variously called "خُبْز العَرَبِيّ" (khubz al-'arabiyy; Arabian bread), "خُبْز "البَلَدِيّ (khubz al-baladiyy; bread from my country), or (occasionally) "خُبْز البيتة" or "البيتا" (khubz al-bita), a borrowing from "pita." ("Pita" itself is perhaps from Greek "πίτα" "pita," or the modern Hebrew "פיתה.") The bread is referred to as "khubiz al-kmaj" in Palestine, from the Turkic "kömeç" / كُمَجْ‎ ("bread baked in ashes"). The collective term for the bread in general is كماج (kmāj); each individual piece of bread is referred to with the singulative "كماجة‎" (kmāja).

Today, kmaj is frequently made with white flour; some people add olive oil or milk powder to ensure a very soft dough. Leila el-Haddad writes that a more traditional method omits milk and uses whole white spring wheat, a whiteish wheat grain harvested in late spring and ground without removing the bran.

Since the late 20th century, many Palestinian households have used an electric cooker (طنجرة الكهرباء; ṭanjara al-kahrabā') to cook kmaj, placing one kmaja inside of the chamber and one on top and allowing both to bake at the same time. These aluminum and tin cookers, which were invented in Gaza and became popular there during the first intifada in the late 1980s, are designed to route electricity through a metal pipe or spiral wire on the underside of their lids, heating both the top and the inside of the cooker simultaneously.

The cookers' popularity can be attributed in part to a curfew that Israel imposed on Gazan refugee camps during the intifada, supposedly in an attempt to restrict the movements of resistance fighters. Refugees in the Jabalia camp in the north, for example, unable to afford home stoves, and without the necessary outdoor space to make familial clay ovens, would have to wait in line for hours every day to get bread from shared ovens, risking curfew violations; household electric cookers were far more convenient. The success of local industry and innovation in the form of Gazan-manufactured technology was also symbolically and strategically important during the first intifada, in which Palestinians employed strikes and boycotts (largely organized by women) of Israeli companies and goods as a strategy of resistance to occupation.

An electric cooker is still today considered a very important tool, as it spares families the need to purchase kmaj (the price of which was soaring compared to the cost of flour in the 2010s, and which was often of inferior quality compared to what could be made at home). They are frequently given as wedding or housewarming presents. Lack of access to electricity, though, imposes a limiting condition on the usage of these cookers, as Israel has for over a decade strangled the flow of power to Gaza: Abier Almasri wrote in 2017 that tasks such as cooking and laundry had to be rushed during the four or so hours a day when electricity was available. In this environment, electric cookers are useful in that they can prepare a lot of bread in a short period of time. Fathia Radwan said in 2022 that she would wake up early, after the nightly power outage, to prepare more than 100 loaves of bread at a time for her family of nine.

Today, the taxes that Israel levies on imports of raw materials into Gaza makes the cost of new electric cookers, which sometimes exceeds 120 shekels (37 USD), too expensive for some families to afford. The difficulty and expense of importing materials, and the impossibility of exporting goods to foreign markets with the advent of the 2007 siege, also limit the number of factories in Gaza that are able to manufacture these cooking pots. The aluminum industry, introduced to Gaza in the 1960s and once the basis of a manufacturing and economic renaissance in the region, deteriorated as a result of the siege, as factories were no longer able to export goods to the West Bank and were newly reliant on imports of raw materials from Egypt. Even parts to repair electric cookers are expensive, due to a tax levied on items judged by Israel to have a "dual," i.e. a possible civilian and military, use.

Still, repairman Iyad Faraj estimates that over half the homes in Gaza have and use an electric cooker, as maintaining, repairing, and operating one is cheaper than having a gas pipe installed (at 68 shekels, 20 USD) and purchasing gas. Electric pots thus stand in many homes as both a utilitarian item, and a symbol of Palestinian ingenuity and resistance to Israel's attempts at impoverishment and starvation.

Support Palestinian resistance by contributing to Palestine Action’s bail fund or to Palestine Legal’s defence fund, by attending court or making a sign to support the Elbit Eight, or by buying an e-sim for distribution in Gaza.

Ingredients:

500g (4 cups + 3 Tbsp) white whole wheat (spring) flour

1/2 Tbsp (5g) active dry yeast

1/2 Tbsp (6.25g) vegetarian granulated sugar

1/2 Tbsp (7.25g) kosher salt

About 2 1/4 cups (530mL) room-temperature water, divided

Olive oil

White whole wheat flour is flour that has a white color once ground, despite the fact that it includes both the bran and the germ of the wheatberry. It is milled from white spring wheat (so named because it is harvested in late spring).

You may instead mix white all-purpose flour and brown whole wheat flour in your desired proportion. Keep in mind that whole wheat flour will need more water and more kneading than white flour. If you’re using all white flour, you will need about 1 1/4 cup (300mL) water.

Instructions:

1. Mix flour, yeast, sugar, and salt in a large mixing bowl. Add water gradually until dry ingredients come together into a sticky dough.

2. Knead the dough on the countertop or in a wide, shallow bowl until smooth, about 5 minutes. (If using whole wheat or white whole wheat flour) continue incorporating water into the dough as you knead to maintain a tacky texture.

3. Fold the dough into a ball and return to the bowl, seam-side down. Pat the top of the dough with some olive oil, cover the bowl, and let rise for an hour.

4. Pinch the dough into about 8 balls of equal size (about 110g each). Cover and let rest for 10 minutes.

5. On a lightly floured surface, roll out each ball of dough into a circle about 1/4" (1/2cm) in thickness. Set dough circles on a surface prepared with parchment paper and cover closely with a kitchen towel or plastic wrap. Let rest and ferment for at least 1 and up to 10 hours.

An overnight rest is traditional in Palestine and will create a more complex flavor in the bread (see note below).

6. Remove each circle of dough from its resting place with a metal spatula and roll it out to a 1/4” thickness again. Preheat a baking stone or sheet in the top third of an oven at 500 °F (260 °C), and then cook breads in the oven for three minutes, until large bubbles have begun to form.

7. Flip bread over and cook for another 3 minutes on the other side, until golden brown and puffed up completely.

8. Wrap breads in a kitchen towel or tea towel and allow to steam for a few minutes while the others cook.

Notes

The climate where I live is dry enough that I have discovered a risk of my breads becoming crackers if I leave them out overnight. The dried-out flatbread does puff up in the oven, but the resulting product is not as nice and fluffy as it should be.

Through experimentation, I have found the best method of both preventing drying out and guaranteeing that the flatbreads will puff up during cooking the next day is:

1. Roll out the dough and place dough circles on a lightly oiled surface. Cover them closely with lightly oiled plastic wrap.

2. The next day, fold dough circles back into balls. Place seam-side down and roll out again on a lightly floured surface.

3. Bake as described above.

If you live in a humid environment, the first instructions given in the recipe above should work for you.

[mariacallous]

Paul Hollywood, you’ve gone too far.

Recently, the celebrity chef and co-host of “The Great British Baking Show” took to Instagram to share a hot take about Jewish food. Namely, that he thinks pickles are “absolutely disgusting.” In the approximately 30-second video shared on @britishbakeoff, Hollywood goes on a diatribe against the fermented cucumber. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re straight from hell,” he opens. He proceeds to bash pickles’ taste and appearance, comparing the popular snack to slugs and saying they “look terrible” and are “not human food at all.” 

We here at The Nosher could not disagree more. Pickles are a sour, bubbly and crunchy symphony of flavor. They’re a delicacy, and what’s more, they are an integral part of the Jewish menu. (Though, pickled vegetables are prominent in many cuisines across the globe, and not exclusive to Jewish food.) As Nosher Senior Editor Rachel Myerson once wrote, “[Pickles] were ever-present on my grandmother’s Shabbat table alongside chopped liver and egg and onion, a permanent chaperone to the pastrami sandwich at Jewish delis, and packed into self-serve containers at falafel and sabich shops in Israel.”

Additionally, Jews are central to the story of how pickles became so popular in the United States; Jewish immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries helped to bring pickles into the American consciousness through their sale of Kosher Dills and Half-Sours. 

This isn’t the first time Paul Hollywood has gotten Jewish food wrong. Famously, in season five, episode 2 of “The Great British Baking Show,” the contestants were challenged to make Hollywood’s recipe for an eight-strand “plaited loaf” with an even, golden bake. Not once during the episode does Paul or anyone else use the word “challah.” Even worse, when judging the “plaited loaves,” Hollywood claims “[braiding bread] is a skill which is dying off.” Considering the fact that Jews have braided challah for centuries and many continue to do so on Shabbat every week, Hollywood’s claim is simply not true. As Emily Burack wrote at the time, “It is quite possible that Paul, and everyone else on the show, has no Jewish friends.”

The entry for Paul Hollywood’s plaited loaf recipe in his 2012 cookbook “How to Bake” is equally misguided. First, the recipe is titled “Cholla Loaf,” which spells challah in a way that no Jewish person has likely ever spelled it. Additionally, he writes in the recipe description that challah is “traditionally served at Passover,” a holiday where Jews avoid eating bread and other leavened products.

Paul’s lack of accurate knowledge when it comes to Jewish food came up once more in season eight of “The Great British Baking Show,” when the contestants were challenged to make twisted rainbow bagels; another of Hollywood’s recipes that is inspired by Jewish food. 

“Paul Hollywood, neither a New Yorker nor Jewish, is a recognized expert in bread. But it was clear from this technical challenge that he has no idea how to make a proper New York bagel,” Shannon Sarna wrote in 2020. “At some point while tasting the results of the challenge, he even commented that a crispy exterior means that the bagel is overdone. I’m not sure he has ever visited New York City, or even tasted a bagel.”

Yikes. What’s next, Paul? Will you verbally assault lox? Claim bourekas are triangle hot pockets? Where does the madness end? We humbly suggest that whether it’s challah, bagels or pickles, you perhaps consider leaving the Jewish food recipes and hot takes to the experts.

[lotusroott]

Confident I’m in the best city in the world in a baby pink bath towel on my roof somehow the heat resurrects the summer-images of my suburban childhood stained glass dense susurrations of plane trees not scared to instantiate a corpulence proper to Italy the shed all the moving greens green tomatoes as if I weren’t buying groceries 7am yesterday exhaling opaque on blue fingers in three fleeces all forgotten by night we ran around balaclava in thongs and drying swimmer straps saltedddd fragrant sunset wanting to scream at the couples on balconies exhibitionists or railing lines “do you know you’re a prostitute?” tiny kipper bait in little fingers botox chastising packs of leisure-takers sorry for the tahini slopped all over the cucumber and homemade chilli paste and steel vats of falafel we were slammed tonight it’s okay it’s okay my friend five star Google review I just eat, I just take my time and finish what people plate me and never expect me to finish Italian that’s out of character I never understood la dolce vita soft sourdough whipped salted butter some amaro tailored precisely to me by my bartender who I live with incorrectly timed though the soda corrects it tomato risotto with four mussels fresher than what we could have snapped off the rocks and a white wine to match also for free everything from my friend and café chai a quaintness not common to me and this focaccia the size of two pizzas pressed together snarfed down in the memory of an odd pout-smile on the street from a very beautiful kind of notorious individual who has seen me around this soft oily bread oil grilled vegetables ricotta provolone butter dripping onto the plate sorry these bourgeois dogwhistles I’ll start saying miso gochujang nduja braised cabbage soon just kidding and then yochi which now has finger limes and the Syrian pita pocket fried cauliflower tahini and the freshest salad I filled with pickles and hot chips in their salt all the sodium swelling the streets to lustrous proportions taking in a hundred and ten percent of the available information or spending time with people so amenable to possession by genius that you perceive in them the proportion of data you assume always available to them half-moon multiple names applying to this coastal location realising all rumours occurred right here the absolute south outside of this I’m sometimes lonely but resting with my finger-pads pressing several tendernesses and these presses able to be deepened so there isn’t anxiety I’m not in love I’m going to bake peanut butter jam swirl caramelised crust banana bread for Sierra before these rot this Saturday morning and say it’s the best city in the world at least for someone who is me and maybe mock up a, the only possible, “better” option in which every May is spent in London under the care of some university, the deep Antarctic south to those unearthly summers on a Nordic latitude, but before the lassitude, and know that London is some knot in me only being teased out very slowly by hooks and turns but I can laugh about that, about me maybe just having been not hardy enough to withstand it

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

IOU. - OC Story

pairing: OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x MootOC!Valkyrie (platonic) extra: Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley words: 1.6k~ cw: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, torture and bodily harm (descriptive!), kidnapping, forced starvation, injuries, blood, use of weapons, thoughts of death/dying.

June 4th, 2021. Beirut, Lebanon 1156 hours.

"Valkyrie."

"Watcher."

"Where are you?"

"Currently getting falafel in a nice little food stand."

"So you're free?"

"Depending on the price, I might be."

"No government funds this time, Val."

"So you're paying for this out of pocket? How generous of you."

"Wiring you 25 now."

"Copy that. It just came in. Where's the target?"

"That's what I need you to figure out. One of my assets went dark in Turkmenistan."

"When do I leave?"

"Now."

"...Can I finish my lunch first?"

June 4th, 2021. Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. 2147 hours.

Val crouches down on the tiled rooftop, still warm from the sun that had shined down on it for nearly 16 hours straight during the day, their flashlight illuminating the path that indicated a scuffle, more than a few broken tiles, a few of them displaying bullet holes.

In their ear, an earpiece relayed the audio file that Laswell had sent, a voice they recognized very well coming through. The last comm Whiskey was able to send in before they went dark.

"WATCHER, COPY GODDAMN IT!"

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST... THIS IS WHISKEY IN THE BLIND, IF ANYONE COPIES, PLEASE RESPOND."

She was out of breath, her voice uneven and loud, a clear sign that she was not just on the run, but definitely being shot at, if the loud bangs between the static of the lack of commands was any indication.

"MY LOCATION HAS BEEN COMPROMISED... ATTEMPTING EXFIL ON FOOT... CURRENTLY BEING PURSUIED... ENGAGING HOSTILES."

"SOUTHEAST BOUND... OUTNUMBERED... AND UNARMED... NEED NEAREST SAFEHOUSE LOCATION."

Valkyrie could hear the panic in the American's voice with each word she said. Val could almost picture it, each step she took, each rustle of clothes, each jump and vault she performed over the rooftops trying to make it across, as she was chased.

Restarting the audio, they started following the steps they assumed Whiskey took, through the broken tiles and gunshot holes, parkouring and vaulting walls and roofs, southeast bound, just like the American likely would've...

And the audio finished just at the same time as Val spotted it.

"AHHHHHHHHH! FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!"

A large bloodstain on the tile beneath their feet, an attempt at dragging herself away, before being caught, and lifted, the blood splattering as someone carried her off.

Looking around, Val's eyes fixed on the street across the building, both their hands coming to rest on their hips. "Now what?" They murmured under their breath.

June 8th, 2021. Darvaza, Turkmenistan. 0303 hours.

She didn't know how long it had been.

The only sign that time was going by was whenever she'd pass out from exhaustion and dehydration, only to wake up again with a bucket of water being poured atop her, or a cheek-bruising slap being delivered to her face.

It had been a while since she found herself in this situation... and it might have been the delirium setting in, but she couldn't help but feel that she was rusty.

She used to be able to withstand torture sessions much more easily. If they could catch her, that is. She used to see enemies coming much easier than she did this time.

Hell, had Simon really softened her up so much? Or was she just getting old?

Not to say she had gotten weak, or stupid. She hadn't. She had followed procedure and kept her mouth shut. She had told them little else than her full name, her service number and her birthday.

Anything else they wanted? They might as well kill her because she wouldn't speak.

But she had to admit that it was getting to her. She didn't know when it started becoming too much, but it had.

Maybe it was how stuffy and hot the bunker was, in the middle of the stupid desert, God how she hated the summer and the heat...

Maybe it was the waterboarding.

Maybe it was the nail pulling.

Maybe the finger breaking.

Maybe the punches to the stomach until she was puking.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep.

Maybe the barely sutured GSW to the upper right thigh, which, sure they had sewn up, to keep her alive for long enough to interrogate, but that was just about where their hospitality ended, because they didn't provide any pain killers and left it to fester, still in her bloody clothes.

Maybe it was the sensory nightmare that was the sweat slicking her skin, and, oh, how soaked her compression leggings were, sticking to the sensitive skin on her legs.

Maybe it was when they hung her upside down for long, endless minutes, hoping the blood rushing down to her head, coupled with the lack of food, with create a cocktail of dizziness that would make her talk.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was when they tossed her on the back of a jeep and drove her out to the dunes in the desert and left her out there for what must have been multiple hours, under the scorching sun, feeling the sand burn against her face, her mouth gagged with cloth and hogtied like a pig, only to come collect her after a few hours, when she already had blisters of a nasty sunburn forming on the back of her neck, lower back and hands, after she had succeeded in rolling herself onto her stomach to protect her face and neck.

She barely registered the sound of gunshots outside the room, barely awake and shivering, running the nastiest fever of her fucking life, her head hanging low as she was tied to a chair in a room that might as well have been a furnace, baking under the hot sun and sand for the whole day.

The moment the lock is opened, Whiskey raised her head, her hair hanging over her eyes, her eyes squinting, trying to make out the shape at the door, but her eyes were too hazy and her head was throbbing.

"Back for more?" She used the last of her strength to taunt her kidnappers, like she had been for the entire time of her captivity.

She might have been worn down and at the end of her rope, but she'd go down her way... By being an absolute cunt until they put a bullet in her head to end her once and for all.

And when they disposed of her body somewhere in the desert, it wouldn't take long for them to be buried beside her. She knew Simon would make sure of it.

Simon... God, she missed him. What a terrible fucking start to their marriage. She was pretty sure this was not what a honeymoon in the desert is meant to look like.

"Holy shit, you look like crap." Was not the answer she expected, followed by the ropes binding her to the chair to be loosened.

Val knelt by Whiskey's feet, looking up at the brunette with knitted brows and compassionate brown eyes. "You alright?"

Valkyrie. Huh... Seemed like Laswell actually sent someone. Whiskey was starting to wonder if she'd just be considered a loss and left to rot here.

"Took your sweet time..." Whiskey croaked out, causing Val to chuckle and shake their head, their hands quickly undoing the restraints that kept her feet bound to the chair.

"Yeah, well, had to stop and sightsee a little bit, do all the touristy things... You know how it is." Valkyrie replied as they shifted their weight around and helped comb the hair off Whiskey's face. "Can you walk?"

Whiskey gulped a bit, dryly, and nodded, though, really, it was anyone's guess if she really had enough strength to make it from the chair to the door, let alone outside or to town or... god knows where they were.

Using her bloodied hands, she pushed herself up to her feet, wobbling violently from a mix of being light-headed and having been shot in the leg days ago, which caused Val's gloved hands to shoot forward to help stabilize her.

Whiskey knew better than to bat them off, especially now, when she knew she needed help. So, she wrapped an arm around Val's shoulders, and shifted her weight around on her leg.

"Thought you said you could walk?" Valkyrie teased a bit, causing Whiskey to groan and shoot them a look of pure rage.

"Shut..." The American grunted. "Just get me out of here..."

"Alright... Alright... Jeez, tough crowd." Val quipped as they began helping Whiskey out of the room and down the corridor. "You know, whatever you get paid for this, I hope you know it isn't enough to warrant going through torture..."

"Shut up and walk... or so help me God..." Whiskey grumbled.

June 8th, 2021. Tidworth, England. 1218 hours.

Val watched how the door to the helo was slid open, a couple of doctors and medics on the other side, already scrambling to help transfer Whiskey to a wheelchair, to take her in for further examination.

The doctors over at Izmir Air Station in Turkey, to which Val had taken Whiskey per Laswell's orders, had done little else than stabilize her and get her hydrated, fed and on medication, before transport was arranged back to England.

But they worried, of course they did. She was in a sorry fucking state... Even if she was alive and doing better than when Val first found her.

"Wait." She groaned at the doctors and raised her head to look at Val, beckoning them closer. "C'mere."

Val approached, only to have Whiskey's hand reach out to bring them close, allowing the American to whisper in their ear.

At first, they didn't know what was being said to them, just a string of nonsensical numbers that seemed to have no rhyme or reason...

Only for, as she pulled away, Whiskey to add:

"I owe you. Call me if you need anything."

for @superhero-landing because our OCs are basically ebsties from this point forth.

[oysters-aint-for-me]

i’m sooo hungry i want a big fuck-off sandawich. with turkey and bacon and lettuce and tomato and cheddar cheese and mayo and honey mustard and crumbled up potato chips and avocado mash and red onion on toasted marble rye. or a loaded omelette with green pepper and red pepper and yellow pepper and cheese and broccoli and mushrooms and bacon. oh fuck or a stir fry with broccoli and mushrooms and basmati rice and teriyaki sauce and and onions and tofu crumbles fried up all nice and brown. i’d even go for a humble baked potato with melted cheddar, sour cream, chives, and bacon bits. GOD i’m hungry. maybe i should go get lunch or something. hnnng i just typed lunch and one of the emoji suggestions was the falafel in the pita pocket and now i want THAT. unfortunately there is cat on my lap so alas i am stuck with fantasy….

[siliconosaurus]

Chip n' Dale Falafel Pita Pocket Disney Munchlings Plush – Street Food

[warcrimesimulator]

For the price of one Starbucks spicy falafel pocket, I can get five falafel at a local Mediterranean restaurant. With sauce and veggies.

[thesiouxzy]

I prefer to support local coffee shops but it’s nice to know that Starbucks added a spicy vegan falafel pocket to their menu. Bout time!

[cricketnationrise]

Ficlet Fest 👏🏻 Ficlet Fest 👏🏻 Ficlet Fest

5:17pm, Sheep’s Meadow (Central Park), Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor

FICLET FEST (my favorite time of year) enjoy!

read the rest of the ficlet fest 3 fills here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

central park, 5:17pm

With Alex down in DC for the weekend, Henry takes himself on a date around the city to distract himself. Yesterday had been filled with meandering his way through the MOMA and soliciting hole-in-the-wall falafel places from locals. (They’d actually answered him, too – sometimes being a prince has its perks.) 

Today he’d gotten lost in an indie bookstore for a few hours, trailing his fingers along spines of old favorites and plucking out new titles based solely upon, as Alex would say, the vibes. He thinks about going home and reading in the bay window of their bedroom, but the beautiful weather draws him toward Central Park instead. For once, David isn’t with him, so Henry has more options for where to fall into a new book. He’s been itching for a chance to visit in the Sheep Meadow or eat at the Tavern on the Green, so Henry lets his feet carry him to an unoccupied tree at the edge of the meadow, and settles in for a long reading bout.

He comes back to himself in stages. The delighted shriek of a nearby child pierces through the book fog. Then his arse starts to protest sitting on the ground for so long, not letting him dive back into the story. And then his stomach’s empty rumblings make themselves known, and Henry surrenders to his body’s needs. 

Regretfully, he picks up his things, says a silent, thankful goodbye to the tree and strolls away, taking the longest route possible to the restaurant. He’s hungry, yes, but he’s not in a rush to leave this section of the park. He can feel a small smile on his face when he remembers that the first anniversary of Stonewall was celebrated here.

The restaurant has just come into view when his phone buzzes in his pocket and Henry laughs when he sees the name on the screen; apparently Alex updated his own contact card (again) before he left for the White House.

Buttercup’s Strumpet I would never go against Zahra in any way shape or form but AT LEAST three of these meetings could have been an email Miss you

Miss you too Are you free enough for me to call you while I eat dinner? I’m getting a table outside.

Buttercup’s Strumpet Yes! Wait You’re outside??? I figured you were just going to drape yourself over the chaise like the world’s sluttiest blanket waiting for your man to return

Your mind is a wonder that should be studied.

Buttercup’s Strumpet :p Call whenever you’re ready sweetheart I wanna hear all about your day

❤️ Will do.

[424151998]

I am in Athens and tomorrow I am going to Tbilisi

Athens is cool at first I was scared and kept thinking I was gonna get pick pocketed but it’s actually extremely chill here. I’ve been wearing the same outfit the whole time tracksuit pants and cardigan and hoodie with the addition of fleece and long sleeve and two puffer jackets and scarf wrapped around my head today and gloves coz it was like 10 degrees lol soooo not that bad but it felt hellish to me it’s gonna get sooooo much worse and I’m scared

Ummm yeah having withdrawals too so I’ve been sleeping a lot and feeling irritable but I’m optimistic that I’ll be feeling more normal soon

I didn’t go to any of the ancient ruins coz they cost money so I just saw them from a distance

Just tonnes of walking and eating

Food:

Tis theatrou to steki twice now…first time was better..first time I was like 😍 marinated anchovies and vegetables in vinegar and garlic and bread and saganaki w lots of lemon 😍 second time we got like an omelette which was average and meatballs which were boring and such a bad choice by me hmm kinda just like eating bread with little accompaniments rather than bigger dishes, cheap place

Went to some place max’s friend recommended that had vinyl records as placemats and we had this amazing soup with ceviche but after that dish it wasn’t as yum it was like a big stir fry type thing and that’s just not really my thing but max really enjoyed it and also some coconut rice thing which again meh I don’t really care but that’s just vegetarian food I’m so meh but also again I am in a state of withdrawal so maybe I’m just pretty anhedonic. We did get a little carafe of wine which was soooooo good and also some digestif after I forget what it was called but similar to ouzo super strong and when we got home I passed out I felt so drunk

We went to Atlantikos this like tourist famous fish restaurant for lunch and it was good yeh idk max was really into it we had squid and it was fine idk I think we ordered badly coz I was jealous looking at some of the other tables

We had giros at o kavourras which was so effing yum

We’ve also had a couple falafel wraps

I keep waking up super early it’s funny coz my sleeping pattern is so fucked up in Melbourne it’s like super normal here I wake up at 7am like 🤩and then have to wait til midday for max to wake up but anyway yeah it’s crazy I’m like early bird here but for some reason I don’t wanna leave the apartment without max I could probs go walk around and get a coffee but I’ve just been chilling on my phone and reading my kindle hmmmm until like 1pm when we leave the apartment , after about 5000 steps im fucking done and Need to rest before I can keep going..

Currently in bed and gonna go back out at some point idk I have these Greek cigarettes I might have one later but only one

Step count:

Wednesday: 12,299

Thursday: 12,719

Friday: 11,367

Saturday: 21,146

Sunday: 5,785

Monday (so far, will update): 8,521

Umm what else I keep having insane nightmares which is disturbing but I’m Hoping it’s just my brain cleansing itself …nd max says I’m grinding my teeth heaps so maybe I’ll get teeth grinding Botox when we get to Istanbul but idk

Lol

Ummm ok that’s all

Oh yeah and I’m obsessed with how easy it is to get thru the metro gates like soo amazing and not scary like they just stay open if u put your hand in front of them unlike the myki gates that feel like they’re gonna fully slam my pelvis

[tonysopranosfeverdreams]

I had such a weird day yesterday like the weirdest stuff went wrong I ordered a falafel pocket for lunch and they gave me one with meat in it ?? But it seasoned the same so I didn’t notice until I’d eaten half and then when I got to my hotel after a site visit I noticed one of my cats must have peed on my pajama pants while they were in my suitcase bc they don’t like when I travel lmao but I have no idea when it happened bc I usually travel for work at least once a week so I always keep it around half packed with stuff I always need and then one of my friends was taking a train in to meet me for dinner and her train like went on the wrong tracks and got delayed by an hour?? So I was sitting there in the restaurant likr I promise she’s coming …

[beesmygod]

Visiting PVD for the first time ever in November, where should I have dinner

oh shit! you are genuinely very lucky. for all my produce shit talking, i think RI is like a secret american paradise for food lovers. this place is genuinely fucking nuts and has a little bit of everything.

if you get out of the city (or maybe they have one downtown idk) you should go to olneyville new york system restaurant (the name is insane i know) and order a "hot wiener all the way" to enjoy the uniquely rhode island experience of having an extremely hairy italian man line up like 10 hot dog buns on his arm and slap a bunch of meat sauce everywhere. i have not had this experience yet. but i want to.

east side pockets has great gyros and falafel but the gyros come with like. franks red hot on them for some reason. so. dont get that and youll have a great meal.

go to literally any pizza restaurant and you will have the best pizza of your entire life. bar none. unquestioned. im partial to rosa mia's but they're a little outside the city.

there's also that conceptually nuts restaurant we went to lately that is a twin peaks themed BBQ restaurant (?????????) which was really good and has a guyanese takeaway place right next to it ive been meaning to try called "pan a day takeaway". it looks awesome lol

eat well and irresponsibly!!!! theres so much good shit