#famous homemade pie

[harrysfolklore]

valentine

a valentine’s day blurb inspired by this song ! i hope you guys like it 💓

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Four months ago you agreed to be Harry's girlfriend, and it was safe to say that those months have been filled with happiness that you've never felt before.

You met Harry through your longtime friend, Anthony, who happened to be Harry's tour photographer. Anthony had insisted for months that you needed to come to one of Harry's shows so he could introduce you two, because he felt that you would get along perfectly, but you remained skeptical. You weren't one to easily warm up to new people, especially not someone as famous and charismatic as Harry.

But fate had its own plans.

You finally attended the famous Love On Tour when it was brought to Wembley Stadium, and you were convinced that it was the best concert you had ever been to.

You got to meet Harry and just as Anthony predicted, you hit it off right away. You texted daily, face-timed and every time he had small breaks from tour he traveled to visit you.

One of those times he ditched everything to spend time with you in the comfort of your small but cozy apartment, he asked you to be his girlfriend now you were about to celebrate your first Valentine's day together.

"You and me, movies and dinner at my place for Valentine's day, how does that sound?" Harry said over FaceTime, you had adopted the tradition of calling each other while you did your night routines, it was clingy but you secretly loved it.

"Valentines day? Is that a thing for you?" you replied, spreading your moisturizer on your face.

"Baby, I did a world tour called Love On Tour, of course Valentines day is a thing for me!" you laughed at his expression, "Besides, this year I get to celebrate with my pretty girlfriend."

You instantly blushed, and by the smug smile on his face you knew he had achieved his goal.

"You know, I never know to respond when you call me pretty," you admitted, trying to play it cool, "Do I tell you that you're pretty too? Can I say that? Don't have a clue."

"Yes, love. You can tell me that I'm pretty too."

As Valentines day approached, you weren't what kid of gift you should get for Harry, it was pretty much the first time you had someone as "your valentine", so you struggled a lot to figure out what would be the perfect gift to give your boyfriend of four months.

You settled for a personalized leather-bound journal, you wrote a nice and heartfelt message on the first page expressing your feelings for Harry and recounting some of your favorite memories together over the past four months. You knew Harry appreciated thoughtful gestures, and you hoped this gift would show him just how much he meant to you, since sometimes it was hard for you to express it with words.

With the gift box and a homemade apple pie you decided to bake last minute you headed to Harry's house, when you got there the door swung open and you were met with a cozy Harry, clad in a brown jumper and some sweatpants.

"Hey, love," he greeted, pulling you into a tight hug. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day," you replied, returning the embrace, "I brought you something," you handed him a small wrapped box, shyness and excitement in your voice.

"Is this a gift?" Harry's eyes lit up with curiosity as he took the box from you, "Baby, you didn't have to get me anything."

"Just open it."

Harry carefully unwrapped the box and took the journal from it, turning to you and smiling widely.

"This is so nice love, thank you," he kissed your lips quickly, "Your gift is upstairs, I'll give it to you later."

He sent you a wink and you rolled your eyes, you decided to begin with your movie night, pouring two glasses of wine and pressing play to "Crazy Stupid Love", one of your favorite romcoms.

Two bottles of wine and another movie later, both of you were pretty tipsy and clinging to each other, and you could feel a burst of confidence flowing through your body.

"Wanna know something?" you drunkenly asked, making him look at you, "I'm scared of flies, like absolutely terrified."

Harry couldn't help but laugh at your confession, "Are you now, love?"

"Yeah, I also think I'm scared of guys, well, at least I was because I dated soooo many douches in the past," you kissed his cheek playfully before continuing, "But now I'm with you and you're nice."

"Am I?" Harry teased, enjoying this new side of you he had not seen before.

"You are," you pecked his neck, "You're like, the first one to ever like me back and honestly, I can't believe I get to call you mine.

Harry smiled in total awe, his heart growing twice its size at your words.

"I feel the same way, love," he pulled you closer, "You make me really, really happy."

You snuggled into him, nuzzling your face into his neck and feeling tiredness take over you, you closed your eyes and enjoyed his warmth and smell.

"How the hell did I fall in love this time?"

You mumbled before you drifted off to sleep, but Harry heard it loud and clear and he felt like he could cry out of love.

"I love you too, silly girl."

He kissed your forehead and carried you to bed, he wasn't sure if you were going to remember your conversation, but he was ready to remind you that he loved you as soon as you woke up.

[fiapartridge]

summer lovin' | luke hughes

luke hughes x bsf!reader

summary: it's another summer at the lake house and everything is different, yet nothing has changed...

word count: 1.7k

warning(s): cursing, little heated makeout sesh but nothin too spicy

i love lake house imagines, they're always such good vibes

It was the first night of the summer and you couldn’t be more excited. You and the boys had a tradition every first night of the summer before everyone else came (“everyone else” being Duker, Z, Turcs, Coley, and Alex). You would jump into the freezing cold lake, your mom would scold the four of you for tracking water into the house, Ellen would start on dinner, and you and Luke would go rifling through the cabinets, trying to find all the ingredients to make s’mores. Your mom always had the kitchen stocked with food by the time you guys were done jumping into the lake.

Once everyone’s bathing suits were on, it was a race down to the dock. And every single year, after everyone’s bedroom doors swung open, and your eyes met in a showdown that would rival that of a cowboy duel in old western films, you would say the starting line. “LAST ONE TO THE DOCK IS A ROTTEN EGG!”

And all hell broke loose.

Jack hip-checked you the second you flooded into the hallway, you grabbed Luke’s ankle, yanking him to the ground as Quinn gave Jack whiplash by pulling on the back of his cap. The journey to the dock was always ruthless. Ellen liked to call it “The Hunger Games” and she swore she could always feel a slight rumble once everyone’s doors to their rooms flew open and they fearlessly bounded into the hallway.

Jack slid down the stair railings, you climbed on top of Quinn’s back as he rushed down the steps, and Luke took the stairs three steps at a time with his long legs, beating everyone to the bottom floor of the house. 

From the living room and out the back door, it was a simple sprint to the dock with the occasional pushing and shoving, mainly from Jack. Quinn liked to maintain a linear path with a quick pace and Luke always held your hand (it made it easier to drag you into the lake once you got to the dock).

Once everyone’s feet hit the wood of the dock, it was only seconds later until they were in the water, kicking back up to the surface. 

“You bitch!” you laughed as Luke took hold of your ankle, pulling you back down. As soon as you popped up from the water, you grabbed his curls, dunking him back in.

Jack and Quinn were already back on the dock, sitting side by side as they held makeshift mics and commentated on your guys’ fight. 

“Y/N has him by the neck! OH, and he’s back under the water!” Jack announced, putting on his professional announcer voice. “She has this one in the bag! I would tap out now if I were you, Lukey.”

Quinn shook his head. “No way! Moosey can slam dunk her five foot ass in his sleep!”

You resurfaced, latching onto Luke’s shoulder. “I’m not five feet!”

“Right,” Quinn nodded. “Four foot eleven, I mean.”

You rolled your eyes, splashing him as the two boys laughed upon reentering the lake, dowsing you and Luke with water. Luke grabbed hold onto the bottom of your thigh, swinging your leg over his back, and hiking you up his shoulders. The air felt cold against your exposed skin, but you couldn’t care in the slightest. This was your favorite moment of the summer.

No parents, no rules, and as much as you love the other boys, it was nice just being with the “core four” as your mom and Ellen liked to call your group.

Once the sun started to set, and your energies began to die down, you made it back into the house, getting greeted with the smell of homemade dinner and, based on so many summers before, Ellen’s famous apple pie. 

“Water!” your mom pointed out as you all groaned in response, quickly wiping yourselves down on the back porch and reentering the house.

 “Get showered and meet us outside– the weather is so nice tonight,” Ellen smiled, kissing everyone’s cheeks as your footsteps up the stairs rattled the walls of the house. You always felt so tired and heavy after swimming in the lake for hours, but you somehow always had energy. Quinn claimed you were on crack (“There’s no way she isn’t! She’s slept for four hours in the past two days and somehow still wants to play tennis!”), but Luke always knew that you were just excited. You talked about the summer all the time, and with Luke and Jack being in New Jersey, Quinn being in Vancouver, and you being in California, it was hard to find any time to be with them.

“Welcome to the 20th Annual Hughes L/N Summer Vacation Fun Time!” Ellen beamed, clapping as she watched everyone’s contorted faces. “What?”

Quinn was the first to burst out laughing, followed by Jack, you, Luke, and then - surprisingly - your mom. “You really have to think of a shorter title, El,” your mom snickered, passing the mashed potatoes around the table. 

You were having dinner in the backyard, fairy lights strung around poles, fireflies dancing in the warm summer air, music humming out of Jack’s old mini speaker (you bought it for him for Christmas a couple years ago and he never leaves home without it), and the sound of water gently rushing against each other, which pulled you back to the present. 

“No! You called Dad and told him that I had herpes!” Quinn pointed at Jack from across the table, the rest of you laughing like there was no tomorrow.

Jack rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell him you had herpes, I told him you had mono,” he scoffed, shoving a piece of steak into his mouth.

“Yeah, I was the one who told him you had herpes,” you chuckled as you jumped out of your seat, sprinting away from Quinn as he chased you around the backyard before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder. 

“I will drop you into the lake, Y/N/N.”

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, you couldn’t stop laughing. You hit his back. “Let me down, Huggy, or I’ll tell him you have Gonorrhea and Syphilis, too!”

Quinn dropped you back into your seat, shaking his head. “No more med students at the lake house.”

Everyone laughed before Ellen broke out into a story about the time Jack fell into the toilet when he was three. 

“I was small and the toilet bowl was massive, okay! It was destined to happen!”

Luke smiled at you, watching you giggle and joke with his family. No one else knew this, but Luke visited you in California every couple months. He liked to blame it on the gigantic ocean waves and also getting to see Z and Turcs, but you both knew it was more than that. But you also both knew that you would hate yourselves if this perfect dynamic was ruined because you guys tried to be something. 

Luke leaned in, whispering. “Roof after dinner?”

You simply nodded, knowing you were going to go whether he asked or not. It was another tradition, but just for you and Luke. 

By the time dinner was over, your back was resting against the exterior of the house, sitting 20 feet above ground level. You waited for Luke to join you on the roof as he said he was going to help Quinn text this new girl he was talking to. You were sure that Quinn would do much better without the unique stylings of Luke Hughes’ so-called “rizz,” but you let him be, excited to see them crash and burn later on. 

As Luke slipped through the window and sat down beside you, you watched the stars blanket the night sky, illuminating the atmosphere around you. It was easier to see the stars here at the lake house rather than in California where you were constantly surrounded by bright lights emitted by tall buildings and trillions of cars.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” you sighed, resting your head against Luke’s shoulder.

“What, you don’t love California?” he joked, knowing that you absolutely hated it. You hated being away from home, you hated being away from your friends, you hated being away from your family, and you especially hated being away from Luke. He was your best friend, and for the past couple of years, it felt like he was more than that.

“I thought I loved it. But there’s no you there,” you frowned, nudging the side of his arm. “There’s no Quinn, there’s no Jack, there’s no Ellen. My mom is on the other side of the country, the people are rude and stuck-up, and… I just hate being away from you.”

Luke sighed before sitting up, slipping your head off his shoulder. “Why don’t you just come back?”

You narrowed your eyebrows, not quite understanding what he was talking about. “What?”

“Why don’t you transfer to UMich? I mean, our moms live in Michigan, it’s only an hour away from Jersey by plane. You already know all my teammates from college, your friends go there, it has one of the best nursing programs in the US. I mean, it makes sense, right?”

“It’s not that easy.”

His arms rose. “Why not?”

“I still have to apply and–”

“You’ll get in,” he stated, his hands holding onto your shoulders. “You’re the smartest person I know, Y/N/N. Michigan would be stupid not to accept you.”

And it would be stupid to kiss him right now, right? 

Right?

Before you could even question it, your lips were already on his, moving back and forth like the lake when you guys would go wakesurfing: messy, hungry, sweet, exhilarating. Luke grabbed the back of your thigh, hiking you over him as he held onto your waist. Your hands were tangled in his mess of curls, your tongues fighting for dominance. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Luke muttered against your lips.

You smirked, biting on his bottom lip as he elicited a low groan. He kissed down your jaw, settling on your neck as you leaned back, giving him more access to the skin there. Your breaths were ragged as he sucked on a spot that felt so good.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

“NO WAY!” Luke’s lips were off you in a second as you both made eye contact with Jack who stood by the window, his jaw slacked in shock and two cans of White Claws rolling out of his hands. “QUINNER, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE! THEY’RE TRYING TO HAVE SEX!”

[lazyjellyfish300]

nanamelly༘♡ source: pinterest

And how we spent Christmas under the cut (with some help and inspiration from @mysteria157 for the beautiful fic she wrote me 🥹🥹):

Christmas Eve morning is slow as we savor every moment we can alone together before we expect company for the holiday. 💕

We feed our animals, stealing moments again behind the barn doors and brew some fresh coffee and enjoy leftover poppyseed muffins before we make the drive to the seaside village to pick up Kento's mother.

While we're in town, we drop off Christmas jam to the neighbors and give our holiday wishes before we head back to the farmhouse.

After his mom settles in, I start the holiday potpourri that I prepared ahead of time on the stove. His mom crochets, sitting at the bar because I told her to relax despite offering to help several times. She'll tell me all about Christmas memories past from Kento's childhood while Kento smokes the turkey outside. Sometimes she can't remember exact details, so when Kento comes inside between preparing the turkey for a cup of coffee, he'll fill in the gaps, turning a healthy shade of blush at times while I just giggle from the stove. 💕

After a turkey dinner with cranberry sauce, our famous candied yams, and mashed potatoes, we always watch It's a Wonderful Life and read The Night Before Christmas poem before bed while we stuff each other's stockings and do one early round of presents between him, his mom, and me.

Then, in the morning we'll give our animals their Christmas breakfasts which is usually some scraps from the previous night and juicy apples and carrots.

We'll have a Christmas quiche and French toast and open presents. Then it's calm before the storm with movies, peppermint hot chocolate, and an afternoon nap with Kento's mom passed out on the recliner, and Kento and I on the couch while the Christmas tunes are still going.

Eventually, all of our friends and family including Yuji, Megumi, Nobara, and Yaga arrive and it's a mad house but the farmhouse is cozy and festive while we all laugh together and catch up.

We enjoy shepherds pie for Christmas dinner along with homemade rolls, winter berry salad, and cheesy potatoes and all of our Christmas goodies for dessert including bread pudding and gingerbread cookies.

We all gather around and watch Yuji and Kento duke it out on the Super Nintendo while Megumi reads, Nobara and my best friend get a midnight round of cookies in the oven, and Yaga chats off the neighbors ears about garden tips. Kento's mother crochets, while her dog Franz goes to town on a new chew toy, and I watch the whole thing circled up in a blanket with a fresh cup and Kento's hand on my thigh. 💕

And then, when all of our guests are tucked in the beds, and it's just Kento and I by the fireplace, exchanging the final gifts, our gifts each other, which concludes with our own expression of gratitude to one another that burns long into the early morning hours until we fall asleep tangled up in one another. 💕

[nonrevsims]

The Appaloosa Plains General Store used to serve world-famous pies and Coca-Colas. In its heyday, Sims all the way from Riverview made the long journey just to stop by for a soda-pop and homemade pie. With new technology like the Online Shopping Mod making stores unnecessary, the owners decided to turn the General Store into Appaloosa Plains' best and only dive bar.

I said I wasn't going to renovate the lots in Appaloosa Plains and yet here I am...building them AND giving them backstories. Build inspo below the cut.

[19spicykitty93]

What dishes are the Robinsons bringing to the Thanksgiving feast? 👀🦃

Cornelius: Mac n cheese. Obviously.

Franny: Devilled eggs.

Wilbur: He's probably sneaking all the devilled eggs when no one is looking. 👀😅

Bud: Stuffing.

Lucille: Sweet potato casserole.

Fritz and Petunia: Green bean casserole.

Gaston: Mashed potatoes.

Art: The turkey.

Laszlo: A fruit tray. (He can't cook lol)

Tallulah: Cranberry sauce.

Billie: Her famous homemade gravy.

Joe: Pumpkin pie.

Spike and Dimitri: They're too busy watching the parade.

[thedaintyartress]

Daisy Rue Hinsworth (Darling) is a house wife on a fruit and vegetable farm owned by her husband Vernon. She is Maternal, Sweet, Tomboyish, Overbearing, and Fierce. Daisy is a great cook famous for her homemade Buttermilk biscuits, Shrimp gumbo, Apple pie, and Her mama’s secret apple pie recipe. Her two children Archie and Mary are the apple of her eye which is the cause of her over protective nature. Daisy has an older sister Thelma Jean Darling that she doesn’t see or talk to anymore because of a grudge. Daisy likes Gardening, Baking, and Long walks through the trails. She dislikes being Rushed, Judgmental people, and Card games.

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part VI

May Your Days Be Merry and Bright

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 3.5k

Author’s Note: I apologize that it’s taken me so long to update! My schedule has been a bit hectic lately, and it’s been harder to find time to write, but Bob and Peach are always very close to my heart. I hope you enjoy this new chapter in their story!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!

Since this part takes place around the holidays, the title for this chapter comes from the lyrics of the famous holiday classic, White Christmas.

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, @luminousnotmatter​. Clara, thank you, thank you, thank you for your support of this story!

Warnings: Alternating POV, talk of the holidays, homesickness, allusions to casualties of war, references to rationing, and a ton of fluff.

November 26, 1942

Dear Peach,

Happy Thanksgiving! Truth be told, if it weren’t for the fact that we were getting a small reprieve from all our duties today, I wouldn’t have even remembered that it was Thanksgiving. Nobody around here is in much of a holiday spirit, which I’m sure you can understand.

It seems so hard to believe that just last year, at this very same time, we were all gathered around our kitchen tables with our families and loved ones, thanking God for all our good fortunes, and especially for the fact that we hadn’t gotten ourselves dragged into “that mess in Europe.” Well, looking around right now, it looks as though we may have spoken a bit too soon on that front.

I hope me telling you this doesn’t make you sad, Peach, but I’m feeling real lonesome for home today. The homesickness kicks in from time to time, especially when I get a letter from my family or from you, but on a day like today—the first Thanksgiving I’ve ever spent away from home, if you can believe it—it’s kicking real hard. I didn’t have the heart to tell my folks and my brothers that in the last letter I sent them. I knew it would just make my mama heartsick, and I hate the thought of doing that to her. Not that I enjoy the thought of making you feel heartsick—I hope you know that’s not what I mean. I just—well, like I’ve said before, Peach, I just feel like I can tell you these things, things that feel too hard to tell anyone else. And I thank you for that. It means more to me than I could ever really express.

Thanksgiving has always been such a happy time for my family, and I hope that’s true for your family, too. My mama knows how to whip up quite a feast. I imagine the same is true for your mama, from what you’ve told me about her. And the house is always filled with grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, some we only get to see a couple times a year. I’ll be sorry to miss them this year, but I’ve been hoping that maybe by next Thanksgiving, this war will be behind us and we’ll all get to be together again. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Now here’s a story that’ll make you laugh—or, at least, that I hope will make you laugh. I know I painted Paul and Natasha as the troublemakers in my last letter, but in this incident I have no choice but to claim total responsibility for any and all wrongdoing. I told you that my mama knows how to whip up a feast for Thanksgiving, and she does. But of all the fancy fixings that she makes, my favorite has always been her homemade pumpkin pie. My mouth is watering right now, just thinking about it. Well, when I was a little kid, I never could stand to wait around until dessert to get my hands on that pie. My mama was always shooing me out of the kitchen, insisting she’d send me to bed with no Thanksgiving dinner at all if I so much as breathed in the direction of that pie before I’d had my proper supper. Now I don’t want you to think that I’m a boy who disrespects his mama. I’ve always done my best to mind everything she tells me. But, Peach, if you could only taste this pie, you’d understand my juvenile dilemma. One year—I was eight—my mama stepped out of the kitchen for a minute to help my aunt with my new baby cousin. I’m ashamed to say it, but I saw my chance and I took it. I thought if I could just get one tiny little taste of that pie, I’d be satisfied until dinner was over. Mama was smart—she  left the pie up on a high shelf where she thought I wouldn’t be able to reach it—but I thought I was smarter. I pulled a chair right on up, determined to get my sticky little fingers on that pumpkin pie. Just as I was about to, I heard my mama coming back into the kitchen and I panicked. Turns out my balance on that chair wasn’t as good as I thought it was because the next thing I know, I’m crashing down to the floor and bringing that pie with me. Let me tell you, that pie makes a very delicious dessert, but not a very fun hat. My mama was so furious with me, she wouldn’t even let me change or get cleaned up—she made me wear that pumpkin pie all through dinner and then told me since I was wearing my dessert, I didn’t need any of the apple pie she’d made. Oh, it was a sad Thanksgiving indeed.

I haven’t thought about that story in a while, but it made me laugh now to tell it to you. As sad as I am about not being home for Thanksgiving today, at least I have memories like that to bring a smile to my face. Paul’s missing home, too, but he and I have been swapping stories all day to keep our minds off it. Tommy Boy and Benny have been sharing, too. At least we have each other, and I’m grateful for that. I guess there are still things to give thanks for, even when you’re in the middle of a war zone, huh?

Speaking of giving thanks, I know I’ve said it already, but I hope you know that you’re one of the people I’m most thankful for this year. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me when I received your last letter and read that you and Dottie had gone to light candles for Timmy and the other fellas we’d lost. To know that there was someone out there—someone who didn’t even know them—honoring their sacrifice and thinking of them—well, there just really aren’t words for that. Sadly, we’ve lost many more in the weeks since I last wrote to you. As always, your kind thoughts and prayers for us are always so deeply appreciated.

First pen pal, huh? Well that is a mighty big honor, and one I won’t take lightly at that. I’m not sure how wonderful a writer I am—I think I could accuse you of being the one looking through rose-colored glasses now—but I am glad to know that my letters make it feel like I’m right there with you, because that’s exactly what your letters do for me. I always feel so close to you when I read the sweet words you’ve penned. I think you’re the one who’s the terrific writer. I bet you were the star pupil when you were in school, weren’t you, Peach?

Though I hope no one in your household comes down with the flu again anytime soon, you really do have to let me know if any of you try the whiskey trick—I have to know if it’s only my family, or if it works for other people, too.

Never had a pen pal AND never been flying? Miss Peach, we simply have to correct that! Since you’ve already mentioned that I’m your very first pen pal, I would be doubly honored to also be the pilot who gets to take you for your first flight. Paris and Rome both sound like perfect destinations—wherever you want to go, I’ll take you. As for me, I think I’d be happy traveling anywhere, so long as it was with you.

Now as for that song, it looks like I’ll be counting down the days until I can hear that pretty voice singing “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Mr. Gershwin certainly did know what he was doing, and I wish he was still alive today so that I could shake his hand properly for the favor he did me in writing such a perfect song for our first dance. I very much hope that it won’t be our last, if you don’t mind me saying so.

Oh, don’t worry. The last thing any of us need around here is to give Tommy Boy and Benny bigger heads than they already have, so your secret is safe with me. Some of the rest of our squadron have joked that they don’t know how the two of them get around the carrier with the fat heads they’re both carrying on their shoulders. But it’s all in good fun. The truth is that you’d be hard pressed to find better fellas or better friends. I’m glad to know their ridiculous antics bring a smile to your face.

I’m also glad to hear how close you are with your sister. It sounds like Dottie is quite protective. I certainly wouldn’t want to be the fool who crossed her where her baby sister is concerned. Or where anyone she loves is concerned, for that matter. That’s a wonderful quality to have. She sounds like a really wonderful woman, and I’d be honored to get to meet her one day. Though, to be honest, I’d probably be a little afraid, too.

It’s funny that you say that Paul reminds you of Paddy. When we were still stationed in Charleston, the two of them used to have long conversations about their families and show off all the photographs they carried with them. With most of the other fellas being single, or at least without kids, they formed a nice bond. Then again, they always did debate whose wife was the most beautiful woman in the world—Paul being firmly on Team Natasha, while Paddy was on Team Dottie, of course. Still, they were always able to amicably agree to disagree.

By the way, Paul gratefully accepts any and all assistance you can provide in helping him pick out the perfect “buttering up Natasha” gift.

I admit that I’m at a loss when it comes to how to respond to your very kind and generous words about my character, Peach. A good man is all I’ve ever really wanted to be, and it means so much to hear that you think I am one. I’m sorry to hear that you’ve encountered men who made you feel like there weren’t very many kind and good-hearted ones left. Whoever they are, they’re absolute fools. I just hope you know that a good man is what I’ll always strive to be. It’s who my parents raised me to be. It’s who I want to be.

I want to be the kind of man that someone like you can be proud of.

I hope more than anything that we all come home safely and soon, just like you said. But until then, we’ll be fighting for you.

Until next time, Peach.

Truly Yours,

Bobby

P.S. I’m glad to hear Frankie had such a wonderful first Halloween, despite the parade being canceled. I’m sure he put all the other pumpkins to shame. Natasha sent word that Clara and Paul, Jr. dressed up as Dorothy and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz (Natasha’s a big fan of that movie). And my brothers dressed up as a vampire and a werewolf—very scary indeed.

P.P.S. I hope that Frankie has a really special first Thanksgiving!

P.P.P.S In case I’m not able to do so beforehand, I want to wish you and your family a very beautiful Christmas. I hope you find everything you’re wishing for under the tree this year.

December 18, 1942

Dear Bobby,

Before I get to speaking to any of the wonderful parts of your last letter, I feel that I should probably first address the elephant in the room—the photograph enclosed with this letter.

I want you to know that Dottie is wholly responsible for all of this.

I probably should have found it a bit suspicious when my sister insisted upon doing my hair and make-up before I went with her to the portrait studio where we were getting pictures taken of Frankie for his first birthday. But that’s Dottie for you—she loves doing those kinds of things, so I didn’t think as much of it as I should have. That is, at least, until we got to the portrait studio and she forced me to sit down and have MY pictures taken.

“I thought we were here for Frankie,” I tried to tell her. Oh, I was so mortified.

“We are!” she told me, with that classic Dottie smile on her face. “But there’s time for you to take some pictures, too!”

Dottie absolutely would not let me know peace until I had agreed to choose my favorite picture and include it in my letter to you.

I’m so sorry, Bobby. I’ve never been so embarrassed. You must think me so forward, including a photograph you didn’t ask for, as though I’m some sort of movie star or something. I promise I won’t be offended if you leave it in the envelope, or even chuck it overboard off the carrier. I’m blushing even as I write this, and I can only imagine what you must be thinking right now. Can we just pretend it never happened and there was no photograph included in this letter?

Okay, enough about silly me. Now it’s time to talk about you.

I’m so sorry that you were feeling so homesick on Thanksgiving, Bobby. It hurt my heart to think of all of you over there, so far away from home and all the people you love at a time when you’re supposed to feel closest to them. I understand you not wanting to make your family sad by telling them that, but I’m touched that you feel you can share your heart with me. I know without a doubt that your family was thinking of you, and saving a seat at the table for your safe return. I’m sure your mama even had a special piece of pumpkin pie set aside, just for you.

Oh, Bobby, that story about the pumpkin pie had me rolling with laughter. I think I even shed a few tears, I was laughing so hard. I just kept picturing poor little Bobby Floyd with homemade pumpkin pie smashed all over his head, having to sit through Thanksgiving dinner and endure such indignity. Did you at least learn your lesson and never try to sneak an early bite of that pie again? It must be very delicious for you to risk all that. You definitely have me wanting to try a piece!

Our Thanksgiving here in Charleston was quiet, but lovely. Normally I get to see my grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins, just like you, but this year we kept the holiday small. My parents drove up from Georgia to be with us, especially since it was Frankie’s first Thanksgiving. I’d missed them so much, even more than I realized, so it was wonderful getting to spend time with them again. They actually just left two days ago. They decided to stay in Charleston for Frankie’s first birthday, which was on December 14th. We’ll be packing up and getting ready to head down to Georgia in a couple days so that we can be with them for Christmas.

My family has a little tradition of going around the table before we eat Thanksgiving dinner so that everyone can share something they’re grateful for and something they’d like to pray for. When it was my turn, I said that I was grateful for you, Bobby, and for your sweet friendship and for all the letters we exchange. I also said I was thankful for all the men who are fighting overseas to protect us and defend our freedom, and the freedom of all those in Europe who are suffering right now. For my intention, I shared that I wanted to pray for your continued safety and that you would all come home very soon.

All of us, not just me, are so grateful for what you and the rest of our boys are doing over there, Bobby. I know you’ve already had to sacrifice so much, and that surely more sacrifices will have to be made, but please know that they are not in vain. Not ever. What you’re doing matters, and it’s making a difference in our world.

I want to offer my deepest condolences for all the lives that have been lost since I last heard from you. My thoughts and my prayers feel so wholly inadequate in the face of such horror and pain, but I’m glad to know that they’re able to give you a small measure of comfort. You’ll have them always.

Now I will admit that while I still think you’re looking at many things through rose-colored glasses, I actually was a very good student when I was in school. I don’t know if I can really call myself a star pupil, but I did well. I always enjoyed reading stories and learning about history the most. I confess I’m rather hopeless when it comes to my arithmetic. How about you? Were you a star pupil, Bobby? Considering you made it all the way to Annapolis, I’m guessing you must have been!

You have my word that should the need ever arise, I will most certainly try the whiskey trick and let you know how we all fare.

Bobby, I think you’ve managed to convince me to give flying a try, but only if you promise to be my pilot. You’re the only one I’ll trust to take me safely off the ground—no offense to the rest of your squadron, of course. I’m sure they’re all wonderful pilots. Even if we don’t make it to Paris or Rome, I know that I’d be happy, just getting to fly with you.

I think Mr. Gershwin would be quite pleased indeed to hear how much you appreciate his music. I’m not sure how pleased he would be to hear me singing it, but I promise that I’m practicing. And I promise that when you return home, we’ll share another dance. At least, if that’s something you still want when all this is over.

I must admit, I laughed out loud when I read the part of your letter about Tommy Boy’s and Benny’s big heads. They really are a couple of characters, aren’t they? I love how you all seem so different from one another, and yet you’re all such good friends. Those kinds of bonds are special.

When it comes to Dottie, you’re right that she is a wonderful woman and that she’d be the last person on earth you’d want to cross when it comes to the people she loves. But you’re wrong to feel you’d have to be afraid to meet her, Bobby. She loves you already, from all the things I’ve told her about you and from the pieces of your letters that I’ve shared. As much as you want to meet her, I promise that she wants to meet you, too. You’ll have to come over for a glass of lemonade the next time you’re in Charleston. I know my sister can be a force of nature, but I’ll be there so you’ll have nothing to worry about.

Paddy is such a braggart when it comes to Dottie and Frankie, so I’m not surprised in the slightest that he took every opportunity he could to show them off to Paul. I’ll have you know that Dottie was quite pleased to hear that he took her part in the great debate of whose wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. She even made the homemade hot cocoa Paddy loves so much—we got extra sugar rations this week—as a special treat for him.

Speaking of rations, did you hear that they just added coffee to the list last month? There have been many grumpy people in Charleston as of late, I’ll tell you that. The worst of them is probably Paddy. He’s always grumbling now on his way to work. But if a little less coffee and sugar means you get to come home sooner, then we’ll gladly give it all up for good.

Bobby, you ARE the kind of man that I’m proud of. I’m so proud of you. Truly, I am. Never, ever forget that. It’s men like you who give me hope for our future.

Merry Christmas, Bobby. I know it’s going to be a hard one, having to be away from your family and your home, but I hope that you’re still able to find a moment of peace, even in the midst of all this madness.

I’m not quite sure that it’s possible for me to have everything that I’m wishing for underneath the tree this year, not with this war still on and you still so far away. But I’ll have the comfort of knowing that brave men like you are fighting for me, and that’s more than enough for this year. Maybe next Christmas, things will be different. Oh, I hope so.

Until then, Bobby. 

I miss you. Please stay safe.

Most Affectionately Yours,

Peach

[yuuniee]

“I know it’s hard to get here, fighting tooth and nail... But don’t ever think of giving up, ‘kay?”

Name: Hayes Emmett Serafino

Japanese: ヘイズ・エメット・セラフィノ (heizu emetto serafino)

Dorm: Monsville (@fumikomiyasaki)

Birthday: August 17th (Leo)

Age: 19

Height: 203 cm (418 cm in monster form!)

Dominant Hand: Right

Homeland: Interstate Hill

Family: Unnamed mother, unnamed father

Voiced by: Jun Fukuyama

Nicknames/Aliases: Monsieur Armstrong (Rook), Sacambampis/Sakanbanpis-kun (Floyd)

Grade: Third

Class: 3-C (no. 02)

Club: Track and Field Club

Best Subject: Physical Education

Hobby: Making candles

Favorite Food: Caramel corn, homemade vegetable stew

Least Favorite Food: Burnt food

Pet Peeves: Being seen as the scary guy, ignorant people, terrible jokes, harming others, bull jokes regarding his horns

Talent: Good intuition, staying calm even in the most stressful situations

Appearance: Hayes is a young gentleman with cyan hair with purple streaks in front, ocean blue eyes, and a muscular body. He also has a pair of brown curved horns on top of his head.

In his school uniform, he wears a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark blue vest, and he doesn’t wear the gray jacket that everyone wears. Under these, he wears the black pants with gold stripes on each side and a pair of grey slipons with his white socks showing a little.

In his dorm uniform, he wears a white shirt with his name tag on it, a pair of blue pants with its legs tucked in the boots he’s wearing, along with a strap holding the pants up.

Personality: Although he seems like he’ll glare down at people’s soul, he is actually hardworking, confident and overall a good person. Very caring, affectionate, but can get really cocky sometimes.

Unique Magic: “Surface Pressure”

It allows him to deal ‘invisible’ blows.

What I mean is that his Unique Magic allows him to create enough pressure to deal hard blows on the target(s). Since it’s used with very little magic, he can use it every time he wants. He prefers not to use it though.

Fun Facts:

He is the son of a famous inventor and he’s been wanting to be like him ever since he was a young child.

When he was little, he was taller than other children his age and was a little chubby at the time, so they would bully him relentlessly. However, when he met Micah, things changed for him. They bonded over time and became the inseparable duo we know today.

Aside from chicken soup, one of the best foods he makes is blueberry pie.

He’s roommates with his Bromosome™

When it comes to the terms of internet, he’s like a computer whiz. He can solve it if anyone has a problem with their devices.

He prefers casual clothing to any type of clothing, but will wear the appropriate stuff if the situation calls for it.

When stressed out, he tends to ruffle, pull, or rip some chunks out of his hair.

Yes, he does have several scars on his face and body. That’s because he was accused of murder in the past and it caused his good reputation to crumble and other people to see him as a dangerous person. From that reason alone, they tend to fear him and leave him alone.

From the canon cast, he seems to be on good terms with Malleus, Trey, Deuce and Ortho.

In his Birthday Boy card’s story, he mentions knowing how to play electric guitar. He also has a black one in his room.

He also has several music bands’ posters around his room. Mostly from rock bands though.

He is secretly a livestreamer who makes tutorials on how to assemble a machine, how to do the chores and how to use some electronics in the simplest narrative possible, going by the name “How To...” But there are times where he joins his close friends’ streams to unwind a bit. (He often plays with them too!)

In his Lab Coat story, he mentions knitting gloves for himself before. But since the pairs he made didn’t fit in his hand, he started to look around and saw a litter of shivering kittens, and he ended up putting the gloves on them instead.

He sometimes can be seen chewing mint gum.

In his Dorm Uniform card’s story, he mentions that there was a period of time where he had an emo phase. Although Micah teases him for it later, he says that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

He has a tuna sandwich and some iced coffee for lunch once every week.

He seems to enjoy playing with his cat and kittens in his spare time.

Like Vivienne, his hair is actually curly, but he uses a hair straightener to keep it straight.

Before he went to jail, he had a girlfriend who only wanted to be with him for his fame and money, thinking Hayes is one of those rich and dumb people. But unfortunately he caught on and didn’t spend a dime on her and only got her cheap gifts. After he was released back, he saw that she was dating another man and they broke up on the spot. He seemed completely unfazed, but in reality he was beyond heartbroken.

[More facts are yet to come, please be patient!! 💗]

[ssolessurvivor]

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate!

(for those of you curious my husband is doing well in recovery from surgery, he can't wait to have the bestest comfort food <3)

I won't be here much today as we're going over to the parent's place to celebrate, but!

If you have a ship with Logan, this is what a Finnegan Thanksgiving would look like between our muses!

-It's always held at Logan's cabin, as his grandparents were always the ones who had holiday gatherings there before they passed.

-His mom comes over early with the turkey and they get it prepped together as a sort of mother/son quiet time before the day starts.

-Tegan brings a lot of baked goods over once she closes the cafe at noon from working in the morning.

-Logan makes his 'famous' mashed potatoes. (While Logan is cooking, sneaky Melanie and Tegan hang mistletoe all around the cabin).

-Melanie brings over various side dishes, like veggies, cranberry jelly, homemade rolls, and also her homemade stuffing.

-While Logan is cooking, Melanie usually has a project she's working on in the living room while her and their mom and dad chat, Tegan will come in and help get all the sides heated up with Logan and they have their own time together in that way preparing food.

-They usually end up watching A Christmas Story after they eat, it's sort of a tradition they have to wind down. They always have a fire going in the hearth all day, it never goes out until evening when Logan is alone.

-Leftovers are packed away and separated equally to each family member.

-It's just a merry gathering of a small family full of love and so much to be thankful for. Sometimes his niece and nephew come over once their own celebrations are over to get some pumpkin pie for dessert and watch the movie with their favorite uncle and co.

Have a happy day everyone and be safe <3

@walkitoffrogers @redhead-reporter @goldenboybarracuda @princedickhead @shieldagentnatasharomanoff @amarvelousmencgerie @adversitybloomed @vvolfstare @smertzimy @incissam @vuulpecula @wallcrawlparker @respondedinkind @sxrgeantbarnes

[xmollyweasleyx]

where: the burrow. who: @edgarebones; edgar bones.

Edgar was an old friend. Seeing him at the party reminded Molly she had not spent enough time with him as of late. She knew he was a busy man but even the busiest of people needed time to relax and enjoy the world rather than fighting it — no matter how much fighting needed to be done.

Molly sent him an owl inviting him to the burrow for lunch, hoping to break up his day a bit. She hadn’t heard back from him but it was only sent that morning. She believed he would show so she cooked. Molly made her world famous, homemade fish and chips. And an apple pie, sitting in the window to cool. And some pumpkin pasties. There’s never enough dessert.

Rather than having the boys running around she sent them to spend time with their uncle Fabian who actually had the day off — perhaps she should have invited him too but then who would have watched the children? Another day.

Molly was finishing up the chips she was working on when she heard a knock at the door. “Ah!” she hopped to the door and opened it. “Edgar!” she exclaimed. “Come in, come in.”

[cdyssey]

Wreck

Summary: When Melissa's nana dies, Barbara is there for her.

CW: Death Discussion; Heavy Grief

AO3 Link

Melissa smooths her to-do list across her kitchen island with trembling fingers. Having been folded and unfolded several times over, marked upon profusely, tossed into her purse, crammed into her back pocket, unceremoniously stuffed into her bra at least twice, and probably stained with some cheap Chardonnay that her kid cousin picked up from Dollar General, the tear-out from a yellow legal pad has certainly seen better days.

But, hey, that’s nothin’ special.

She guesses she looks like a shit piece of paper too, all crinkled and creased, smudged and barely fit for perusal anymore.

Someone load her ass in a garbage truck and cart her off to the dump because she’s a wreck: fucked up, overwhelmed, annihilated, undone.

She doesn’t even feel like a human anymore.

Her nana died just around two days ago now, passing from the world about as peacefully as one could dare to imagine for a woman who’d been sick for the last ten months of her life. It was quiet in the end, as simple and as easy as falling asleep after a long, hard day. And the doctor-on-call promised that the sedative he was giving her would ensure that it was painless, which was a relief perhaps only because everything else leading up to that day had been so goddamn painful: the sickness, the waiting, the wrenching, bone-heavy grief.

(It was entirely possible to grieve someone who was still alive—to look at their utterly wasted body and understand that what was left was just a tangible echo, a breathing ghost.)

Melissa held her bony hand during that last hour and told her that it was okay to go—she’d be fine—and it was the first and only lie she’d ever told that saint of a woman in the entirety of her life.

She didn’t exactly ask forgiveness for doing so either.

She thought that if God knew anything about mercy, He’d understand and grant her this one sin: comforting that comfortless woman.

Nana had been ready to go, of course—sure, yeah, absolutely—she had known that it was her time for far longer than any of her headstrong relatives had been willing to admit. But she was so scared too: scared of leaving all her loved ones without their resilient matriarch, scared of their eventual (and perhaps inevitable) in-fighting, scared of a fractious future that she wouldn’t be around to mend with a homemade ziti dish and warm, jam-filled pie. She made Melissa promise—over and over again, ad infinitum—that she’d keep the Schemmenti clan together long after she was gone.

“Family’s all that we’ve got, Melly,” she once said. In the same way that Joe was the only person to call her Lissa, Nana was the only one to ever know her as Melly. It was a bit childish, maybe, but Melissa didn't mind. She always felt like she was twelve again when she was in her grandmother's presence: gap-toothed, impertinent, a hellion in patched overalls. “You gotta swear to me, on your Papa’s grave, that you’ll always remember that—no matter how balorde some of your aunts and uncles can be.”

“Nana!”She’d belly laughed at the time, bracing her hands on the edge of Nana’s steel-basin sink. They’d been in the kitchen together, as they so often were, peeling russet potatoes for her famous gnocchi recipe. This was at the very beginning of those long ten months when they both thought she just was just having bad arthritis flare-ups, perhaps. Her doctor was supposed to call sometime in the next few days with the results from her most recent labs...

“Those are your kids. You can’t just call ‘em stupid.”

(Even if it was expressly true.)

“Yeah, I can! I pushed them outta me, every one of ‘em eight or nine pounds a pop! Apple doesn’t fall far from the bush is what I say!”

It was the kind of statement that only her grandmother could pull off, something that made her want to snort and cry at the exact same time. She was outrageously funny, that stout, little woman, but she never seemed to think much of herself, especially when it came to education. She had to drop out of high school to work and help her parents raise their endless passel of kids, and then, before she knew it, she was poppin’ out little redheaded Sicilian Catholics of her own—Melissa’s own ma included.

Nana was so proud of her for making it through college and becoming a teacher, telling her as much every opportunity that she got, and constantly bragging about her accomplishments to her canasta group. She’d known how hard it was for Melissa at times.

Reading had always been a little challenging for her.

Taking exams could be a goddamn nightmare.

“Would you quit flippin’ saying that?” Melissa had rebutted, both exasperated and fond all at once, attempting to discipline her smirk into a reproving frown. “You’re not dumb either, Nana. Alright? Capito?"

She was the smartest person Melissa knew, high school diploma or not, for education was far from the same as intelligence in her book. There were plenty of eggheads out there with degrees coming out of their asses who didn't know how to haggle for the best cuts of beef or stay clear of certain Philly streets at night or change a flat with a crying kid on one hip and three more bouncin' around in the car. Before she had ever decided to become an elementary school teacher, those sorts of things were her only measures of how clever a person really was, and her grandmother had been the golden standard of them all—competent in a world that could be so arbitrary, needlessly complicated, and cruel.

At this, her sweet nana suddenly smiled, her dark eyes warmed by the golden light leaning in from the window above the sink. It was a sad smile and a profound one—the kind that little, old ladies always gave in the movies before they up and died, kickstarting the next act. It was accompanied by a slow shake of the head. She had her green rollers in; they shivered in time with the movement.

“Good God, I love you, Melissa,” she had murmured softly, each syllable laden with a certain gravity, as though she already suspected something about her health that Melissa didn’t, as though she had an inkling of what awaited her in the coming days, weeks, and months upon godawful, medicine and machine-filled months. Maybe Melissa should have known then herself—by that rare usage of her Christian name, by the way her stubborn-as-hell grandmother didn’t argue back—that something was horribly wrong.

But she hadn't.

Just ten months and some spare change ago, it was impossible for her to fathom a world where her nana wasn't in it.

She just accepted that love, basked in it, took it for granted even, and now, a little less than a year later, as she pores over a checklist of all the shit she’s gotta do to bury that precious lady—(so much, too flipping much)—she racks her exhausted brain and wonders if she’d said it back that time.

I love you too, Nana. 

Of course, she’s said it about a gazillion times since then. Never left a conversation with the woman without doing so in case it was their last. But all the times she didn’t reciprocate those three words and every other missed or botched opportunity besides tangibly aches her chest, pounds upon it, like fists against an awful drum. Missed calls. Canceled lunch dates. Squandered chances to ask her about her storied life. The endless thank you she didn’t give that woman for practically raising her.

It’s irrational, of course, so goddamn stupid; she loved that woman endlessly and proved it in a thousand different ways.

But even still, what she wouldn’t give for one last tomorrow with her to tell her again and again.

Unbidden, unwanted, totally out-of-line and out-of-the-blue, tears threaten to spill over Melissa’s lashes and onto that yellow paper that’s already been to hell and back. She furiously swipes them away with the heel of her hand, doesn’t have the time to cry.

She’s still gotta call the Social Security Office and get Nana’s checks to stop comin’ through the mail. And after that, she has to take Joe’s suit to the dry cleaner ‘cuz her useless lump of a husband keeps forgetting. And when she gets back home—at who knows what time because she’s really gotta stop at the store and grab a few necessities—she desperately needs to go through Nana’s files again to see if she’s got that damn burial policy in there somewhere. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to pay for the service and the cremation out of pocket, even if she knows a guy who knows a guy who knows the funeral director, who can only get them an okay deal, which is fine.

It'll help, or at the very least, it won't hurt, but the crux of the sordid matter—the bottom line at the end of the shitty day—is that dying is so freakin' expensive.

“Fuck,” she groans, sliding her hand down until she’s palming her mouth. “Shit.”

No one ever talks about how the aftermath of death is just one cold bureaucracy after another: files, papers, tasks, and duties.

It’s unbearable.

Melissa alone has to bear it.

Her ma’s gone. Her remaining aunts and uncles are fragile. Her cousins aren’t any good with this kind of organizational crap. Her own goddamn sister’s been AWOL ever since the diagnosis, and the rest of her younger siblings haven’t done jack squat either.

It’s up to Melissa.

It always is.

That doesn't change just because someone she loved died.

The responsibilities simply take up the same air as the grief.

Just as she’s about to get started, though, reaching for her phone to start looking up numbers, her one saving grace walks in through the arched entranceway of the kitchen. Elegant as ever in a floral print blouse and black slacks, a plastic bag hanging off one arm, her comically huge purse on the other, is none other than—

“Barb,” she croaks, overwhelmed and overcome, weak-kneed with a relief that she just as immediately tries to hide. Vulnerability utterly terrifies her; it is one of the few house guests that she doesn’t know how to capably entertain.

“You don’t… y’know, you don’t have to come every day.”

But her best friend unfailingly has, bringing over various dishes and groceries, helping Melissa keep track of all the shit she needs to do, and oftentimes, just sitting next to her on her plastic-covered couch and holding her hand, palm-to-palm, their ten fingers intertwined. If Melissa has known any modicum of peace in this hellish last week, it’s only because Barbara Howard has deigned to carve out some for her, offering it to her like an alm. 

God bless her—she even showed up before her nana passed away, when family and friends were just congregating in Melissa’s house, filtering in and out of the guest bedroom where Nana’s hospital bed was to say their goodbyes. And when death finally lifted Nana away—arriving as gently as a mother carrying her child to bed—Barbara’s warm arms were the first around Melissa, holding her so tightly, her lone defenses against collapsing into a million goddamn pieces on the floor.

Barbara would never let that happen, though.

She had her.

She would cradle all her shrapnel; she would salvage her from abyssal ruins.

“And you,sweetheart, know better than to think that’ll stop me,” Barbara laughs kindly, setting her purse and plastic bag on the kitchen island. There’s a twinkle in her dark eyes, a lovely playfulness curving her plum-colored lips. “I do as I please.”

“Stubborn fool,” Melissa chuckles hoarsely, a sudden thickness in the column of her throat. She’s always on the verge of crying over nothing nowadays: spilled wine on the counter, a sad headline on the news, smelling something in the kitchen that reminds her of her grandmother, being joked with, having companionship, being loved.

She knows that she’s been caught, too, by the way her friend gingerly skims her fingertips against her forearm.

It’s the lightest touch imaginable.

It nearly shatters her where she stands.

“Yes,” Barbara hums in gentle agreement, “that’s why we get along like two peas in an unshelled pod.”

“Hah,” she tries to smile. Her entire mouth feels like concrete. “Some pod.”

“Extraordinary peas, though, if I do say so myself,” the older woman declares with an air of finality as she starts to busy herself, pulling out a white takeout container and some utensils from the plastic bag. Even before she sees the familiar logo of a happy chef wedged in-between some blocky lettering, Melissa knows the rich, homely smell of fried chicken.

And not just any fried chicken, but—

“Danny's Wok?” Her eyebrows lift at least three inches from their exhausted lids. “Jesus, Barb, that’s all the way across town. You didn’t have to—“

But Barbara cuts her off with a raised hand, a familiar teacher pose. “But I wanted to and so I did. Now park your fine derrière on a stool and tell me what you would like to drink, girlfriend.”

“I’ve got things to do,” she protests weakly, gesturing at the to-do list still laying pathetically on the counter. She doesn't know why she's being so obstinate. Maybe it's just instinct; her immediate reaction to people offering help has always been a deep, gut-felt shame: shame that she can't do something by herself; shame that she's so weak, and someone else is stronger; shame that she isn't enough. (One of her deepest fears is that she's never been enough) Or maybe it's because she just doesn't want to think about the way that Barbara saying she had a nice ass made the contents of her stomach do a loop de loop.

“I can eat later.”

It’s not a sentence she’s said very often in her lifetime, and Barbara peers at her skeptically, damn well knowing this.

“But when’s the last time you did have a bite, Melissa? You look pale.”

“I had a piece of toast this morning,” she grunts uncomfortably, more than aware that it’s not sufficient by either of their standards. That was hours ago. According to the digital clock on her oven, it’s nearly five o’clock now.

But all truth being told, she hasn’t been particularly hungry in a while, not since the hospice worker sat her down a few days before Nana died and said that it’d be soon.Food has lost a lot of its flavor. Nausea is constantly doing laps around her digestive tract. She doesn’t know how to care about eating when this grief is taking up so much real estate in her body and never paying any of the rent.

“Hardly enough,” Barbara scolds predictably, first pushing the styrofoam tray in her direction, now shuffling towards the stainless steel fridge, no nonsense and all productivity. It's how she shows her love. “You need to put something substantial in your stomach, sweetheart. You'll be of no use to your list if you keel over on top of it."

“Okay, Ma,” she huffs, but it doesn’t have any real bite to it because she obediently unlatches the box anyway. She knows that Barbara is right, as she usually—(sometimes annoyingly)—is. 

“Ma is correct,” the older woman hums, undeterred. “Someone needs to be responsible for you.”

It's hard not to feel chastised by such a statement, as though she's being patronized—a little kid in her own damn home; she attempts a weak smile anyway. It wobbles like a tricycle across the chapped line of her mouth.

“‘Cause I’m doing a shit job at it, yeah?”

Of course she is; she's a disaster with good hair.

“Absolutely not,” comes an exceedingly gentle reply, thrown over the other teacher's shoulder, landing as gently as a kiss. “It’s just that you seem to think it’s your God-given duty to be responsible for everyone else in this world except for yourself. Let me—no, wait, I insist upon—doing the same for you, Melissa."

A new lump surfaces to Melissa’s throat as she digests this unadulterated tenderness; it’s unfamiliar to her, even after so many years of receiving it from the angelic woman standing in her kitchen. She doesn’t know what to do with it. She holds it in her like a rain cloud, just waiting for it to pour.

“It’s scary that you have my number like this,” she finally says, and it’s the type of thing that she’s not supposed to mention aloud—she knows. She’s well aware. She’s spent an entire lifetime avoiding emotional honesty like it’s a summons for jury duty. But sometimes—if only sometimes, and usually only when a hell of a lot of booze is involved—she and Barbara can transcend their mutual understanding to never talk about the way they secretly look at each other when they think no one is watching and arrive at the undoctored truth of their shared experiences.

They know each other.

They love each other.

Far more intimately than should be allowed.

Barbara freezes where she stands, shoulders squared, hand gripping one of the fridge handles; she doesn’t turn around, possibly can't.

“Well... that’s what friends are for,” she returns in a stilted voice, picking her way around each individual phoneme like it's a landmine. It’s a warning tone even, begging Melissa not to press, and so Melissa doesn’t, swallowing painfully—just as submissive as a dog and far more devoted.

The sticky moment passes—it always does. Barbara retrieves a half-empty jug of sweet tea from the fridge, and Melissa slowly legs herself onto a stool next to the island. Her feet ache—her head, her chest, her entire goddamn body—but when Barbara joins her a few moments later, having poured them glasses of tea and grabbed napkins and condiments, both of them proceed as though nothing happened at all. Melissa picks at the chicken in an exercise of politeness, tearing off a little piece here or there and trying to chew it in slow, methodical bites.

It tastes like burnt rubber.

She attempts to wash it down with her drink, but the sickly sweetness of the tea just as quickly nauseates her.

Barbara can’t keep up the ruse of not paying attention to this sad ritual for very long.

“I can make you soup,” she offers pleadingly, already halfway off her own stool. "Potato? Broccoli-and-cheese? Vegetable?" Melissa places a hand on her leg to force her to sit down again.

“Nah, you’ve done enough,” she says firmly. “I... just don’t have it in me right now, Barb.”

And without flinching or glancing away, though every nerve in her body itches to bundle her present fragility away from view, she allows the other woman to search her face and confirm this unsavory truth. She bares every line and gaunt shadow; they surely adorn the curvature of her face like bruises.

“You can only do what you can do,” the older woman replies reluctantly, as though it’s the thing she knows she’s supposedto say and not necessarily what she actually believes. Melissa almost smiles at that assessment, smug in her assurance that it's the correct one. Barbara’s never been exceptionally good at hiding her feelings. People think that she is. Hell, even Barbara herself thinks she has others fooled.

But Melissa can see right through her, all those hundreds of things that she doesn’t say, that she entraps behind those tightly pursed lips for fear of being construed as ungodly. She thumbs through the Book of Barbara almost daily—with all the reverence that such a project deserves—and her diligence has rewarded her with all the beautiful fine print.

“Advice you gotta listen to yourself, hon,” she muses fondly, patting Barbara’s leg again before finally withdrawing her hand. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me these past few days. It’s not your fault I’ve got a sick stomach right now.”

“I know,” she admits in that same grudging tone, “but still, I’d do anything to make things better for you, Melissa, to relieve the burden on your shoulders even the tiniest bit.”

She gestures emphatically at the to-do list between them with one of her manicured friends.

“It’s far from fair that you’re in charge of all this when I know for a fact that you have other family members who are perfectly capable of helping to lighten the load. For instance”—she picks the paper up, scanning it briefly—”Joseph’s dry-cleaning! Why in God’s precious name isn’t your husband doing his own dry-cleaning?”

“He’s busy,” Melissa says in a clipped voice, less offended that Barbara is criticizing her husband than she is annoyed that her friend arrived at the same question that she did so easily. “At work. Fightin’ fires.”

Spending his paychecks on booze and scratchers and God only knows what else. Sometimes, he comes home smelling like strange perfume.

The kindergarten teacher emphatically shakes her head. “That doesn’t abscond him of his duty of being a responsible adult in a time of crisis.”

“Yeah, well—” She starts to defend him and then just as abruptly stops, suddenly cornered and violently choked.

Melissa doesn’t know what to fucking say to that, if there's anything to be said at all. If she argues, she’d just be lying to herself, to Barbara, and to almighty God—an unholy trinity of delusion and willing deceit. There’s just no excusing the inexcusable, no dressing it up in rouge and calling it pretty.

She’s alone.

Oh, God—her nana died and left her.

She's got a husband and he sleeps in the same bed as her, but somehow and nevertheless, she’s all alone.

Her eyes begin to water, her breathing quickly turning shallow, as everything inside of her falls apart and implodes.

Barbara quickly places the list down again and exchanges it for a tissue that she plucks from a nearby box, reaching up to wipe the tears away. Her cool palm skims the side of Melissa’s feverish face, and the contact is so tender that it’s almost too painful to bear. Melissa reaches up and curls her fingers around her friend’s wrist like it’s a lifeline, unable to form any words, her throat throttled with vile, her stomach sick with it. And the tears continue to well, no matter how many Barbara capably catches.

She heaves out one ugly sob and then another, covering her mouth with her free hand as though that would help with the inconvenience and the noise.

(She's spent most of her adulthood trying not to be inconvenient to make up for all her loudness and her noise.)

“Oh, Melissa—” Barbara exhales, her own dark eyes filling. She continues to stroke the side of her face, holding her cheek, cradling it, cradling her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay that you’re hurting. It’s okay to feel this pain.”

“I-it’s freakin’ not, though,” she moans, the sound muffled behind her hand, the unspeakable anguish leaking through anyway. Her nails curl into her lower lip. “I… I gotta keep it together, Barb! I can’t just—Jesus—I can’t just fall apart. I don’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t—”

She can’t breathe. Surely, there’s a vice in her chest, squeezing her ribcage into mere molecules and skeletal dust. Surely, her lungs have burst, her veins, her bleeding heart, one massive supernova of flesh and gory tissue, and this moment's all she’s got left. Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds. She’s going to die right here and right now, while Nana is unburied, and her to-do list is still unfinished, and—

“You can, Melissa Schemmenti,” comes an authoritative voice from above, shaking but somehow utterly unshaken, ringing like a decree from the Lord God on High. And then Barbara’s warm arms are around her, filling the encroaching darkness with all the flowers on her shirt: sunflowers, poppies, lillies, and roses. Petals everywhere. A garden of beauty and impossible delight. “You cando this because I’m here, and I’m not going to let you go under. You hear me, sweetheart? That’s my promise to you, my solemn, unbreakable oath.”

It’s the loveliest combination of words Melissa has probably ever been told in her life; she cries all the harder, weeping her horror, half-vomiting it. Her mouth tastes like tea and salt.

“Breathe,”Barbara instructs her, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of her head. One of her hands finds its way to the hollow of Melissa’s constricted throat; she splays her fingers against it, palm resting on her chest where the divot of her shirt exposes some of her skin. “You have to breathe, Melissa.”

But it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Every hitched breath still becomes a sob, and every sob reverberates through her beaten body like a shock wave. But Barbara is patient where she isn't, a sturdy monolith when all of her vertices have become undone. She begins to rub slow, methodical circles into Melissa's sternum, perhaps modeling a rhythm that she can pattern her breathing against. As the seconds limp past, every bit as injured as she is, she learns to inhale on one revolution and exhale on another, doing this until her heart rate begins to slow again, until the tightness in her chest recedes long enough for her to rationally confirm that she’s not, in fact, dying. 

She's living.

(And after someone dies, that's one of the bravest damn things that anyone can ever do.)

Even after her pulse somewhat returns to normal, she and Barbara remain tangled together for what feels like hours, even though it’s surely only a handful of minutes.

Melissa finally lowers her hand from her mouth and twists it somewhere in the paradise of Barbara’s blouse.

Barbara kisses her head again, a little lower this time, near the peak of her red hairline.

Neither of them makes any move to extricate themselves from each other. Melissa doesn’t have the strength, every ligament in her body wrung with incalculable exhaustion. (She’s not exactly sure what Barbara’s excuse is. As secure as she is in her companion's embrace, she currently can't bring herself to care.)

“... I shouldn’t be this weak,” she eventually rasps, and it’s a confession. She’s glad she can’t see her priest’s scandalized face. “I had plenty of time to prepare for this. I’ve known forever she was gonna go.”

“As though that means a hill of beans when you loved her so much,” Barbara murmurs, now running slender fingers through her hair, the motion soothing and rhythmic, reminding Melissa of all the times that Nana had done the same when she was a small child. She briefly closes her eyes, simultaneously endeared by the memories and made sick by them. “You can’t prepare your way through grief. Believe me, girl—I’ve been there, tried that, and it went about as well as can be expected, which is to say not even remotely well at all.”

Melissa chuckles at the convoluted explanation; they both do; they laugh so hard that it almost sounds like they’re crying. She finally pulls back, wanting to look her friend in the eye, but Barbara still grips her by the arms, refusing to let her go.

And they simply drink each other in, mesmerized, tears standing in their eyes, an interwoven statue unto their own: locked limbs, glassy eyes, and a hushed silence that descends upon them like snow.

Maybe they would have stayed like that forever had one of their phones not chimed: her own, laying face-up on the counter. She sees that it's a reminder letting her know that she can take another Prozac in an hour if she needs one. If Barbara sees it—(and with the angle of the phone being the way that it is, she absolutely does)—she's kind; she doesn't say anything; there isn't really anything that needs to be said.

“Shit." She tries to wipe her face on the sleeve of her shirt. It's not a successful endeavor. “I’m a wreck.”

“Maybe so," Barbara agrees, grabbing more tissues for them both. She mops Melissa's face up before delicately attending to her own. "But you won't be forever, you know. it's a transition, not a permanent way of being."

"Doesn't feel that way," she hears herself grouse. It's petulant, a little childish even in her low voice, but it's what she feels; it's her personal nightmare of a lived-in reality.

"I know." The older woman reaches up to thumb away a new tear that has formed at the corner of Melissa's left eye. "But grief rarely ever does."

It's not an especially comforting thought, but Barbara clearly knows her well enough to understand that comforting isn't exactly what she needs right now.

She needs the truth, however ugly it happens to be, however unkind, and the ugly truth is that grief is far from fucking pretty too; it is certainly not kind.

"I love you, Melissa Schemmenti," Barbara adds quietly—in the same hushed cadence that all of their unutterable truths seem to be encased in.

It's dirty, this confession, this boundless and eternal love.

It can't ever be spoken in a normal way and tone.

"You know that, don't you?"

The pad of her thumb is still pressed against Melissa's skin, and there is such little space between them, mere inches and other inconsequential measurements besides; temptation has never been a shorter bridge to indecorously cross and just as deliciously burn. This isn't simply a tender moment between bosom friends, she innately knows, and yet, by the virtue of who they are and their relationships with other people, it can't be anything more than that either, she implicitly understands. She's married. Barbara's married. God is watching. Society is judging. Neither of them will make a move that that they can't just as quickly take back.

"I love ya too, Barb," she replies anyway, leaning very slightly into the intimate touch, as though she could pretend for a moment that they don't have to play that awful game.

Just this one evening.

Just this singular time.

They inevitably will, of course—no doubt about that.

One of them will certainly pull away, and the other will instinctively follow, and together, they will tango themselves out of this senseless mess that they have made; they will offer each other plausible deniability as their highest and most sacred form of love. But for now and until that unwelcome moment, in this fractional sliver of a shared existence and eternity, Melissa dares to rest her tired cheek against Barbara's hand as though she's allowed, and Barbara doesn't flinch like she's been burned.

Silently, they construct a mutual fantasy where they can hold each other without hurting.

Or maybe more accurately still, where they can hurt together and not have been each other's sole and ruinous cause.

"Don't ever leave me," Melissa demands a little unfairly.

It's an unkeepable stipulation.

People leave all the time—by necessity, by choice, by coffin, or in Nana's case, urn.

But nonetheless and all the same—

"Wouldn't dream of it," Barbara promises softly, and Melissa chooses to believe her.

[blurredblonde]

BUCKET LIST, including the strange, the wild, the weird, and the borderline undoable

Go to a nude beach

spread eagle naked towards the sun

use Pinterest business to do brand links and get any amount of $$ from that alone

go to a pole dancing class

try hot yoga

do a burlesque show in Melbourne

post an animation to youtube

start a webtoon

learn to sew

get an apartment by myself

get an apartment with friends

post a shitty homemade music video in a lana del rey way with the help of friends

get a perm

visit coney island

be 125 pounds

get a the dachshund tattoo

post a vlog like im famous

be a extra in a movie

act in a gay indie movie like norman reedus

go to a gorillaz concert

get a snake

get a record player

meet a sugar mommy

go to a jazz bar alone

get a dressed up like a old hollywood star and go have a night on the town

get my license

own a mustang

ride a motorcycle

go to a mosh pit

go to a rave

get black out drunk

go skinny dipping

publish a art book

own a beach house

get a red gingham bikini

take a slutty picture in a american flag bikini and post it to instagram

go diving with whale sharks

be a art director on a project

do a mural on a wall

complete a painting on an obnoxiously large canvas

make a pop song with no knowledge of music or mixing

work on a big animated film

Do a boudoir photoshoot

party in paris

do a full cosplay

pet a pigeon

get a scuba diving license

explore an abandoned building

kiss a stranger

get in a fist fight

flash my boobs at something

attend a figure drawing class

be the nude model at a figure drawing class

receive fanart of my own characters

create a reel showing school doodles

be the cinematographer for a project

take a history class

be a dive instructor

post a animation meme to a jack stauber song

go on vacation all by myself

have sex

be in a youtube video

go on the video side of omegle

visit japan

go to a film festival

jump off a pier

do a pin-up photoshoot

go to an acting interview

heh

open an online store

do artist alley at a convention

cross country roadtrip with friends

stargaze on top of a car

invest in stocks and real estate

go on a cruise to thailand and thrift there

go to the new york library

visit bora bora

learn to play guitar

draw on the sidewalk with chalk

nurture and take care of a plant

grow my own food

get chickens

join a club in uni

take a pottery class

work out in a gym

surf a barrel

buy a surfboard

meditate for 50 days in a row

travel in a van

fly first class

go on a blind date

buy and fill a photo album book

kiss in the rain

do a thirty-day photography challenge and post the whole thing

explore the woods by my house

go to a ball/masquerade party

host a dinner party

say yes to everything for a day

grow my hair past my ass

become mildly fluent in french

attend golbeins animation workshop

buy an obnoxiously large rug

smell the tomford cherry perfume

get a Brazilian wax

get henna done

go to Brisbane museum by myself

get my i.d

go wine tasting

visit Miami

Meet my online best friend

dine at the ritz

go on a gameshow

do tent camping

win a sweepstake

create a artist porfolio/website

be featured in a gallery

go to okinawa

learn to ballroom dance

ride a horse on a beach/ and or backwards

go to a country club

bake a pie

buy a tourist t-shirt

do a escape room

live in Santa Barbara

stay in cape cod

belly dancing class

get my art viral on tiktok

do a commision

buy a fancy wardrobe

have a room with a slanted roof

sleep in a pool in an inflatable pool

snuggle with nurse sharks

bayonetta mui mui glasses.

go out in a pair of high heels

do a show at a convention

stay at the madonna inn

do lesbian handkerchief flagging in public

do a 'nude' photoshoot

own every sims 4 pack

complete a sims4 generations challenge

play subnautica

swim a motel pool at night

pick a girl from a bar

get a drinks bought for me

smoke a ciggrette

try mixology

get a hickey

have a friend or myself sew vintage patterns

wear a tailored suit

buy real cowgirl boots

bathe in a heart shaped tub

take a rose petal bath

stick a polaroid of myself somewhere public

use spray paint

do a vintage glamour competition

own a house with stain glass windows

go to a cathedral

get pink lace curtains

paint a room

milk a cow

replay Detriot become human

do a live stream

do a lesbian event like a cruise or smth

go to a pride parade

participate on a float in a parade

be a scare actor

act in a play

see a broadway show

shoot a gun

drive a convertible

see lana del rey in concert

do modelling work

do a commercial

buy a sewing machine

drive the road without directions

write a screenplay

submit a film for a competition

pitch an animated show

take a opportunity that scares me

do public karaoke

buy a shitty 2000s camera

get a boat license

buy a boat

go to a random diner

sell clothes on depop

play a drinking game with mates

stay in a hotel with mates

do a draw my life

do a drawing for each section of my Pinterest board

get my fortune told/ future read

buy some mega flare jeans

post a picture of myself to Pinterest/ start a 'me' board

buy some colorful tights

get blue streaks through my blonde hair like aquamarine

drop in on a skateboard

buy a castle

party at Hearst castle

post another fanfic to ao3

dress up in a slutty Halloween costume,its a rite of passage

bake and decorate a fancy cake for someone

[timetraveltasting]

THE ORIGINAL PEACH MELBA (1903)

The weekend calls for a sweet treat, so I thought I would make my next Tasting History dessert: a Peach Melba from 1903. The recipe was created by Georges Auguste Escoffier, a French chef who became famous for his elaborate and delicious meals concocted while working for the Savoy Hotel in London, the Ritz Hotel in Paris, and the Carleton Hotel in London. Escoffier's 'Le Guide Culinaire', containing more than 5,000 of his recipes, is still used in cooking classes today, and his restaurant management heralded the popularization of the à la carte menu. The Peach Melba dish itself was one he created in honour of the Australian opera singer, Nellie Melba (he often named his dishes after other celebrities). The recipe originally appeared in Le Guide Culinaire, but the version Max and I use here was written down a bit later and directed at the general public, rather than chefs. I chose to make this recipe because it's simple enough that I hopefully won't screw up, and I absolutely love both peaches and raspberries. See Max’s video on how to make it here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I only made a few minor changes to the modern recipe below. I decided to boil only 4 peaches, and serve only 2 immediately (saving the other two in the fridge to have the same dish again tomorrow). I also opted not to use the optional almonds, because I just plain don't like them very much. For ice cream, I just used home-brand vanilla bean.

When it came to blanching the peaches, the process went perfectly smoothly - my peaches must have been ripe! I also decided to use a trick that Max mentions in a different Tasting History episode, but not here, which is to score a cross into the end of the peach with a knife before blanching, so you can use the flaps this creates to grab onto when peeling the peach after its ice bath. Easy as pie. When it came to the raspberries, I mashed them by hand, since I don't have a blender. This also worked completely fine, but may have taken me a bit more manpower to crush it through the sieve with my spoon after. Sifting the icing sugar in took a little while, because if I rushed, the icing sugar would clump together and make the puree lumpy. Patience was needed! After an hour in the fridge for the peaches and raspberry puree, it was time to serve. The only tough parts here were that the peaches were a little hard to de-pit after being in the fridge, making my halves more like odd-shaped slices, and the ice cream was a little on the melty side due to our tiny freezer being a little packed at the moment. Still, the dish came out looking like a delicious mess, made to look pretty with a few extra raspberries I saved for garnish instead of the almonds!

My experience tasting it:

As a mid-day dessert, the Peach Melba hit the spot! I'd had a Peach Melba only once before, at a restaurant in Karlovy Vary (Czechia) with a beautiful view, but very terrible service. This homemade one blew that restaurant one out of the water. Nothing can beat perfectly ripe peaches and a fresh, homemade raspberry sauce! You could taste a bit of the sourness of the raspberries still, but it was balanced perfectly by the sweetness of the added powdered sugar, ice cream, and peaches. It was melting quickly, turning into brilliant pastel pink and orange colours, so my husband and I happily wolfed this dish down in record time. Having about half the sauce left and two more peaches, we already decided to have the Peach Melba again tomorrow for dessert. This dish is a real crowd-pleaser, and I plan to make it again if I have company visiting in the summer, or when we're especially craving a sweet treat and I have a bit of time on my hands to prepare it. Escoffier surely knew what he was doing! If you end up making it, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Peach Melba original recipe (1903)

Sourced from Memories of My Life by Auguste Escoffier (1872-1919), 1997.

Peach Melba Choose 6 tender and perfectly ripe peaches. The Montreuil peach, for example, is perfect for this dessert. Blanch the peaches for 2 seconds in boiling water, remove them immediately with a slotted spoon, and place them in iced water for a few seconds. Peel them and place them on a plate, sprinkle them with a little sugar, and refrigerate them. Prepare a liter of very creamy vanilla ice cream and a purée of 250 grams of very fresh ripe raspberries crushed through a fine sieve and mixed with 150 grams of powdered sugar. Refrigerate. To serve: Fill a silver timbale with the vanilla ice cream. Delicately place the peaches on top of the ice cream and cover with the raspberry purée. Optionally, during the almond season, one can add a few slivers of fresh almonds on top, but never use dried almonds.

Modern Recipe

Based on Memories of My Life by Auguste Escoffier and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

6 ripe peaches

1 tablespoon sugar

2 cups (250 g) ripe raspberries

1 1/3 cup (150 g) powdered sugar

Slivered almonds, optional

2 pints (1 L) French vanilla ice cream

Method:

Prepare a pot of boiling water and a large bowl of ice water. One or two at a time, set the peaches in the boiling water for just a few seconds, then take them out and immediately put them in the ice water. Leave them there for 10 seconds, then set them on a plate. Repeat with all of the peaches.

Peel the peaches. The blanching should make the peels come right off.

Set the peaches in a single layer on a plate (or two) and sprinkle with the sugar. Cover them lightly so they don’t brown and put them in the refrigerator for 1 hour.

Blend the raspberries into a puree. Press the puree through a fine sieve into a bowl.

Sift the powdered sugar into the puree a little at a time, whisking until fully incorporated. Refrigerate.

After the peaches and puree have chilled for about an hour, cut the peaches in half.

Add a scoop or two of the vanilla ice cream to each bowl. Top with two peach halves. Drizzle on the raspberry puree and top with the slivered almonds if you wish, then serve it forth.

[modernmanblues]

i can only imagine what the birthday boy must be feasting on on his big day today. here are some things that come to mind:

a decadent three-layer vanilla cake decorated with fresh strawberries on the edges and filled with homemade strawberry jam

a whole turkey or chicken, baked and surrounded with baked potatoes, chopped carrots and gravy on the side

homemade pecan pie because we all know how much the boy looveess his pudding

a nice, healthy serving of lasagna filled with lots of meat, tomato sauce and cottage cheese because the boy’s motto is always “go big or go home”

and perhaps a carribean delicacy, the famous monkey bread, because what other white man is more carribean infused than my beloved eric stewart?

of course, we would end the night with one of Mr. Stewart’s personal favourite cocktails, a white russian

[probabludaistkf]

assumptions ask game!!!! i assume that you live in a castle with a big giant canopy bed 🙃

okay an actually plausible one: you have soft hair

I wish I had a castle out in the English countryside near a quiet woodland and occasionally I would see an old shepherd and his dog take the sheep out each morning and help him sheer them when the time comes and I’d befriend his wife and son and I’d visit their house from time to time and maybe they’d come to mine. I’d enjoy exploring the woods with the son maybe find a creek with some newts and salamanders and I’d read various famous works with the wife I assume she’d be a fan of Fitzgerald and also make the best apple pie with homemade ice cream ingredients bought from the farmers market in the nearby village. Life in the countryside would be nice *longing sigh*….

but my hair actually is quite fluffy perks of a Afro ;P

[rabbitcruiser]

National Rhubarb Pie Day 

Who knew that such a tasty dessert could be made out of something that is technically classified as a vegetable?!

Though it may look similar to celery, the two are actually not related. Instead, rhubarb is surprisingly a part of the buckwheat family.

National Rhubarb Pie Day was put into place to enjoy, appreciate and celebrate the marvelous and unique flavor that can come from something so simple as a few stalks of garden rhubarb mixed with a bit of sugar and placed in a crust.

History of National Rhubarb Pie Day

A vegetable that is a bit sour when eaten on its own but turns very tart and tasty when cooked with sugar, rhubarb is the star of the show when it comes to National Rhubarb Pie Day!

When rhubarb began being cultivated in England in the 1600s, it was discovered to be a rather prolific spring vegetable. However, it took a bit longer for rhubarb to make its way to the United States. The story goes that Benjamin Franklin sent seeds for rhubarb from Scotland to Pennsylvania in 1772 and a few years later it grew in popularity in New England.

Now, rhubarb can be found growing abundantly in many parts of the world where it is used in all sorts of recipes, from desserts and cakes to muffins and jams. But, obviously, one of the most famous and beloved ways that a cook can use rhubarb in the kitchen is by making it into a delicious rhubarb pie.

National Rhubarb Pie Day is here to celebrate this humble, simple, and delicious creation!

How to Celebrate National Rhubarb Pie Day

Pie is a category of dessert that has so many different options and rhubarb pie is a unique and special expression of this tasty treat. Get to celebrating National Rhubarb Pie Day by implementing some of these ideas, or coming up with some creative ones of your own:

Make a Rhubarb Pie

One clear and sensible way to celebrate National Rhubarb Pie Day is to, of course, engage in some culinary artistry in the kitchen and whip up a little homemade, hand-crafted rhubarb pie!

Start with preparing the rhubarb by washing it, cutting off the ends and chopping it up into bite-sized pieces. Then, either prepare a homemade pie crust or use a refrigerated crust for a quick fix.

The filling for a rhubarb pie is not difficult to make and it doesn’t even require cooking it in advance (unless the rhubarb has been previously frozen). Many recipes can be found through a quick online search, where some people like to blend their rhubarb with strawberries and others prefer to let the rhubarb be the star of the show!

Typically, the filling can be made by mixing the rhubarb with lemon juice, sugar, and cornstarch and then tossing it into the pie crust. Add a top (lattice or standard), brush with egg white and bake the pie for about 45 minutes.

For a distinctly British flair, serve the slices of rhubarb pie warm and with a generous helping of cream or homemade custard.

Plant Some Rhubarb in the Garden

In honor of National Rhubarb Pie Day, perhaps it’s time to do some planting in the garden or, if it’s a bit too early in the year, at least it can be fun to do some dreaming and planning about what the garden will yield.

Rhubarb is a vegetable that grows well in cooler climates, such as the northern parts of North America or Europe. The plant loves tons of sun, but can tolerate partial shade if that’s the only option. Rhubarb crowns can be planted in late fall or early spring, but the seeds can be started inside at other times.

Of course, it is important to make the general reminder early on that the leaves of the rhubarb plant are toxic and considered poisonous to humans and animals. So those who are considering growing their own rhubarb should be aware and careful that it is tucked away safely from children and pets.

Host a National Rhubarb Pie Day Bake Off

Have some friends who really love baking pies? Well, then National Rhubarb Pie Day will be right up their alley. Host a bake off to see who gets bragging rights to say that they can make the best rhubarb pie in the area – or at least among that particular group of friends.

Decide in advance who the participants will be, determining who would like to be the baking contestants and who would enjoy the important job of being a judge! Set the rules for the bake off, including whether alternative recipes such as strawberry-rhubarb pie is allowed, and then send the people home to gather supplies and do their baking.

Meet up on the day of the contest to host a taste test to see whose rhubarb pie wins!

Get a New Rhubarb Pie Cookbook

Celebrate National Rhubarb Pie Day by learning more and strengthening those culinary skills in the kitchen through the use of books. Or just reading about it in a fun manner! Whether checking them out from the library or purchasing them in support of a local bookstore, this is the day to get those creative juices flowing.

Consider picking up a copy of one these books that include stellar information about rhubarb pie, as well as tips on growing and other fun bits:

The Rhubarb Pie Baking Book: Cooking and Baking like the Dessert Professionals by Alex Deen (2020). This little paperback offers recipes with a traditional background as well as tips and tricks for the modern baker.

Rhubarb: more than just pies by Sandi Vitt (2000). Taking things to the pie and so far beyond, this book offers tons of insight and information on how best to use a plethora of rhubarb in your kitchen.

Rhubarb Rhubarb: A Correspondence Between a Hopeless Gardener and a Hopeful Cook by Mary Jane Paterson and Jo Thompson. Share in the delightful anecdotes and stories between two women trying to share their skills with one another.

Rhubarb: The Pie Plant by Roby Jose Ciju (2013). This little booklet gets the reader started on the growing end, before the pie is ready to be baked.

National Rhubarb Pie Day FAQs

What is in rhubarb pie?

Rhubarb pie is made from rhubarb, sugar, lemon juice, orange peel, flour and butter in a pastry crust.

How to prepare rhubarb for pie?

To prepare rhubarb for pie, cut away ends and bruises, wash, and peel if desired. Then cut into bite sized pieces.

Can rhubarb pie be frozen?

Sure! Just wrap the rhubarb pie carefully in plastic wrap or foil and place in the freezer where it’s best if eaten within 6-8 months.

Do you need to peel rhubarb for pie?

Unless the stalks are very thick or it’s off season, rhubarb can be cut and baked into pie without peeling.

Do you boil rhubarb for pie?

While it isn’t completely necessary to boil rhubarb first, some people like to cook it ahead with sugar and lemon juice.

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