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notwiselybuttoowell · 4 years ago

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We're Stewards of Our Land: The Rise of Female Farmers

'I was always fascinated by getting things out of the ground’

Sinead Fenton

Grows vegetables and edible flowers at Aweside Farm, East Sussex

Sinead Fenton is on an early lunch break, hiding from the sun. “It’s ridiculously intense, so I think we’re going to call it a day and crack back on in the evening,” she says. Fenton and her partner, Adam Smith, have been putting in beds and getting ahead on groundwork for next year. This year, there will be no commercial crops on the couple’s 4.5-acre plot.

They signed the papers on their farm last November and moved onto the land in March. Around the time they needed to make decisions about how they’d manage their first harvest, lockdown happened. With restaurants and florists – their main clients – out of action for the foreseeable future, they made the decision not to sow seeds but concentrate on opening up the land. “We were going to do it over three or four years, so we’re squeezing three years of work into this year, so we can focus on growing next year,” Fenton says.

She and Smith cut their scythes at Audacious Veg, a 0.1-acre plot in Hainault, at the end of the Central Line between Essex and London. Shortly after volunteering at the allotment in 2017, they heard the project was about to finish: “Naively, with about three weeks’ worth of growing experience, we decided that we’d take it on and get the produce to chefs.”

Smith worked in insurance accounting and while Fenton most recently worked in software and food policy, her background was in geology. “I came at farming from an activist point of view,” she says. “I was always fascinated by getting things out of the ground, but that is a destructive industry. Farming is nicer because I can do something for the system instead of taking everything from it.”

There was a lot of insecurity around the project. Land is contentious, especially in London, and land law is difficult and expensive to negotiate for those with no farming background. “Adam and I are both from cities – I’m from London, he’s from Essex. We’re from low-income families, and we had no access to farms growing up,” Fenton explains. “It’s basically impossible to get on the land, because it’s so expensive, or passed down through generations.”

They got the land for Aweside through the Ecological Land Co-op, which buys fields designated by Defra as only being good for arable crops, then splits them up to create smallholdings. Aweside is neighbours with a veg-box scheme, and waiting for others who’ll transform what once was a 20-acre maize field into a cluster of small farms rich with biodiversity. Now Fenton and Smith have a 150-year lease, and no worries that what they create will be taken away.

It’s not yet a permanent home. Fenton says they’ll be living in a caravan for a few years: “Another part of land law in the UK that makes land inaccessible is that if you want to live on your land you have to go through five years of proving your business is profitable, viable and that there is a functional need for you to live there.” Having livestock is an easy way to pass the test, but because Aweside is a vegan farm, Fenton and Smith need to cultivate and show they use every bit of plot.

It’s daunting but Fenton is excited about having a blank slate to work with. “There’s so much more to food than what supermarkets tell us to eat,” she says, explaining that they’ll grow varieties at risk of extinction, or that aren’t commonly grown in a mass market food system. “Seed diversity and plant genetics are serious issues.”

The three principles the couple work to are: more flowers, more trees, thriving soil. They’re working no-dig, putting compost directly on the ground and letting the soil life mix everything over time. They’re pesticide-free and are counting on the fact that the more diversity they have in the system, especially with a high proportion of flowers to pollinators and insects, the fewer problems they’ll face.

“Socially, economically and environmentally, something needs to change. Things have been done the same way by the same people for a long time,” says Fenton of the farming industry’s need for greater diversity. “I learned to grow on an allotment site where there are lots of different things growing at once. Bringing that approach into sites like this is needed – the industry needs it to keep itself relevant.”

'I'm hoping this will be seen as quite a cool career… even if it’s not’

Abi Aspen Glencross

Head of grains at Duchess Farms, Hertfordshire

It was, Abi Aspen Glencross was well aware, an odd, even inopportune time to launch a crowdfunding campaign. In June, with the country still locked down, Duchess Farms asked for support to buy dehulling, cleaning and milling equipment. The Hertfordshire farm needed about £16,000, and the money would go towards boosting the production of ancient and heritage grains for making flour.

“A lot of crowdfunders have been for charity or ‘please keep our restaurant open’,” says the 28-year-old Glencross, head of grains – or “senior flour nerd” – at Duchess Farms since 2019. “We felt a bit bad, but we lost a lot of our business overnight when all the restaurants closed and we were like: ‘God, we hope we don’t go under.’ It was quite a scary time for everyone.”

Still, if we have learned one thing from Covid-19, when times are hard, British people get baking. Perhaps inspired by countrywide shortages of flour, maybe invigorated by a new interest in left-field, older wheats such as einkorn and emmer, Duchess Farms sprinted to its target. “We’ve just done some ordering of equipment this morning,” says Aspen, when we speak in July. “It’s been a tough time for everyone but it has cascaded into some beautiful things and we’re just so thankful.”

Glencross’s path to farming was circuitous. She studied chemical engineering, but while her classmates were heading off for jobs at ExxonMobil and Procter & Gamble, she was more of “a hippy at heart”. She decided she wanted to learn more about soil and its role in food production. This led her to Blue Hill Stone Barns, Dan Barber’s pioneering farm-to-table restaurant in the Hudson Valley, north of New York. She spent four months working on the farm and in the bakery, receiving a crash course in ancient grains – an obsession of Barber’s. But the moment Glencross knew she herself wanted to farm came in 2016 in a field in Hertfordshire. She was with John Cherry, who was showing her around Weston Park Farms, 2,500 acres of land he maintains with minimal fertiliser use and zero tillage.

“We were walking around the fields of wheat and I just said: ‘Where does all this go? There’s so much of it,’” Glencross says. “And John goes: ‘Oh probably for animal feed. It’s a consistent market, they’ll take it, it’s easy, even if we don’t earn that much money from it.’ And I was like: ‘This is crazy.’ And that was the beginning of me getting on this grain bender because I was like: ‘Why can’t we grow these grains organically and not feed them to animals?’ So I realised I’d have to start a business, because there were not very many people doing that.”

Heritage grains can be harder to produce in vast quantities – einkorn, especially, is “a bitch to harvest” – but they do have advantages over conventional wheats. They typically have deep roots and grow tall, which means they shade out weeds and do not require chemical sprays. The end product is more nutritious and then there’s the taste. Since 2017, Glencross has run a roving supper club called the Sustainable Food Story with Sadhbh Moore, and Duchess Farms has worked closely with bakeries such as E5 Bakehouse in east London and Gail’s, and restaurants including Doug McMaster’s Silo. “Heritage grains are delicious: when you stop growing for yield and you start growing for quality the flavour is insane,” says Glencross.

Learning to farm from scratch has not been straightforward, but you sense that’s a big part of the appeal for Glencross. “There’s all these decisions the farmer makes throughout the year and why he sprays and why he doesn’t,” she says. “You realise that most people get up, sit at a computer all day and if they press the wrong button, they just delete it. When you’re a farmer, you plant at the wrong time of year and tomorrow it washes away your whole crop.”

Glencross acknowledges that it is almost unprecedented for women to run arable farms. She struggles to name a single other example in the UK. She also notes wryly that men dominate all the farming conferences, saying: “They have a wife but it’s always the men who have written the book and given the presentation.”

With more role models, Glencross hopes things will change. “I’m not cool in any way, but I’m a reasonably young lady,” she says, laughing. “And so when people say: ‘What do you do? Oh, you’re a farmer. Maybe I could do that …’ So I’m hoping that it might become seen as quite a desirable, almost cool career.” A pause: “Even if it’s very much not cool.”

#agriculture #long post #female farmers #farming

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kannra21 · 4 years ago

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Daisuzu shopping 💗

I thought about Daisuke's night at Kato's place and wondered if he'd ever consider repeating "the same mistake" again. Living a life of a commoner is strange for a millionaire, but he'll get the hang of it.

~o0o~

It was yet another busy day at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The crew managed to catch the criminals responsible for the robbery of the "Space Jewelry" shop in Ginza, the Tokyo's most famous upmarket shopping district. After he filled the report and got himself patched from a fight with one of the resisters, Daisuke returned to his mansion with bandages and sterile gauze wrapped around his upper arm. It wasn't that deep but the cut on his maroon dress shirt wouldn't be fixed so easily.

Suzue had enough of constantly throwing away beautiful garments of clothes and Daisuke's closet was becoming emptier by each day. Therefore, she decided to do him a favor and buy the suits by herself. She got dressed in her beige trenchcoat after their meal and before she left the residence, Daisuke stopped her and asked if he could join her in whatever she needed help with. This surprised Suzue because he was never interested in these kinds of things, she was usually in charge of the purchases. Daisuke insisted because, after he spent his time at Haru’s place, he realized just how important it was for him to get involved in the everyday life of a simple man and learn how things around him work. And Suzue was never happier to comply.

Daisuke felt a little odd that he had to blend in with the large crowd of simple commoners, the busy traffic, and the constant commotion. Does Suzue really have to deal with this every single day? He suddenly felt self-aware and didn't know where to put his hands. He saw a couple holding hands and felt a little awkward because he didn’t know how Suzue would react if he performed the same thing. Therefore he extended his elbow in a gentleman-like fashion and offered her to take it. She smiled the sweetest smile and accepted it, he didn't even know what he found so compelling in this situation but it made him content as well.

They arrived at Aoyama boutique in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods around. And although it has a great reputation in fashion industry, they offered casual designs with hight quality and inexpensive prices. The moment they walked in, Daisuke was instantly drawn to the expensive section of the shop but Suzue needed to drag him away to the part they were looking for.

"But Suzue, these suits aren't as good as the ones on display."

"That's because every store has a simple costumer tactic they're using for psychological reasons. For them, it is important that they have strong in-store visuals and display their best products in front of the complex. Our current task is to buy a bunch of suits with high quality and lower price. Remember, we're buying you work clothes which are easily expendable but made of quality materials to make them last longer. Besides, you already have suits for special occasions at home."

"I know but.." Daisuke felt discouraged.

Suzue could see his uneasiness and eyes averting in thought "What's wrong?"

"The day I bought Abura Emirate's seventh prince's car-"

"You did what?"

"It's true. We needed the car to catch two young people responsible for the robbery of the chocolate store."

Suzue laughed softly "This is silly."

"I know. And the prince was looking down on my clothes for some reason. I lost my nerve and made a quick purchase."

"You were rough again?"

"Yes I was."

Suzue approached him and put her hand on his cheek "Maybe the prince was boisterous but you are old money, Daisuke-sama, and a person like him won't survive long enough in the royal district. You're the real deal, so I advise you not to bother with such people if that's what you really want."

Daisuke looked surprised and somewhat flustered. Suzue panicked a little when she realized what she just did and nervously told them to continue looking for his clothes.

After they finished with the shopping, Suzue couldn't help it but to head towards the Aoyama Farmer's Market with fresh homemade products.

"I thought we were going home?"

"I know but these products are healthier than those from the supermarket. I'm only thinking about your health, you'll thank me later."

Daisuke just watched her walking enthusiastically towards one of the stands and he was shaking his head while smiling. He found it cute when she gets so carried away. Suzue spotted the jam of her choice stacked on a high shelf, she tried to reach it but even her high heels couldn't help her. In vain attempts to get it, she didn't notice Daisuke standing next to her and taking what she wanted. Their hands barely brushed against each other and they nervously looked at different directions. He handed it to her and she thanked him.

Noticing her tension, Daisuke wanted to relax her so they wouldn’t find themselves in similar situations and not to make her nervous anymore. He could only guess why this was happening but, being clumsy the way he was, he couldn't fully establish the reason of her behavior. However, he tried and proposed to take her to Cheery Blossoms at Aoyama Cemetery. Suzue instead, became so flustered upon hearing his suggestion that he got worried and asked her if he should take her somewhere else which she refused because she didn't want to disappoint him if he really wanted to go there.

And that's where they were, sitting on a bench and watching the peaceful sight of the beautiful cherry blossoms. Suzue was so thrilled to be there that she took pictures of the place and made selfies. She looked at them and commented how she couldn't wait to show them to Mrs. Kikuko. Now that she mentoned her, she wondered whether they should buy something for her as well and she went through all the possibilities of what they could bring her once they arrive home. Daisuke watched her with a soft smile on his face.

"Suzue is really amazing.. wait what am I thinking?"

Well, it's not true that Suzue wasn't amazing. of course she is. God she's incredible even, for the way she always took care of everything. Being surrounded by cherry trees just added to her unquestionable beauty. Her cheerful spirit and curious nature reminded him of someone close to his heart. Someone he loved dearly, a woman who left him a long time ago and not by her own fault. But looking at Suzue now, he realized that he wasn't unfortunate because he had her and that was everything he could ever ask for.

God was he in love with her? He couldn't tell. It's not that he didn't know, he was more worried about Suzue's reaction. How will she take it? Is it too risky to start off this soon? Is she still nervous being by his side? Why did she act this way? Why is she nervous when there's no reason for her to be nervous in the first place? They lived in the same mansion for so long. Why is he nervous upon thinking about her and her feelings? Oh. He thought he got his answers but he needed to check them first. He just hoped that he won't mess everything up.

While Suzue watched her photos and talked about plans for the dinner, Daisuke carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek. They looked at each other and what Daisuke wasn't expecting was Suzue taking his cheeks in both of her hands and locking his lips with hers. Daisuke was still somewhat hazy and Suzue smiled a little.

"Cherry flowers are really doing it for you, aren't they?"

"This doesn't minimize the fact that you’re beautiful the way you are."

Daisuke realized what he just said and he blushed. Suzue gave him a peck on the lips and stroked the back of his neck which sent shivers through his back. They looked at each other so lovingly that they didn't notice other people's presence until recently and not to attract too much attention, they decided to visit Pierre Herme's café where they shared ispahan- a delightful mélange of lychee, rose and raspberry. Daisuke insisted on feeding her with the excuse that she always spoiled him and that he needed to make up for it in a way, to which she let him. They had a great time together and they took a cake for grandma as well.

When they arrived home, Daisuke opened her the doors like a gentleman he was. Suzue took a couple of his bags to help him carrying them and grandma Kikuko saw them in the hallway.

"Hello children, how was your date?"

Suzue just blushed in embarrassment "W-what do you mean?"

"Haven't you spent half a day outside? Sounds like a date to me."

Suzue just took her things, excused herself and headed to the room to put Daisuke's suits in the closet.

Grandma smiled and Daisuke averted his eyes in amusement.

"How do you notice such this?"

"I had a hunch. So, how did it go?"

"It was fine. Without any complications or embarrassments for that matter. I.. needed some time to figure things out but in the end everything sat in its rightful place."

Grandma looked relieved and said "Sayuri was always shy about expressing her feelings but when she did, she showed it in the most genuine of ways. And every day you keep resembling her more. I'm glad you turned out the way you did, even if we have our own disagreements."

He smiled a little "Thank you, grandma."

And went upstairs to help Suzue with the stuff they bought. Maybe he couldn't see his mother again, but Suzue brought a positive change in his life. A change he'd always be grateful for and cherish.

@daisuzuship @innovativestruggles @narcopharmacist @unholysoggytea @riaymei @ieatcrumbs @cow-goes-oof @matchabucks @bluegleeful @levi-is-heicho @kakooshi @kokorokai @darknessrxse @fluffyyagiza @geniusmeemee @sungmnnnn @koalarin @alstroemerie @petiamaximoff38 @hellohellokookie @marialenikiforov

Here ya go, hope you like it! 💞 Like I mentioned before, if you don't want me to tag you in this post you can tell me and I'll remove the tag. 👍

#fugou keiji balance unlimited #millionaire detective balance unlimited #fkbu #millionaire detective #daisuke kambe #suzue kambe #daisuzu #daizue #daisuke x suzue #fanfic #one shot #ideas #hcs #scenarios

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myheartlove · 3 years ago

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Sacrificing a Goat in Turkey for Kurban bayrami

This week had led to a flurry of activity in markets all over Turkey. Cattle farmers are busy as communities gear themselves up for a four-day festival that will start on Sunday called Kurban bayrami.

The cattle farmers will experience their busiest week of the year as all over the country, goats, sheep, and cows are sold to be sacrificed according to Islamic rules and traditions.I will stand and listen while a verse from the Quran is read. The throat of the sheep will then be slit and the blood drained into a hole in the ground. Once this has been done, I will join in with the other women to clean and cut the animal up, hence why I am not dressed in my best gear.

A certain amount of meat will be allocated to the poor. Neighbors who have not had the opportunity to purchase an animal will be given some and the rest will be divided between the families. I have gone past the stage when my stomach turns while this ritual is being performed. I suppose if you experience something often enough, you get used to it.

Kurban Bayram in Turkey

At the eid 2021 date I will dress in my oldest and drab clothes (bear with me- there is a reason why I am wearing old clothes), then head to friends and family to join in with this age-old religious tradition. My role in the celebration is simple.I will stand and listen while a verse from the Quran is read. The throat of the sheep will then be slit and the blood drained into a hole in the ground. Once this has been done, I will join in with the others to clean and cut the animal up, hence why I am not dressed in my best gear.

Meaning of عید قربان: Feast of the Sacrifice

The traditional animal to use is a goat or sheep however families that have joined together may find themselves with enough money to upgrade to a meatier and plump cow. Sunday will be spent performing this ritual while the following days are spent visiting friends and family as well as attending the mosque.عید قربان in Turkey is known as the Sacrifice holiday and is a major event in the Islamic calendar. The significance relates to the occasion in the Quran when Abraham was ready to sacrifice his son at the command of God. God interrupted the act and Abraham used a sheep instead however the celebration occurs to show the dedication of Abraham and his acknowledgment that God is everything.

you can Read More About Chickens, Goats Quails And More About Pets and Animals Here

Animal Cruelty versus Religion

Of course, some argue that this practice is outdated and on the verge of animal cruelty. I have mulled this argument over in my mind many times.However, I cannot buy into the aspect that it is animal cruelty because, for me, it is all or nothing. We eat chicken, beef and lamb which I buy from my local supermarket. We are fully aware that we do not know the source of those animals, the conditions that they were kept in, and how they died.I feel it would be quite hypocritical of me to shout about animal cruelty on this day and then continue to buy meat from unknown sources. I would have to give up meat altogether and become a vegetarian of which I am not prepared to do.

On Your Holiday

If you find yourself in Turkey during عيد الأضحى, the chances are that you will not see the sacrifice of animals unless you head off to the rural areas. The only way it will affect you, is that travel on public transport will be hectic and most businesses will be closed. In the tourist areas, bars and restaurants will probably stay open.Muslims who are unable to attend the celebrations may instead give money to the poor. While non-practicing Muslims will spend the day as normal. It has been suggested by some that this celebration may become outdated and not be practiced shortly. I do not believe this however in your eyes. It did stop would that be a good thing or a bad thing?

#kurban bayrami #eid 2021 date #عید قربان #عيد الأضحى

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thatfanficstuff · 6 years ago

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Rise and Shine - Lydia

Pairing: Lydia Martin x GenderNeutral!Reader

Warnings: fluff and the word sex. Oh no.

A/N: As you have all gathered by now I am in love with @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash‘s aesthetics. This is one of my faves though. The colors are gorgeous. This was written while I was on vacation but couldn’t post.

***

You were deep in a dream about having a normal life when you were awakened with a jolt. You groaned at the interruption and opened one eye to glare at whoever had caused the disturbance. Lydia Martin knelt on your bed as she bounced on the mattress and flashed you that stunning smile. So, there were worse things you could wake up to, but still.

Your face was pressed against your bedding as you’d slept on your belly. You didn’t move any more than necessary to arch a brow in disapproval. “Why are you here?” you groaned.

Her bouncing intensified. “You promised to go to the farmer’s market with me.”

“I did?” You recalled nothing of the sort. You valued your sleep too much to do such a thing.

She nodded. “Yesterday. I asked and you said sure.”

That had you lifting your head to get a better look at her. “Was I still asleep? You’re always asking me stuff when I’m still asleep.”

She tilted her head and tapped her lip with a finger as if lost in thought. “Well, we were in bed but I’m pretty sure we weren’t sleeping.” She grinned and you couldn’t help but smile back.

You shook your head and shifted around until you were sat on the edge of the bed. “Post-sex is just as bad, Lydia. I agree to anything then.”

“Yes, you do,” she agreed happily. One more bounce had her pressed against your back as her arms wrapped around you. She buried her face into the bend of your neck and nuzzled against you before pressing a soft kiss to the spot. “Now, get up.”

There was no point in arguing anymore. She’d won, that much was already obvious. “What time is it?” you asked instead and squinted at the alarm clock on the other side of the room. The numbers that shone back at you brought a fresh sense of annoyance with them. “Seriously, Lyds? It’s Saturday.”

She made a sound of agreement and hopped off the bed. “I know. That’s why we have to get there early.” Your eyes followed her as she disappeared into your closet. She emerged moments later with a pair of jeans and your favorite sweater in hand. “Here. Get dressed.”

“Why are we doing this again? The supermarket sells vegetables and I don’t have to get up at ‘oh God it’s early’ to get there.”

She giggled before kissing your cheek. “We’re not going for veggies, Y/N. We’re getting mums and pumpkins for the porch, remember?”

You were vaguely starting to recall this conversation. Your gaze ran over your girlfriend as you contemplated ignoring her and crawling back under the covers. Seeing the hopeful look on her face, you huffed a sigh and got to your feet. “Out,” you ordered and pointed to the door. “If we’re going to do this I have to do more than just throw some clothes on.”

“Yay,” she practically squealed as she bounced on her feet and clapped her hands together. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”

As you ran a hand down your face trying to rid yourself of the lingering exhaustion you decided it was worth being a little tired if it gave your favorite person a few hours of normalcy in your crazy lives. The wolves could wait until you’d bought her flowers and brightened your home a little.

TW: @evyiione

All the things: @swanky-batman @rissyrapp20

#Lydia martin x reader #gender neutral reader #Lydia martin drabble #teen wolf #teen wolf drabble #Lydia martin x gender neutral reader #Lydia martin

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minuialeth75 · 6 years ago

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PUZZLE

Summary: Steve remembers sitting in his hospital bed, feeling small and miserable and unworthy. He can’t say he feels better right now, sitting on his couch.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” is the first thing Bucky says.

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Word count: 4.8K

Warnings: bit of angst but mostly fluffy fluff

A/N: Set right after Captain America: The Winter Soldier. So spoilers up to that movie. It’s AU after that. Happy ending, because I've been traumatised by Avengers: Infinity War.

Link to AO3

Steve’s been back in New-York for a month when the tell-tale prickling at the back of his neck begins. He’s sure he’s being watched. Not because he has the instincts of a soldier but because he retained those of a bullied scrawny kid. The ones that sometimes prevented him from being cornered somewhere deserted – somewhere Bucky wasn’t – when he least expected it.

The leads he had in Europe for Bucky have led to nowhere. Either Bucky has never been there, either he’s left without any trace. Steve could have stayed in Europe a while longer but something had pushed him back here. It was five months since he had awoken in a hospital after Bucky had saved his life. Because it couldn’t have been anyone else than Bucky. If Hydra hadn’t managed to recapture him – and Steve hoped to God they hadn’t – it meant that Bucky hadn’t had any of their drugs and mind wipes inflicted to him in a while. He had reasoned that the Winter Soldier would have most probably fallen back to some secret Hydra facility in Europe. But Bucky? Bucky could very well have stayed in an environment that hopefully was starting to feel familiar. So Steve had asked Natasha for a bit of help, which she had provided, a knowing look in her eyes. He now had a flat in Brooklyn, under the radar – except for his friends – bug free, without any spying neighbors. Well, the neighbors were probably spying on him, but it was the expected, gossipy kind of spying.

Steve is almost sure that it’s some Hydra agent – or agents – spying on him. At first he wonders why they don’t try killing him upfront but he realizes that maybe they think he knows where Bucky is, and they figure he’ll lead them to him at some point. The Winter Soldier was their prized weapon. They must be furious to have lost him.

He doesn’t want them to become aware he know they’re onto him, so he doesn’t change his routine. He just tries to not look like he’s on edge which isn’t easy, because he is. It’s not like he can do the groceries with his shield on his back, that’d look suspicious.

He turns in the fruits and vegetables aisle and there it is, the familiar prickling. He surreptitiously checks his surroundings while pretending to hesitate between two sorts of apple. No one suspicious looking, unless Hydra recruits toddlers. He sighs. Damn, they’re good.

What he doesn’t get is that it happens when he’s in public places. He never feels spied on in his flat or strolling alone in a street. It’s when he’s in a café, a supermarket, a clothing store, the garage to get his motorcycle checked, the farmers market on Saturdays… Are they hoping to drive him crazy? Because it’s sure starting to work. And he can’t ask Natasha – who’s way better than he is at spotting spies – because they would recognize her and they’d know he suspects something. He doesn’t want to live at the new Avengers compound because he loves his flat, damn it, and that would be admitting a sort of defeat. ______________________________

Steve wakes up abruptly, sitting upright in his bed, gasping for breath. He looks at the alarm clock. 2:54 am. He presses the heels of his palms on his eyes, hoping to erase what he just dreamt about. The old nightmare – a memory – had resurfaced after fighting Bucky on the helicarrier. It was Bucky falling off the train, down that deep snowy ravine. He first had the nightmare just after waking up from his 70 years sleep in the ice. But now it was made worse by the fact that he knew that Bucky had survived the fall and had been unwillingly transformed into a killing machine. If Bucky is starting to remember, he can’t imagine what kind of nightmares he must be having. Steve can’t help but think that Bucky must be all alone somewhere, maybe sleeping rough, because it’s not like he can rely on the Hydra network he had. Is he even eating properly? He doesn’t want to picture how things would have been like if S.H.I.E.L.D hadn’t been there to provide for him when he woke up, even if the notion is very bittersweet now. They hadn’t helped him out of their good hearts.

He sighs. He’s never going to fall back asleep, might as well get up and do something useful. He turns almost all the flat’s lights on, makes himself coffee, and goes to open his sketchbook.

The drawings and doodles are mostly architectural: buildings, streets, shop windows. Things that had changed since his time, things that hadn’t so much. And there’s this one drawing of Bucky. He made it while he was still in the hospital, after asking Sam if he could bring him his art supplies. Sam had gaped in surprise and he had realized he had never told him about his hobby. He had waited to be alone to put pencil to paper, intending to draw the Bucky he remembered from before the war. But in spite of himself, the Bucky of his portrait had ended up with long hair and haunted eyes. That’s when he had understood that he’d never get his old Bucky back. He had lost him a long time ago, even before rescuing him from Zola’s clutches. And experiments. Because otherwise there was no way Bucky would have survived that fall. He had been so happy to have his friend back – to have been the one to rescue him, for once – that he hadn’t seen the shadows in his eyes. He had been so exhilarated to be able to do what he had wanted to do since the beginning of the war – to fight, to make a difference – that he hadn’t paid enough attention to Bucky. Bucky who had always made time for him, had always recognized the first signs of an illness when he was still denying he felt off, who had given him almost all of his hard-earned food when he was sick, despite the fact that Bucky needed the energy to work. Steve remembers sitting in his hospital bed, feeling small and miserable and unworthy. He can’t say he feels better right now, sitting on his couch. ______________________________

Steve spends two weeks like this. Being watched and followed almost everywhere he goes and barely sleeping at night because of the nightmares. Well, the one nightmare. He’s starting to think that maybe he should talk about it to Sam. Thanks to the serum, he doesn’t need a lot of sleep, but it’s gotten to a point he’s feeling it. It’s 2 am and all the lights in his flat are on. Again. He’s about to pour himself some coffee when he thinks he hears something. Like a soft knock on his door? He shakes his head. He really has to talk to Sam. He’s finished pouring when he hears it again. What in the… He goes to his door and looks through the peephole, expecting the hall to be empty. Except it’s not. All he can see at first is a green cap that has seen better days and dark longish hair. Then the person moves slightly. He’d know that jawline anywhere. Steve unlocks the door with shaking hands. Bucky looks up, eyes searching. He’s looked better but he’s not gaunt. Apparently he’s been able to feed himself. Steve refrains from pulling him in – because he’s not sure Bucky’s not going to bolt and run away – and leaves plenty of space for Bucky to enter on his own and not feel trapped in. Steve also refrains from locking the door after him for the same reason.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” is the first thing Bucky says. Two things hit Steve at once, making him reel. The way Bucky looks at him is no longer confused or wary. It’s knowing. Bucky knows him. And… “You’ve been following me!” Steve blurts, and Bucky’s mouth thins. “Not that I minded.” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “I just wondered who it was, that’s all.” Bucky’s face is disbelieving. “Okay, I thought it was Hydra but couldn’t figure out why they didn’t try to get me.”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to…” Bucky looks down briefly. “I was trying to remember you more and I thought that maybe if I saw you doing everyday things, it’d help.” “It’s okay.” Steve would rather cut his tongue than tell Bucky it had driven him nuts. “And… did it work?” “I’m here.” Bucky shrugs. Steve has the impression that there’s a lot Bucky’s not telling him. “How much do you remember?” Bucky looks away, jaw working, and Steve’s heart breaks a little because he realizes that, like he feared, Bucky remembers a lot of the bad along the good. Probably a lot more bad than good. “I wish it had been me instead of you,” he blurts. Bucky’s face is the picture of shock. “I mean… I was sleeping in the ice, not aware of anything. I had it easy.” “They wouldn’t have been able to use you. It wouldn’t have worked. You’re too good a person.” Steve feels like he’s been sucker punched. “Buck, what?” He has this sudden urge to touch, to reassure, but he’s not sure Bucky is okay with physical contact so he doesn’t, hands clenching at his sides. “Surely you don’t really think that?” Bucky doesn’t answer but his face says it all. Steve throws caution to the wind and steps close to his friend, who glances down. Steve’s hands are itching to make him look up. “Buck… don’t you realise? Why do you think they had to wipe your mind over and over and keep you in cryo between each mission?” Bucky looks up. Steve thinks for a moment that he’s going to step back and put some distance between them but if anything, he leans a bit closer. But there’s no real understanding on his face.

Steve realizes with a pang that the brainwashing and the memory wipes over the decades probably made him lose sense of himself, of what was happening to him and of Hydra’s plan. He must have thought they were torturing him for the fun of it. “They had to keep a tight control on you otherwise you’d have turned on them a long time ago. That’s who you are, Buck. They had to wipe your mind over and over so you wouldn’t remember the wonderful, good man you are. And even that didn’t work for long, didn’t it?” Bucky was looking at him like… Like he hadn’t in a long while. He was getting through to him.

“After… After I was sent to kill you and you recognized me… I asked them who you were… I told them I thought I knew you. They said they had to put me back in cryo, that I had been out for too long. But instead Pierce had them wipe my mind again so I could continue the mission. I remember that.”

Steve doesn’t think he has ever felt a wave of anger that strong. Bucky had started to recognize him. Pierce had been there, watching Bucky being tortured. Ordering Bucky’s torture. Pierce’s death had been too swift.

“Don’t go there,” Bucky says, touching his arm in a calming gesture. Steve is hit by how much he has missed him. By how he had felt adrift in his new world until he saw him. Suddenly he can’t stand the thought of not knowing where Bucky is.

“Spend the rest of the night here? Get a good night’s sleep?” Bucky freezes. Steve is torn because he really wants Bucky to stay but Bucky hasn’t had any free will for the past 70 years, certainly not any choice in where or when he was sleeping. “It’s not… You can leave if you want but… I’ve been worried about you.” That’s a bit low but it’s not like it’s a lie. “I… Are you sure…” Bucky’s hesitation breaks Steve’s heart. They used to share a bed for warmth without a second thought during the worst of winters or when he was sick. “You probably don’t remember but you’ve taken care of me so many times, in so many ways, since we were kids. Please, let me do the same for you.” Steve’s tone is supplicating. He doesn’t mind Bucky seeing him like that. It’s Bucky. “I think I remember some things. Like… I made you soup?” “It was supposed to be chicken soup but meat wasn’t cheap so it was more like a hot broth most of the time. But it was so good,” Steve reminisces with a strangled voice. He had never dared hoping that Bucky would be able to remember things like that.

“Look, do you want to eat something before going to bed?” Anything to distract Bucky from the fact that he’s very near tears. He doesn’t want Bucky to realize that his returning memories are important to him. He doesn’t want Bucky to put unnecessary pressure on himself to remember. He wants Bucky to feel comfortable with him. He wants Bucky to be. Just be.

Bucky shakes his head. “No, thanks. I just… I could use some sleep.” His shoulders slump a bit. The fact that Bucky seems to think he’s going to feel safe enough in his flat to sleep… “I have to warn you, I’m probably going to have nightmares.” Steve throws him a look. “Bucky, you’ve seen how I’ve been sleeping.” “Nightmares?” “Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t ask, just like Steve didn’t.

Steve heads to his bedroom on autopilot and Bucky follows him. He stops dead at the entrance, though. “I’m not gonna steal your bed. The couch looked comfortable.” Bucky jerks his thumb towards the living room. Steve suddenly realizes what he was doing, which old pattern his tired brain had fallen back to. He quickly covers up his misstep. “You sure?” “I’ve not exactly been sleeping in palaces lately. The couch will be perfect.” “Okay. Hmmm, wait a minute…” Steve goes to his dresser and gets several blankets. He remembers thinking he’d never feel warm again just after being out of the ice and he’s got a feeling that maybe Bucky is still in that stage. He eyes one of the two pillows on his bed and puts it on the pile of blankets on his arm.

“Are you trying to smother me to death?” The sarcasm in Bucky’s tone is unmistakable. Steve has missed this with Bucky, too. “Damn, you’ve uncovered my evil plan. You’re gonna sleep with that ugly cap on?” “You know what, I might,” Bucky retorts, mock saluting him with the dirty cap. Steve shakes his head in mock disapproval. “There are pyjamas in the first drawer, help yourself,” he says, pointing to his chest of drawers as he exits for the living room. “Okay, okay, coming, ya punk,” Bucky mutters and Steve is so shocked he almost trips on his way out. Bucky hasn’t called him “punk” in… decades. He quickly goes to the living room and starts to place the pillow and blankets on the couch to recover.

He feels Bucky’s presence behind him after a while and turns. “There, you’re all settled. Tell me if you ne…” Bucky’s changed into pyjama bottoms and a tee-shirt. The cap is off and he’s barefoot. He looks… soft and vulnerable, even with his metal arm visible. “If you need anything.”

“Why are you doing all this?” Bucky doesn’t say “I tried to kill you” but Steve hears it all the same.

“Because you’re my friend and you…” Steve was going to say “you need me” but he figures a whole bunch of people at Hydra must have used this line on him. “It’s my role to take care of you. It’s my turn, pal.” Bucky looks at him, his eyes a bit too bright. Steve says nothing more. ______________________________

After hesitating, Steve leaves his bedroom’s door open. After the sounds of Bucky settling in, the living room is quiet. Steve choses to believe it’s a good sign. Steve first thinks he’s going to pretend sleeping and read instead, but in the end, he changes into his own pyjamas and lies down. He falls asleep without even realizing it. _____________________________

Something wakes Steve up. Which comes as a shock, because it means he fell asleep in the first place. His heart leaps in his chest when he realizes that there are noises coming from his living room. He half stumbles from his bed but then his brain comes fully online and he remembers that Bucky is here. Bucky stayed. Steve wastes no time in leaving his bedroom, padding barefoot towards the noises.

There also are delicious smells, Steve notices as he’s met by the sight of Bucky in his open plan kitchen, still in pyjamas. Making pancakes. There’s also coffee brewing. The spectacle is achingly familiar. Bucky was almost always the one doing the cooking, because his Ma had taught him to make miracles with few things.

“The state of your fridge and cupboards is appalling,” Bucky says without turning, adding another pancake to the already impressive pile. “Today was groceries day. I’m surprised you even found eggs.”

Bucky turns to answer. His eyes widen. “Are you really wearing a Captain America tee-shirt?” Steve can feel his ears reddening. He didn’t really think about what he was wearing before coming to the kitchen. “That was someone’s idea of a funny gift. I can’t wear it anywhere else.” “You don’t say.” Bucky’s tone is sarcastic.

Now that he can see Bucky’s face, Steve realizes that the dark marks beneath his eyes are still there. His heart plummets. “You didn’t sleep,” he says, hoping his voice isn’t reproachful because it’s certainly not how he feels. And he doesn’t want Bucky to lie to make him feel better. “No, I didn’t. Strange new place, strange people…” Bucky smiles wryly. “Buck…” “I lied down and I relaxed. Really relaxed. Steve, do you… Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to relax? Well, I don’t. I don’t really remember. But it must be long.”

That’s the most words Bucky has said to him since his mask fell months ago. It’s also the first time Bucky has called him “Steve” since… He won’t go there. Instead of thinking about what Bucky can’t do, he’ll focus on what he can, which is feeling safe enough in his flat with him to not be on high alert. “I… You’re right. I shouldn’t have said…” Bucky gestures dismissively. “It came from a good place. You slept.” The corners of his mouth turn up. He puts the plate piled high with pancakes on the table, which he has also set. Steve sits down, a bit shaken by the familiar domesticity of the scene. Bucky brings the coffee pot on the table, filling the mugs. The pancakes are drowning in butter. Bucky follows Steve’s look. “Yeah, couldn’t find any corn syrup. Good thing we don’t need to worry about cholesterol, right?” Steve huffs a laugh. He knows he hasn’t answered Bucky’s remark about his good night’s sleep. He thinks he knows why he was able to sleep. “You know, I think I slept because… because I knew where you were. And that you were safe.”

Bucky, who’s already wolfing down a pancake, gulps audibly, staring at him. Their eyes meet across the table, and hold. Then Bucky looks down, his brow crinkling. It’s cute. And wow, where did that thought come from? Steve takes a sip of coffee, not at all hiding behind his mug.

“Steve…” Bucky’s tone – and the use of his first name – are more than enough for Steve to look up. “Sometimes I remember the small things – like how to make pancakes – but I don’t always remember the big ones… or sometimes I think I remember but it’s… distorted and incomplete.” Steve nods his understanding, trying to keep his expression neutral because right now he wishes he could go and take out Hydra. All of Hydra. Slowly and painfully. “Back before… before the war… and… during the war… Were we…” Bucky’s eyes are resolutely fixed on the table. “Were we more than friends?”

That’s… unexpected. As if Bucky had pressed some sort of button, Steve’s mind starts replaying years of memories of him – with him. Always. The joy of Bucky offering to live with him after his Ma’s death. He had tried to refuse but he was glad Bucky had all but barged into his life. The gripping fear of Bucky being enlisted and leaving for a war Steve couldn’t follow him to. Bucky had also been in his thoughts when he had agreed to undergo the serum experiment. The searing pain of Bucky tumbling down that ravine, revisiting him every night in his nightmares. His very last thought for Bucky an instant before his plane crashed, thinking that at least he hadn’t had to wait too long to join him. The feeling of utter emptiness when he had awaken in that fake room and realised everyone he knew was gone, that he didn’t join Bucky after all, that he wouldn’t for a long time. The permanent hole at the center of his chest that nothing could seem to fill. The mask of the Winter Soldier falling and… BuckyBuckyBuckyBuckyBuckyBucky. Like a beam of light into his heart. The truth slams into Steve and it’s so simple and so genuine he doesn’t understand why he didn’t see it before. There’s a wooshing sound in his ears and he belatedly realises it’s the sound of his heart trying to beat out of his chest.

Steve’s eyes focus on the present. Bucky’s head is bowed, his shoulders hunched forwards. Steve realizes he’s probably been too long in answering. Reacting even. He can’t stand seeing him like this. “Bucky?” he softly calls. Bucky looks up and the resignation in his eyes cuts like a knife. “That’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t know why…” Oh, the irony. Bucky with his fractured memory is more perceptive than he’s been. Steve can’t help but wonder what kind of memories has led him to ask that question. Or maybe it was a feeling? Did Bucky… “Let me set a ground rule” – and in this moment Steve knows that he means for the years to come, because he has no intention of letting Bucky out of his sight ever again – “you can ask me anything. Anything at all you don’t remember, anything you don’t understand.” Bucky’s look is focused, laser-like. He nods. “We… we weren’t more than friends.” Steve sees Bucky’s face falling a little. In that moment he wishes he could have given him another answer but that would have been lying about their past, and Bucky has been lied to enough. “Can I… why did you ask?” Steve knows it’s unfair to ask him that. He knows he’s being selfish. Just like he knows he’s trying to avoid staring at Bucky but somehow still notices the infinitesimal expressions on his face, the way his hair softly frames his jaw, the stormy grey of his eyes, how his own tee-shirt fits him.

Bucky lets out a chuckle but it’s a dark one and Steve immediately understands that he pushed too far. “I’m sorry but no. I can’t… I can’t answer you, okay?” Bucky must be thinking Steve is playing games with him. Steve can’t let him think that for a moment more. Not now, not when he’s just realized that he… He takes a deep breath. If he crashes and burn, so be it. At least he’s got thicker skin than Bucky right now.

“Buck…” Steve gingerly puts his hands on top of Bucky’s. Slowly, to give him the time to avoid his touch if he wants. It’s the first time he touches Bucky since… God, last time was probably a quick hug before their last mission together. Before Bucky fell from that cursed train. He’s not… He’s not going to count the blows they exchanged fighting. He gets the horrible feeling that Bucky hasn’t been touched in a gentle manner in 75 years. Bucky doesn’t recoil. He just stares in fascination at Steve’s flesh hand on his metal one. He looks up, bewildered.

“Stevie?” Steve bites the inside of his cheek to not react to the use of that name, and he tastes blood. He can’t bring himself to move his hands away and Bucky doesn’t shake them off.

“Buck. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it sooner. I didn’t realize what it was. I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. I thought I loved you like a brother, but… When you enlisted and went to the war without me…” “You were jealous because you wanted to fight too…” “That, and also… You were going where I couldn’t follow, Buck. I was worried sick. So when Dr Erskine told me about the serum…” Bucky’s eyes grew wide. “You did this to follow me? You could have died, you fucking idiot. It could have killed you.” “It didn’t. It didn’t, and I found you again. Buck, you were my very last thought when the plane went down. I thought I was going to die. I thought I was going to be with you again. So it wasn’t so bad, dying. I don’t think that’s how I should have felt if you were only my friend.”

Bucky smiled tremulously. Steve had missed Bucky smiling. He felt Bucky’s hands shaking slightly under his – and how could the metal one shake?

Bucky inhaled deeply. “I asked because of how I felt after spying on you for a couple of weeks. I got this weird sensation in my chest the first time I saw you smile – you were sitting at this café terrace, drawing. I thought I was coming down with something, but… I realised I felt it when you looked happy. I realized the sensation was me being happy too. The more I observed you, the more stuff I remembered, bits and pieces. Made me think we were… I could have killed you on that helicarrier, Steve. You threw your goddamn shield away, trusting me not to kill you. I was… completely lost. I didn’t know what to think.” “You saved me.” “I couldn’t let you die, and I didn’t understand why.” Steve feels Bucky’s right hand going relaxed and steady under his and he becomes aware that his thumb is gently stroking Bucky’s knuckles. Probably has been for a while. “Buck… I’m so sorry I failed you.” “What bullshit are you on about?” “I should have seen… I should have realized that they had already done something to you after rescuing you. I was too busy fighting. I was too happy I was finally fighting, making a difference. I should have seen you weren’t quite the same.” “And… what would you have done about it?” “I… I could have sent you back home.” “The hell you’d have. I’d have never left your side.” “Then I should have… I should have been more insistent on going to Europe sooner, to where the fight was, instead of parading on stage in that ridiculous costume for months. You wouldn’t have been taken prisoner. They wouldn’t have…” “I’d be dead, Steve. If they hadn’t experimented on me, I’d be long gone right now. Buried deep in that fucking ravine.” “I… What they did to you… what they made you do… I don’t have the right to be glad that…” “You were always too damn selfless for your own good. The past’s the past, Steve. I have you now. Wouldn’t change that.” Steve realizes that it’s now Bucky who’s holding his hands. “And you looked damn good in that costume. I’ve seen the films at the museum.” Steve knows he’s blushing to the tip of his ears. “God, Buck…” “I like it when you look at me like that.” “Like what?” “When you don’t look like you’re searching for traces of someone else.” “I wasn’t…” Steve interrupts himself because he knows Bucky’s right. “Sorry.” “That guy’s no longer really completely here, you know. I think he hasn’t been for a while.” “I… I know. I know. It’s not like I haven’t changed at all myself. But I’m still Steve. And you’re still Bucky.” Steve smiles tentatively. “Yeah. Bits and pieces. Puzzle. I still don’t really know.” “We can discover that.” Steve doesn’t say “together”, but it’s heavily implied. “We still friends?” Steve shakes his head. Bucky’s fingers tense on his hands. “Much more than friends.” Bucky smiles. Genuinely smiles. It’s like basking in the sun’s light after 75 years under the cold ice. “I don’t know if I know how to do that,” Bucky says. “Me neither. We can learn together?”

The coffee and the pancakes are long cold and forgotten when Bucky tentatively, gently, but passionately touches his lips to Steve’s.

#Stucky #Steve x Bucky #Steve/Bucky #Fanfiction

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vfenrirsv · 4 years ago

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Date a girl who eats.

Date a girl who spends her money on fancy cheese instead of clothes, who has problems with refrigerator space because she has so many variations of mustard (and don’t even start with all the hot sauces). Date a girl who keeps a list of faraway restaurants she wants to visit, who has been eating foie gras since she was twelve.

Find a girl who eats. You’ll know that she eats because she will always have a half-eaten bar of artisan fair-trade chocolate in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the produce at the farmers market, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the first morels of the season. You see that weird chick sniffing the leaves of vine-ripened tomatoes at the supermarket? That’s the girl who eats. Of course, she’ll never ever buy that supermarket tomato, but the leaves will remind her of the garden that she’ll plant in the Spring.

She’s the girl eating while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the latte will be cold because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in the scrumptious world of a buttery, flaky croissant. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who eat do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the croissant.

Buy her a pain au chocolat.

Let her know what you really think of umami. See if she got through the first chapter of Escoffier. Understand that if she says she prefers early James Beard, she’s just saying that to test you. Ask her if she loves Alice Waters, or if she would like to be Alice Waters.

It’s easy to date a girl who eats. Give her fine wine for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of terroir, in oddly-marked bottles. Give her Petrus, La Tour, La Tâche, Montrachet. Let her know that you understand that wine is love. Understand that she knows the pros and cons between corks and screwcaps, but by God, she’s going to argue for real cork until the day she dies. She understands the ceremony of cork.

She doesn’t collect antique corkscrews for nothing.

Lie to her about the fact that you picked all the shrimp and sausage from the jambalaya. Since she understands food, she will understand your greedy urge to horde the tastiest morsels for yourself. She will make due with an extra helping of rice, and whatever shrimp and sausage you’ve left behind. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail to leave her the last slice of cake. Because a girl who eats knows that the last slice is the bittersweet slice. Because girls who eat understand that the last piece of cake was probably a little stale anyhow, and that the promise of cutting into a brand new cake is really the best part. And that reminds her — she has a fresh raspberry tart stashed in that closet where you never look. Sucker.

Why be frightened of foods you have never tried? Girls who eat understand that someone, somewhere, had to eat the first oyster. Or the first escargot.

If you find a girl who eats, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a slice of cold pizza and daydreaming, offer her a napkin and hold her. You may lose her for a few minutes but she will always come back to you. She’ll mention that sometimes, cold pizza can taste even better than oven-fresh pizza, because sometimes, it just does.

You will mock vegetarians together. And especially vegans. But never to their pale, delicate faces. Only with sly knowing glances, as you hear them whining to the waiter at the next table over.

Together, you will eat so much that you will wonder why your heart hasn’t already congealed with butterfat and seized up in revolt (don’t worry — it’s the French paradox). You will talk about lunch during breakfast, and dinner during lunch. She will introduce your children to braised pork belly and duck comfit, maybe during the same meal.

Date a girl who eats because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most delicious life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale bread, and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone (and hungry). If you want to taste the world and the world beyond it, date a girl who eats.

Or better yet, date a girl who cooks.

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“Date A Girl Who Eats,” by Eating The Globe

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indigozeal · 6 years ago

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Maine drama update

I recently saw two plays produced here in Maine. I thought it would contribute to our cultural discourse here on Tumblr if I described them.

Play #1: Two middle-aged women become convinced their friend's new dentist lover is a serial killer. Unfortunately, the playwright confused "awkward, misunderstood creepy" with "dangerous warning sign creepy," having the dentist enthusiastically obsess over The Silence of the Lambs the day after one of his hygienists is kidnapped from his parking lot and carry knife-catalog shuriken with him everywhere so he can take them out to threaten people physically who tick him off in the grocery checkout line. Nonetheless, the women conclude during the moral-of-the-story coda that, hey, even though he's creepy, at least their friend's with a guy, and not single, a fate worse than Marathon Man.

An odd interlude occurs when the women attempt to enlist the help of the friend's 19-year-old daughter, and the daughter is wearing a top with an open front, which leads to the two older women making numerous frank and rude comments about her breasts. The daughter gets upset and demands that these two women who are like aunts to her stop talking about her breasts, a request that is treated by the play as "ha-ha, petulant millennial!" but - yeah, stop talking about the teenager's breasts.

The final scene takes place in a canyon where Friend and Creepy Guy wind up camping alone, and the protagonists determine that the only way to protect their friend from being murdered is to station themselves, and later the friend's daughter, right outside the tent while she has sex with the guy and they all try to have an extended conversation with her throughout. I now have a deeper understanding of all those Tumblr memes complaining about the straights.

Play #2: The description: A new college graduate comes home to her small town to find everything changed, her father under a sleeping spell, and an odd noise hovering over the town as oddly-dressed strangers start visiting from the woods. Sounds intriguing. That's not what the play's about. The dad's not under a spell but instead is drinking heavily following his wife's death; it's not the town that's changed, but the graduate due to her misbegotten educated ways; and the noise - I did not stick around to ascertain this, but it was the clear destination of the unsubtle metaphor train - representates the disruptive, evil college influence she's brought to her home.

Despite penning what is in part a screed against college, the playwright has avoided gaining any understanding of what college is. Though the protagonist spent four years in specialized education, she has never before considered what she wants to do for a job and has no idea that employment is required to earn money, nor - most unrealistic of all - does she feel the pressing financial motivation of student debt. To the author, you go to college to learn big words that are useless and avoid work. The protagonist has an ag degree with a business minor, her family has a derelict farm, and I was expecting the play to have a Homer Simpson-like epiphany of "education and training can be exchanged for gainful employment" (not how things are reliably working right now in the U.S., but that's beyond this play's economic understanding). That never happened, though; someone instead suggests that the protagonist could be a receptionist at the TV repair shop, maybe. Another character gripes that millennials love to complain about unemployment, but that's stupid, since there's plenty of work down at the farm.

After a chat down at the local cafe about the "drug wagons" that people drive in the city ("they call them 'low riders'") and a visit with a game warden friend who's the dramatic equivalent of that photo of the Stephen Colbert character pointing at Jon Stewart (Graduate tries to offer support after learning Friend came out; play makes a big point of Warden acting like Graduate is crazy and stupid for thinking that someone who's gay might run into problems in a conservative small town), the protagonist decides to find employment by organizing a farmer's market, which is here treated as a grave affront to true farm culture. To illustrate her naivete, the play has her worry about how to stop people from bringing guns into the market venue. In what is portrayed as a completely rational counterpoint and not a joke, her brother retorts that she's being ridiculous, because if you stop people from bringing guns into the farmer's market, you'd have to stop people from bringing guns into the supermarkets, and if you can't bring your guns, how are you expected to shop for groceries?

At this point, the play had hit peak 2018 U.S. and could not top this glory, so I walked out. I think I started a small chain reaction, as no one else had left the theater by this juncture, but after I reached my car, I saw a few other folks walking to theirs and pulling out of the lot. That wasn't my intention - I was hoping folks would think I'd just gone to the restroom - but I had to leave; my dark, college-educated heart can stand only so much light.

(I saw only one of the "weirdly-dressed" strangers from the play description, who was just a guy in unseasonable hunting gear. He walked in the local cafe and asked ominously for a tuckahoe pie, a Chinese snack, rejecting the waiter's offers of God-given Maine treats like whoopie pies and needhams. If I had to take a guess, I think the "weirdly-dressed" person coming in from parts unknown and demanding strange foreign food (directly after complaints by the locals about unfamiliar faces in town and how no one knows each other anymore) would be a reference to the Somali immigrant population in Portland, 20 miles away, that started moving in 15 years ago. The stranger was portrayed by a white guy and was not dressed in anything remotely Somali, but I think that the author was aware that even this play couldn't get away with a more explicit metaphor.)

#the big laugh from the second play was the game warden complaining about how 'women are bitches'#because all women have to hate each other #the big laugh from the first was when a police officer asked the women (who lived in utah) if they had any guns #and one responded 'oh of course not we're democrats'#and i'm thinking 'yeah that doesn't matter in the western states'

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axburrows · 5 years ago

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“My Plague Journal”

By RICHARD LITTLETHOUGHT ‘The Voice of Truth, if by “Truth” you mean “Profoundly Right-Wing Assertions”.’

DAY IV

Readers, I do confess this self-isolation business is getting to me at the very roots! The other day, I was having a harmless browse of some of that P.G. Wodehouse – ‘fun for all the fam’, as the rappers would say. But several chapters in, my heart ached and a drowsy numbness pained my sense, as though of Benylin® I had drunk.

In my delirious state, I saw myself attired in a starched collar and claw-hammer coat to boot. My man-cave was gone. Looking around at this new opulent interior, I surmised that I’d entered into the employment of a top-drawer citizen: Mister Bertram Wooster! Distantly, I heard the tinkling of a bell. I pursued the sound up a long and winding staircase. I opened an oak panelled door and stepped into my master’s bedroom. He was lounging beneath candy-striped bedclothes, a little bell in his hand.

‘You rang, sir?’ I said.

‘Now look here, Littlethought’, Wooster intoned, ‘My squeeze, Emily Maitlis, is coming round for supper later and I want to make a bit of an impression – if you catch my meaning?’

‘Indeed, sir.’ I said.

‘I’ve got a grocery list here for her favourite dish: Greek moussaka with a special side salad – Yukon potatoes, artichoke hearts and a caramelised fig – that sort of caper.’ He waved this scroll of decadence beneath my salt-of-the-earth nose. ‘Now be a sport and toddle down to Whole Foods, would you?’

‘Indeed, sir’, I intoned. I took the list and shimmered out.

Coming down Kensington High Street, the pavements billowed with a thousand coxcombs in primrose scarfs and crushable bushman’s hats. Through the window of a Wasabi, the Monopoly Man was licking ramen off a glass table top while a prostitute clapped. I turned and saw a parade processing up the road, at the centre of which was a massive Chinese dragon with the face of a polystyrene James O’Brien. Fire-eaters and acrobats pranced around it performing tricks, whilst Sandi Toksvig saluted the crowd from an amphibious rocket launcher. Jess Phillips played ‘I Will Survive�� on the ocarina. A marmoset was on Skype!!! I’m a stranger in my own country! I thought.

Behind me, I heard a fragile voice singing from the doorway of an Alms House.

‘Jesus blood - never failed me yet - never failed m’yet - never failed me...’

‘Mister Farage!’ I said. ‘Whatever became of our Man of the Hour?’

‘I’ve been stripped of m’assets, boy. Stripped of m’assets.’

‘Wassat?’

‘M’Youtube videos have been de-monitised, I tells ye! All m’lovely Youtube videos!’

‘They’ll never get away with this, Nige! God’s honour, they won’t!’

‘Thruppence for a vodka jelly, will ye?’

I was about to knee him in the groin and make a speech about the undeserving poor, when an affectless young man approached and forced a limp handshake. The young man then turned and gestured to a bunch of phlegmatic-faced tweens in furs doing coke off a padlock key.

‘Hey, guys, come on over!’ he said. ‘It’s a load of pre-gentrification First Peoples!’

They introduced themselves as characters who’d escaped from an Andrew Doyle satire. They were now surviving hand-to-mouth as a band of marauding postmodernists. They tried to impress me by showing me colourful objects from their ‘superior culture’, including Nespresso pods, scalp wax and a pencil sharpener from the Barbican Centre. A young woman in turquoise brogues read a poem about having adulterous sex in a library. When I told her I thought poetry was a form of character weakness, she cried onto her shoes (AND HER LACES TO BOOT!!hooho!). One tired-looking bloke – who claimed that sleep patterns were ‘just a construct’ and favoured instead a politicised version of rest known as ‘free-sleep’ – asked if I’d considered taking ‘powerful antidepressants’ to cure my conservatism. I told him that I was in love with my own sadness. I said I wanted to live my life ‘like a powder keg: short but sweet’ – I winked at the shoe-lady. The bloke explained that he wanted to live his life like an otter: ‘a very long and chilled one’, on his own, lying on a beanbag, eating stems of barley, with infrequent but carefully scheduled sessions of masturbation. I looked him squarely in the eyes and asked if he’d ever had a wet shave. The woman interjected and said I should join a Union, as ‘a working-class person!’

‘Who’re you calling working-class?!’ says I. ‘I’m a small business owner, don’t y’know!’

………………

I was referring to a small business I tried to establish in the late 90s, selling knock-off Toby jugs from the boot of my Mazda, just off the A13 trunk road. We got busted by a gang of hired bravoes sent by the Wedgwood company. I was left lying on the verge with a pair of broken legs surrounded by shards of homemade ceramics. The police managed to trace the bravoes as far as Stoke-on-Trent where the trail ran cold, thanks to a conspiracy of silence among the city’s terrified residents. I had a meltdown not long after that. In my despair, I overdosed on Vick’s VapoRub and tried walking into the sea one night down in Billericay. I was saved, after I mistook the inchoate outline of a miniature schnauzer for the spiritual form of a Toby Jug. It hovered above the sand, glowing.

Don’t give up, Dick. Don’t give up the ju-ugs!

But I can’t, Tobias, mate. The porcelain industry is eating me alive!

No one else can potter like you, Dick! That’s the truth.

But the jugs have become a burden, mate!

It is your destiny, Dick. The jugs are your destiny! Swear. Swear.

What are you? Angel or Devil?

I AM IN HELL!!!!

………………….

Once I had absquatulated from the students, I entered the vast baize complex of Whole Foods. I’d never seen so many vegetables in my life [INSERT GIBE ABOUT THE SCOTTISH]. The building was at least 100 storeys high, buzzing with flying cars and hydraulic escalators. It was like the Tower of Babel itself! Fritz Lang’s Metropolis crossed with a farmer’s market.

The affluence of the place sickened me to my very claw! I walked past some Houynhnhnms, cantering along the ‘Oats’ aisle. They gave me sideways glances and whispered to one another.

‘Darling, is that a Leaver?’

‘Darling, do you know, I think it might well be!’

‘In Whole Foods? I say, do you think he’s here to get his methadone injection? Someone should tell him, it’s not that kind of supermarket.’ *Goya-esque braying*

I’m a creep, I thought. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.

Near an aisle of artichokes, my bum was perused by the ghost of W.H. Auden.

‘Sir! If I may say’, he whispered, ‘Your arse is so muscular, I should wish to immortalise it in verse!’ I bristled at the scent of cherry brandy on his lips.

‘I concur, Wystan!’ crooned the fay shade of Lytton Strachey. ‘A truly delectable specimen.’

I swung at them. ‘Naff orf, you bloody wagtails!’

‘Oh, I say!’ preened Wystan Hugh.

At which point the ghost of Jean Cocteau approached, his eyes gleaming like a deviant, his fingers wriggling, ‘Ohohoho! Il a un cul chaud!’

‘Now look ere, Frenchy! One step over this ere threshold and I’ll knock yer flippin block off, comprehend-e?’

‘Je recommanderais le chou-fleur.’

‘Watch it! I’m warning you!’

‘Oh, Jean. You old nag!’

‘Oui. Je suis un cinéaste.’

‘I can’t make head nor tail of this! I bluddy hate these romance languages’ I said to myself, sotto voce. I felt a stranger in my native land.

Once I had absquatulated the scene, I returned to the penthouse to prepare supper while Wooster billed and cooed with Ms Maitlis. (It was like the courting ritual of kestrels!!) Around midnight, I brought in the third course of banana shallots. The room was billowing with the scent of orange blossom and legal highs; I nearly fainted. Maitlis wore large, exotic torques from the Barbican Centre gift shop. She was hunkered over a big, indulgent glug of “Chateau de Liz Kendall”. Her eyes were as brown as spear handles!! Her face was firm yet glam, like the prow of a Russian oil tanker steered by Bianca Jagger. Her throaty voice, with its alluring masculine depths, was both thick and sweet, like oil on a scone (in an M&S advert sponsored by Shell).

‘Your butler’, she intoned. ‘A bit wet behind the ears, don’t you think?’

‘Oh gawd,’ my master said, his saliva moonlit, ‘don’t I know it, Ms Emma! Hum-hum-hum-hum.’

Now easy, Dick, says I to mine-self. Easy does it now.

Her voice sank deeper: ‘If you want to move in with me, Wooster, we’re going to have to find you a new man!’

‘If you like, I could fire this bounder on the spot! Just for you. I would do that, Emily. For you I would! If you’d like!’

She grinned and they stared into each other’s eyes for a good minute. Then she glanced up at me, a touch dismayed. Wooster turned around - he had a scheming look.

‘Oh, fetch us dessert, would you, Littlethought?’

I shimmered out. I returned a few moments later with an inappropriately large jelly designed by Norman Foster.

‘Ta, Littlethought.’

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, and Littlethought?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’re dismissed.’

‘Sir?!’

‘Dismissed. Arrivederci, Littlethought. We’re replacing you. Don’t come back tomorrow. You can leave your key card on the salver.’

I TOOK OUT A BOMB. I SCREAMED LIKE A CELT!

‘I say, steady on there, Littlethought!’

‘YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOTHERFUCKERS!’ I intoned.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French, Littlethought!’

I pulled the cord! ‘FOR ENGLAND!’

Unfortunately, I was the only casualty. I wish I had died to avoid legal culpability. But it was a British explosive, so I incurred only minor tissue scarring. My master and Ms Maitlis immediately pressed charges. Because of my two-year-long media campaign against legal aid, I could only afford to be represented by a sparrow. The sparrow had yet to graduate to the bar, having only recently built his nest outside the chambers at Gray’s Inn where I hoped he’d at least absorbed something of the finer points of tort law. I appeared in court the following week in a plaster cast, where I was sentenced to life by Justice Lady Hale.

‘Well, well, well, Mithta Littlethought’, lisped Lady Hale. ‘A Leaver in the dock, I thee! It mutht be my lucky day! Yum yum yum!’ (She rubbed her stomach and mimed eating me - which I thought excessive.) A roll call of witnesses for the prosecution sealed my fate: Kojack, David Blunkett, and Charlotte Church in a bonnet who jumped up on the plaintiff’s bench and called me ‘a witch’ and then fainted. Lady Hale said I was ‘weak and scum’ - or ‘thcum’, to be precise (which is Welsh for ‘seamen’, FYI).

‘I thenenth you to 55 yearth, Mr Littlethought!’ she crooned. ‘55 backbwaking yearth!’

She banged her gavel. A loud cheer broke out across the gallery. I looked at my sparrow in his tiny little fucking wig, cursing him with my very blood.

‘May God have merthy upon your thoul, Mithta Littlethought!’ Hale said.

The sparrow immediately took wing – with my car keys in its beak – and escaped from a clearstory window. I’d lost everything. As I was bundled out of the courtroom, my faithful but still vividly puce-legged wife, Vanessa, surreptitiously passed me a cyanide capsule and an After Eight mint. She kissed me.

‘I’ll never forget you, Monsieur Robespierre,’ she said. ‘I’ll never forget you – you – you – YOU…’

I woke up. My body was covered in sweat. It had all been a dream. I sighed with relief. I drew back the coverlet. But then, in the palm of my right hand: was a melted After Eight! Had it really been a dream? Yes. I had fallen asleep on top of a box of After Eights. I showered the mint chocolate off my cords and wept.

----------- b l a c k o u t ------------

Grams: ‘Underneath the Arches’ (Flanagan/ Allen - ft. Dua Lipa)

CODA:

#crapola #falsehoods #tapestryoflies #absquatulate #to boot

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sunshineweb · 5 years ago

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The Most Important Stock Investment Lessons I Wish I Had Learned Earlier

Value Investing Almanack: 5th Anniversary Offer Ends on 25th April: Value Investing Almanack, our premium newsletter that subscribers call “the best resource on Value Investing in India” recently completed its 5th year, and we’re offering it at a special price only till 25th April. Click here to know more, pay your price, and join now.

Have you heard of Anthony Deden?

Well, I had not until 2018 when I came across his interview with Grant Williams. I thought that was one of the best investment interviews I had ever seen. And I stand by that thought even today.

Anthony, or Tony, is the Chairman of Edelweiss Holdings (not related to India-listed Edelweiss Financial Services), a Bermuda-based investment holding company that he launched as a fund in 2002. After building a remarkable track record, he converted Edelweiss into a holding company with over US$ 300 million in assets and holdings.

As he talked about in his interview with Grant Williams, Tony came into the profession of wealth management by accident when in 1985, he was asked to manage the monetary affairs of a family where the lead earning member had passed away. Gradually, one family became two, then three, and so on.

In the interview, Tony’s introduction about himself and his work was a remarkable piece in itself (emphasis mine) –

…I found myself being an investment counselor without having the preparation or the background. I’ve never worked for a financial institution; a bank. I had to learn a great deal by the sheer desire to do the right thing. So my background is not as extraordinary as you make it sound.

…When you are an investment counselor to a family, and in essence, you are asked to provide guidance for the entire wherewithal this family has, you come to the inevitable observation that this is all the wealth this family possesses, and no one is ever going to give them any more.

And there is a sense of irreplaceability to this capital, so you have to start respecting it. Respect the fact that it is really irreplaceable. It represents a lifetime’s worth of savings. That is that you must avoid the kind of error that would put this family out of business. You also learn fairly early on something that takes men far longer to do, that is it’s easier to actually make money than to keep it. Not merely on account of external issues, such as inflation, taxation, but also internal things: error, imprudence, and other such factors. It is a kind of different world than a fund manager has, where a fund manager in essence has an undefined, unlimited amount of capital at his disposal. And if he loses part of that, he can get others by changing his policy and his investment objectives to something more desirable at the time.

As you may watch in his interview, Tony is well aware of the ‘irreplaceable’ nature of the capital of his clients that he is handling. This sets him and his thought process clearly apart from most fund managers who work with almost no such awareness or accountability as they seem to have, as Tony said, an undefined, unlimited amount of capital at their disposal.

Anyways, I was re-watching Tony’s interview yesterday, and came across these two very important ideas on having an “owner’s mindset” that separates successful investors from most others who are into the stock market without much idea of who they are and what they are doing there.

What Tony shares has also been taught by the likes of Warren Buffett and Charlie Munger for years. But then, he has brought some unique perspectives to this idea, which are worth reading, learning from, and practicing in our investing endeavors.

Here they are.

1. On Identifying Managers with Owner’s Mindset Tony shares the story of an Arabic date farmer he met who had inherited an orchard that had about a thousand trees. As the farmer was showing Tony around his orchard, and took him to something like a hundred trees that were recently planted, Tony asked him out of curiosity, “How long will it take this tree to bear fruit?”

The farmer replied, “Well this particular variety will bear fruit in about 20 years. But that is not good enough for the market. It may be about 40 years before we can actually sell it.”

Tony replied, “I have never heard this. I did not know this. Are there other date trees that would produce faster?” Meanwhile, he looked at all those trees that were being harvested and realized that this farmer could not have possibly planted them.

The farmer tells Tony, “Okay. Here’s my grandfather and my father, great grandfather.”

“It was fascinating,” Tony says in the interview –

Why would a man do something today for which he would receive no reward in his lifetime? And the only reason he would do this if his time preference is solo. That he is concerned about his family’s wealth a generation or two from now because he received no reward by planting a tree that will have no …

In your world they would call it an economic loss. A loss of opportunity or God knows what they would call it, but he saw the world differently. And in the supermarket, I see dates. I think about the story now. And I am sure there are other similar kinds of situations.

Tony then spoke about his idea of identifying such managers to deploy his capital with –

So how many people in the world can I find that I can buy 2,3,4,5% of their business to think like that. Cause that way I can sleep very well at night and I can assure you the capital that I commanded is deployed, it is going to be around 50 years from now.

2. On Difficulty for Investors to Have Owner’s Mindset When asked to explain his thoughts on the distinction between investors and people who are owners in businesses, Tony says this (emphasis mine) –

…there is a substantial distinction…

An owner in a business is far more interested in his survival, in the first instance, than its necessary monetary value. No owner of a business wakes up every morning asking himself what he is worth.

He does not know what he is worth. He is concerned with his products, he is concerned with his employees, he is concerned with his suppliers, he is concerned with his customers. To do that you have to have a time preference that is different from other people. If you only own things that are quoted, you look at the quotation machine as to give you confidence in the fact that “Hey, I made a great decision yesterday, this thing went up.

You have a falsity in your understanding, you are an investor you rent something for hoping that it will go up. You are making decisions based on expectations of what you think other people’s expectations are likely to be based on their framework, and you know, an investor is really, one who generally acquires something hoping he will sell it at a higher price.

And so, all of the calculations, and all of the pseudo intellectual activity that goes along with it is based on this idea of price. Is this price high or low relevant to what other people are going to think of it next year? What is it likely to be next year, and why et cetera?

Owners do not do this, they instead build in substance, they instead build in the productive base of the company, you’re recapitalizing earnings, or whatever. So, the focus on wealth creation is different from that of an investor as an owner.

But, to be an owner … it is difficult for an investor to be an owner, because you cannot have immediate liquidity. You know, if you and I owned a big farm to grow carrots, we cannot sell part of it tomorrow, because we want to finance a trip around the world.

…As I said to someone recently, it is akin to the idea of, if you are a captain of a ship. It is nice to know that all of the passengers on board your ship are going to the same destination, or that is where they wish to go, and that is where you started out going. And so, they will judge you eventually by having gotten there, rather than perhaps how long it took, because you avoided certain weather, or other such things.

By the same token, this like-mindedness, I have come to conclude that it is a necessary ingredient even in the deployment of capital, and that is, if I am interested in acquiring a 5%, 10% of your enterprise as a participation, I want to be absolutely certain, that the motivation that you have as an owner and a manager is similar to that of mine. I have an interest in you making the kind of decisions that will have an impact on the company 20, 30 years from now, rather than next quarter, or next year.

So, if your objectives, and if your motivation is different than that of mine, and the capital that I deploy, then at some point I am going to be disappointed.

So, like-mindedness, whether it is in a marriage, in a business, or in any enterprise is a principal and important factor in doing the right thing in the right way.

Brilliant, isn’t it?

There are tons of other lessons to learn from Tony’s interview, which I would share over time.

Meanwhile, you may watch the interview below, read the interview transcript prepared by the Intelligent Fanatics team, and also read Tony’s investment firm’s Guiding Principles.

youtube

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The Most Important Stock Investment Lessons I Wish I Had Learned Earlier published first on https://mbploans.tumblr.com/

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coloredink · 7 years ago

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So I know you're incredibly busy + have other prompts to fill and whatnot. But, just on the off chance you'd be interested in writing this, I'd very much like to read something with Abigail and Bedelia. More specifically, Abigail survives the red dinner and Bedelia joins her and Hannibal on their little adventure, in Will's place. IDK, I just feel like they'd have an interesting dynamic.

“Come,” Dr. Du Maurier said, and Abigail didn’t have anything better to do, so she went.

She didn’t know how Dr. Du Maurier walked in those heels. She didn’t ask where they were going, and Dr. Du Maurier didn’t seem inclined to inform her. In fact, they didn’t speak at all, and Dr. Du Maurier did not so much as glance back to see if Abigail was following. They crossed the Santa Trinita Bridge, passing the tourists lined at its edges without so much as a glance. Once on the other side, Dr. Du Maurier went down a little side street and opened a door. It took Abigail a moment to realize that Dr. Du Maurier was holding the door for her.

The funk coming out of the little shop was intense, and Abigail wasn’t sure she wanted to go inside. But Dr. Du Maurier was waiting, and though her expression was patient Abigail didn’t think she would take kindly to rebellion. So Abigail went in, trying to breathe through her mouth.

The cramped little store was–well, Abigail thought of them as “Hannibal stores.” As long as she’d known him, Hannibal had never gone to brightly lit supermarkets with their ordered aisles. He went to farmers markets for produce and little specialty markets for dry goods, even if it meant he went to four different places instead of one. This store was piled high with cheese, a lot of which wasn’t even refrigerated. Bundles of salami and sausages hung from the ceiling, and dusty bottles of wine sat in rows behind the counter. No wonder this store smelled like feet.

“Abigail? I asked if you’d like anything.”

It had the sound of something that had been repeated more than once, and Abigail jumped. Dr. Du Maurier was standing at the counter, looking at her expectantly.

“Um, no,” said Abigail. “I don’t even know what any of this stuff is.”

“Hmmm.”

The elderly proprietor shuffled back into view them, holding two bottles of wine, which he put in a box. Next, he used a pair of small tongs to retrieve a rocky lump–which Abigail now knew was a truffle–from underneath a glass dome. He put the truffle in a small paper bag.

Dr. Du Maurier murmured something to him in Italian. The old man bobbed his head and–using a different pair of tongs, thank goodness–picked up a few small objects from underneath a different glass dome and dropped them into a small parchment pouch. Dr. Du Maurier paid for everything with an eye-watering amount of cash. She gave the parchment pouch and the truffle to Abigail to hold, and they left the store.

“The spinach puffs are for you,” Dr. Du Maurier said, once they were outside the store and away from that godawful stink.

Abigail peered inside the pouch. Inside were four little golden pastry shells, filled with creamy green stuff. She fished one of them out and popped it into her mouth. The pastry was perfectly flaky and buttery, and the green stuff turned out to not just be spinach but cheese. What kind of cheese she didn’t know, but it was salty and strong and super, super good. Abigail couldn’t help the noise that came out of her. When she looked up, Dr. Du Maurier was actually smiling.

“Why did you bring me here?” Abigail blurted out.

Dr. Du Maurier tilted her head. “Did you enjoy it?”

God, she talked just like Hannibal, answering questions with more questions. Abigail crammed another pastry in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I didn’t not like it, I guess.”

Dr. Du Maurier nodded, and they made their way across the bridge again. Abigail realized she didn’t actually want to go back. Hannibal would be there, probably, and he and Dr. Du Maurier would have one of their weird, elliptical conversations, and probably Hannibal would play the harpsichord.

“The traumatized are unpredictable because we know we can survive,” Dr. Du Maurier said. “I told Will Graham that, once.”

Abigail couldn’t help the involuntary jerk of her shoulders; no one had said that name since they’d left the States. But she knew he’d survived. She’d seen the pictures on Tattlecrime.

“I believe you intend to survive,” Dr. Du Maurier went on. “But so far, you’ve been very predictable.”

Abigail swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Transform the experience,” said Dr. Du Maurier, and she did not say anything more for the rest of the walk.

#hannibal #my fic #prompted

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allenmendezsr · 5 years ago

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And that’s when the idea of teaching people how to grow their own healthy organic, pesticide-free mushrooms was born!

A few months down the road, and I created the Mushroom Growing 4 You system, so you, too, can stop buying harmful mushrooms from the market but still enjoy eating mushrooms.

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Remember, with my step-by-step video instructions, all the guess work will be left behind, and you’ll be learning how growing your own mushrooms will be as simple as following the exact techniques you’ll see on each video. It’s that easy…

Listen, from one mushroom lover to another, everyone deserve to eat healthy mushrooms.

And, since mushrooms are one of the items on your favorite food list, you’re also entitled to eat them without being exposed to harmful pesticides and only God knows what else.

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theonceoverthinker · 7 years ago

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Congratulations on the milestone, lovely! How about Captain Swan: one of them tries to make dinner to surprise the other and basically everything goes wrong. Have at it! ;)

You got it, Dani! Thank you so much for your patience!!! I hope what I made for you was worth it!

()()()()()()()()()()()()

It was supposed to be a simple meal.

It wasn’t like he was preparing a roast duck or a soufflé.

It was just grilled cheese.

Granted, it was a very fancy grilled cheese, prepared entirely from scratch, as well as a red sauce to dip it in, but the task wasn’t supposed to be this unmanageable.

Killian had planned it all out.

He had worked on his in-law’s farm, gathering up the ingredients. Snow had warned him of the difficulty of the task he presented to her, but with her state of awe from hearing about the lengths Killian was going to for their second anniversary dinner, she hardly put up a fight.

He had stocked up on wheat from the fields, milk from the cows in the barn, and tomatoes from the garden. The harvesting, while leaving sweat upon his brow, went as expected.

Once everything was collected, over the next few days, while Emma was out on her shifts, Killian was at work making the raw ingredients into their final forms. He ground the wheat into flour for the bread using a coffee grinder.

He mixed the ingredients of the cheese together and allowed for it to curdle in the refrigerator as the cookbook he got from the library had instructed.

The tomatoes had been kept intact. Killian figured it best to wait until the day of the dinner itself to prepare the sauce.

As Killian toiled, he made sure that everything was hidden discreetly so that Emma wouldn’t suspect a thing.

Then finally, the day arrived.

Coincidentally, that’s when everything began to go downhill.

Exhaustion from his shift the previous evening had had him oversleep and miss Emma entirely that morning. He had to send his invite to dinner over text instead, and that could only be so romantic.

Downtrodden, Killian went downstairs for a cup of coffee.

That’s where he saw a sight as horrifying as a bloodied battlefield.

There was a tray of what were very clearly homemade cookies on the table.

Killian ran to the pantry.

The flour was all gone.

Every last bit of it.

He looked at the cookies. They looked fresh, the chocolate on the top gooey and shiny. He then noticed that there was a note on the side. He picked it up and read it.

‘Sorry I missed you! Here are some sweets to hold you over until tonight! Love you!’

Killian’s heart fell. It had taken a lot of labor to make that flour. And now it was all gone, albeit with the best of intentions from his wife.

He shook off the problem as best as he could. It was okay, he told himself. He’d just go to the supermarket and get some store bought flour. Sure, it meant his meal wouldn’t be a hundred percent homemade, but he and Emma would laugh it off later after he told her of his plans over their meal, and how theirs had collided.

An hour later and things were looking back on track. Killian bought more flour and had returned to the house and started preparing the bread. Everything was in the oven. In just a few hours, he’d have fresh bread. The kitchen was a mess, but he’d have plenty of time to clean it up after getting a start on the other two parts of the dish.

Killian next opened the refrigerator to begin on the sauce. A look in the pantry beforehand showed that he still had all the spices he’d need to make a delectable concoction for which to dip the grilled cheeses in.

This would go perfect at least.

…Or not.

The tomatoes were still present, but one touch showed them to be as deflatable as a year-old baloon.

And the smell…

The dead carcasses below which he hid before meeting Emma smelt sweeter.

Killian immediately ran over to the Charmings’ farmhouse as fast as his legs could carry him, barely even remembering to lock the door behind him as he did. He was ready to pass out by the time he got to the door and was only able to rasp out his request for more tomatoes to David through labored heaves for air. David forced him to sit down and drink a glass of water before answering his cry.

It was a bad crop, David explained, and sometimes they happen.

But why did it have to be this one?

Somewhere in between groans of exasperation and bits of yelling about a loaf of bread that was in the oven, David offered him a ride to the supermarket to get more tomatoes. They were off within minutes. In another fifteen, they were there.

The tomatoes, however, were not.

There was not one full-sized, cherry, or even frozen tomato there.

Killian was starting to get annoyed. David suggested something called Ragu, but upon hearing that it was processed in a factory, he shot the idea down like a hunter shoots down a duck. David, though clearly reluctant to let the prospect of simplifying their task go as easily as Killian, ended up doing just that. Killian was willing to wager that if was on some level due to awe of just how far he was willing to go to give Emma a sublime anniversary meal.

And so they went searching for another place that would have tomatoes, calling friends and family alike to see if there were any that could be used with the promise of compensation as they drove. Alas, there was no luck.

Eventually, after over an hour of searching, the two came across a farmer’s market, one that David had not heard of yet, that they found a package of tomatoes up for sale. One purchase later, and they were on the road once more, this time heading for the house. David dropped him off, warning him not to go too crazy over this meal, before wishing he and Emma a happy anniversary and heading out.

As Killian headed towards the house, he released a sigh of relief. The day had been rough, but he was going to conquer it.

He opened the door…and was greeted by a puff of black smoke.Killian realized in that instant that in his efforts to procure tomatoes for his sauce…he had neglected the bread.

He ran to the kitchen, thanking every God he could think of that Emma and Henry weren’t home. Another puff of smoke was thrown in Killian’s face as he opened the oven up on his quest to remove the charcoal-covered loaf. As he opened the windows to rid the house of both the smoke and the burning smell, Killian looked at the watch Emma had given him. The bread should have come out nearly an hour ago.

Emma liked little burnt edges on her grilled cheese, but this was excessive.

Killian didn’t want to tempt fate by looking at the cheese in the refrigerator, but out of some blind stubbornness to salvage his plan, he begrudgingly did so.

One whiff told him all he needed to know. The cheese had spoiled.

Killian looked around the house There was still smoke all around, charcoal in the air, and dirty, dough-filled dishes in the sink. Not even the bloody crocodile could fix this mess. This dinner was beyond hope, beyond miracles, beyond divine intervention of any kind!

And it was just at that moment that Emma walked in.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

“Pizza’s…like a grilled cheese,” Emma said, mouth half full of a slice of the modern delicacy. Killian put the palm of his hand to his head and groaned. Emma sank into his side. “Ohh, you did your best.“

Hours had passed. An anniversary that was supposed to include a romantic dinner instead had Emma and Killian in their worst outfits as they cleaned a kitchen that could charitably be called miserable-looking. It wasn’t even done, but they had decided that a break for pizza and a movie had been earned.

“I just wanted to give you the night you deserve,” Killian lamented, his hand massaging her arm.

“Could’ve been worse!” Emma simply shrugged her shoulders, as if it was no big deal that her husband had increased her workload ten fold!

“Really?” Killian questioned. “Worse than spending your anniversary scrubbing a kitchen down from top-to-bottom?”

Emma smirked at him. “You realize we live in Storybrooke, right? A place where it’s not unheard of to fight a dragon, a Chernabog, and a half a dozen cartoon characters?”

Killian couldn’t help himself and smiled, choosing to answer Emma with a kiss to her temple.

“You’re right, love. I’m sorry for beating myself up over this.”

“You know, if it’s cheesy and saucy you want and the pizza’s not enough, I think I can come up with a few ideas.” She traced the collar of Killian’s jacket. It look Killian no longer than a single second before he pulled her towards him, their lips but a breath away from each other.

“Well, I suppose the dishes can wait until tomorrow,” he teased.

“I think they can too,” Emma said, her eyes filled with mischief. A smirk crossed Killian’s face.

“Happy anniversary, Emma,” he whispered.

“Happy anniversary, Killian,” she said before finally closing the space between them.

Dinner may have flopped, but any time between Emma and Killian was still magical in every way.

#dani-ellie03 #once upon a time #ouat #captain swan #killian jones #captain hook #emma swan #prompts #my fanfiction

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