#flying jacob casserole

[dragonsdenstudiosofficial]

The Pizza Knight Saves The Princess is a fantasy-comedy choose-your-own-adventure-style visual novel being developed by Dragon's Den Studios. Set on the planet Comestibla, where everything & everyone is made of food, we play as the Pizza Knight as he tries to save his beloved Water Ice Princess from the castle of the evil Chocolate Count. You can download the demo for free HERE: https://dragons-den-studios.itch.io/the-pizza-knight-saves-the-princess

Over the course of this month I'll be posting some of the game's art to this blog! This image is a sneak peak of content only available in the full release!

This image depicts a flashback that the Pizza Knight has to his youth after drinking one of the potions. This memory, taking place ten years before canon, depicts a scene from the knight's years as apprentice knight to the Skim Milk Knight when they visited the inn of Flying Jacob, a veteran of the AU wars made from, well, Flying Jacob (a Swedish casserole made from chicken, cream, chili sauce, bananas, roasted peanuts, and bacon). While the Skim Milk Knight talks of bygone days with his host, the Pizza Knight encounters one of Flying Jacob's tamed Pteranodonuts, who is begging for a sample of the knight's lingonberries. The sodas in the foreground are based on a discontinued line of sodas from Sweden called Kristall that I loved as a kid, particularly their pear flavor.

[morethansalad]

Vegan Flying Jacob (Swedish Casserole)

[tadalyme]

whumptober, day 2

There are many things Finnick Odair is good at. He's good at swimming, good at fighting, good at making knots. Good at baking decently tasty bread. He's also very good at pretending.

It's a skill he's honed throughout his whole life, ever since he was a little child. Pretending that he likes his mother's vegetable casserole. Pretending that he's completely fine when his father leads him to Mags’s house, his hand held in a forceful, painful grip, and proclaims in his booming voice that it would be the greatest honour for his son to train for the Games, right, boy? Pretending that he isn't scared to die and to kill.

Pretending that all the things that are done to his body on a regular basis aren't happening to him.

It’s somewhere past three at night and Finnick is sore and extremely dizzy and in the backseat of a car, coming back from his client. He’s in a car, because despite being just a District whore, he's an expensive one. President Snow doesn’t want anyone else to harm his investments. At least, not anyone not paying.

He’s just glad that it was the only appointment for today, because the guy, a flamboyant man in his thirties, a grandson or a nephew or a step-son of one of the influential Gamemakers, wanted to spice things up a bit in his sex life and made him swallow some colourful tablets before the act itself.

Well, it certainly spiced things up for Finnick, though probably not in a way the man intended to. He spent the whole time hearing the colours, and tasting the sounds, and seeing the images from his past and present all mixed up together.

The man was pounding into him and moaning and exclaiming something animated and probably over-the-top sexual in his shrill voice, but all Finnick could think about were the glistening in the sun tridents and spears and knives, and faces of the dead children, and his late father and ill mother and disappointed sister, and, for some reason, the Capitol's latest obnoxious vogue of inserting precious gemstones into their skin.

He desperately wanted to cry, so he laughed frantically, and he wanted to push the man away from him, too overstimulated, so he willed his muscles to relax.

The lights of the never-sleeping party area of Capitol fly by dizzyingly behind the window and Finnick has to lean onto it in an attempt not to puke. It's got a bit better in the past half hour, but the thoughts are still floating around his brain like dozens of little brightly-coloured butterflies. It’s hard to properly grasp any of them in a sticky daze of disorientation, though.

The car stops near the entrance to the Tribute Centre and he staggers out, swaying on his feet and almost ending up on the pavement. His limbs finally rearrange themselves in the correct order after a few moments and he musters a lazy salute with only some of his usual flourish to the back of the driving away car.

Still performing, even now. Gods, what a mess.

He doesn't know how exactly he reaches the elevator, but he does and the numbers swirl a bit in his eyes before settling down properly on the buttons.

He remembers well the first time he was here.

The thing is, he wasn’t even supposed to participate in the Hunger Games that year. That questionable honour was supposed to go to Jacob Maren, not yet eighteen, but the oldest among the trainees.

Instead, Dorothea, their escort, gracefully put her powdered hand with baby-blue nails, that matched her enormous wig, and pulled out his, Finnick's, name. There was a bit of a standstill after that - Jacob locking eyes with him across their separate pens. Should he volunteer, should he not. Finnick was too young yet but still a Career. In the end, Jacob stayed silent.

Just as well, thought Finnick, pushing through the crowds to the stage and already putting on a brilliant wide smile, I've trained for this, I can win, it'll be easy.

He knows now what his dumb, arrogant younger self didn’t understand back then - that even if you manage to become a victor, the only one who ever wins the Games is the Capitol.

Jacob did go the following year and died to a back-stabbing One girl. And Finnick has spent three years cursing that day and all that led to it.

Gods above, it has only been three years, hasn’t it? It feels much longer than that, so far away, so long ago. Almost like ancient history.

He did kind of make history with that one, didn’t he? The youngest Victor ever. A fat lot of good that did for him.

Fourth floor. He practically falls out of the elevator, only managing to catch onto the wall at the last moment.

Mags, curled up on the couch, perks up at the sound of sliding doors. In the dim lighting of the lounge her silver hair looks like a halo above her head. Ironic.

It makes him burst out in a fit of hysterical high-pitched laughter. One would have to completely lose their marbles to call the woman an angel. An angel of death, at best. Some forget it, but she also killed in her Games, the same as all of them. And she's led enough kids to their deaths in the following years. He loves Mags with his whole heart, but she's no saint.

Mags always waits for him on appointment nights. He wishes she didn't see him like this, wishes no-one saw him like this and often snaps at her, but she only tuts in disapproval and keeps doing it. Despite his temper tantrums, he's glad she does.

Mags looks him over and frowns and he's sent down the rabbit hole of memories again.

They approach him the next day after he turns sixteen. The two of them look grim and apologetic and he doesn't know what to make of it.

‘I’m sorry, Finnick, I’m so sorry about what's probably going to happen,’ Mags says and lets out a sigh, sorrowful and tired and world-weary, and he, in a rare moment, is reminded of how old Mags really is, ‘Just… Remember that you can always talk to me, no matter what.' She inclines her head a bit, gesturing at her companion, ‘Or to Delia, if you need someone who truly gets it.'

Delia, who is wringing her hands half a step behind Mags, and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, glances at him and gives him a bleak, perfunctory nod. He doesn’t know why he would need to or want to talk to her, but anyway it’s quite unlikely that he will take her up on this offer.

Finnick knows Delia, of course he does. Delia, a constantly nervous, twitchy Victor in her forties, teaches knife-throwing, and knife-stabbing, and other knife-related skills to the trainees and has never seemed to be a particular fan of long conversations. She's communicated with them mostly with sharp nods and half-aborted, jittery gestures, always looking on edge and shaky.

Her hands have never ever shaken with a blade in them, though.

Then, he gets the summons to the annual post-Victory tour party and President Snow asks to speak with him in his office after. He's told in detail what he's expected to do, now that he's finally sixteen, and what will happen if he doesn't.

Oh.

Oh.

That's what that meant.

His first appointment with a client is the next day and it's the beginning of the end.

His sister screams at him a few months later, when he returns from one of his trips to the Capitol, ‘They don’t care about you, you stupid boy! Why won’t you understand that! Why the Hell do you keep going there?’

But it’s her who doesn’t understand, who could never understand. He can’t tell Carolyn, he can’t, not just because he doesn’t want her to know what he does, but because he’s not allowed to.

President Snow was quite straightforward about what would happen to his ill mother and his sister with her husband and their baby twins, if he were to tell anyone, even them, anything. So he keeps quiet and let them think the worst of him. The same thing that everyone else does.

(Other than his fellow victors, who are all aware of the work he and the ones like him are made to do, the only person who doesn’t look at him with badly concealed disgust, or jealousy, or fake friendliness, or lust in Four is Annie Cresta. Her eyes (also sea-green, though a few tones lighter than his own) only ever look at him with sympathy and pity these days. He would have absolutely hated being looked at like that not long ago, but now it’s just so goddamn refreshing. He used to find her annoying with her righteousness and softness when they trained to be careers together, thought her weak and kind of cowardly, but maybe there is actually nothing wrong with gentleness and timidity, he ponders.

Of course, it’s hopeless, getting used to even such a small thing. Annie Cresta is a Career. She will go into the Games soon. In a couple of years she will likely be dead.)

Mags approaches him slowly, telegraphing all her movements clearly, trying not to spook him. He must look bad, because she checks his temperature with a hand on his forehead. From her pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows he gathers that it’s not very good.

'What, doctor, am i dying yet?' he ironizes.

'Well, you certainly don't look too lively, boy,' she snaps back,'Sit down, I'll be right back.'

She lets him settle on the couch and leaves to fetch her first-aid kit. They’re not allowed to bring any pills to the Tribute centre, so as to not let tributes get anywhere near them, but she has some other basic supplies. Luckily, today they are no flesh wounds to patch up.

She comes back with a thermometer in her hand. And that’s what sends him over the edge and into hysterical tears, the goddamn thermometer. It’s an old-fashioned but trusty mercury thermometer, very common back in Four, but considered obsolete by Capitol standards.

Finnick, having been many times in the local medical over the past year and a half to get patched up after rough encounters with clients, is intimately familiar by now with Capitol’s high-tech, reliably produced in Three.

She waits a bit before his sobs and shaking subside, finally takes his temperature and asks,'You're burning up. What on earth happened to you?'

'He gave me something, I don't know what,' Finnick replies reluctantly and watches her face twist and her arms cross on her chest. She's staring at him pointedly.

'Do we really have to?' he groans,'I'm almost fine by now. You're only wobbling a bit in my eyes.'

'Come on, up you go,' she pulls him up, surprisingly strong for a seventy-year-old, and leads him to his room, to the bathroom. She walks out again and returns with a glass and a closed water bottle.

She fills the glass with tap water and makes him drink it again and again and then throw up, repeating and repeating it until there's nothing left in his stomach at all.

Then she hands him the water bottle, lightly shoves him in the direction of the needlessly overcomplicated shower and exits.

When he finally emerges into his room he's almost feeling like himself again. Mags is still there, leaning on the frame of his bed. He finds some clothes to sleep in and drops next to her. She hums softly and smooths his hair out, running her fingers through his wet curly locks.

She's been much gentler with him since his Games, but she's taken a fancy to him a long time ago.

He was a bit of a troublemaker as a child, like little boys so often are, always sneaking away to the creek to play on the wet rocky shores, or trying to catch fry with his bare hands, or diving from the pier to see how long he could hold his breath, generally making his mother exasperated. He showed up at home in the late afternoon tired but joyful after a day of exploring with a wide toothless grin, seaweed in his hair and damp dirty patches on his knees.

His father didn’t like that much. So at a ripe old age of seven he’s dumped on Mags’s doorstep, who looks at his father weirdly over Finnick’s head and then takes a look at him, slowly lowers down to his eye-level and grasps his tiny hand with her veiny, old-woman one.

‘Well, well, well, what are we going to do with you, little one?’

She's never been cruel to any of the trainees, definitely not, but she wasn't particularly warm-hearted either. She was kind, but also stern and strict, like a proper trainer. He knows that it's because, despite all the preparations, most of them would die in their Games. She didn't really believe that he would win his Games either.

But he survived and she became more willing to show her affection for him after that. And to him, she, the person who practically raised him, instead of his distant mother and constantly angry father, has always felt the most like a real family, even when she acted all grumpy.

He drifts to sleep, relaxing under the silent watch of the only person in the world he fully trusts.

[novemberthorne]

Tag ten people you wanna get to know better!

Tagged by @mcneen , thank you so much!! 🥰

relationship status: single, too nervous to mingle 😞🤘

song stuck in my head: Lana Del Rey - Blue Jeans

last song I listened to: Lorna Shore - To the Hellfire

three favorite foods: oh... wok noodles with chicken, spaghetti bolognese with pizza salad(!!! I promise it's so good y'all) and...flying Jacob, wikipedia tells me it translates to. It's a "swedish chicken casserole". Yum!!

last thing I googled: The Paul Rudd computer gif... To show my mom when she got a brain-freeze from ice cream earlier today 😂

dream trip: Oh... Into the wilderness by foot, easily. With a friend or two, a tent, a campfire, a backpack to fit any cool things I find out there 🥰 (which is legal, where I live, so don't worry)

anything I want right now: Probably to get my apartment in better order!! I'm newly moved in and it's not the homiest yet ;_;

I'm tagging @singmeyoursimpsong , @bionysian , @spikeymarshmallows , @sorgmantel , @runninriot but you're under NO obligation to do this, it's entirely pressure free 💖

[melblur]

welcome to tumblr!! what’s your favorite food?

leave it to me to completely forget i had this in my inbox LOL

uuuhhrrmmm i hate to say it but its probably a Swedish-specific dish Flying Jacob? Its a casserole with chicken, cream and chili sauce topped off w. bananas. Its crazy good comfort food and honestly super easy to make.

[1-oc-atatime]

OC#2: Jack Adams Topp

Jack Topp – Character Overview

Basic Information and Appearance: Jack Topp, nicknamed “Jolly Jack” or “Birdy” (for being a pilot), is a 26-year-old fighter pilot born on January 11, 1998. Of mixed Mexican and Scottish heritage, Jack stands at 5'10", with a lean but powerful build and strong legs from never skipping leg day. His light brown hair is always messy due to his gear, and his wolf-cut hairstyle pairs with hooded almond eyes of the same shade. His dry skin results from constantly shifting altitudes, though he secretly keeps lotion nearby. Jack's most distinctive features are his scar from a teenage bike accident and big, calloused hands, the result of weightlifting and military life.

Personality and Traits: Jack is a blend of charm and carelessness. He’s witty and easy-going, but often struggles to take things seriously. While he jokes and laughs through awkward moments, he also exhibits a deep sense of responsibility, making him someone others feel safe around. Jack wants to be seen as dependable and approachable, though some might find him intimidating at first. He’s a hopeless romantic but has never experienced true love, relying on casual encounters during leave to cope with stress. His love language is touch and quality time, and he dreams of finding someone to share his life with.

Though outwardly humorous, Jack wrestles with creeping mental health challenges from his dangerous career and lost teammates. His pessimism grows with age, and his biggest fear is letting down his family. Despite a laid-back exterior, he’s fiercely competitive and quick to act, traits essential in his military role. Jack tends to bite his lips and pick at his skin—small habits that hint at his inner restlessness.

Family and Relationships: Family means everything to Jack. Raised in a working-class household, he was nurtured despite his parents’ busy schedules. His younger brother, Thomas, is four years his junior and studying to become a pediatric surgeon. Jack’s most cherished memories involve moments with his brother, including saving his life when he accidentally fell out of a treehouse. His best friend since childhood, Jacob West, remains a close ally, though military duties make it difficult to stay in touch. Jack dreams of having pets—a cat or even a tarantula—but his current lifestyle doesn’t allow for it.

Career and Hobbies: Jack serves as a fighter pilot for the U.S. Navy, flying both the A-10 Warthog and F-35 jets. He enjoys the thrill and purpose of his job but knows the emotional toll will leave scars. In his free time, he enjoys gaming, working out, and reading sci-fi. He also has a soft spot for stray cats on base, feeding them whenever he can. While not on missions, Jack attends college courses online to further his education.

Despite his dangerous work, Jack maintains a sense of humor. His favorite media include Skyrim and old country music, especially Marty Robbins’ “(Ghost) Riders in the Sky.” A tech enthusiast, he regrets not pursuing a career in computers or becoming a civilian pilot, but he tries not to dwell on it too much.

Values and Challenges: Jack believes freedom means ensuring others feel safe and able to live as they wish. He despises betrayal and is especially wary of people who misuse power. His idea of redemption is working to become better every day. Though he distrusts clowns and fears snakes and hippos, Jack bravely faces challenges and treats danger as part of the job. His worst childhood memory is the disappointment of his parents missing his first football game, but it only fueled his desire to make them proud.

Lifestyle and Aspirations: Jack enjoys life’s small pleasures—whether indulging in his favorite meal of breakfast casserole or relaxing on a Sunday afternoon with video games. While he lives modestly in his barracks room, he splurges on his prized possession: a jet-black 2024 Porsche 911 Carrera. His dream is to retire somewhere peaceful, ideally with a partner who can match his humor and make life feel complete. For now, Jack focuses on his mission—saving lives and making the world a bit safer while trying not to lose himself along the way.

[ballcapbet]

The Complete History of Mickeyball

We all remember the set-up: a punch bowl with a dixie cup duct-taped in the center. The implement: the core of a baseball after the baseball has been unwound (very bouncy). The field was the Student Council room, with the punch bowl/dixie cup set against one wall. Participants were to stand against the far wall and attempt to bounce the ball into the punch bowl (or, *heavens!* the dixie cup).

The structure was knock-out format. Players would take turns bouncing the ball in. Each player was guaranteed one turn, after that half of participants would be eliminated in each round. Say there were four players: each would get one turn, after that the first two to make it in the punch bowl would advance to the (in this case) finals. BUT, if any player sank the ball into the dixie cup - whether on the fly or on the bounce - the game immediately ended and that player was the winner. So named Mickeyball because one Michael (Mickey) Nelson won the inaugural game consisting of eight players, through a punch bowl shot.

Now, if memory serves, we had played three or four total games by about 1:00 pm. Our list of players had been rotating somewhat as folks came and went to class (or wherever). In that time I believe one person had sunk the ball into the dixie cup. (I cannot recall who exactly, though Darren Hubbard jumps to mind.) By this time, the crowd in the SC room was about a dozen truants.

Following a lunch period one Steve Scroggins (Attendance Liaison and purported former basketball standout in his youth - a quick google confirms) came into the room to query the growing, increasingly boisterous, crowd. The general idea behind Mickeyball was explained to Scroggins who, of course, was promptly handed the very Mickeyball and offered to try his luck. Scroggins, cool as anything, clad in his distinctive full track suit, lined up his shot, and with a gentle flick of the wrist released the Mickeyball which took a single bounce and - God as my witness - sank cleanly into the aforementioned dixie cup. My friends, the place EXPLODED! Only two other times can I remember such a spontaneous eruption of joy to such a seemingly mundane athletic feat.* It was bedlam. Screams of elation and disbelief echoed through the science corridor. Luke Garafola slumped deep in the chair in the corner, as though the very spirit departed him when the ball sank. Anthony Brown was nearly inconsolable laughing. Jacob Barker-Huelster put his hands on his head, and, mouth agape, exclaimed "No fucking way." It may the closest I have ever come to a religious experience. Steve Scroggins simply pumped his fist once, and silently, departed back into the hallway and his appointed rounds. As I remember the singular act functionally ended further competition. We had seen the best. Mickeyball was born and died that day.

Truly, truly, the best of times.

–John Heydinger October 2024

* One such feat involving an overweight gentleman nicknamed The Bearcat in a dodgeball game; the other, my Aunt Carol pitching a card into a casserole dish from across the room.

[clatterbane]

And, continuing on this very low spoons theme tonight, we get a frozen dinner take on Flying Jacob.

Because why not. I'm sure homemade would be better representation, but the Dafgårds stuff that I've had before has been pretty decent. Gotta say my trepidation is kicking in a little here, but hey.

Yep, looks like a reasonable number of chicken chunks, at least. With a sizeable pile of rice. I've got some peanuts here too, to sprinkle on if that seems like a good idea.

Tonight's overdrawn spoons frozen delight: a take on "cabbage pudding! Which is basically a Swedish take on lazy baked cabbage rolls, with the meat and cabbage layered together.

Keep meaning to try making some, but this was one GF-by-default (which I am actually inclined to trust here) frozen ready option that looked like it might be worth a try. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I really DO NOT like getting things with the side vegetables all jumbled in like that, but OK. Pretty big believer in divided plates here, tbh.

Guessing that the cabbage must be lurking under the meat, which seems to be the opposite of how kålpudding usually works? It is definitely claiming to have plenty of cabbage in there.

Currently cooking, in spite of my trepidations. And I guess we'll see how this turns out.

[magazynkulinarny]

Latający Jakub, czyli indyk z bananami i orzechami ziemnymi po szwedzku

Oto prawdziwy klasyk kuchni szwedzkiej: Flygande Jacob, czyli Latający Jakub. Proste danie z kurczaka, banana, boczku, kremówki z sosem chili oraz orzeszkami ziemnymi, podawane z ryżem basmati. 

Na pierwszy rzut oka jest trochę passe - przywołuje wspomnienia polskich wyszukanych potraw z lat 80. ubiegłego wieku, takich jak sznycel z ananasem, kurczak z brzoskwiniami, parówki z żółtym serem, czy pizza z ananasem i gotowaną szynką.

I coś w tym jest, bo przepis pochodzi z lat 70. XX wieku. Został stworzony przez Ove Jacobssona, pracownika szwedzkiego transportu lotniczego (stąd nazwa dania). Po raz pierwszy został opublikowany w magazynie kulinarnym “Allt om mat” w 1976 roku i tak rozpoczęła się jego kariera, która z różnym nasileniem trwa do dzisiaj.

Ove Jacobsson

Nazwę potrawy wymyślił popularny szwedzki dziennikarz i pisarz, zmarły w listopadzie ubiegłego roku, Anders Tunberg. W tamtym czasie publikował w “Allt om Mat”, a prywatnie był sąsiadem Ovego. Nietrudno się domyślić w jaki sposób receptura trafiła do czasopisma, a potem setek szwedzkich domów...

Sam twórca Latającego Jakuba mówił, że na pomysł dania wpadł przez przypadek, łącząc różne składniki znalezione w lodówce. Oryginalnie w przepisie zamiast grillowanych kawałków indyka są kawałki pieczonego kurczaka. Wiecie, takiego niedojedzonego, z poprzedniego dnia. Myślę, że to doskonały pomysł na jego wykorzystanie. W moim domu jednak większym wzięciem cieszy się białe mięso, stąd zmiana (praktykowana zresztą także przez rodaków Jackobssona) na pierś indyka.

Jest to naprawdę oryginalne danie. Połączenie słonego, słodkiego i pikantnego; miękkiego, ciapkowego, puszystego i chrupiącego. Z delikatnym ryżem chłonącym kremowy sos, bomba (również kaloryczna), ale... kto nie grzeszy, niech pierwszy rzuci kamieniem.

Spróbujcie koniecznie!

Składniki:

400 g piersi indyka (lub kurczaka) płaska łyżka curry w proszku (opcjonalnie) 6 cieniutkich plastrów boczku duży banan (lub dwa małe) 300 ml kremówki 30% łyżka sosu chili (u mnie Sriracha) łyżka ketchupu garść prażonych solonych orzechów ziemnych sól i czarny pieprz do smaku

Dodatkowo 120 g ryżu basmati

Wykonanie:

Piekarnik ustawić na 200°C.

Pierś indyka pokroić w podłużne, niezbyt duże kawałki. Obsypać je solą, pieprzem i curry. Rozgrzać patelnię grillową, opędzlować olejem i grillować mięso z obu stron, aż złapie brązowe prążki.

Na tej samej patelni usmażyć boczek i odłożyć na talerz obok. Tłuszcz zlać (jeszcze się przyda) i wykorzystać np. do smażenia jajecznicy. Gdy boczek przestygnie, pokroić na kawałki.

Średniej wielkości naczynie do zapiekania lekko natłuścić tłuszczem z boczku. Ułożyć kawałki mięsa w jednej warstwie i obsypać boczkowymi chipsami. Na to ułożyć pokrojonego w plastry banana (zwykle jadam bardzo dojrzałe banany, ale tu sprawdzi się taki bez brązowych kropek na skórce).

Śmietanę ubić na sztywno. Dodać sos chili, ketchup i wymieszać do całkowitego połączenia. Śmietana zyska odstraszający różowawy kolor, ale spróbujcie - jest pyszna! Bitą śmietanę wyłożyć równomiernie na banany, obsypać orzechami i wstawić do piekarnika.

Piec ok. 20 minut. W tym czasie ugotować ryż, zgodnie ze wskazówkami na opakowaniu.

Wykładać porcje na talerze. Dołożyć garść świeżej sałaty.

Zjeść wszystko, następnego dnia - gdy śmietana opadnie - to już nie to samo.

[aiiaiiiyo]

Flygande Jakob (AKA. Flying Jacob): A Swedish Casserole containing Chicken, Chili Sauce, Bacon, Bananas, and Peanuts. [3024x4032][OC] Check this blog!

[attrociteas]

@vanligjatte

He nods, trying to scoop another few bites of casserole onto his plate with minimal dribble; it came out a little too watery this time, but Arthur's praise indicated that he hadn't minded. Wonderful, he never gets to share this dish with anyone. It's made him a little chattier than usual.

"Bacon, chicken... I used rotisserie. Cream with chili sauce, bananas, and..." there's an audible crunch of legume that he'd wormed from the corner of his mouth, as if to punctuate. "Roast peanuts. Every family's got their own recipe. Some use curry powder, whip the cream, so on. It's called flygande... hm, Flying Jacob. Glad you like it."

The pudding sounds enticing, provided it's one of those little steamed cakes that Hjalmar's picturing, or the ones that can be set on fire. He rather enjoyed those, so he hoped they could share it later.

“Chili sauce?” he repeats, voice rising in pitch just slightly. ���Oh. That’s what gives it that little kick, hm?” He has another bite, and hums approvingly. Yes, it is a little spicy, he wasn’t just imagining that among the combination of other flavors. 

“Is it difficult to make? I may try it at home, since I suppose casseroles aren’t usually too difficult. Can it be done without the chili sauce, though? I don’t have that.” And he doesn’t think it’s all that necessary. It’s probably replaceable with a bit of salt. 

[amirrorneverlies]

𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒫𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓎 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒟𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒮𝒶𝓎? – 𝒮𝑜𝓁𝑜 𝒷𝓎 𝐵𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶

𝘈𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯.

‘Are you going to tell me what it was about this time?’ #Charlie sat a plate of eggs and toast down on the table before me and one for himself and took a seat across from me.

“Hmm?” I picked up my fork without telling him that there were egg shells in the eggs and started to push them to the side. I knew my father had the best intentions in mind, but he was such a bad cook.

‘I heard you last night again Bells, are they getting any better?’ he wasn’t eating. His eyes were on me the whole time.

“It was fine, I’m getting better dad.” I half smiled looking over to him and then pointing my fork down to the plate. “Thanks for making these for me.” Picking up the toast I took a bite to stop him from questioning me anymore.

‘Okay. What are your plans for today?’ He asked as he started to eat himself. Today was Saturday and #Charlie had to work.

“The yard needs work, the grass, and the weeds. And I was thinking about painting that old trellis? Bring it back to life.” I’d made an extensive list of things to do around the house as I’d not managed to make any plans with the guys today.

#Charlie listened and ate, once his mouth was empty, he spoke. ‘Or you could drive down to La Push and go to see Jacob. The other night when you made all those calls. You seemed to forget that he is a friend of yours too.’

I stopped chewing, there was shock that #Charlie had noticed how I’d not called #Jake. But how could I? I’d not seen or spoken to him in over half a year. What right did I have to pick up the phone and call him. Or to even just show up at his door step and say what? ‘Hi Jake, sorry I didn’t check in with you while I had a boyfriend. But he is gone now. So, yeah. Hi!’ That’s not how friendships worked, and I’d used his innocence once before to gain something for myself. I couldn’t do that again.

“Uhm, it’s the weekend. I’m sure he has plans with all his friends.” Taking another mouthful.

‘Actually, I spoke to Billy last night. He was saying how he and the kid were planning to do some work around their place. So, they will be in all day long.’ My eyes glanced over to #Charlie, the police chief looked very proud of himself and the fact that he’d done his homework before he even brought #Jacob up like this, was a Checkmate move on the board.

“I don’t know –“ I started to say.

‘Bells, you promised.’ He dropped his fork, and his hand was on the table. ‘You promised to make an effort to start living your life again. Just going to school and hanging around the house wasn’t a part of that deal.’ He was about to push himself up from the table when I reached out.

“Okay dad, okay. I’ll call—”. His brows pulled together. “—Fine I’ll get in the truck and drive down there. You have those VHS’s of the old game for Billy, anyway, don’t you? I can take them and drop them off.”

His frown eased and he sat back. “Not that I understand who in their right mind still watches VHS’s in today’s world.” I glanced over through my eyelashes with a smile.

★ ★ ★ ★

#Charlie left for work after breakfast with the promise from me that I would go to see #Jacob today. It was still too early at the time, so I started on my jobs around the house.

I put a casserole in the slow cooker to be ready for dinner. I knew that the day seemed to drag for me, but for my dad it always flies by with him forgetting to eat most of the time. A hot meal being ready for him when he got home would help.

I then moved on to changing mine and #Charlie’s beds and put the washing on. It wasn’t raining today which was a good sign. If nothing else I knew that I could air dry the washing for once.

I hoovered and mopped the house and cleaned the windows from the inside. I was about to start on the next load of washing when my phone pinged with a text message from my dad.

𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙳𝚊𝚍: 𝙶𝚘 𝚃𝚘 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝙹𝙰𝙺𝙴!

I wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. My eyes glanced all around the downstairs of our house. “Does he have spy cams up in this place?” I knew he didn’t, but could I put it past him? Also, could I blame him at all? Not when he had me as his daughter. I couldn’t.

★ ★ ★ ★

I changed into something warmer, before running down the stairs to the living room to find the tapes I told #Charlie I’d take over to #Billy for him. It was an excuse to go over, a reason for me to not feel like I was intruding on the Black family on their weekend.

Pushing the tapes into a bag, I added the pie #Charlie had brought home yesterday too, the box was still sealed, and I knew it would be a peace offering for the Black’s if I took them some food. Making a note to stop off at the store on the way back home to pick another one up for my dad.

Gathering up my keys and things, I glance out the back at the washing and then up at the sky. It was still bright and light out there and all I could do was cross my fingers and hope that the rain stayed away until I was back home.

Running out of the front door I close it shut behind me without looking. The lace of my trainers getting stuck under my own feet. If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I may have seen it. Who was I kidding? There was no way I would have stopped long enough to see and carefully step over my own feet, and the lace. I tried to step forward, but my body jerked headlong out of my porch, and I was about to go flying down the steps when I felt that energy. The one I had a couple of nights ago. That pull was here surrounding me again. My body rolled forward and then back as I was being shoved with my own body weight counter balancing me.

“What?” My brows pulled together, and my forehead crinkled up as I looked everywhere. My hands swatting the air around me. “What was that?” Was I officially losing my mind? What was happening to me these days?

Looking over my shoulder, this time I slowly started down the steps and towards my truck.

“Try not to kill yourself before the end of the day Bella!” I muttered to myself.

★ ★ ★ ★

The drive to La Push never took long, however today I was the one who had been driving as slow as it was possible. Once I crossed the Bogachiel River on the 101, I knew there was no going back. I knew it was my own inability to forgive my behaviour to those around me, but I couldn’t stop the hundred and one scenarios from playing in my mind.

Scenario 1: #Jacob not opening the door when he heard my voice, so I would just stay quiet until he opened the door.

Scenario 2: #Jacob closing the door to his house in my face the moment he saw me, so I would have to put my foot in the door for him to listen to me.

Scenario 3: #Billy asking me to leave and never come back. He had the right to do so, he would be protecting his son from me and my one-sided friendship. And I had no come back from that.

All these thoughts brought with it the question I was too afraid of asking and thinking. Was it #Jacob who I was dreading to see or was it really #Billy?

I attempted to keep my attention on the road as I drove past First beach. The crashing waves of the sea made my head judder to the side, and I found myself pulling over to climb out. Moving around my truck to look closer at the group of kids on the beach. Laughing, and joking, chasing one another, and having a good time. It didn’t take me long to notice the faces I recognised in the group; I couldn’t place names to them, but I was sure that the last time I came down here with my friends from school these faces were around.

The ice-cold chill in the breeze blew into my face, making me hug myself as my teeth started to clatter. But my eyes scanned the faces not sure what or who I was looking for until I found his.

#Jacob stood beside three other guys, it wasn’t hard to see his big smile and his long jet-black hair blowing in the air from under his beanie. He was talking animatedly with the others and to look at him this way, I could be forgiven if I believed no time had passed at all. And yet so much time had.

I moved forward a few steps and then found my feet frozen to the road beside my truck. Chewing on my lip, I listened to that voice in my head saying.

‘He is with his friends, the ones who didn’t abandon him. Don’t spoil it for him.’

My gaze remained on #Jacob for a little while longer before my mind was made up. There was something I must do first, and now was as good a time as any.

Taking a few steps away from the beach, I tripped over my feet and into my truck before I stumbled my way around the vehicle, then climbed back into it. I had to do something before I could face #Jacob, it had to be done the right way.

Starting up the engine I pulled back out into the road and drove away from the beach, my teeth still chattering and the cold taking a hold of me.

★ ★ ★ ★

Pulling up I parked my truck beside the 1996 Chevy, glad to see that there was nobody else here. The Red wood-built house looked like nobody was in, but for the tell tail sign of the front door being left open. The two sides of the ramp before the house with fresh chopped wood stacked up high on each end, telling me that #Jacob and his father #Billy had been busy this morning too.

I climbed out of my truck, remembering to take the bag with the tapes and the pie with me this time as I moved over the wet green grass towards the door.

My heart had started to thud in my chest at all the outcomes that could come from this meeting. If #Billy wouldn’t speak with me. If he would ask me to leave? What was I going to say to him? I just knew that I needed to apologise for my behaviour.

“Uhm... Hello?” I rattle my knuckles on the wooden door and looked in. But I didn’t dare to step inside without being told I was welcome to do so.

‘Are you just going to stand there or are you going in Bella?’ I jumped out of my skin, my feet tripping over something on the ramp but #Billy’s out stretched arms stopped me from falling over myself.

‘Damn that boy. I told Jake to fix that lose board days ago.’ His forehead filled with wrinkles as he frowned looking down at the board in the ramp that I’d not even seen until now. ‘Are you okay there Bella? Did you hurt yourself?’ He asked concerned.

“I’m fine Billy, it’s my fault.” Looking down at the open laces of my trainers. “It’s like I have a death wish these last few days.” I was too late to stop, the comment was out before I could understand the impact of those words to this man.

‘Bella.’ #Billy didn’t look too pleased at my choice of words.

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just meant... well… you know… I was getting so much better at this walking thing and not tripping thing. And now this last week... I can’t explain it.” I didn’t know why I was telling him all of this. Holding up the bag in my hand. “Charlie asked me to bring you the game tapes you asked for, and I bought you and Jake a pie too.” I offered as a peace offering.

#Billy reached out and took the bag from me. ‘Thanks for this kid, tell your dad I owe him.’ He motioned for me to move and wheeled himself up the ramp now into his house. Seeing that I hadn’t moved back towards my truck, he stopped. ‘Jake isn’t here, he went down to the beach with a few of his friends.’

Chewing my lips, my fingers tugging at the hem of my jumper. “I know Billy, I saw him down there as I was driving up. But I was hoping that maybe I could talk with you?” I asked with a pleading look in my eyes.

#Billy sat there looking up at me an extra few moment, and I wished so much that I could read his mind. To see inside his head to see what it was he was thinking, what decisions he was trying to make.

‘You best come on in out of the cold then.’ He wheeled himself into the house, past the living room and into the open plan kitchen, Setting the bag down on the table, he moved to grab the coffee pot and then he took out two plates, two forks and two coffee mugs.

I followed behind him and stood watching unsure what to do now that he had actually allowed me to come in. I was so prepared for him to send me away, that I’d not readied myself for the time he would want to listen to me.

‘You don’t like coffee, do you?’ He was talking to himself as he wheeled himself to the fridge and took out the milk and brought it back to the table. ‘Well? are you going to take a seat?’ His voice was commanding. #Billy was always a kind man, and yet there was something in the way that he carried himself that told people not to push him.

I stepped into the kitchen now and took the seat across from him and pulled myself up against the table. We both sat there in silence as he poured me out a mug of milk, coffee for himself. He opened the pie and cut out the first slice and looked elated at the fact that it was cherry. Handing me a plate he went on to cut himself a slice too. Once he was done, he picked up the mug and took a sip from it. Setting the mug down his deep brown eyes found mine. ‘What can I do you for Young Bella?’

This was it, #Billy had in his way given me time to pull myself, my mind, and my thoughts together. Given me the opportunity to clear my mind of all the confusion and now was waiting for me to make my move.

I took a sip from the mug; the milk was fresh and cold. Just how I liked it. My eyes moved down to the pie, as I tried my best to find my words. Telling myself that this was my chance to make things right with #Billy.

“I am sorry Billy.” Those were the main four words I wished to tell him. “You are one of my father’s best friends. You were worried about me, you cared enough to want to help me. You were willing to put your peoples secret in jeopardy to help me. And I was ungrateful, I didn’t understand all it would have taken for you to make that drive to Forks. To come to speak to Charlie, to warn him... When I should have tried to listen, to understand, to heed your forewarning. I didn’t. I’d become somebody I never thought possible, and please understand in no way am I trying to push the blame on anybody but myself. I pride myself by believing that I am intelligent, and I am level headed. But back then I allowed myself to let my emotions get away from me. I am sorry Billy. I am so sorry that I didn’t listen to a man who cared for me just as my father does.”

The words dried up, and I closed my eyes with my chocolate brown hair falling forward to cover my shame in this moment. I was chewing on my lips as the silence grew until he said one word. ‘Cares.’ Billy sat there, his eyes on me when I finally lifted my gaze.

“I’m sorry?” I asked confused.

‘You said, ‘man who cared’, and I am telling you that this man here. He still ‘Cares’ about you. That will never change Bella, Ever. Kids make mistakes, all be it that yours could have meant that we lost you forever. But you are here, alive and well.’ I could see a visible shudder in him as he said those words. I guess he’d imagined in the past and maybe even now how my death could have come to passing.

‘Now eat your pie, It’s cherry. It will be good.’ That was that. #Billy and I sat there, eating pie, I drank my milk, and he drank his coffee, and I felt a little free of my mistake. #Billy could have and should have drawn this out. Made me explain myself more in-depth. Asked questions as to why I’d chosen the way I had back then. But he didn’t do that. And this too told me so much more than I could have imagined.

[sarahsatticoftreasures]

Keto Flying Jacob Casserole — A Slice of Kate Keto Flying Jacob Casserole is a Swedish casserole that is usually served with rice and salad. This is a Low Carb and Keto dish that is creamy and tasty.

[ketoquicklove]

Flying Jacob Casserole. Liberal low carb at its best! A delicious casserole made… http://bit.ly/2RMhZce

[anajuli-mirkstone]

[A very descriptive and detailed profile of your muse] Repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. If you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some other of your own! When you’re done, tag 15 other people to do the same!

tagged by: @hmratking

NAME: Ana-Juli Abigaeth Mirkstone-Valoric

ALIAS: The Councilwoman, The Witch AGE: Adult (Late Twenties; Early Thirties) SPECIES: Human GENDER: Female CLASS: (Warlock) Upper Class, Lady BIRTHPLACE: Redridge Mountains  BIRTH: February 28 SIGN: Equivalent of the Pisces  MARTIAL STATUS: Engaged PROFESSION: Religious Voice, Councilor of Ordo Tenebrae

RESIDENCES: Previously:  Age 2-11: Valoric Estate of Elwynn Forest Age 11-15: Random Taverns, the Sstreets Age 15-23: Backwoods of Eastern Plagueland, Rooming with a Witch Age 23-27: The Black Keep of the Ordo Tenebrae’s Sanctuary Age 27-Current: The Cauldella Estate

{ PHYSICAL FEATURES}

APPEARANCE: HAIR: Silvering dark gray, reaching mid-back in waves of ash EYES:  Green, with blue around the pupil SKIN:  A healthy sun kissed tan HEIGHT: Short-Average; 5′6″  WEIGHT: (Currently) Overweight; 298lbs

OTHER: Tattoos: Of current, non

Piercings and others: There is a Chaos star branded into the flesh of her chest - atop the left torso where her heart would remain - resembling a simple eight pointed star as originally seen embroidered into the tabards of members of her Order. The only difference between these designs would be that her own is confined within the letter “C”.

{ FAMILY }

SIBLINGS: Bloold: None, Step-kin: Jillian  PARENTS: Laina Rosemary-Mirkstone (deceased), Matthew Jacob Mirkstone (decesaed) GRANDPARENTS: Rosie Mill-Mirkstone (Deceased),  OTHER RELATIVES:  LOVE INTERESTS:  Currently- Rossko Cauldella. Previously - The Rat King.

ANY PETS?: Yes, several brood mares, nine geldings, and two stud stallions. One siamese cat, one desert rattler and one mastiff mixed breed.

{ ATTRIBUTES}

BASICS: Strength - Physically Ana-Juli is weathered by ranch work, she is a breeder and distributor of leisure riding horses of the finest quality, and despite having her own work force Dexterity - The most work out Ana gets a day is from walking the sewers at night, or caring for her horses. Otherwise, she does not force herself to exercise- Only when work calls for it! Constitution - Being apart of the Ordo Tenebrae for so long a period of her life has exposed Ana to a strict set of principles and directives- Internal and external attributes that shape and mold a true soldier of the Shadow. If she were to have nothing else, she would always have her Discipline, Will, Power and Sacrifice. Intellect - As a Councilwoman she must be hyper-aware, but as a Rat she must be twice that. She leads to kind of people: Children and barbarians.  Wisdom - Again, as a Councilwoman a certain amount of sense is required, and thankfully she holds a great deal of wisdom. She is the overseer of those as corrupted as herself, as well as overseeing the Lessons of the Eight Pointed Star, and the general teachings the Book of Shadows has to offer. Most of all the Neophytes yet to be assigned a mentor are taken under Ana’s wing, as of currently she is the offical Head Teacher. Charisma - As a socialite - or otherwise a face of the Ordo - Ana is meant to carry herself with dignity and grace as, typically, nobles expect at least this much. For Ana it’s all about playing the part. And in addition, to even bring bodies for her King’s Army, 

Comeliness - Ana has a certain fairness to herself that trully any can appreciate! Even being rather over weight, she is packed and stuffed in the most approrpiate places on her womanly figure- in such a way that is more than flattering! She tends to be very conceited, and is rarely ever caught looking her wrost.

SKILLS:

Creativity: As a teacher creativity is key! As a torturer creativity is killer! Kindness: Her kindness is offered to plenty and all, until proven unworthy of her good fortune. Stealth: In terms of socialite, Ana is very capable of blending in with the crowd and becoming part of her given role. Taxidermy: Despite Ana being most willing and most comfortable tearing people apart for her alchemy experimenting, Ana is ignorant to the ways of stuffing slain creatures.

{ TRAITS } —— POSITIVE ——

Charismatic Charming Kind Giving

—— NEGATIVE ——

Vindictive Manipulative Vicious Spiteful Envious { LIKES } COLORS:  Silver, black, blues, pastel greens. SMELLS:  Her bethroth’s cologne, berry wines, her children. FOOD: Anything the can be paired with rice! FRUITS: Grapes and berries of all vareities!  DRINKS: Juices, wines. ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES?: ... wines with any sort of fruity boquette.

{DISLIKES}

COLORS: pink, baby blue, pastel colors, bright colors SMELLS: Strong perfumes, filth,  FOOD:  Anything baked in casseroles. FRUITS: Grapefruits DRINKS: Anything metallic tasting. ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES: Bitter stouts or sour ales/meads.

{ OTHER DETAILS } SMOKES? yes [] || no [x]

DRUGS?: yes [] || no [x ]

FLYING LICENSE?:  yes [] || no [x] 

EVER BEEN ARRESTED?: yes [X] || no [ ] 

Headcanon: The Councilwoman - otherwise known as the Rat Witch - is known for her forgiving nature, and this is one of her many weaknesses. AS a Councilor she is exposed to the heartaches of her people, and it has whittled away her arrogant, abrasive nature (which typically comes from being a warlock), into an affectionate empath. 

There is not a day Ana does not regret making a pact with demons, allowing herself to be corrupted by Fel.

She is a wholly devoted Shadow-sworn, a member of the prestigious Ordo Tenebrae, Bride of the Shadow and Sister Councilor.

She is devoted to the Rat King and his psychotic purpose, and finds her relationship with him to be valuable when paired with the Shadow. If given the chance, she would convert him to a Shadow sworn and attempt to make him her order’s Tyrant. ~ Anyone who has yet to (which I doubt, this has long since been overdue) is welcome to perform one of these detailed little things!