#habit burger and grill

[taco-bell-unofficial-blog]

guess who's not on the list? Yum! brands. And we have an equal amount of democratic and republican investors, too, so we're less likely to sway one way or the other. We do have some individuals who chose to donate, but none of our PAC funds went to Trump. This applies to Taco Bell, KFC, Pizza Hut, and Habit Burger and Grill.

Source: YUM! Brands Profile: Summary • OpenSecrets

Target has helped so many save money since they want to kiss the ass of Trump. Costco is better anyway.

Here’s a real boycott list

P.S: obviously everyone can’t boycott everything but one also doesn’t need that Tito’s Vodka or Wendy’s 😉

[volfoss]

I think no one could stop me from a beautiful and delicious 7 am burger...🍔

[mateushonrado]

Five restaurant chains owned by Yum! Brands

Status Post #11014: This excludes those owned by Yum China.

Row 1: KFC (founded 1952), Pizza Hut (founded 1958) and Taco Bell (founded 1962)

Row 2: The Habit Burger Grill (founded 1969) and Wingstreet (founded 2003)

[themenuland1]

Habit Burger Menu – Signature Charburgers, Open Flame Chargrill

Habit Burger Grill is a premium burger chain founded in 1969. Known for its signature Charburgers and incomparable fast-casual dining experience, the popular Southern California-based 

[naffeclipse]

A Tease

Reader x Grease

Commission Info

I am rattling @o-cinnamonstickz for commissioning one of my monster boyfriend OCs and letting me go absolutely feral with this guy! Grease is such a menace and the poor reader must sweetly suffer him. After stealing a break while on a late shift, the reader will run into Grease behind the diner, and one tease will lead to another.

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

The customer smiles as he hands you back the black check presenter, his mouth spread a little too wide to show off his molars. You feel the money tucked within, but with an inward groan, you fear there is no tip. You wish him and the few others eating with him a good night. Maybe you’ll get lucky and one of his friends will pity you and dump a few quarters on the dirty table.

As they all throw down their napkins and scurry away, out into the night of Hebron, you step back to the cash register. Feeling the inside of your apron pocket, you brush against the worn and half-crumpled box of cornstarch hidden within before snagging your pen to tuck behind your ear.

With a few taps and clanks, and a little slam to get it to open properly, you deposit the cash for the meal. Stealing a glance over to the table, you find the dishes piled high, the clear cups half filled with watered-down soda, and not even a dime in sight.

Great. Just lovely. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and huff through your nostrils. Where did the virtue of tipping go? Is it just tourists or is it simply everyone that steps through the diner doors who forgoes the practice?

Such questions will only leave you with a headache pounding away at your temples. Biting back a few choice words due to their rowdiness and the not-at-all-subtleness in looking you up and down, you slip the bill into the towering pile that has collected throughout the day.

It’s close to the end of your shift, right? You keep yourself from staring at the clock in the diner too frequently lest the hands get stuck in one place, endlessly ticking without spinning. Everything seems stuck in time here. 

The Hebron Diner, aptly named after the town Hebron, in which you and this poor restaurant reside, is a vintage theme with black and white photos of old cars driving between the trees and sepia pictures of scenery from the nearby national park. You’re growing to hate the lilac coloring of the tables, stools, and booths, and your own stupid waitress attire is drenched in the same hue. Your apron is white—a poor choice, considering how well it shows the stains of burger grease and ketchup. 

You return to the table and begin gathering plates. One hardly touched his fries and you think the other merely played with his country-fried steak. Only an hour to go and then you’re free to rush home and scrub off the smell of fast food from your skin and hair. As the darkness holds over Hebron and its neon-dusted but quaint main street, your hope for the end of a long shift grows. 

You bring the dishes back into the kitchen. Darren, the cook, seems content to clean the grill while the diner remains open but inhabited by hungry customers. 

“Hey, would you mind taking out the trash?” he calls over his shoulder, never even looking up from the faint steam that sizzles over the grill top. “I’ll keep an eye out, let you take a break for a minute if you do.”

“Deal,” you answer without hesitation. You still need to wipe down the table, but you’ll do that after your break. You’ve earned one. 

Dropping off the dishes, you look to Darren for directions on which garage. He jerks his head in the direction of the trash bag sitting in a gleaming silver can, and you quickly tie it up and lift it from its container. Without another word, you breeze outside towards the dumpster. 

Darren scratches your back, you scratch his. You don’t talk to him much, but your habitation as coworkers is seamless as butter on fresh hotcakes. 

The coolness of the night washes over you, chasing away the heat and stress of the diner. A faint street light shines into the employee parking lot filled with cracked pavement and the remnant odor of grease traps. 

The dumpster is located on the other end of the small lot, unfortunately. The light doesn’t quite reach there and deep potholes collect water and whatever may fall into their depths. Your heart skips a beat, your fingers white-knuckling the tied-off garbage at your side.

There are monsters out there. You never thought of such things since you were a child, but the world became a lot bigger and unknowable, and this town became a lot smaller and strange since you discovered the truth. There are things in the dark that hide with mouths full of teeth. They like to watch you. They hope to follow you home and catch you where no one will hear you scream.

Is your paranoia striking because you’re alone now? The darkness is thick and inky, wrapping around the edges of the weak streetlight.

No. Stop being a child. Heaving the trash bag up with a soft clatter, you grind your teeth. The night isn’t what scares you. You push yourself forward, one foot after the other, until you catch sight of one of the potholes. It brims with dark liquid shining iridescently. It stands between you and the dumpster, and you catch an unmistakable ripple across its surface. There is no breeze tonight.

Your breath catches in your throat before you roll your eyes. A name is on the tip of your tongue, ready to call out, but you stop yourself.

A wicked grin crosses your lips. A juvenile idea infiltrates your brain and you run with it. You set one hand on your hip before arching a brow, staring down at the oil puddle. Does he really think you don’t know he’s here?

Dropping the trash bag into the puddle, you promptly sit on top of the black material—not allowing logical thoughts such as the fear of something sharp poking you or the general distasteful smell reeking from it stop you—and throw the puddle outwards in a thick, black splash.

You recline back on it, hands on your knees, as you shift your hips slightly to sink into what feels squishy and crumples slightly, perhaps old food and cardboard boxes. Gross. You ignore it and keep sitting pretty. Underneath you, the puddle begins to bubble and froth. The iridescent sheen of purples and blues and yellows flash in a way you haven’t quite seen before. 

Then the thought lingers a little too long before it manifests into something searing with embarrassment. You might as well have plopped yourself into a demon’s lap.

No. You hold firm. This is payback. He’s stalked you, hunted you down, and grabbed you. The least you can do is embarrass him with the rotten cherry being a trash bag on top of him. You lounge as if it were a throne.

Then a growl emerges from below you. Goosebumps roll over your arms until every tiny hair pricks. Your heart begins to thump hard and fast like a rabbit fleeing from a fox.

You spring off of the garbage bag as if burned. Breath caught in your throat, you whirl back to face the sleek ripples of the oil puddle. 

The black liquid rises, funneling into the figure of a man, lithe with muscles and powerfully sleek not unlike a tiger. The trash bag is ripped upwards in a grip of indignation. Your gut clenches as claws, iridescently gleaming and dark, sink into the thin black material.

A creature of living oil. A demon. Grease.

Two dark tendrils drip down from the top of his head, the tips resting at his shoulders. A long, sleek, and wicked tail snaps behind him. His face is flat with a sharp jawline, lacking a nose but his mouth bears bone-white teeth. Two pale blue eyes, centered with black pupils, pierce you in the darkness of the parking lot as if he might devour you whole. You’re reminded so vividly of a tiger before it strikes.

“How disrespectful,” Grease snarls, his silky and dark timbre carrying a slight threat underneath it. “I’ve come to see you and you put trash on me. Must I remind you who I am?”

You shift on the gritty pavement from one foot to the other. The candle flame of mirth inside of you is not yet extinguished. A small voice warns you in the back of your mind that you’re pushing your luck, but you are nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

“I know who you are, oil boy,” you say, much braver than you are. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

His grin widens.

“Oh?” He steps forward, his shoulders lowering like a cat about to bounce. The sway of his tail is excited, thrilled for a chase. “Neither are you, little nymph.”

A brief burn infiltrates you at the nickname he’s unfortunately bestowed upon you. Your brow furrows as you take a step back. A powerful concoction of adrenaline and confusion floods your veins, interrupting the flow of your thoughts as a primitive instinct to survive takes hold.

“What…?” Your tongue is too heavy.

He tilts his head, revealing a terrible mouth filled with shark-like teeth. Fear spears your heart.

“If you want to sit in my lap, you merely need to ask.” He cackles a heinous sound of black glee.

Red heat fills your face, coloring you in both rage and embarrassment. No, no, this is backfiring. You should have known he would have twisted it in his favor. He’s so seductive and intimidating. You forget which part of him is more dangerous: his teeth or his words.

“Ah, just how I like you, all pretty and pink,” he purrs deep in his throat. His black tongue, oily and black as midnight, swipes over his teeth as if he just found dessert.

Forget this. You twist on the balls of your feet, pushing off the cracked pavement in a dead run for the back door of the diner.

It’s over before it’s truly begun. Long, slick claws snatch you by the arms. Grease rips a gasp from you as he whirls you around and pins your back to the wall. You glare up at him, a breath rattling into your lungs. 

“Let me return your little favor.” His voice coils within you. Your heart beats against your ribs, wild under his devouring gaze. “A little tease for another.”

The sleek tip of his tail finds your ankle and begins winding up your leg. You bite back a yelp at the squeezing, staining pressure from the tendril. A chain to ensure you can’t run.

“I wasn’t teasing you,” you protest, but it’s a lie. A filthy lie that is only met with a sinister chuckle from Grease. 

“Don’t be so coy. It’s not a good look for you.” 

Fighting words long to fly off your tongue but his own emerges from his jaws. Dripping black saliva coats it like thick honey. Your eyes widen. He leans in closer with a monstrous grin. The tendrils upon either side of his head twist up gently and press into your cheeks, securing you into place as you suck in a sharp breath. Your palms press flat against the wall at your sides. He bends low to find access to your neck.

The cool, slick caress of his tongue on the curve of your throat draws out a shiver. It fills your chest and rolls down your spine. Tenderly exploring your skin, the tip of his tongue licks slowly upwards before disappearing from underneath your chin with a cool trace. You gulp.

The fiend. You would curse him if you weren’t half-paralyzed underneath his mouth. Your fingers inch toward your apron pocket.

“On second thought, why stop with a tease?” Grease slips back just enough to capture your gaze and watch you squirm. A threat of blush is bearing down upon your defenses. “You deserve more. A proper… tantalizing…”

He finishes his thought with a too-wide smile and his tongue flicking out of his mouth, closing the precious little distance between your lips. The gallope of your heart roars in your ears. You can’t name the roiling in your middle. It is too hungry, too excited for an oil demon’s touch. 

Still, you lean forward in the slightest, just to catch him the slightest bit off guard. His tail loosens from your leg. His eyes widen, but he presses in—

You snatch the box of cornstarch out of your apron and whip it in front of you, spilling out fine white powder onto the oil demon. He screeches in fury. Backing away from you as the cornstarch latches onto his chest, he writhes and hisses, claws raking at the substance gluing up his sleek form.

“You—! You—!” He howls but all you can do is steal one breathless sound before sliding out from underneath him and grabbing the door handle. Twisting it, you fling yourself into the kitchen.

You twist back to slam the door closed but catch a sharp, pale blue glare, frothing with a promise so vile, it ignites your core into a hot bubbling mess.

Grease will make you pay. But not tonight.

You lock the door and fall back against it. Deep gulps of air heaves through your chest. You slowly push your hair away from your sweaty face.

You got away. For now.

[zekeyboy]

can saw characters cook?

adam - barely. he’s got solid basics (eggs, grilled cheese, etc) but if he tries a complicated dish it’ll turn out…. subpar

lawrence - yes. not as good as allison can, but raising a kid makes you learn to make a few solid dishes

amanda - never learned, but she’s got the potential

hoffman - no. look at me. he cannot. im sure he can cook a burger and pasta and thats it

strahm - he could if he wanted to, but he lives on a strict diet of coffee and protein bars when necessary 98% of the time

perez - yes. she can cook the best out of everyone on this list

kramer - he can cook. jill was treated well

eric - he can’t. his wife did all the cooking so he’s stuck eating tv dinners now

rigg - he’s mediocre. he’s been learning but he’s in the habit of burning things

kerry - she’s got basics but she’s more of a baker if anything

tapp - no. not at all, no intention to learn.

sing - he can cook and he is the only reason tapp stays fed somedays

gibson - he is always snacking on something of course he can cook

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just a Girl 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible cheating, low self-esteem, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you move in with your sister when your luck turns for the worst.

Characters: Walter Marshall, possible Andy Barber

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You stand in the open garage, gangly and out of place. You hear the back door snap again and sense Walter as he strides through the open gate. He comes up beside you and presses his arm against yours. 

“Here,” he holds out the stemless glass of wine, “figure one of us should enjoy it.” 

“Oh, thanks, I...” you stifle the complaint that you don’t drink. You suppose one won’t hurt.  

“Not much for wine,” he wiggles the can in his hand. You can smell the hoppy beer from there, “so, I was thinking shelves right across the back wall,” he spreads his fingers in a gesture across the breadth of the garage, “what do ya think?” 

“Right, er, what kind of shelves.” 

“I got storage in the basement. Mostly beer glasses and the like. Some car models. It’s gonna be a little bar or whatever. Need somewhere to chill,” he nudges you with his elbow, “’specially since I’m making lots of new friends.” 

You glance over at him from the corner of your eyes and step forward. You go to the wall and touch it. They’ve been newly put up and finished. Sturdy. You knock on it so you can hear where the anchoring is. 

“Could do,” you mutter, “when did you do these?” 

“Just finished them. A regrettable winter decision,” he chuckles, “don’t forget to try the wine. I’m sure your sister wouldn’t want it to go to waste.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you shift, standing on an angle to him. You raise the glass and take a sip, your face scrunching up at the acrid but sweet flavour. 

“You really don’t drink, do you?” He scoffs as he nears. 

“Never really saw the use in it,” you shrug. 

“Should be clearer after living with the jackass Barber,” he snorts, “you seem like you could use the escape. Must be awkward pent up with the newlyweds.” 

“I guess...” you rub your neck. “So, the shelves, how tall--” 

“We can talk business tomorrow,” he interrupts, “I’ll get dinner on. How about you come hang on the deck while I cook?” 

“Sure, er,” you turn to him stiffly, “I could help.” 

“That’s sweet,” his eyes flick up and down, “but I invited you. You sit back and relax and enjoy the wine. It gets better the more you drink.” 

You clamp your lips shut and follow him back through the open door. He hits the button for it to close and directs you through the gate. You head up onto the deck and look around as you clasp the glass in both hands. 

“Sit,” he insists as he points to the cushions on the wicker frame. “I’ll get this going...” 

You take his command. You sit in the very corner of the patio couch and cross one leg over the other. You have a habit of trying to make yourself as small as you can. Next to him, it's easy. 

You sit and shrink as he moves around. He lights the barbecue then disappears inside once more. He brings out a plate of burgers and some veggies to grill, along with foiled potatoes to bake. He returns one more with the bottle of wine. 

“In case you want a top up,” he winks. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. 

He picks up his beer and sips as he goes to work. He puts the potatoes on first and closes the lid. He turns to lean on the railing and watches you. You drink to keep yourself busy. 

“So, you hear Jack White is coming to town?” He asks. 

Your eyes flit to him then away, “yeah.” 

“How about you tag along?” He offers. 

“Oh, I can’t--” 

“My treat,” he interjects. 

“It’s nice but...” 

“But what? You’re a fan.” 

“Sure, but er, it... would be too much.” 

“Hm, who says so? Seems like you got too many people in your ear. I wanna take you out. We can get some dinner too.” 

“Oh, would that... are you... asking me out?” You blanch. 

He guffaws, “uh, already did. You think I brought you over for your thoughts about shelves? It’s a bonus.” 

“Uh. I didn’t think... oh.” 

“Oh? I thought I was pretty forward. Why are you here if you’re not into it?” 

Because you told me to. Because you made me. Because I can’t go back. 

You shrug, “guess I misunderstood.” 

“You’re cute, you like good music, and I like you.” 

“You do?” You frown. 

“Don’t act so surprised,” he scoffs and nears the couch, he sits next to you. Close. Too close. “The other women around here, they talk too much. You’re calm, quiet. I’m too old for all that. I know what I want.” 

You nod as your throat tightens. 

“And you need a man, not a boy,” he tickles your side and swigs from his beer. 

You fidget. A chill ripples over you. You’re reminded of another instant, another touch that made you unsure, another man who told you what you wanted. 

You wince at the sliver of a memory and the glass slips in your hand. You garble as it tips before you can right it and it splashes onto his shirt, soaking the sleeve and down the side. He retracts in surprise. 

“Sorry,” you squeak, “I’m sorry, Walter, I didn’t mean to.” 

He stands and puts his beer down. He chuckles and you squirm, preparing yourself for his rage. You stare at him as you straighten the wet glass. 

“I’m really sorry, I don’t know what happened.” 

“It’s good, just some wine,” he peels his shirt over his head and your eyes widen at the reveal of his thick torso. You gulp as you can’t help but notice the thick muscles and dark trim of fur. “You get any on you?” 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” you look down, thankful for the excuse to tear your gaze away from him. 

“I’ll go grab a fresh shirt,” he says. “Can I get you anything?” 

“N-no,” you stammer out and stand up, “I’m sorry.” 

“Relax,” he nears and rubs your shoulder, “it’s adorable when you get all flustered but I’m not mad. Pour yourself another glass.” 

You keep your eyes down and nod. He brushes by you, too close for your liking, and you go to the round glass table. Adorable? You don't know if you've ever been called that.

You take the wine and pour from the long neck. You don’t know what else to do. You’re so nervous. Maybe the alcohol will help. You’ve heard it called liquid courage. 

You pick up the glass again and go to the railing to look off into the green yard. You didn’t notice the hot tub before. His yard is just as well kept as any. As you try to distract yourself from what he said, your mind resists. 

He likes you? You’re not that stupid that you don’t know what’s going on. You’re only unsure. He’s moving so fast and you hardly know him really. He doesn’t really know you and yet he acts like he does. 

Even so, you don’t feel like you can deny him. You try, over and over, and he just bulldozes over you. Still, you can’t name one thing he’s done that’s been so wrong. 

The back door snaps again as Walter appears. He pulls down a tee shirt and smiles as he shakes out his hair. He combs his fingers through his curls. 

“Thought I got this mop under control,” he chortles as you watch him over your shoulder. He grabs his beer from where he left it and approaches, “so... you checking out the hot tub?” 

“Oh, uh, no, just... the flowers--” 

“My daughter deals with those,” he says, “you wanna hop in after dinner? Get in a soak?” 

“Erm, I don’t think so. I don’t have a suit.” 

“And?” 

You blink at his suggestion. Naked? You look down at the wine and gulp another mouthful. 

“You keep drinking that wine and think about it,” he taps your butt and backs up, “I should get those burgers going.” 

You keep your eyes ahead of you, staring off across the lawn as your heart races. What do you do? You can’t go back to your sister’s house, not after your run-in with Andy. You’ll just have to stick it out and hope he forgets about the hot tub. 

[brainjvice]

Shidou hates vegetables (he'd gladly live off raw meat and carbs if he could) so Sae, in the attempt to save Shidou's intestinal flora from a fate worse than death, makes him some """special burgers""" which are actually moslty made out of vegetables.

Sae portions them, grills them and, when they are cold, puts them in the freezer, ready for Shidou to defrost and eat. (less time Ryusei spends in the kitchen = lower risk of something exploding)

Shidou has yet failed to notice it.

Also I like to imagine Sae actually sucks at cooking. He is used to let his personal chef do everything, yet Shidou stubbornly refuses to eat anything that has not been made by Sae-chan sweet hands, so Sae had to come up with something easy to make and also not too time consuming.

So yeah this means that Sae's "burgers" look absolutely atrocious and he forgets to put salt in it, like, half of the time, yet Ryusei always devours them as if he was a starving dog.

((Sae is convinced Shidou got his taste buds burnt after years of questionable eating habits, but in reality Ryusei feeds off more on the idea of Sae taking care of him than on the food itself.))

[b1uedcollar]

   ASSOCIATIONS     /     CHARPENTIER.

a screw, by definition, is     —    a short, slender, sharp-pointed metal pin with a raised helical thread running around it and a slotted head, used to join things together by being rotated so that it pierces wood or other material and is held tightly in place.

–  screws as used in carpentry. –  sharp but almost never to the point. twisting into a weave of lies. –  mawmaw trixie taught him to thread a needle, but the girl he sat by in high school home-ec showed him the fundamentals of sewing. –  often thinks with his other head, cody also has a brain for guns, math, doomsday prep, and general overthinking. refers to bathrooms as the head. excessive drinking is a tactic to stay outta his mind. –  cody’s [stuck] tightly in place ( physically and mentally ). –  screws can have t / x indentions reminiscent of a cross. he’s a baptized catholic     :     rusty screws are a specific association.

⸻     🔩     ⸻

aircraft propeller

a prisoner’s derogatory term for a prison guard or warden

an act or instance of having sex

a mean or miserly person (archaic)

cheat or swindle (someone)

used to express anger or contempt

the propeller screwed up, crashing that plane. he’s a prisoner in some verses, a guard [cop] in others. he screws people in all kinds of ways. and he never grew out of the PG-curse    :    screw you.

⸻

🪛   .    SCREWDRIVER as in the tool ( not so talented in screwing or driving [ too fast ] ).    screwdriver as in his least favorite drink.

SCREWBALL [ peanut butter whiskey ] as in his fanciest way of consuming alcohol.    screwball as in his go-to summer treat from the ice cream truck.    screwball as in his record-breaking pitch.

⸻     ⚾️     ⸻

america’s pastime.    arguably his first love.    favorite sport and core part of his identity.     ( jersey and cody number is 69. )

he is a snacker [ i will go more detail with a favorite foods post ], particularly fond of baseball foods    :    sunflower seeds,   chips,   gum   ( he prefers chewing tobacco ),   hot dogs,   peanuts.

🥔     ⸻

POTATOES    :    mistaken as “ root vegetables ”   { cody’s familiar with most of his family tree. he’s rooted in place to his hometown. }

a type of “ modified stem ” known as a tuber. these are compacted, swollen stems which are produced underground and remain there when the “ parent plant ” ( the old plant that produced this year’s crop ) has died down. this allows the plants to survive through the cold winter period because the tubers are deep below the soil surface where they are protected from frost.

⸻    preceded in death by his grandfather. will survive the winter that is grief despite burying himself in a hole on the family plot next to him.    your grandmother’s prayers are still protecting you.

⸻    potatoes are also   a symbol of nourishment, of sustenance, of the bonds that link families together.     cody is stitched together by inherited skills from his grandparents: woodworking and cooking. he inhales half-ass meals that keep him feeling dissatisfied with life, but he cannot shake his duty to nourish the community    :    buying burgers for his homeless besties, feeding whoever’s in the drunk tank at work, and volunteering to grill at functions.   he will always bitch about somebody getting passed his no trespassing sign,   but he’d never let someone leave his home with an empty stomach.

⸻    knows a lot about the famine but detests an irish goodbye.

⸻    loves fries [ with mayonnaise ],    especially the curly variety,    which are reminiscent of wood shavings and his hair.

🥜     ⸻

“ In baseball, the tension builds slowly. Eating peanuts is part of a nervous habit—it gives you something to do with your hands. ”

⸻    his hands stay busy. with a tool. a baseball. signing, gesturing. peanuts are as productive as they are tasty and a staple in baseball.    pop got him in the habit of putting peanuts in his coke.    but thanks to boss ( her lack of cooking skills and their general poor financial situation ),    cody’s a peanut butter [ chunky ] connoisseur.

⸻    peanuts   /  screws represent stability. in a perfect universe, he’d provide white picket fence security for a family. in reality, he’s firm in his belief that he is undeserving of anything good.

⸻    peanuts   /   potatoes represent prosperity, and cody lacks an abundance in wealth and success.    one could even say he’s working for peanuts ( “ a paltry thing or amount ” ).

⸻    peanuts served on planes. peanuts associated with elephants ( a myth perpetuated by cartoons and the circus ).

HE LOVES ELEPHANTS.

absolutely giddy for them. won’t talk your ear off with facts, but he does know they have an incredible memory. he finds peace in watching them, associates them with safety. which is anchored by childhood memories of watching 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚘 with his mom. cody even has a stuffed one, worn with time, that he’ll deny existing. researchers believe elephants’ good memories are a big part of how elephants survive and why so many live so long ( 50 to 60 years or more on average ). those who work closely with elephants also have noticed that elephants remember injures and can hold grudges against those who have hurt them. his birthday is november 11 / veterans day { united states } : honors those who have served in the military. distinct from but sometimes mistaken as ` memorial day ` which remembers those who have died in service. / remembrance day { commonwealth } which marks the end of the first world war (and honors those who have died in the line of duty).    cody is a survivor of a plane crash in high school. he’d never make the comparison, but the scars of that night, both physical and mental, and the ptsd speaks for him. he was medically rejected when he tried to enlist at eighteen. an exceptional memory, near photographic, but prefers drinking to cope with the bad. usually lying if he says he doesn’t remember something. takes advantage of it for work { both as a cop and carpenter } and sometimes to stir the pot for his amusement.

⸻    peanuts are also a staple with beer at a bar. do not drink his bad attempt at making his own brew! you can, however, enjoy the wine from the shed. made it himself, actually…   —   blackberry.

favorite and only fruit he acknowledges.    memories of plucking ‘em from the wild,   picking from the bushes in his grandparents’ yard,   devouring buckets at a time.    hands stained red.

( unripe blackberry aesthetics represent blood staining his youth. )

[ BROKEN ] CLOCKS. –    once lived next to a retired clockmaker. couldn’t tell who was babysitting who when together. cody developed a fascination for antique clocks, collecting and tinkering with broken ones, which only deepened when he learned his family built his hometown’s clock tower.    the same one his grandfather eventually jumped. –    a broken clock is right twice a day. frozen in time by grief.

⸻

DUCKS. –    rubber duckies during bath time with boss. –    a duck phone he picked up at a garage sale ( and still uses today ). –    an avid hunter ( the imagery of shooting ducks out of the sky and the plane crashing ), cody enjoys carving duck calls and decoys { that sell pretty good, even if he does give away plenty art for free }. not all ducks fly despite their wings ( cody hasn’t been in the air since the incident ), deliberately clipping his own wings by staying in his hometown. his outward personality being carefully carved ( a lie ). –    calling it duck tape and using it for everything.

⸻

DANDELIONS. –    childhood innocence.    hope.    wishing on ‘em. now he lights them on fire. cody only knows the weed. he will not recognize the flower if shown, much like his inability to see a positive future. –    hometown mascot is the lions.

⸻

LAGNIAPPE.     ⸻     icarus   ( the plane literally falling out the sky at the height of his baseball career ).    –    crushed [ beer ] cans and the pressure getting to him.  –  gasoline [ #gaslighter ] and instigating the fight.    –    fire.    –    burned down church. worshipped as a boy before he let the flames lick everything up. ( cody and his tongue : he never shuts. the. fuck. up. )    –    charpentier is french for carpenter. something something about wood giving you a splinter. jesus was a carpenter. he was resurrected too.    –    this photo is the best damn representation of his big [dead] fish in a small pond [sink] shtick!

[bloodfin]

planning out this menu for next week so of course thinking about the ghouls and their kitchen/food habits

dew loves sweet, crunchy treats. kettle corn, frozen chocolates, chocolate covered nuts. anything sweet that will leave a trail of crumbs will do. what he hates, however, is dishes, so he'll do anything possible to avoid making more, including using a paper towel as a makeshift plate (this of course leads to more mess, and mountain has nearly banned him from the space on several occasions)

rain loves spicy foods. ordering thai? he's requesting level 5 spicy, with extra chili paste on the side. loves to chase spice-intolerant dew around offering kisses after. he has too many teeth, so he won't touch stringy foods like celery. in the kitchen, he will clean as he goes, but never remembers where to put the spatulas or whisks so good luck figuring out which drawer he plopped them in

mountain also has a sweet tooth, but more for cakes and cookies. his baking is rivaled only by sunshine, and they'll tackle the most difficult recipes together to make actual magic. also makes the best ✨️special✨️ treats with his home-grown stash. extremely clean and organized; everyone knows better than to bother him in the kitchen, choosing to sit and observe at the island instead. if they're extra good, he'll slide them a sample

swiss loves savory and crunchy snacks. chips, pretzels, extra toasty cheeze-its. mountain made him savory trail mix once and now he asks for a pound of it every yule. will keep the kitchen pretty tidy, but has an unfortunate habit of forgetting to close the cabinets he opens and has bonked himself on more than one occasion. also known to make anything into leftover sandwiches that have no right to be as tasty as they are

aether is a grill dad. grilling is peaceful for him, plus it keeps his hands warm. loves a good classic burger, or a grilled chicken salad, definitely a savory guy. there could be a foot of snow outside, and aeth will be lighting the grill up for dinner without complaint. he's still learning to use the smoker, ever the perfectionist, but no one is complaining about eating the "messed up" brisket that doesn't quite fall apart when you poke it

aurora is the soup queen. loves eating soup, making soup; all soup, all the time. the den has a lot of mouths to feed so mountain made her a special step stool to help her see more easily into the massive kitchen stock pot while she cooks. her favorite to eat (but least favorite to make) is cauliflower soup, it's creamy and delicious, but every time she uses an immersion blender the ceiling gets as much soup as she does

sunshine also loves baking. her favorite is a classic raspberry french macaron and she has perfected the technique - it's impressive. phantom loves to watch her cook in particular, she's so clean and precise, they hope one day to hold a measuring cup like she does. sunshine is a bit more patient in the kitchen, showing whoever is watching little tips and tricks. wears the cutest floral apron, almost always covered in flour handprints

cumulus is all about fruits and berries, loves citrus and blackberries the best. mountain painstakingly cares for a little tangerine tree, just for her. her favorite foods to make are comfort foods, and she always makes the macaroni and cheese for big group dinners. everyone begs for it (and rain doesn't even add hot sauce), but she is definitely one of the messier cooks. everyone knows she has been in the kitchen when there are wrappers left about, little twist ties on the counter. the pack doesn't mind terribly, not when her dishes could cure any emotional wound

cirrus is all about cold, sweet snacks. loves ice cream and popsicles, the freezer is well stocked. her favorite is orange pushpops, and she will take exactly zero questions about it. works with great efficiency in the kitchen, and will often be the one planning dinner party menus with mountain. that, and which special snack he should make next. her specific cooking talent is bread, in particular sourdough. she made a cinnamon bread once that made dew cream his pants, he still hasn't lived it down

phantom burned water once, never tried cooking again. loves to wear a thrifted shrek shirt, "in the morning, im making waffles." they aren't, they barely use the toaster, but they'll make puppy eyes at mountain until he sighs and starts getting the batter ready. will eat anything anyone feeds them, but has an extra soft spot for those cloyingly sweet white puffy sugar cookies with bright colored frosting and sprinkles. the first time they had one was halloween, and they insisted on saving all the bat sprinkles

[seat-safety-switch]

When you’re hungry, you shouldn’t force yourself to keep working. Our bodies have been tuned by millions of years of evolution to prioritize getting something to eat over whatever little weird thing we’re grinding out this evening in our ramshackle, corrugated-steel shed on the side of a major freeway. Don’t ignore it: go eat, and come back to the job refreshed.

I live my own advice, a habit which my attorney and parole officer suggest that I discard. When I was recently working on welding a Ford 9″ solid rear axle into the carcass of a 1968 Corvette birdhouse, so that it could accept the torque from a Triton V10 that “fell out of” a motorhome that got abandoned at the truck stop near my house, I felt hungry. And I stopped working, so I could go eat that food.

There is, of course, a problem. My ramshackle, corrugated-steel work shed is on the side of a major freeway. Although I live in a city that is becoming “walkable,” in practice that actually means that the bars nearby now serve craft beer. I still have to walk 35 minutes across two busy expressways and through a burned-out industrial yard to reach them, much less a Burger King. And let’s be honest, the car I used to get here is not taking me anywhere, until I finish working on it.

Sound familiar? I bet it does. Don’t worry. Where there’s opportunity, there’s an opportunity to make the problem worse. You see, in my shed, I have access to an old South Bend lathe. It spins really fast, and sometimes really slow, and it helps me to cut metal for, say, a replacement chunk of my control arm that fell off trying to merge onto Main Street the other day. What I don’t have access to, as I said previously, is food.

Or at least, not, like, good food. Sure, anyone can bang together a grilled cheese sandwich on a hot exhaust manifold. I was in the mood for something gourmet. Something exotic. Maybe donair, Canada’s favourite adopted food that is of indeterminate ethnic origin? The closest place for that is at my local mall, which was bulldozed into nothingness around 2018. No, I’m going to have to make it myself. From the garage deep freeze came a chunk of frozen, spiced ground beef, and I began to turn it on the lathe, slowly peeling off intricate, delicious shavings. Donair, at home: the impossible dream, and all it cost me was several thousand dollars of industrial equipment, which hopefully nobody notices is missing any time soon.

Now if only I had thought far enough ahead to buy some pitas, but hey - I’m pretty sure this sleeve of Wonder Bread from the 80s will never go bad.

[beefrobeefcal]

Beefro's Test Kitchen

Do I have any WIP's? Yes. Are they any good? Debatable.

This week's WIP is courtesy of Contract Conundrums staring Dieter Bravo & Cookie:

You had three months to get Dieter another 30 lbs heavier, and he was making it difficult. You were a week in, and his picky eating habits were hampering your efforts to do your job. He’d told you he liked fancy food, but everything that you made him had come back to the kitchen barely touched, and he’d refused to tell you what he actually wanted.  According to his assistant, Frank, Dieter took this movie role for a paycheque and signed the contract before being told he’d have to gain weight for it. His vanity had come into play, but the amount he would have to pay to get out of the contract was ridiculously high. After tantrums and screaming matches with Dan, his manager, Dieter finally agreed to do the role, but he wanted a private chef.  “He swore me to secrecy.”, Frank whispered to you in the kitchen. He took a look at the door then turned back to you. “Don’t tell him you heard this from me, but he’s a classic stoner… grilled cheese, burgers, pizza… y’know?”  You gave Frank a grin and motioned your lips being sealed. “I heard nothing. You were never here. I just happened to take a chance and hit the jackpot.” 

NoPressureTagList:

@neverwheremoonchild @theywhowriteandknowthings @rebel-held @toxicanonymity @blackfemalenerd @goodwithcheese

[supernaturalkickparty]

For the wincest Wednesday ask:

if they had a movie night, what film would they watch and what snacks would they make/buy? (bonus: pre-bunker or bunker era or both)?

Oooh pre bunker movie night would be at whatever theater is close by, they usually go for the evening showings because it's cheaper and because they'll sneak in a different theater so they'll get 2 films for the price of one.

A habit they never broke out of from their youth.

Most small towns they are in have older movies showing, sometimes it's an old horror movie, sometimes it's an old action flick.

"Dean we could have just stayed back at the motel and watched this on TV." Sam doesn't normally complain but the crowds get to him so he has his bad moments where he'd rather it be just the two of them.

On those instances they stay at the motel to watch a movie, they'll rent something doing the old rock paper scissors method and Sam usually picks an indie film or if he's feeling generous he'll get something he knows Dean will like.

Dean will grab his black licorice, peanut m&ms for both of them, popcorn of course, and he'll pick up dinner for them.

Now bunker era, bunker era movie nights are them going grocery shopping because they make dinner together.

Dean makes healthy dinners for Sam and Sam does tend to do burgers but he makes sure they're grilled and they're not greasy and he gets lean bacon.

"Dean we're in our 40s, we need to take better care of ourselves"

Dean's rather fond of making lasagna or pasta bakes because it's honestly the only time he sees Sam enjoy his food and not pick at it.

They could settle in the Dean Cave but they go to Dean's room, their room now, and they usually go for 80s comedies. Mel Brooks movies, they rarely watch new movies and if they do watch a new movie, it's something that caught one or the others interest.

Snacks is just popcorn, too full from the big dinner and they're too comfortable on the bed and so relaxed and content.

[oldguy56-world]

As You Like It

This is the 2nd blog I have written named after a Shakespearian play that was turned into a movie. (Last October i did Much Ado About Nothing). Perhaps I should stick with this theme for a while. I could do Hamlet (story of an undersized pig) or Macbeth (the Scottish version of a Kiss hit song) Perhaps not. Let's stick to today's theme shall we?

Have you noticed that people are different. I am not kidding you. We like different things and for no apparent reason at all. Some companies have taken advantage of this. Harvey's is one of them. They make your burgers to order and based on the number of ingredients available there are a possible 11, 296,371 different ways to serve their burgers. They should have an employee contest to see how many different ways each one can dress up a burger. They could use the distraction. Me, I like mine one way only and that is with mustard and ketchup. My wife likes hers with a bunch of other stuff. I am not sure what exactly as I try not to watch. The opposite end of the spectrum is McDonald's. When I go in for a quarter pounder I ask for it with ketchup only. (they don't use, or have never heard about mustard). When I order it my way (no reference to Burger King) the entire place goes silent. The cook comes out of the back to see who is upsetting their assembly line of production. There is usually some snickering and pointing but I hold my ground. The upside is upon occasion when they get it wrong and I point it out to them they will shoot me a freebie. That is always nice.

My father was always a potato guy. He liked them every way except baked. He would throw a fit if the peel was still on it. To quote him 'is it too much g*%#&#@ effort for them to peel it for me?' Once the waiter asked if he would like to substitute rice for his potatoes. My mother was quick enough to grab his knife before it became bloody. I cannot find the words to explain what my father thought about rice.

Speaking of restaurants, they must love it when people substitute what they are supposed to get for something else. The waiter will say that 'today's special is grilled chicken breast with a pilaf of rice and steamed broccoli for $17.99'. The patron will order it and ask 'Can you change the rice to fries, the broccoli to corn, and while you are at it can the chicken breast be a beef tenderloin?' The waiter will explain that they cannot substitute the meat and that they do not have corn. The patron will be pissed and say under their breath that this will affect the tip they leave.

People like different hair styles. That is a good thing because if we all were required to wear a 'Moe' it might be hard to tell people apart. Same goes for clothing. It is creepy watching those movies from the future where everyone has on the same outfit. If you want that kind of uniformity there is a lovely Mennonite community waiting to embrace you Goodfriend. For me I have a unique style. My hair color is Absent Black and my clothing is retro Sally Ann. My wife is okay with my hair (or lack thereof) but she does have a say in what I wear out in public. FYI her say is the final word always.

My wife and I are very different people. Luckily she likes me enough to not say much about my eating, dressing (as long as we are not going out), or talking habits. She also likes my sense of humor which is good. Not everyone gets me just like I don't get some of these so-called comedians or comedies on TV. The networks are paying big bucks for some not funny material. I know I can write unfunny material and would gladly do it for half of the going rate. I can even make fart sounds with almost every part of my body so that must be worth something.

My philosophy is that if you like something, and it doesn't hurt other people, do it for the enjoyment. My only request is that if you like mushing your food together and putting it all in you mouth at one time, please, please, please do not do this within eyeshot of me. This hurts me deeply. My only retaliation would be to make a farting sound from the one part of my body you do not want me to engage thusly. Fair is fair.

PLEASE NOTE: NEXT WEEK'S BLOG WILL BE LATE. WE ARE HAVING OUR FAMILY HERE FOR FOUR DAYS TO CELEBRATE AN EARLY CHRISTMAS, SO NO NASTY NOTES PLEASE.

THOUGHT OF THE WEEK: Variety is the spice of life. Spice is a variety that your body might not like.

[alkalineleak]

please please if u please… say more about the winters…. i adore ur thoughts so much

i think when they try to be like "Yknow we r a family lets be Normal right" (said through gritted teeth) and they eat together Once for a holiday or something, maybe mark grills some burgers but theyre overcooked and the lettuce definitely is too chewey but its probably fine and they just sit there.

Mark asks about school maybe once and his voice is a little strained but ashe just says Im passing while REALLY wishing she could grab the musturd and ketchup and make a smiley face with it like in the cartoons, but she doesnt bc shes scared mark will find it immature or something so she keeps it to herself. I think mark keeps getting food stuck on his facial hair and cursing loudly while ashe takes photos from under the table. i think he notices but lets her off the hook.

they dont talk for the rest of the time and they both lose their appetites to silence. mark leaves first for "work" but he doesnt leave the house and ashe waits 5 minutes exactly until she leaves to make sure it wont set him off into an angry ramble he doesnt mean (she doesnt know why itd do that but u can never be too careful. probably)

she deletes the photos off her phone before she goes to bed

he texts her days later and says they arent doing it again

365 days later its the same thing. i think theyre at least reliable enough on their habits to know that

[starthelostboys]

tlb characters’ favorite meals:

michael: scrambled eggs with bacon and hash browns. michael is definitely a breakfast food fan, and this is his favorite breakfast meal. he prefers to make it himself, so he can cook the bacon the way he likes or put hot sauce on the eggs, but if he’s ever at a breakfast restaurant he’ll always order this there.

star: broccoli and cheddar soup. i don’t think star had a good relationship with her parents at all (in fact i hc that she ran away from home at 18) but her dad used to make this for her on special occasions and she’s never been able to find something that replaces it as her favorite food. every once and a while she’ll feel horribly homesick and get some of the campbell’s canned broccoli and cheddar soup.

david: tuna salad sandwich. he eats this like twice a month and when he does it’s the gross sandwiches that come in vending machines or the refrigerated shelf at gas stations. he truly and genuinely thinks it’s the best and most satisfying meal in the world will usually eat it alongside a can of diet coke.

dwayne: a reuben with salt and vinegar chips. he’s very picky when it comes to this specific thing. the bread on the sandwich can’t be toasted and the potato chips have to be kettle cooked or he isn’t satisfied. he hasn’t eaten this in years because there’s no restaurants in santa carla or the surrounding area that meet his high standards.

marko: bbq burger. specifically the one at a restaurant just outside of santa carla that closed down in the mid 1970s. he mourns the lose every day and has never found a bbq burger that hits quite the same.

paul: lasagna. his all time favorite is the one at this italian place in the town where he grew up, but he’s happy with any and all types of lasgna, including the shitty frozen meal ones.

laddie: spaghettios with hot dogs cut up in it. most of what he eats is fast food or from whatever quick service restaurants are on the boardwalk, so it’s not like he gets a lot of home cooked meals and he sees this as a sometimes treat that star or one of the boys will make for him every once in a while.

sam: grilled chicken tacos. he takes his tacos with cilantro and sour cream only, and as little spice as possible because he can’t handle it at all. he hasn’t eaten this at all since moving to santa carla cause his favorite version of it is at a mexican restaurant that the emersons used to go to semi regularly when they lived in arizona. if he ate any different chicken tacos it would just make him a little homesick and sad he can’t have the ones he likes.

edgar: blueberry pancakes with a side of onion rings. edgar seems like a diner food kind of guy to me (i haven’t forgotten the scene in the thirst where he and zoe get pancakes together), and he’s definitely a creature of habit so this is what he always orders. he refuses to put any sort of syrup on the pancakes and never gets any breakfast sides to go with them, it’s only ever onion rings.

alan: peanut butter and banana sandwich. i think that he and edgar were kind of left to their own devices a lot growing up (and it’s only gotten worse now that they’re teenagers), so they had to make their own meals and peanut butter and banana sandwiches are something they’d eat multiple times a week when they were kids. no matter how often he eats them he never gets tired of them.

lucy: chicken and dumplings. she makes this at least once a month, and every time michael or sam have ever gotten sick she makes it for them. she still uses her mom’s recipe from when she was a kid.