#i burned frozen chicken dumplings today!

[gideonisms]

I should get married for convenience just like this girl in the show. My brother and his wife pay under $500 a month because he had a friend who wanted to help out a lovely newlywed couple. Well I am lovely. Who wants to marry me for the benefits (financial)

[moonfox281]

Ok but when Dick found out that Jeff and Trevor are alone and have no one je basically adopted them, made them dinner, told them to go to sleep, listened to their problems, comforted them (with a slight cuddles shhh) when needed and most importantly - there was someone that truly cared about them

Writer note: Moonie got very sick and wrote this in a hospital, so when I was typing out with only one eye open, I missread the prompt and it turned quite different. Sorrrryyy....

Dick grimaced when watching Jefferson munch on his half-eaten sandwich. They were on watch duty, Dick’s night ended early so he decided to come over and help the boys an eye. Half the night through and Jeff pulled out a thin foil package under his kevlar and started chunking on that saucy thing.

“Is that your dinner?”

Jeff turned to look at him, nodded, squinted his eyes and went back to his sandwich.

“If you know him like I do, that’s not even worth an entree.” Commented Hank as he poured out hot coffee from a thermal bottle and handed it to Dick. “But we’re on duty, what can we do, right?”

“You boys all eat like this?”

“Pretty much.”

“What about off duty days?”

“I don’t know, I can cook. Heck Blue, I work at your favorite coffee spot. But this guy though, I guess he just sleeps. God knows he can burn the house down if you give him a frying pan.” He pointed at Jeff and laughed out loud. Joke aside, Dick really believed him. He had seen it with his own eyes how Jeff held a kitchen knife like he was about to stab someone when Dick asked him to help with the onions.

“But how does keep his 6 packs with eating like that?”

“Ooh, you’ve seen his packs? Nice huh!”

And that was how the very next day, right before Jeff was about to take John to school, Dick ran to the doorway thrusting a cotton wrapped box to him.

“What…”

“It’s your lunch.”

“My what?”

“Your lunch. Here.” Considering the dumbfounded look Jeff was wearing, Dick found no delicate way to explain it but opening up the box out to show him. “It’s a lunch box. You seem like a strong eater, so I put quite a lot in.”

“There’re fried chickens in there.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s sweet garlic sauce, John really likes it. There're also green beans and carrots.”

“What are these yellowy things?”

“Egg rolls.”

“Egg what?”

“Egg rolls. They have corn and cheese inside.”

And then there was silence. Just silence, for roughly 5 or 6 minutes, probably longer because they only snapped out of it by the sound of John jamming Jeff’s Jeep down the street for the wait. 

“Blue… I don’t know...” Jeff, the 6 feet something brick of scars and muscles, was shuttering through words and words holding out the little lunch box in his hands like carrying an egg carton.

“It’s okay, just take it.” Dick smiled, ruffled his head (oops, bad habit). “Just don’t eat junks down the streets, I’ll cook for you. I need my soldiers to be topnotch, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He looked like he was about to cry.

So, that was how things started. From that day went on, there was a story about the head of Red Hood gang’s task forces going to work every day with a little lunch container wrapped in wrap cloth. The menu was extravagantly diverse, from sea food like lemon baked codfish, tempura squish, and teriyaki salmon, to little treats like fried cutlets, homemade chicken nuggets, spicy dumplings and Vietnamese spring rolls. There seemed to even be an aesthetic balance in nutrient settlement, carbs, protein, and greens all in one box, not to mention the delicate arrangement. In short, it was Chrismast every lunchtime, watching Jefferson opening his lunchbox. 

Of course, the secrets lasted for a week, top, and soon everybody found out it was the gang’s dearest Blue that had been playing Jefferson’s fairy godmother this whole time.

Shocker, everybody seemed to have lost their ability to crack an egg since then. 

“I got shot last night, oh...it’s my dominant arm too, now I can’t even turn my stove on.”

“My power was cut at midnight, now all my food is ruined. I don’t know what to eat in a week!”

“I don’t know about you guys but I’ve been living on canned foods and frozen meals for months, if only someone would cook a proper meal for me one day...”

Did Dick figure it out right away? Heck, he didn’t even need a detective license to see right through them, but he tolerated it anyway. 

The thing was, the task force consisted around 12 members, and Trevor too (this man didn’t even have to word it, he just stared at Jefferson’s lunch box with those dreamy looking eyes) and Dick, unfortunately, only had two arms. He couldn’t feet 13 chunkers at a time. So he made a schedule and cooked for two persons at a time, and moved on to the new ones the next day. It kept everyone happy, and kept Dick busy. Since marrying Jason, he had lots of time, lots of it.

Of course, words came around, and one day when Dick was doing meal prep, Jason came from behind hugging, slugging down his shoulder, half mumbling down his hair, half sniffing his nape like a dog.

“Why is it that everybody seems to have your lunchbox and I don’t?”

“Is that so?” Dick half-ass asked back. He was busy writing things down and Jason’s clinging arms around his waist, plus the dead weight on his back were all in the way. “Don’t you regularly eat out with clients and business partners? Like today, what did you have?”

“Teppanyaki.” 

“Hmm, how lavish.”

“But I want your lunch box!”

“You’re saying you want brown rice and chicken lollipops over wagyu beef and scallops?”

“If we’re talking about your homemade chicken lollipops and brown rice, yes sir.”

“Don’t you have an image to keep? What would they say if you went to work in suit and kevlar and a bow tie wrapped lunchbox?”

“And what would they say if everyone else is getting a dip in your cooking while the husband himself doesn’t get a taste?”

Okay, point taken. Sensing a loss in this conversation, Dick pecked Jason’s forehead to win back the playing field. 

“You know what Tobu said? You remember Tobu right?”

“Yes, I remember him.” It was harder to forget that man, to be honest. “Don’t tell me you talked to him about this.” Dick was an idiot, when Jason said he had teppanyaki for lunch, he should have realized it was with Tobu.

“We talk occasionally. He said a homemade bento box tells more about affection than any given word. So pleeease...” followed up with some questionable muffled sounds.

Needless to say, Dick was very much annoyed.

So, short story, that was how Dick found himself standing in front of hundreds of wooden lunch box designs the next day, trying to figure out which type suited his protein chunker the most. 

“Are you getting one as a gift?” The shop helper asked.

“I’m getting one for my husband.”

And she made a series of questionable high pitch squeals. 

Needless to say, Dick was very much tired. 

[drowning-in-dennor]

Festivity

Yeah, this is pretty much the same thing as Celebration but at the same time is kind of a sequel to it? Basically, it kind of sucks but read it for Denmark’s birthday, I guess.

 For as long as he can remember, Denmark’s been told that all the stupid things he does will come back one day to bite him.

 And he, with his thousand years of existence, has never felt that more than when his phone rings right next to his ear on the bedside table. At midnight. And he knocks his still-ringing phone off the bedside table, rolling to the ground to grope blindly for it a few seconds later.

 As Sweden and Norway have said so many times before, it’s a miracle he’s still functioning.

 He presses “accept” on the call and is instantly greeted with Norway’s voice.

 “Happy birthday, Denmark.”

 “Is… is this revenge for me calling you?” He asks, yawning.

 “What do you think? Would I randomly call you at midnight otherwise?”

 “How are you still awake?”

 “Coffee and motivation.”

 Blearily climbing back in bed, Denmark reminds himself to never piss Norway off again. “I…” he yawns again. “Thanks for calling. I’m going back to sleep now.”

 Then he throws his phone on his bedside table, burrows under his blankets and shuts his eyes.

…

 He’s woken up again at ten in the morning, this time to Sweden’s call. With life decisions to reconsider and regretting not setting his phone to silent the first time a call woke him up, he answers the call.

 “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

 Fwump.

 And falls off the bed again.

 “Dad, I think we killed Denmark.”

 “No,” he says, voice slurred with sleep. “I’m alive. I just fell off the bed.”

 “You were sleeping?” Ladonia asks. “But it’s ten o’clock!”

 “In the morning!” Sealand adds.

 He answers with a yawn. Might as well get out of bed now. “Well, I’m awake now. Can I talk to one of your dads?”

 “DAD!”

 Denmark drops his phone.

 When he picks it up again, Sweden’s talking on the other side, thankfully much quieter than his sons. “... coming over soon.”

 “What?”

 “We’re coming over soon,” Sweden repeats. “Leaving for the airport in fifteen minutes.”

 “With Fin and the kids?” Denmark asks, getting to his feet.

 “Mmhmm.”

 “I’ll make lunch, okay?” He fishes for clothes in his closet, pulling out a button-down shirt. “See you.” Hanging up, Denmark heads for the shower, clothes in hand.

...

 When he walks into the dining room, towel slung over his shoulders, Denmark almost trips over his feet when he sees Norway sitting at the table, sipping his coffee from one of his mugs.

 And wearing that one red shirt he knows drives him crazy.

 He doesn’t know if he should regret giving Norway keys to his house.

 “Morning.”

 Denmark’s frozen in place and processing the fact that Norway is sitting at his dining table, in his house, in clothes of his flag colour and looking really, really hot, and trying to remember how to breathe properly.

 And because he’s as socially inept as a two-year-old, the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “The hell are you doing here?”

 Norway gets up from the table with a small smile, tilting his head and showing off those amazing blue eyes that sparkle in the sunlight and making Denmark forget how to breathe. “I can leave if I’m disturbing you.”

 “No, no!” He blurts, face burning. “Uh… wow. I didn’t expect you to get here until the afternoon.”

 “Well, I decided to surprise you. Thank you for the coffee, by the way.”

 “You look nice.” Great job, Danmark, talking out of your ass at the only one you’ve ever loved. “Amazing, actually. You look amazing, Norway.”

 He reaches Denmark, reaching up on tiptoes to grab him by the collar and pull him into a kiss, and that’s when Denmark’s brain stops functioning.

 When Norway pulls away from him, he knows he probably looks like a fish out of water, and he wonders why he’s acting so awkward and weird today.

 “Have you had breakfast yet?” Denmark asks, surprised that he can still form full sentences. “I can cook us something if you haven’t.”

 Face flushed from the kiss, Norway returns to his seat. “I had breakfast before I left Oslo, so I’m fine. How about you?”

 “Sve and Fin are coming over with the kids for lunch, so I’ll make some stuff, I guess.” Bouncing for the kitchen and earning a chuckle from Norway, Denmark reaches for a cookbook. “I’m thinking something simple. How does hønsekødssuppe sound?”

 Norway joins him at the kitchen counter, peering over his shoulder at the recipe. “No idea what that is, but I’ll help you make it. Now,” he leans closer and pokes Denmark on the cheek. “What do we need?”

…

 The dumplings are boiling away in chicken broth when the doorbell rings and Denmark runs to get it. Standing in the doorway, holding a small parcel, is Iceland. “Hi.”

 “Ice!” He squeezes him in a hug, making him drop the parcel on the floor with a clunk.

 Iceland frees himself with a kick to the shin and picks the parcel up. “You’re even older now, so we’re going to have to celebrate.” He hands Denmark the package with a smirk. “Here’s your present for getting old.”

 “Don’t be rude, Ice,” Norway calls from the kitchen.

 “You’re old, too,” Iceland hollers back.

 Denmark peels the tape off the parcel and finds himself looking at a stack of parchment bound together by twine. The edges are torn and every piece of parchment is wrinkled, yellow with age and packed with the dark-blue, ink-splotched handwriting of Iceland.

 He takes the first piece of parchment and starts to read.

~

14th May, 1814

Dear Denmark,

 I heard you and Sweden arguing today, in the castle. I know Brother locked me in my room before the fighting started, but you two were yelling so loud that I could hear it all the way from where I was. You sounded like you were in pain, so I want to make sure you’re okay.

 Why was Brother involved? I heard you say, “Don’t take him, don’t take Norway from me” after you and Sweden were done fighting, like Sweden was going to take Brother away. He won’t do that, right? He has Finland, and I know he won’t trade him for anything or anyone.

 But I know that everything’s going to be fine, because you two have fought so many times. When you’re done, I’ll rip this up and go help in the kitchen. Then, the three of us will have dinner like always.

From Iceland

~

15th May, 1814

Dear Denmark,

 I couldn’t sleep last night. I had dinner with Greenland and Faroes, but they were so quiet I felt like I was on my own. Everything was so, so quiet, and your shouting match with Sweden started replaying in my head. You were crying yourself to sleep, I could hear, but you locked your door so I couldn’t come in.

 Sweden did take Brother away, didn’t he? That’s why you told me he wouldn’t be coming back. But I’m sure he’ll be back, because you’ll fight Sweden again and take him back. You love Brother, so that’s what you’ll do to show that you love him. I’m sure of it.

 Please come out of your room — it’s getting awfully lonely by myself.

From Iceland

~

16th May, 1814

Dear Denmark,

 I’m sorry for making you mad. I shouldn’t have picked the lock to your room, and I should’ve known you needed some time alone. And please don’t blame Faroes for teaching me how to pick locks, I’m the one who trespassed.

 I told Chef to make your favourite foods and bring them up to you this evening, so maybe they’ll make you feel better. Good food means a good mood, after all.

 And even though everyone else disagrees, I really miss you. I miss you telling stories and riding horses with me and teaming up to prank Brother. Brother’s not here any more, but for one day, could we maybe spend some time together?

From Iceland

 “I wrote these letters for a year after Nor left,” Iceland mumbles. “I wanted to slide them under your door… but I decided not to. Thought you should read them now.”

 Tearing up, Denmark hugs Iceland again. “You’re the best little brother a guy could ever ask for!”

 “We’re not even related!”

 Emerging from the kitchen, Norway raises his phone and snaps a photo of the two of them with a smile. “Your boss texted you, by the way,” he tells Denmark. “He wants to know if your speech is ready.”

 “What speech?”

…

 When Sweden, Finland, Sealand and Ladonia show up, they find Denmark and Norway sitting at the dining table, hunched over a stack of cue cards. Denmark’s holding a spoon in one hand and a pen in another, while Iceland is watching the two of them in faint amusement.

 “Happy birthday, Den!”

 Finland is met with silence.

 Iceland looks up from his bowl, idly stirring his soup. “Denmark forgot he has to deliver a speech in an hour.”

 “That happened last year, too,” Ladonia pipes up.

 “Well, they made lunch,” Iceland gestures to the pot sitting in the middle of the dining table. “So help yourselves, I guess.”

 Sweden sighs and walks to sit next to Norway, peering at the cards. “Need help?”

…

 Denmark reaches for another brunsviger and sighs in relief. “Thank goodness I pulled that speech off.”

 Sweden raises an eyebrow at his brother, passing the plate of buns to Sealand. “You’re welcome.”

 “Consider that my present for you this year,” Norway adds. Denmark sputters in disbelief and is met with a smile. “I’m just kidding, silly. You’ll get your present later.”

 “You better be talking about a nice book, or I’m out of this house the moment you two go to Den’s room,” Iceland warns. “Or maybe I should somehow get Mr. Puffin all the way from Reykjavik and sic him on you.”

 “What are they doing to do?” Sealand asks, mouth full of bread.

 “They’re going to read stories and chat together, Peter,” Finland says, shooting Denmark and Norway a dirty look. “Isn’t that right?”

 Iceland chokes on his brunsviger in laughter.

 The evening fades to night, and soon Norway and Iceland are the only ones left in the house. Iceland retires to the guest room at eleven, grabbing his bag and marching up the stairs. “If I hear anything strange at night, I’ll break into your room.”

 Denmark and Norway walk into the bedroom an hour later, sliding into bed together. Norway wastes no time in inching closer to Denmark, resting his head against his steady heartbeat and wrapping arms around his neck. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”

 He kisses Norway’s forehead. “Seems like just yesterday when Iceland was little and we lived in the castle.”

 Norway laughs, nuzzling into Denmark’s neck. “Iceland’s still our little brother, and our houses are pretty much castles anyways.”

 “So not much has changed.”

 They hold each other as sleep covers both like a blanket, bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

 No, not at all.

[thewalkingcigarette]

today i bought just three things, and set them atop the crystal smooth counter. i walked to the store, just down the street, and listened to the sway of wind as it flitted me through my path. my eyes were unsure, anxious and pensive, as i examined the rows of frozen food. for i knew it was hunger that ravaged my stomach, but for what would sooth such insatiable desire?

the sun was hot, and the line so short, that i found myself walking swiftly back home. the bags crinkled quietly, swinging down my right side, awaiting my jaws to clamp down. but first the side walk, chipped and dirtied. and then to open my door. the sun bakes my front porch like mothers christmas cookies, the heat pouring from it enough to make me melt.

the dumplings were simple, if i hadnt used too little oil. and the chicken could have been fine. i had even bought cake, an indulgent dessert, for when i finished my meal.

i set my plate, a small ceramic eggshell white, and placed a fork right by it. i snatched up a napkin, and ate each chewy pot sticker. the chicken was cooking, a longer process, and the house flooded with warmth from the oven. it stifled my throat, and lit my skin ablaze, but too little did i care to move.

when i began my journey to enjoy this sweet chicken, i opened the oven to a wave of suppressed fire. grabbing a towel, i hastily grabbed for it, but snatched my hand away in shock. for the towel too thin, pan too hot, and fingers to fragile to withstand. they bubbled and pruned, my first three fingers, burned under the surely sting of metal. i jumped to cold water, and moaned in disapproval, my chicken still sitting innocently.

once my hand cooled off, i returned to the task, with a thicker layer this time. the chicken was bizarre, delicious for two bites, and repulsive the rest of the way down. i ate my cake in silence, using my fumbling left hand, and stared solemnly out the reflective window. these things are my life, so lonely and simple. my burnt hand and poorly made meal. my mother is somewhere, and sister too, and if i could guess, id say my fathers there as well. who knows where any of us ever are? no curfews, no responsibilities, no one to care too much as to worry. the beds are filled by at least one a.m., so whos to fret over such things?

i did my dishes, watching the water pour. considered chatting with a friend. but this lonesome ache protruding from my burnt fingers discouraged such social extension. what good is company when im in such a state? knowing that no company knows the dark side of the moon?

finally i lay, my body weightful and exhausted. i wonder if ive sobered, of how much something is within my blood and breath, as i press my back flat to my mattress. is this my life, this dissatisfaction, or is this just some simple evening?

will i laugh tomorrow? and feel the sun? will my heart stop feeling so heavy? what is guaranteed if only myself.

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 2: Chisinau – Moldoverslept

So, an unfortunate side effect of being two hours ahead of proper, honest, hard working British time is that you wake up essentially two hours 'later' than you normally would at home. During Moldova's no doubt balmy summer months, you could probably just laugh this off- “ho ho ho, I slept until one in the afternoon, ha ha ha, what a disgusting sloth I am, he he he, I really need to sort this mess I somehow have the audacity to call 'my life' out”, however in its cruel and biting winters, sleeping until one obviously doesn't just mean that you need to have a long think about your lifestyle, it also means that you have wasted about 80% of the day's sunlight.

This was the boat I found myself in, this morning, or, I suppose, afternoon... Having been unable to approach anything even vaguely resembling sleep until around 5:00am, I slept far longer than I should have, finally lifting my drooling, idiot head off of my altogether too soft pillow at just past mid-day. Sunset here, is at around half past four in the afternoon, so, no matter how much my body was willing me to go back to sleep-and it was a lot- I decided to force myself out of bed and into the world.

By the time I had eaten, researched what there is to see in the city and wept for a solid forty five minutes, it was nearly one. I decided, due to the dwindling light and the fact that I felt like two garbage trucks smashing into eachother in slow motion, so allow myself a bit of an easy day, to gently lower myself into the whole vagranting thing, once more; a little sightseeing, a little lunch, a little grocery shopping and then returning home to write an incredibly long blog and probably pass out, still in my clothes. Perfect. I grabbed my list of places I wanted to visit (metaphorically, I didn't have a physical list, it was all on my phone, you caveman) and finally headed out into the nipple-stiffeningly cold Moldovan winter.

The price one has to pay for a quiet, pleasant apartment here (other than £14 per night, of course) appears to be proximity to anything interesting, whatsoever. There was a zoo and botanical garden some 5km to the south and the museum and shopping district 5km in the opposite direction. Today, I opted for the museums today, reasoning that going to the zoo on the first day of the trip was probably a little over-eager, (Side note: I did go the next day, though...).

So, I walked, happy to have avoided one vagrancy trope, though in doing so, having fallen directly into another, in the form of walking alongside a motorway, not really sure of where I was going and what I was doing. Things worked out fairly well, in the end, though, and I managed to deliver myself relatively unharmed into the museum district.

The city of Chisinau, barring the dual carriageway that I walked along, is a lot more interesting and developed than I expected, having been told more than once that it was one of the poorest countries in Europe and also having seen the broadcast quality of their Eurovision segments. It isn't by any stretch of the imagination a classy city, there is a crippling over-dependence on neon signs, making the place vaguely reminiscent of walking down the Las Vegas strip, if the strip exclusively housed budget pharmacies and places where you could buy rotten peppers from inexplicably furious street vendors, and the people in it seem to have no ability to determine when they are in the way, no matter how sternly you 'ahem' at them, but it's highly commercialised, very urban and even has a few international chain stores dotted around. A far cry from the shrieking, toothless old woman I imagined, whipping an emaciated horse, carrying a wicker basket full of sausages down a dirt road, on its back (Though, I do wonder, if I left the capitol city, whether I would actually be all that far off with that thought...).

I began my brief sight-seeing tour with the 'Victory Monument and Eternal Flame', which is a huge sort of...prism frame, with a little fire burning at its centre, in the middle of some park-land, which apparently stands to commemorate the soviet forces' victory during world war two, which I suppose is technically, linguistically the correct way to think about it. The monument itself was actually fairly cool

...Neat!

and about as Soviet as it was possible for something incapable of squatting, smoking a roll-up or wearing a knock-off addidas tracksuit to be.

славная мать россия

Attached to the monument was a civilian cemetery, which I ended up wandering into and subsequently getting a bit lost in. It was a sprawling mess of tombstones and mud and rather difficult to navigate. Big mounds of dirt, workmen's vans and even the occasional grave (obviously originally designed to fit neatly in a single patch of ground, though over time, expanded with additional family members, wishing to be buried in the same plot, to the point of infringing on the path) blocked my route. It reminded me of a poorly organised vegetable garden, except instead of cabbages, it was growing corpses.

I stumbled around for a while, before finally finding the exit, neatly concealed behind a big mound of gravel, and heading to my next stop; some museums.

I actually only made it into one of the three or so museums I had planned to visit. The first one, I arrived at, the museum of Moldovan art, looked shut and had big, imposing closed doors, so I didn't bother checking and the museum of Moldovan modern art, I simply couldn't find. That left the museum of Moldovan history. It too looked closed, though just as I was about to turn around and walk away, cursing my aversion to big intimidating doors, the big intimidating doors pulled open and out walked a punter. Good enough for me! I headed inside.

I paid the 20 lei entrance fee (approximately one euro; you can imagine my delight) to a frumpy old Moldovan woman, who's ability in English, if I was describing it kindly, was shit.

“You make peecture?” she boomed at me

“Uhh, what?”, I replied. Unsure if she was asking if I planned to take pictures, or if I was an artist. I was wearing a scarf, after all. She held her hands up miming holding a camera

“cleek cleek?”

the former, then. I racked my brains as to why she was asking me this, before quickly hitting on the conclusion that it might cost extra if I wanted to take pictures of things. Not wishing to pay any more money, despite the ludicrously cheap entry fee, I told her I was not.

“Oh.” She said, slightly bemused. “ok, it start second floor”.

On my walk to the second floor, I realised the question was probably more in an effort to make me switch my flash off than to weedle more money out of me. Still at least now I had managed to muddy the water over the legality of picture taking, for myself. So that was nice.

In the end, it didn't really matter, as I found very little of enough interest to photograph, anyway. Save for some fairly cool world war two soviet propaganda posters  

Fuck the police, probably.

the rest of the curios in the collection, while vaguely interesting, didn't grab my attention enough to really warrant the need for any kind of keepsake. I wandered slowly around the four or so halls of exhibits, losing interest more and more as I moved from pre-history, chronologically through to modern day (why lead with the Scythians? You're never going to top them.), giving up entirely in the final room, filled with Christian knick knacks, such as gilded bibles and twee Christmas cards from the early 1900s and heading back outside, realising in the process how much I had been enjoying the warmth of being inside. With one final photograph of the truly bizarre sculpture that stood in the museum's courtyard, I left it behind.

...’kay

By now, I was beginning to get hungry, having eaten two chocolate bars and one half-exploded Tesco pasta pot, since my miserable foray into burger king, the previous day. I decided, then, to make my way to the city's 'pedestrian street' (which I hoped alluded to who was allowed to use it, rather than it's quality) for some food. I ambled slowly through a couple of mini-parks on my way, passing some little cathedrals and other things I may have been mildly interested in, if my stomach wasn't half way through eating itself, and into the street of dreams.

Save for like, three restaurants, there was literally nothing on it. I'm not really sure why tripadvisor insisted I must see this place, but I was there for the restaurants, anyway, so I guess fuck the haters.

I plumped for a little burger bar place, who's name I forget, having obviously not learned any kind of lesson from the previous day.

Despite the slightly ominous menu...

It was awkwardly empty inside, but I had come this far and so, sat down and ordered some fried dumplings and a chicken burger.

At the time, I quite enjoyed my meal, though each time I have thought of it subsequently, I have savoured the memory, less and less and at this point, just find it a bit sickening. The patty was clearly a frozen farm-foods style affair, which had been hastily and poorly defrosted, meaning that the meat was soft and wet and soaked into my bun. The burger was served with some fries, which I had not expected. A nice surprise, though so horrifically oversalted that they burned my lips as I ate them. My fried dumplings, however, take the points for the most confusing item on my plate. Hard, as they were, they reminded me slightly of pistachio nuts, filled with...well, actually, to be honest, I'm not that sure. I had thought initially pork, though later decided it was cabbage and continued to sway between the two until I had finished them all. I still don't know, to this day. I suppose it doesn't really matter what they were filled with; the fact is that if it could be mistaken for pork, it was bad cabbage and if it could be mistaken for cabbage, it was definitely bad pork. Still, the entire meal came to four and a half euros, so how intensely can you really complain, right?

Now queasy due to both the quantity and quality of the food I had just ingested and with the temperature and my enthusiasm for being outside both rapidly reaching zero, I decided to leave the Afghan monument, whatever that is, for another day and to, instead, hobble my tired ass back to the apartment.

The walk home was laborious, owing to my having walked quite some distance in the opposite direction, it getting really rather cold, my full, churning stomach and my having failed to accurately retrace my steps, instead leading myself down an incredibly long, tedious shopping street, followed by the most terrifying underpass I have ever walked through

...This is fine.

and finally alongside an unlit patch of park-land (Chisinau is one of the darkest cities I have ever visited. Street lights seem to be reserved for only the most densely populated areas, which can be a little frightening, but also helps to no end in my pretending to be Batman).

With only one stop left before I could return home, I dropped in briefly to a supermarket for some food which I no longer wanted, for the evening.

As I previously mentioned, Moldovan people seem to have no grasp of the concepts of personal space or waiting their turn, so obviously I left the supermarket angry and having forgotten to buy both toothpaste and bottled water (the tap-water here, apparently being slightly poisonous to outsiders. For real). I did however remember to buy both wafer biscuits and the ingredients for the first set of shitty unappetising sandwiches of the trip, so I at least had all the important food groups covered.

After arriving home, I decided, as it turns out, stupidly, to take a nap. I awoke to my alarm forty five minutes later, feeling somehow about ten times worse, though not wanting to go back to sleep for fear of being unable to drop off that night, thus throwing my sleeping pattern even more out of whack with Moldova's zany two hour difference, I forced myself out of bed, for the second time in a day and set about writing my blog and staring at the wall, in a daze, with a long strand of drool hanging from my bottom lip for the remainder of the evening.

Finally, it was late enough to turn in and so I plopped into bed, once more, shut my eyes and...didn't fall asleep for another hour. The nap had really taken the edge off of my incredible overtiredness and so I just lay in the dark, tossing and turning with mounting frustration, before putting on a youtube video and being bored to sleep almost instantly. I probably should have just done that to begin with.

As you may have been able to tell, though the general quality of writing in this entry, an adequate amount of sleep was not something the gods of slumber saw fit to gift me, for the rest of the night, either, so look forward to tomorrow's entry, in which a barely functioning man, stumbles around a sad, deserted Moldovan zoo!

[alanls2-blog]

Why is it advised to cook food in a pressure cooker?

Diane Smith

, Queen of the pressure cooker and Sous Vide Adventurer.

Answered Apr 13

I was raised in a home where Momma and GrandMa routinely cooked some dishes with a stovetop pressure cooker. You could always get great food fast and in large quantities with the help of a pressure cooker. Need to make 4 sweet potato pies for the church supper - it pressure cooker time! Need a batch of white potatoes for Thanksgiving Dinner - it pressure cooker time! Need chicken and dumplings for a household of 9 and you forgot to thaw the chicken- it pressure cooker time! Picked up a bushel of green beans from the cousins garden - it pressure cooker time! And, yes i could go on and on.

Today’s pressure cookers are much safer than those of old. I remember the time Grandpa forced the lid too soon on that old cooker and the resulting explosion had food dripping from the ceiling. GrandPa was o.k., just a little dazed and startled.

Now that I’m older I’ve noticed that my body responds better when I give it good food. My electric pressure cooker keeps food in my refrigerator and freezer that I can pull out on short notice and have hearty satisfaction for a reward. Three things I make from scratch and always keep on hand are #1. Greens (Collards with ham bits) #2 Chili (Turkey, lots of onions vary the beans for variety but most beans are fine, chili seasoning mix and a little green pepper, spaghetti sauce, ketchup and tomato paste) and #3 Egg salad (You do not save time but you do get a big batch with a consistent result - don’t freeze the egg salad) These dishes are always welcome when I go to visit friends shut in from illness or whatever. This week I had awesome results with a spaghetti squash. Last week was a 4 lb bag of frozen chicken wings and BBQ sauce. Frequently I’ll do a whole chicken breast side down for 45 min. What doesn’t fall off the bone tender, I pull off with gloved hands and use the remaining chicken stock for soup or rice. Then there was the 4 lb box of bratwurst for BJ’s Warehouse. Brown the brats in the EPC with no extra fat. Before browning the final side, add all of the brats back to the pot and close to cook for 30minutes. Brats will be super tender and swimming in the extracted oil. Freeze most of the batch into freezer bags so they can be used in smaller batches. Use the remaining oil in the pot to cook a whole 1 pound bag of dried beans for 30 minutes. no extra seasoning required. Freeze into one or two serving batches. I usually do rice and or grits in my microwave. Folks love these beans over some rice or grits. I try to empty my freezer each month so that food does not accumulate

I recommend that you look at the infomercials on YouTube and Pinterest to get more ideas. The instant pot is a popular brand of pressure cookers. EPC’s have cult like followings.

So you asked “Why is it advised to cook food in a pressure cooker?” Because, the food is tender, tasty and time saving (convenient). It tends to be easy to chew for folks that care about that kind of thing. And it tends to be not just well cooked but thoroughly cooked and done. Things like the sausages or poultry will be way past pink and I almost never burn. I can set it and forget it and my ECP keeps it at hot holding temp till I get back, so all of your slow cooker recipes work in this as well.

[lodel-local-delivery]

May I have a food bib please?

Being an early saturday morning, this seems a fitting time to layout the red carpet for how to officially live to eat just like myself.  I am warning you heading into this weekend, that eating like I do isn’t for everybody.  No faint of heart are recommended for this foodie adventure.  

Photo from etsy.com

I just woke up a few minutes ago and have to say that my stomach isn’t feeling too hot.  I pulled my usual friday night late night food raid that consisted of a concoction of eggs, chocolate ice cream, a peanut butter sandwich at some point.  My sink this morning looks like it had a meltdown while I was asleep last night.  I completely forgot that I ate myself into a food coma and decided to wait until the morning to deal with the dishes.  Now as I write this, my sink is staring me smack in the face and it doesn’t seem to pleased, or clean for that matter.  I love the eating part, but I seem to have a brain fart everytime it boils down to doing the dishes.  This is probably why I ended up starting an on demand food delivery company so long ago.  In the dorm rooms freshmen year there wasn’t a sink to do dishes in.  My dishes back then consisted of plasticware and paper plates.  Weekends in college as a freshmen revolving around food mostly consisted of pizza and chinese delivery.  There used to be a convenience store attached to my dorm called the Cstore, in which you can get anything from ramen to pop-tarts, to frozen eggo waffles.  I never understood why they offered frozen items for freshmen.  I will always remember that infamous george forman grill that I unwisely decided to bring with me to Indiana University my freshmen year.  One day I was craving a grilled cheese, so I took a stroll down to the cstore and grabbed some wonder bread and cheese.  I went to begin preparing the grilled cheese after plugging in the george forman and the circuit broke.  A mini fire ensued that was luckily contained by three or four bottles of dasani water that I had handy.  Nonetheless I think that was the straw that broke the camels back when I realized a chef wasn’t my true calling.  All those high school home economic classes clearly didn’t pay off.  Mrs Grimes I thought I was a model cooking student, what happened?  

Photo from pinterest.com

After taking a trip down nostalgia lane lets back to the present weekend at hand, twelve years later.  Currently I am thirty years old, living in Boulder, Colorado sipping on my coffee as I finish up this post and digest the last of my fridge and freezer raid last night.  I will be venturing out on a long run in a few minutes just so I can burn a ton of calories to justify going to town on an endless brunch later.  Tonight I am taking a nurse out on a date that I matched with on Tinder.  We are going out for Indian food, so I already plan on going to town on some naan bread and tandoori chicken.  If I am feeling ballsy I might even throw some samosas into the mix.   On first dates I am the one that usually breaks the ice by ordering the entire menu, and spilling some chicken tikka masala on my white shirt.  I have to get into the habit of wearing darker shirts when I go on dates from now on.  Not only do I live to eat and get into weekend food comas alot, but dishes aren’t my friends, and you will be hard pressed to find me get through a meal without spilling something on my shirt or pants.  Can somebody get me a food bib for tonight?    

Photo from amazon.com 

So today will be filled with a heavy brunch, and a dinner that could have a dessert thrown into the equation.  If the date is off to a good start I will naturally propose ice cream for dessert.   Then tomorrow is sunday, so its naturally chinese feast time.  Although I did do dim sum yesterday, but I never get sick of dumplings!   I think about food more than anything in life.