#if andre can she can. braids power.

[smiletimeisrunningout]

"You don't deserve my wrath as a princess, as a woman I can't tell yet... but I am very curious what have you done to this poor lady friend of yours." she teased him, "What are her accusations? I'm sure she's right. You know, as a woman supporting another."

There was something so unsettling about King George's behavior, truly, and his claims. "This is why I said we are no better than anyone else, just luckier. Some people seem to forget that. Look, I'll be the first to demand respect when it's necessary, because if I'm to protect my people I need them to listen to me. But there is a big difference between that and claiming I'm of divine nature, he's-he's weird. I haven't had any prolonged close contact with him, but he's weird in his personal life too unless he's pretending when he knows he's being watched. And while I can't start a war myself, there is a reason if I am willing to help you be free."

Oh, the women of Setauket were going to change their minds for sure once they saw him again. She doubted that pinching had happened in any recent time, after all. "If they deem you unworthy, they are stupid," she retorted without pause, "At worst they could see you as not their type, which is fair, we all have different ones, but unworthy is not an acceptable judgment. But in any case I have faith. If you wish to find a way when you get back home, I don't doubt for a second you'll have a crowd to choose from."

'Women and children should be sheltered in any way possible.'

She hadn't been thinking of them, so it took Emma a moment this time to understand - and she winced she hadn't winced when he had spoken of being spared by scars. Ah, she didn't want to know his reaction to the horrors on her body, then. "N... No, I wasn't referring to... I was told there are rules of conduct when outside the battlefield..." Nobody had taken the time to explain, for several reasons, which had left her uncomfortably unsure, "You are a Major, and if you get captured you are not to be beaten nor immediately killed, correct? Death can happen in battle but not in cold blood, and the higher the rank, the more you have to be treated with caution. Did I not understand that right?"

She hadn't meant to offend him - because she had been laughing at herself, not at him like the Major seemed to have thought, and she fretted to correct the mistake, "No, I'm sorry, I wasn't criticizing your view, I promise, I was interested and wanted to understand! I'm a curious person, Major. Not when it comes to books, granted, but when it comes to people and places... My amusement came from the fact that I compared the description to myself. Because, well, you know. I'm ridiculous. Don't know about vapid but ridiculous enough to make up for it, so it felt like such a pointed reference. I wouldn't laugh at you! That..." she thought of it and shook her head, "That would be mean." She hadn't meant to sound quite so childish but really, who would mock something like that? It was mean.

She was going to say many things to that, starting from the fact that she'd be stealing one from him, not the opposite, but instead her mouth fell open at the end of his semi-rant. You just can't kiss a woman without- Of course people everywhere pretended to be as innocent as needed, but here, with the hidden legs and how scandalized he was... "Is that..." her voice dropped to a whisper and she didn't even know why, but it felt appropriate to the topic and her genuine bafflement, "Is that how it works here? For everyone? I mean the-the kissing bit, forget the rest for a moment. There are no... stolen kisses just because they felt right, little dalliances when you are... interested but not already on your way to a church, that sort of thing?"

"You don’t think I deserve a woman’s wrath?” Amused, Ben declared, “Perhaps you should speak to my friend, Anna Strong. She has certainly deemed me worthy of her wrath, and on multiple occasions – all starting around age eight, if I had to guess.”

Unscrewing his canteen, his expression turned sour. No, Emma most certainly did not have to remind him of the unfairness of a monarchy – of a ruler who wasn’t even chosen by the people. “King George claims he’s been chosen by God,” Ben muttered. “I would like to know how he can presume to speak for our Lord. After all, it would be rather easy to lie and say I’ve heard God’s word, when reality I have not – and therefore, I should be on a throne because no one can prove me wrong.”

Emma gave her advice (if it could truly be considered as such) and Ben made a face. “In Connecticut, perhaps,” he agreed, “but back home in Setauket, everyone knows everyone. If those women already deem me unworthy, then that’s that.”

“And a reverend? Does that make him safer than most, given all the rules you seem to have about who can be injured in this war?”

He scoffed. "What do you mean, rules? I would rather no one get injured in this war, thank you very much, but the fairer sex naturally should be spared of battle scars. Women and children should be sheltered in any way possible.”

Admittedly, Emma’s snicker startled him. Curling his shoulders, Ben scowled and looked away. “What’s so strange about what I want in a wife?” he asked defensively. “I do not care what 'most men’ desire. In my experience, the masses lack good taste, and although beauty is certainly a bonus, I can’t fall in love with a gorgeous woman who’s vapid and ridiculous.” He shrugged. “In my spare time, I love to read and learn and discover, so if my own wife can’t share in that excitement with me, what is the point of marrying her?”

Who wouldn’t think of that? Oh, now she was trying to bait him, surely!

Affronted, Ben drew up so that his spine was stiff and straight. “What do you mean, obviously?” he demanded. “Men do not seal agreements with a kiss, madam, and of that I can assure you! And if we were to do so with a woman? W-well…” Visibly reeling, he declared, “It would not be right. You can’t just kiss a woman without courtship or marriage!”

[viola-ophelia]

some john andre propaganda because he's the sexyman of my heart:

i feel like people sometimes forget how genuinely kind andre is since there's more focus on his hoeing activities lolll, but he really does have a strong moral compass & try to do right by everyone. think about how hard he tried to make abigail feel comfortable and valued in his home, knowing she'd been sent there against her will and had been separated from her son. while he's far from perfect by modern standards, he's one of the few characters in the show who consistently makes an effort to treat enslaved people with humanity.

i've touched on this before, but i really do think andre drinks respect women juice. while ben (and to a lesser degree, abe and caleb) spend 4 seasons not believing that women have a place in the war, and unsuccessfully trying to keep their female friends/wives out of spying despite the fact that mary/anna/abigail are far more competent than they are lol, andre was working with philomena (and later, peggy) from day one. he doesn't treat women like delicate flowers who need to be sheltered, and he recognizes their power, which is why when peggy expressed willingness to help him, he took her up on it. i think it's doing peggy a real disservice to argue that andre somehow tricked/manipulated her into getting trapped in his spy scheme... she's one of the smartest people in the show, and she definitely knew what she was getting into. she fell for andre, and wanted to help him, because she recognized that he viewed her as an EQUAL, not as a pawn or a prize to be won.

i know we all love hewlett's nerdiness, but you know who is also a nerd? john andre! he can recite shakespeare! he can play love songs on the flute AND the violin! he geeked out so hard over ben franklin's inventions! he draws and paints! he makes music and dancing metaphors constantly! i'm convinced that he would be such a good person to infodump to. i just know that when peggy talks to him for 5 hours straight about fashion, he's taking notes AND active listening.

there is no doubt in my mind that john andre is the best turn character in bed. i mean, he wasn't "hung" for no reason! ;)

it is true that andre is not the most skilled fighter in the show lol. in fact, we never even see him fire a gun or engage in active combat, since he's usually pulling strings behind the scenes, and he doesn't seem to ever use torture as an espionage method. plus, those henchmen of roberts' took him down pretty fast when they captured him lol. but in my humble opinion, while it CAN be hot when men are getting all muddy and bloody on the battlefield, it's actually endearing to me that andre doesn't seem to enjoy violence. i don't want a man who might murder me at any second! i want a man who will treat me right! i want a man who would "quaker marry" me and cut off his little braid and give it to me as a token of his love!!

in conclusion, here are some gifs of him because JUST LOOK AT HIM. HE IS SO HOT

[ongaku-ato-kakikomi]

Love your writing for Jade West! Was hoping you could do something where Jade overhears the reader working on a song with Andre and falls for her? thanks!

(A/N): Thank you so much for this request! Sorry for how long this took me to write, I hope you’ll like it!

+ The song I used for this is called “Little Miss Perfect” and was sang by Taylor Louderman.

“Where’s that annoying girl at?”

Jade was referring to Tori Vega, the newly added friend to her group that she somehow ended up partnering up on a project with. The two of them were supposed to create a song by the end of next week, but Tori has been nowhere in sight for the entire day. The goth girl would love nothing than to never talk to her again, but she needs a good grade in this class and she’s not gonna let little miss perfect ruin her academics with her boring ideas.

“Maybe she’s with Andre.”

They were both originally fighting to be Andre’s partner, but he refused them both as soon as they started to scream loudly at one another. Instead, he randomly chose you, specifically because you just happened to be walking by them to get out of the class. It was pure luck, and Jade despised lucky people-

“She takes a sip, I bite my lip.” Jade frowns as soon as she gets closer to the practice room you and Andre booked, having not expected you to have a pretty voice. “She tells a joke, I nearly choke. She braids my hair, I sit there blacking out for the first time!”

The lyrics along with your voice stops her in her tracks, the girl now being able to pick up the piano playing a soothing melody right behind the door. Andre has always been known to create beautiful songs, but Jade gets the feeling this one might be even better than all his precedent creations.

“Next thing I know, I lose control. I finally kiss her, but oh no.” Andre’s piano suddenly quiets down, only playing a few chords to put emphasis on your singing words. “I see a face in my window... then my brain starts to go...!”

She quietly opens the door, but only for a crack, her eyes trying to get a quick look at the scene. It doesn’t take long for her to notice you singing your heart out, Andre smiling the wildest she’s ever seen him in a long time as he plays.

“Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na-No! You can’t risk falling off your throne! La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, love! Is something you don’t even know!” You suddenly stop singing, the power of your voice just making Jade’s stomach twist inside; though she can’t help but be impressed when you turn towards Andre with a certain light. “Then I was thinking of maybe switching the melody for the rest of the chorus. You know, to kind of built it up before we get to the end of the song.”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Andre’s lips stretch out into a wild grin. “Damn, if I’d known you were this good at singing and creating, I would have partnered up with you way earlier than this.”

You give out a giggle at his words, the sound of it making Jade’s cheeks flustered for a second. “I’m guessing that means you love the song?”

“Love it? Hell yeah, I do!”

Your eyes sweeten for a moment, though the movement of the door slowly opening makes them switch towards the entrance of the room. 

“Oh! Hi, Jade.” Andre lets out a squeal when he hears your words, his head snapping behind him to see the goth girl standing right there. “What can we do for you?”

“What are you doing?”

By that, she meant why you were suddenly making her feel like this, but you didn’t take it like that, and so your cheeks flustered in embarrassment.

“Um... working on the assignment?”

“You wanted something, Jade?”

“... yeah.” She blinks a few times, her attention barely turning towards Andre. “Annoying Tori. Where is she?”

“Oh, I think she’s with Cat in the cafeteria.”

“Okay, cool.” She takes a small step back, her eyes staring at you the entire time. “Cool...see you guys later.”

She abruptly leaves before any of you can notice her breath shortening or the heat creeping back up on her cheeks, one of her hands partially hiding her face. She didn’t want anyone to notice her emotions, especially not when she’s known to be cold-hearted around here. You, on the other hand, simply share a confused look with Andre, the two of you soon shrugging it all off before continuing to work.

Needless to say, you didn’t know how much time Jade decided to spend with you in the next few weeks.

[angellazull]

🌹Roses and Hearts❤️

(Text of Valentine's Day and Elaiza's Birthday, sorry for being late, Irmãzinha @annabelle-tanaka-official, you know how i have no time for anything now.)

Angelo was feeling very pleased with Professor Dumbledore's announcement about the Valentine's Day ball, until today all events of this nature were for the boy quite... peculiar, to say the least, but with a very pleasant outcome for the boy. Well, now he had one more chance of everything going perfect, earlier today, with a bouquet of roses in herbology class, with the permission of Professor Sprout, Angel used the final minutes of the class to invite his girlfriend, Penny to go to dance with him, it was certain that they had dated since the beginning of the fifth year, but, Angel wanted to be a gentleman and romantic, because he knew his girlfriend liked it and believed in the power of true love, so he wanted to do something right. As soon as he made the request, Penny accepted him on the spot with a passionate kiss that touched the herbology teacher.

Now he was there, in front of the mirror, in the Transfiguration room, preparing for the ball, André, once again, had made great clothes for everyone.

"Andre, it looks fantastic." Said Angel looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"Thanks, Angel, after your invitation to Penny in herbology class, I thought it would be cool to make you two matching outfits." Andre replied, adjusting Angel's tie.

"I hope this night will be more than great." Commented Angel. "We are not going to have an avalanche of broken cups, or Lockhart to get in the way, everything will be perfect. Thanks André."

"No need to thank, Angel." Said André, but soon he was basically pushing Angel to the door. "Now you have to go, I still have seven more people to wear, before the dance."

Now ready and with several minutes to the beginning of the ball, he decided to pick up the special package for the night. Going up to the dormitory in the Ravenclaw common room, he opened the drawer of the bedside table, and took a small lilac package with a beautiful white pearl bow.

"What do you have there, Angel?" Talbott had appeared behind Angel, he was also already wearing his clothes for the ball, and he was quite elegant, and Angel knew the name of the reason for this elegance, Elaiza Schuyler.

"Ah, Talbott." Angel couldn't help being frightened by the appearance of her friend. "It's just Elaiza's birthday present, I wanted to give it to her today at the ball, and speaking of Elaiza, are you quite elegant, if you produced just for her?" Angel asked provocatively, as he was starting to get used to the idea that Talbott was in love with his little sister.

"Well, it's Valentine's Day and her birthday, so she deserves better production." Talbott replied and Angel may notice a slight flush on his cheeks as he ran his hand through his hair.

"Our girlfriends deserve it, and it's curious that my girlfriend is the best friend of my best friend's boyfriend."

"Now that you comment, it does seem a little curious." Talbott replied.

"Let's go, I still have to get Penny." Said Angel adjusting his red gloves, with a shrinking spell, he made Elaiza's gift fit in his pocket, that would keep him safe until it was time to give it to his sister.

The two boys left the hall with the Ravenclaw, down the stairs to the great hall. On the way the two commented on their requests for the ball, as soon as they arrived at the doors of the hall, the music chosen by Chiara, a jazz arrangement played by a drums, wind instruments, string instruments and the very indispensable piano by Madame Pince.

Entering the hall, the decor was perfect, Badeea and a group of very hard-working students had worked hard to be able to leave the hall with a touch of enchanted forest from fairy tales.

Several couples were already in the hall, some were dancing on the dance floor, others were sitting at the table talking, some were enjoying the appetizers prepared by Jae and his apprentice chefs. In a corner chatting, he saw Ethren @hogwartsmystory and Merula, in Angel's opinion, they were a cute couple, maybe both would complement each other. Next to the appetizer table, Jae was next to Kyril @kyril-hphm, It was almost impossible to see this couple and not think that their love was so obviously chaotic. And looking at Badeea's picture, Jason @death-or-sleep, and McNully commented on the individuals represented there.

In short, everything looked perfect.

"This decor is really wonderful, Angel." Talbott praised seeing the flower arrangements, fabric bands, and Badeea's painting.

"You helped a lot, Talbott, if you hadn't grown the flowers, we wouldn't have enough for the flower arrangements." Angel replied smiling, but he had to admit, the room was beautiful.

"Hey, boys." A voice that made Angel's heart skip whenever she said anything.

Angel turned and found herself in front of Penny, she was beautiful, wearing a bright red skirt, a white shirt with red hearts, her hair was tied in a braid with a red bow, she was just stunning, her bright blue eyes stood out of the colors she used today.

"Honey, you look… magnificent…" said Angel with a smile for Penny.

"Thank you, Kitten." Said Penny, arranging a loose strand of hair behind her ear, while turning red. "You look magnificent too, red suits you..."

Penny came over and kissed Angel's lips quickly, and linked her arm around Angel's arm.

"Tal, where is Elaiza?" Penny asked his best friend.

"She was just finishing up." Talbott replied. "You look very beautiful, Penny, Angel is a lucky boy."

"Well, Tal is right." The blue-haired boy admitted. "I still don't know what I did to deserve that the most beautiful and popular girl at school was interested in the strange blue-haired boy."

"But know that this boy with blue hair has always been the most gentle, intelligent and affectionate person I have ever met." Penny stroked Angel's cheek with a smile. "I couldn't help but be interested in you."

"Aww, this is so cute." Elaiza had approached the three. Wearing a dress with a white skirt with roses, and a black top, her hair flowing and flowing, she was very beautiful.

"Elaiza, wow, I love your dress, it's beautiful." Penny praised Elaiza's dress.

"Thank you, Penny." Then she addressed Talbott. "What did you think, Talby?"

"You look stunning." Said Talbott a little shy, running a hand through his hair, he said the girl. "You look really beautiful today, Elaiza."

At that instant a slow, romantic melody started to play.

"Do you want to dance with me, Penny?" Angel asked, extending his hand to his girlfriend.

"I would love to, Angel." Said the girl accepting the invitation.

The couple walked hand in hand to the center of the dance floor, with fairies flying over couples making synchronized flights forming hearts, as soon as they stepped on the dance floor, Angel recognized the fairy who led the group, it was Eladora, the fairy who he saved and had become his friend. Penny ran her hands around Angel's neck and together they started to move around the dance floor.

"You know, I believe I am very lucky to be here with you, Penny." Said Angel smiling at his girlfriend. "You know, when I first met you, I could never imagine that the most popular and beautiful girl of our year would fall in love with the weird blue-haired boy with a troubled family history."

"I didn't think you were weird, I think you're a cute boy." Said the girl looking at Angel with a smile on her lips too. "I like how you always try to help everyone and solve problems at school, that's very kind."

"If you say you are, but the truth is, I'm the luckiest wizard in the world to have the most beautiful witch on my side."

"Angel!" Penny's cheeks were slightly reddish.

"I am with you, so I could not be in better company, no matter where we are, it will always be perfect if I am with you." Penny smiled at her boyfriend and with that they danced to the music, enjoying a moment without words, just leaving their hearts in sync with each other.

So it happened for two more songs, when they finally left the dance floor and approached a vacant place next to Stephanie @hanihonii who was with Mezure, and Cristiano @chrisception13 with Jenny @jayrart.

"I loved this dance." Penny commented with a smile.

"Yes, it was a lot of fun." But at that moment Angel's gaze strayed to Elaiza and Talbott who had just left the dance floor as well, turning to Penny. "Penny, you know that today is also Elaiza's birthday, so there is something I would like to do.

Approaching the girl's ear, he explained her plan. And when he finished Penny said:

"Aww, how cute, Angel, she will like it a lot."

"I will do that and then I promise that the night will be ours alone."

"You don't have to promise anything, dear, I know you love her." Said Penny stroking her boyfriend's cheek. "This is so adorable, and I love how you always want to make everyone happy, come on."

"Thank you my love." Angel said kissing Penny's lips quickly. "I'll be right back."

Moving away from his girlfriend, Angel crossed the great hall, approaching Elaiza and Talbott.

"Er… Talbott, can I speak to Elaiza, for a minute in private?"

Talbott, who already knew what his friend was planning, just nodded and left without giving any explanation, leaving Elaiza quite confused, turning to Angel with a questioning look, she asked:

"Is there a problem, Angel?"

"No, I just wanted to tell you a few things." He took the gift out of his pocket and with his wand, he returned it to its original size. "Elaiza, since we met, I am sure that our friendship has only grown, and has become so strong, to the point of being one of the strongest relationships I have in life, I know that I am not a Schuyler and you are not a Lancaster, but, Elaiza… I love you, I love you as if you were my real sister, you are one of the most fantastic people I have ever met. "

"Angel!" Exclaimed the brown-haired girl when Angel handed him the lilac package.

She tore the wrapping paper, revealing the blue velvet box, when opening it, Elaiza found a silver necklace, with a violet-shaped pendant, with the happy petals of a purple crystal, and linking all the petals, like a bow , there were the words, 'Siblings', repeated several times, forming an infinite loop.

"I can?" Angel took the necklace and placed it around Elaiza's neck. "In the world of magic, we are always expected to receive a magical gift, but... I hope this necklace can remind you that no matter what happens, you will always be like a sister to me and I will always be there if you need."

Angel hugged Elaiza tightly, her heart was pounding in her chest. The truth was that since they met, Angel and Elaiza had developed a friendship, practically indestructible, there was love in this relationship that is extremely strong, brotherly love, a love of siblings. And the boy couldn't ask for anything stronger and more true.

"I talked to Talbott earlier, and I know today is Valentine's Day and you want to spend your night with him, but..." Angel held out her hand to Elaiza. "Sister, do you accept to dance to the next song with me?"

"What song, shall we dance, brother?" Elaiza asked, holding Angel's hand.

"Well, I don't think we could dance the waltz, after all, she is too romantic, so I hope you like foxtrot."

Angel nodded to Irvin who was standing next to the instruments, and with a wave of the boy's wand, a lively melody at the sound of jazz began to play in the hall. With a smile, Angel led the girl to the dance floor, where they started dancing to the sound of jazz. (https://youtu.be/zt3WKBJqH6M)

"Did you already plan this?" Elaiza asked when Angel put her hand on his waist and she on his arm. Although the difference was also relevant, they found no problems adapting.

"Had I already prepared for my sister's birthday?" Angel asked innocently. "No of course not."

"You are so silly, Angel." Elaiza spoke when they made the first cincronized movement.

"I know, but you love it about me." Said Angel with an amused smile.

"Do you think so?" Elaiza asked with a mocking smile.

"I know it is so, if not, we would not be siblings."

The two youngs seemed to slide down the dance floor with their steps perfectly matched, nor did it seem that this was the first time they danced together. Surprisingly, they were both perfect.

(Reference: https://youtu.be/Zz_v61AjFhQ)

For Angel it was being a lot of fun. It was as if they didn't have to worry about the steps, as if they weren't able to make mistakes.

When the song was coming to an end, Angel and Elaiza whirled in the middle of the track, and the moment the last chord sounded, they both stopped and a bluish fire wrote the words 'Happy Birthday Elaiza' for everyone to see.

"Happy Birthday, Little Sister, that all your drawings come true." With that Angel kissed Elaiza's forehead and hugged her tight.

-----O-----O-----O-----O-----O-----O-----

I couldn't help paying this tribute, even if it was very, very late to Elaiza, one of Angel's best friends and sister. Today Angel's life would not be what it is without this dwarf on your side. And my life wouldn't be what it is without you by my side, Laura, thanks for being my friend, and my sister, thank you very much.

(As the text was not well planned, I was unable to add all the MCs I wanted, so sorry for the others that were not mentioned here.)

[littlebloogirl]

TURN with Lizzie

aka @spookygarbagepailsister

Currently On: Season 2, Episode 5

Felt bad for Simcoe, momentary weakness

Apparently Andre's braid doubles in length every 6 months

Still says Annlett and Tallster rights

Also Peggy x Andre rights

Peggy is really pretty

Immediate reaction to wigless Simcoe was "hE HAS NO HAIR"

We saw Simcoe in Target the other day apparently???

"i dont like that he has this much power" -when Simcoe was appointed as head of the Queen’s Rangers

"can we just get the annlett love story we deserve"

"someone should accidentally stab him with the bayonet" -about simcoe when the rangers were training

Everything Hewlett does is absolutely adorable to her

Except the t̷i̶t̴t̵e̵a

Character Opinions!

Ben: "A rad boy but a sad boy" Caleb: Brother bear, "ya know how they call gay men with lots of hair bears? Caleb is a bear" Abe: Quit being so awkward you're gonna give yourself away! "The one part of being a spy is you gotta be sneaky" Robert Rogers: "He really said No Lives Matter" Anna: "Cutie deserves all love" Abigail: "Getting roped into some shit that I dont think she wants to be a part of" Sackett: She thought he was Mr. Benjamin Franklin "Ben Franklin? Not Ben Franklin-" Richard: "Just needs to calm down" "I get you're a judge, but for a judge you're really judge-y!" Hewlett: "Favorite! Absolute favorite! King! Deserves so much love!" Andre: "Cutie." Simcoe: "Simcoe can suck a dick" Peggy: "Pretty" Robert: "Asshole" Mary: "Cutie"

Ships!

Annlett Tallster John x Peggy Simcoe x Castration Abe x School Abe x P.E Abe x Therapy Hewlett x "Some goddamn piece and quiet away from all this bullshit"

I FUCKING LOST ALL OF THE CHAT HISTORY THAT WASN’T ^ THAT STUFF

B U T I’LL TRY TO REMEBER HER THOUGHTS

Uhhh Simcoe cutting the tongue off was gross to her

I can’t remember anything after that :(

but tonight’s events hehe I am very excited for the reaction >:)

[quickspinner]

Finding Harmony - Ch 7 Harmony (end)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

There’s quite a bit of music used in this chapter and I’ve linked the videos at the bottom, but here’s the list:

1. Aerosmith, I Don't Want to Miss a Thing (Harp Cover) by Amélie Guiboux (she has a ton of harp covers and they're all beautiful, be sure to look at her other videos; Luka's harp would probably sound considerably different, but I'm taking a little license here because it's so pretty. you can search for clarsach music on youtube if you want to hear what an actual Scottish harp sounds like, there's not a lot but there is some) 2. Chopin, Nocturne Op. 9 No 1, by Salvador Joya 3. Je Pense À Toi (original) by Amadou et Mariam 4.  Je Pense À Toi (cover) by Amar Amarni & Jasmina Petrovic

Luka surveyed his preparations critically and sighed, concluding there was really nothing left to be done. Which meant now all he had to do was sit around and wait for Marinette. He kind of hated this part, but at least tonight his phone was silent. No akuma alerts.

He took a slow breath, and then another, not quite meditating, but...centering. Reflecting. The past few months had seen their ups and downs, but he didn’t regret a second of the time he’d spent with Marinette. 

It took him hours to get to sleep that night after the gala. He was too charged up to even try to sleep in his bunk, and only long discipline (and the knowledge that his mother and sister would kill him brutally if he woke them) kept him still on the couch in the sunroom until he finally fell asleep. 

He never had wiped the lipstick off his face, which earned him at least a week of mockery from both of them. 

Neither the mockery nor the lack of sleep kept Luka from waiting outside the bakery that afternoon for their first official date. He’d never forget the look on her face when she came flying out of the door, right before she tripped and took them both down to the sidewalk (he should have been more prepared for that, but he had been too busy grinning like a loon to brace for impact). They’d walked all over Paris looking for Andre, and had a long, honest, necessary talk at the same time. 

It hadn’t stopped them from having misunderstandings and frustrations, and one horrible day where he’d lost his cool completely because he’d been scared to death watching an Akuma toss her around on the news that afternoon, without her costume. He’d never been so grateful to Chat Noir in his life as he had been when the cat finally got her out of danger at least long enough for her to transform. Ladybug finished the fight, as she always did, but Luka had been livid that Marinette had run into the fight as Marinette, and she had fired up defensively, and they had yelled at each other so hard that her parents had gently but firmly kicked him out so they could both calm down. The fight was worse since neither could tell the other what they knew, and it had taken them both days to cool off enough to talk about it. It had taken him at least a full day to admit to himself that he’d been a little unfair, because he couldn’t yell at her for the things Ladybug did, so he’d had a store of bottled up fear and frustration just waiting to spill out. It was a couple of weeks before the hurt feelings on both sides faded enough for them to be totally comfortable with each other again.

The other big issue had been her ditching him for Akuma battles. He didn’t mind, he knew she had a job to do, but Luka had, after putting a lot of thought into the phrasing, finally asked her not to give him any more false excuses. “Just tell me when you can’t tell me,” Luka told her. “Just say you have to go or whatever, I won’t push. Just please don’t make up things. Whatever it is that you’re trying to cover up, I don’t care, I trust you not to hurt me. I just...I can hear when you lie and I don’t like it.” He knew his unconditional trust confused her, but she agreed. Luka hadn’t realized how much of a strain it had been on both of them, for Marinette to come up with the excuses and him to pretend to believe them, until they stopped. It was an immense relief for them both, as it turned out.

The majority of their disagreements were small hurts, things that could be talked through and soothed and forgiven, just the normal average process of fitting two people together. Marinette was sweet, attentive, affectionate, and her confidence in his love buoyed her up when she felt down on herself. They were everything he’d dreamed they could be together. Luka knew his feelings for her were still stronger than hers for him, but he was okay with letting her feelings grow at their own pace. 

He tapped a nail painted with electric blue and black swirls on the rail with a rueful smile. If only he could get her to stop giving him things. The magnetic nail polish was an exception, her gifts were mostly small, useful things that she made herself, but it was like she couldn’t help herself. When she thought of something he might like, she had to make it for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate them, he loved her little gifts, it was just that things felt a bit...unequal. His mind didn’t work exactly like hers and his skills didn’t lend themselves to the sorts of gestures she made, and it left him feeling a little guilty. It wasn’t as if he felt he needed to pay her back, exactly, neither of them was keeping score, it was just...he wanted to be able to do things for her, too.

Well, it gave him an excellent excuse to make every grand, over-the-top gesture that came into his own romantic heart, and he’d given himself full permission to go completely overboard tonight. He shoved the sleeves of his blue v-neck sweater up his arms out of habit, and then winced and pulled them back down again as another breeze cut across the deck. The evening was pleasantly cool except when the wind picked up, but there was always wind on the river. Marinette had looked at him as if he’d lost his mind when he’d told her to eat dinner at home and then come to the Liberty after sundown. He’d refused to tell her anything else except that they would be out on the deck and to dress warmly. 

He was just wondering if he should have gone to the bakery to escort her when he spotted her walking down the bank.

Luka came across the gangplank to meet her. She was wearing a pink wool dress with white stockings and a white sweater, and she reminded him of one of her pink macaroons with the white lacy icing. Luka took Marinette’s hands in his and kissed her cheek softly. “You have got to be the sweetest thing in that bakery,” he told her, standing back to look at her again admiringly. 

She grinned, bouncing lightly on her toes. “I brought you something.” 

“Marinette,” he sighed, smiling affectionately.

“I know, I know,” she said, bouncing on her toes. “Please?”

“Okay.” 

She put a necklace in his hands made of knotted cord decorated with blue and black beads. Marinette pointed to what looked like a metal teardrop on the end. “I saw these online the other day - you can slide your pick in it, see, in the holder here, and then you can take it out when you need it, or you can just swap out to match whatever you’re wearing. It can actually hold a few at once, but of course you’ll only see the front one. I actually got a few of the holders to experiment with, I think I can do some really cool things, and if Jagged likes them, it could be a cool new accessory line. I was thinking about braiding one into a bracelet for Juleka, but I haven’t had time.” 

Luka took a pick out of his pocket and slipped it in the holder. “Cool,” he grinned, putting the cord over his head, and Marinette bounced in excitement at his pleasure. He kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Marinette. I love it, really.”

“I made one for me too,” she said, backing up to show him his Jagged Stone pick around her own neck, on a cord decorated with pink and white beads. “So we can match. I mean, not matchy-match, more...coordinate.”

Luka chuckled and pulled her into his arms. “What am I going to do with you?” he sighed into her hair, and she snuggled into his chest happily. 

“I don’t know,” she said cheekily. “You wouldn’t tell me.”

Luka laughed, and let go of her, sliding his hands down her arms to take hers. “You wanna find out?”

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked as they crossed onto the boat. 

“Below. They won’t bother us. The newest book in Maman’s favorite series just came out and I just happened to pick her up a copy this afternoon, so she probably won’t leave her room until sometime tomorrow, and I’ve given Juleka her privacy for this kind of thing enough times that she owes me.”

“What kind of thing is—” Marinette cut off as she caught sight of the tiny flickering candles scattered all over the unusually uncluttered stern. 

“Oh, Luka,” she breathed, revolving slowly.

“You like it?” 

“I love it, it’s so beautiful.” 

“I’m glad.” He took both her hands and guided her to the deck chair he’d set out for her. “Sit,” he said, and she sank into the chair, still looking around. One of the spool tables stood next to the chair, covered with a white cloth and decorated with a bowl (because a vase would tip over in a stiff breeze, he’d discovered the hard way) of flowers and more candles. Luka picked up a thermos that had been sitting by the table and poured hot chocolate into the waiting mug. “Something to help keep you warm.”

Marinette smiled as he handed it to her and took a sip. “Mm, it’s good,” she said, setting it the mug back on the table, knocking one of the little tea lights off in the process. Luka had to stop her from jumping up with a gasp. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he told her, smiling as he went to pick it up and show it to her. “Don’t worry, they’re battery powered. Fire is pretty much the worst thing that can happen on a boat so we can’t use real ones. They’re lighter than the real thing though so they’re easy to knock over, sorry about that.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Marinette sighed, sagging back in her chair.

Luka chuckled, kneeling in front of her chair as he set the candle back on the table. “I actually borrowed them from Juleka, she has a huge stockpile since she’s dating the most sappily romantic person on the planet. You wouldn’t believe how long she spent checking out every type of battery powered tea light she could get her hands on to find which one was the most realistic.” He shrugged. “I’m not above benefitting from all her hard work.” 

Marinette giggled, and then sighed. “You went to so much trouble,” she said, looking around. Too much trouble, he could hear her not say.

Luka put his hand on her cheek and brought her gaze back to him, thumb caressing her cheekbone softly. “If I let you spoil me your way, you have to let me spoil you mine, okay?”

Marinette smiled at him with so much affection that his heart skipped and stuttered. “I guess I can’t argue with that.” 

Luka couldn’t help himself; he leaned forward and kissed her softly. She smelled like chocolate as she leaned into him and his fingers tightened around hers. “I’m getting off track here,” he said, forehead pressed against hers, and then kissed her again when she nudged him with her nose. He groaned in weak protest when she let go of his hands to tangle her fingers in his hair, and he kissed her one more time, letting her draw him deeper. When she’d had her way with him he pulled back, taking her hands from around his neck and kissing them both together. “Please let me do this for you.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Sorry. I’m not trying to ruin your plans.” 

“I promise that’s in my plan too,” Luka chuckled. “But later.” He reached for the table and unwrapped the plate of cookies and snacks that had been waiting there, and pressed the mug of hot chocolate back into her hands. “There’s a blanket by the chair if you get cold. If the wind picks up too much we’ll move to the sunroom, but I prefer it out here if that’s okay.”

“It’s wonderful. This is all so nice,” she sighed, taking a sip. “Mm, that really is good, you’re going to have to tell me what you put in it later.”

He licked his lips as he stood, tasting the chocolate she’d left on his lips, and took a breath, trying to get his head together. “I wanted to play something for you, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it is, I love hearing you play,” Marinette replied, cocking her head slightly in confusion. He played for her all the time, after all.

Luka smiled and went over to the chair he’d set up for himself across from her, uncovering the clarsàch he’d hidden next to it with a flourish. Marinette lit up with understanding and pleasure. He smiled at her as he sat down, glancing behind him briefly as he settled the harp in place. He’d arranged things so that she could see the dark water of the Seine and the glowing pillars of Notre Dame behind him. 

Luka turned his attention to the harp and found to his embarrassment that his hands were shaking slightly. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, centering himself.

“Are you...nervous?” Marinette asked, her voice sounding almost awed. 

“A little,” he admitted, opening his eyes to give her a lopsided smile. “I don’t usually get nerves like this but...this is the first time I’ve played this for anyone, and I really want to get it right.”

“Luka.” The way she said her name gave him shivers, softly and so full of emotion she sounded on the verge of tears, and he knew it didn’t matter how well he played, because she’d already understood and accepted his gift.

He prepared to play his best anyway.

Luka set his now steady fingers to the strings, and played. He glanced up after the first few notes for just a moment, and smiled to himself at the slight crease between her brows. She recognized the song, but hadn’t placed it yet despite the distinctive opening notes. 

Her confusion remained as he played the first verse. I could stay awake just to hear you breathing, watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you’re far away and dreaming…

He glanced up again as he reached the chorus, and caught the dawning recognition, the silent “o” her mouth made as she finally recognized it. He smiled to himself and returned his full attention to his playing.

I don’t wanna close my eyes, I don’t wanna fall asleep cause I’d miss you babe, and I don’t wanna miss a thing

No amp, no speakers, just the soft, intimate sound of the harp connecting the air between them. It wasn’t as perfect, as smooth as it would have been on his guitar, but that was okay. It wasn’t about perfection. 

“Only you would play Aerosmith on a harp,” she giggled. 

“Not true,” Luka said with a smile, setting the harp carefully aside. “I had to get the music from somewhere, after all. I’m not anywhere near ready compose my own arrangements on this thing.” He reached for her hand. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it, it was so beautiful,” she said, all humor in her voice replaced by sincerity. She pulled his hand to her and kissed it. “Thank you, Luka. This has all been so special, I’m truly touched.” 

“You’re welcome, Marinette,” he said warmly, putting his other hand over hers for a moment. Then he let go and picked up his guitar from where he had tucked it behind a crate. He strummed for a moment, and improvised a soft, warm, melting melody. Marinette relaxed back in her chair and nibbled at the plate of snacks, still sipping at her hot chocolate.

He waited until she was distracted and then slipped into the next song he had planned. Marinette looked at him with round eyes, and he grinned at her. “Is that Motzart?” she asked with her mouth full.

Luka chuckled. “Chopin, actually. Nocturne in B-Flat Minor.” 

Marinette swallowed her food and began to laugh. “You’re too much. Aerosmith on the harp and Chopin on electric guitar.” 

“Do you like it?”

“Absolutely,” she sighed, leaning back and closing her eyes as he played. He watched her with a smile on his face as he played. “That was really lovely,” she said wistfully when he finished. “Promise you’ll play it again sometime.”

“Of course, chérie, anytime you want,” he said, slipping into another improvised melody. Marinette looked at him in slight surprise. He’d never called her that before. Luka took a deep breath, stopped playing altogether and sang, “Je pense à toi, mon amour, ma bien aimée, ne m'abandonne pas, mon amour, ma chérie.” I think of you, my love, my beloved, don’t leave me, my love, my dear. Marinette’s eyes opened wide and she stared at him, a flush that wasn’t from the breeze darkening her cheeks. Luka grinned as he picked up the tune with his guitar, playing slower than it was written, and continued, “Quand je suis dans ma lit, je ne rêve qu’à toi, et quand je me réveille, je ne pense qu’à toi…” When I’m in my bed, I dream of nothing but you, and when I wake, I think of nothing but you.

She looked at him like he had two heads during the verse and chorus, and he began to feel a little nervous, but her shock melted into something else as she unconsciously leaned toward him, eyes warm. Encouraged, Luka got up and moved to kneel in front of her, still playing. “Certains t’ont promis la terre, d’autres promettent le ciel, y’en a qui t’ont promis la lune, et moi je n’ai rien que ma pauvre guitare…” Some promise you the earth, others promise you the sky, there are some who promise the moon, and me I have nothing but my poor guitar.

Marinette leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her knees as he sang softly, “Je pense à toi, mon amour, ma bien aimée, ne m'abandonne pas, mon amour, ma chérie.” The final strum faded away, and for a moment they were both motionless, lost in each others’ eyes.

“Now?” Marinette asked breathlessly. 

“Now,” Luka agreed, leaning into her as he set aside the guitar. Marinette threw her arms around him and kissed him so passionately he couldn’t remember his own name until she murmured it against his lips

Luka pulled her up from the chair and sat down on it, tugging her back down to seat her between his legs. She leaned back against him, and he bent down to pick up his guitar from the deck. He put his guitar in front of them both, reaching his long arms around her.

“Can you really play like this?” 

“We’re about to find out,” he chuckled. “You’re pretty small, I think it’ll be okay. Just scoot as close to me as you can.”

She snuggled back against him, and he nuzzled her cheek before testing his reach. It was a little awkward and her hands on his thighs were a little distracting, but he thought he could manage it. “Tell me if you get uncomfortable and we’ll move,” he murmured, and played as she snuggled close against him, leaning her head back on his shoulder. He played the peace of their hearts, the flicker of the candles, the rock of the boat on the river.

Eventually he set the guitar down and reached for the blanket next to the chair instead. He spread the blanket over them both and put his arms around Marinette’s waist. They sat, watching the stars and the lights on the water.

“This is heaven,” he said softly. Marinette giggled and he smiled, knowing what she was thinking. “Kissing you is amazing,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “Every time you touch me I get a thrill I can’t even describe. But this right here, just being quiet with you...I don’t know, it’s special. How often do you even just stop and be quiet at all, Marinette?”

“Pretty much never,” she admitted, keeping her voice soft as well. “Except...except with you.” She said it like it had never occurred to her before. “Thanks for being my quiet place, Luka.” Luka smiled up at the sky.

“Can I take your hair ties out?” he asked after a moment. 

“Hmm? Oh...sure, I guess.” 

Luka carefully pulled the ribbons from her pigtails. Then he ran his fingers through her hair from root to tip. Marinette’s eyes closed and her head tipped back, her lips parted in a quiet gasp. Luka smiled. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he murmured, running his hands through her hair again. 

“Mmm,” Marinette sighed, melting into him. He chuckled. 

“I’m glad you like it as much as I do.” He kissed her cheek, and then sighed. “I’m going to say something and I swear it’s a compliment, but I’m not sure it’s going to come out right,” he said, a little uncharacteristic shyness in his voice. 

“I’m listening.”

“You make it hard to live in the moment.” He could feel her surprise and she waited for him to explain. “I’m not really the type of person to overthink stuff, you know? Really I probably ought to think of the future more, but I feel like it’s important to appreciate where you are right now. But sometimes with you it’s not as easy as it used to be. I can’t help thinking about all the things I want to do with you someday.” 

“Like, what kinds of things?” Marinette asked dreamily, still leaning into his touch as his fingers continued to move through her hair. 

“Like...doing just what we’re doing now, only out on the open ocean, with all the lights off so we can see the stars. Oh, you’ve never seen the sky until you’ve seen it like that, Marinette. Things like, a spring picnic up in the Alps, where the mountains just surround you and it feels like if you just jumped up in the air you’d be flying. I want you to teach me something I’ve never done before. I want us to learn something new together, something neither of us have ever done before.” He paused. “I just...I want to share things with you and I want you to share things with me.” He cringed slightly, letting his hands slip out of her hair and circle her waist. “Am I getting too heavy?”

“No,” Marinette said shyly. “Or...maybe, but I...tonight I think I like it.”

Luka hesitated. “There’s...one thing I’d kind of like to do that’s a little more achievable in the here and now.”

“Yes?”

“I’d like you to meet my friends. There’s an open mic night next week that a bunch of us were going to go to. Maybe you could come?”

Marinette was silent and he could feel her tense slightly. “Hey,” he said, nudging her temple with his nose. “Don’t go spiraling without me. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“What if they don’t like me?”

Luka chuckled. “What if you don’t like them?” 

“Luka.”

“I’m serious,” he said, squeezing her lightly. “Maybe they won’t like you, maybe you won’t like them. That’s okay if it happens. You don’t have to be friends with everybody. Maybe you’ll like some of them and not others. Whatever happens, it won’t change anything between us. Worst case scenario, I see them at school and when we make plans to hang out, and I keep you all to myself when we’re together, just like we’ve been doing. It’s not some kind of test you have to pass. I don’t think you have to worry too hard about it, though, I think my friends are pretty cool people and they’ll see that you’re amazing. You seem to have a pretty high tolerance for weird, so I think you’ll be able to put up with them.” 

Marinette giggled and relaxed into him. “How are you so perfect?” 

A trickle of cold went down Luka’s spine. “I’m not, Marinette,” he said softly. “If you think I am, then you need to look closer, babe.”

“I know you’re not,” Marinette said seriously. She sat forward and tried to twist so she could see him. Luka pulled her up onto his lap and she leaned on his chest, their eyes nearly level. “You’re self-conscious. You’re not always proactive enough. You don’t always say what you’re thinking because you’re afraid it won’t come out right. You worry about others to the point where you neglect yourself or overwhelm them, you take too much on yourself, and you tend to hide behind your guitar. But those are all just the other side of all the things I love about you. You’re humble, laid back, considerate, empathetic, protective, responsible, and a true artist.”

Luka couldn’t breathe as he stared at her. “Are you okay?” she asked, and he nodded numbly. He reached up to hook his hand behind her neck and pulled her gently to his mouth. She kissed him, and then pulled back to look at him again. “I love you,” she told him, soft but sure. His chest tightened and his breath came short and quick. Luka pulled her back to his trembling lips and kissed her fiercely, aware of tears gathering behind his tightly closed eyelids. He focused on kissing her senseless so she wouldn’t notice when they slipped free. Even so he felt her hands on his face, thumbs wiping them away. “I’m sorry,” she spoke against his lips. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

“No,” he said between kisses. “No, no, I wouldn’t change a thing. I love you so much.” He sighed, wiping the tears away himself. “Damn, sorry.” 

Marinette bit her lip, then took a shaky breath and sang softly, “Je pense à toi, mon amour, mon bien aimé, ne m'abandonne pas, mon amour, mon chéri.” Luka’s smile threatened to split his face. He already knew she had a sweet voice, but she was shy about singing around him. It was always a treat for him when she loosened up enough to let him hear her.

“Keep going,” he murmured. Marinette sang the line again, and her voice wavered slightly when he joined in with the harmony he hadn’t been able to sing alone, but she held true to her note. “Je pense à toi, mon amour, ma bien aimée, ne m'abandonne pas, mon amour, ma chérie.”

She paused, and he sang the next line for her. Marinette nodded and they sang it together, and this time she held the melody steady as he sang the harmony. “Quand je suis dans ma lit, je ne rêve qu’à toi, et quand je me réveille, je ne pense qu’à toi…” 

Slowly, they sang through the whole song, Luka giving her the line first and then the two of them together .

Luka nudged her nose with his. “Not bad. I think we sound pretty good together.”

Marinette smiled, laying her head down on his shoulder and pressing her face into his neck. “Yeah. I think we do too.”

[thechillingadventuresoflili-blog]

Chapter four is now being put up. Cooperating. Enjoy. Dedicated to @zeciex and @lovelykhaleesiii

Chapter Four Cooperating

If Lilia thought Gallant was annoying before, nothing compared to when he came out of his interview. Talking about how much Langdon had hit on him and all this crazy nonsense that had her coughing into her mineral water. They would all look at her and she would apologize, going back to reading.

“He did ask about you, Snow.” Gallant said to her as he smiled.

“What?’ She tilted her head at him as though she had misheard him. “Why would he ask about me?”

“Well, he wanted to know about your relationship with Andre and then with Winter.” Gallant smiled sadly at her. “He seemed upset about Venable killing Winter.”

Lilia looked away from the man as she stood up. “I wonder what he wanted that information for.”

It turns out that Langdon had asked everyone about her. Lilia was a little furious that he couldn’t ask her the questions himself. When it was finally her turn for the cooperating, she actually put a little thought into her appearance. She had asked Gallant to help her with her hair style.

“Was it as bad as we all think it was?” Lilia asked him about his punishment for having been caught having sex.

“No. What really hurt was that Langdon lied to my face about being the man in the suit.” He sighed as they met eyes in the mirror. “I still believe that it was him.”

Lilia nodded. “Maybe I can find out the truth from him.” She looked at her hair as he braided it into an intricate crown on top of her head. “If you would like that.”

Gallant looked at her and nodded. “He mainly just rambles on and on. About the bombs and other weird stuff. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Do you really pay attention when a beautiful man stands in front of you?” Lilia giggled as Gallant smiled and chuckled.

“No. Not really.” He shook his head as he put the finishing touches on her hair. “There. Now, go get lucky.”

Lilia sighed as she stood away from the room that Langdon had claimed his office. She was nervous. Hell, they all were before they had gone in for their interview. But, she could feel her soul begging for her to go to him. She walked slowly to the door as it opened and he was standing there. Lilia felt her heart stop and her body burst into flames.

“Thank you for joining me, Ms. Snow.” He held out his hand for her to take, which she ignored and walked past him.

The office was large. One of the largest rooms in the entire Outpost. She looked around at the large roaring fire at one end of the room where two chairs sat. Lilia made her way to one of them and sat down, watching him.

They watched each other for a few moments, biting their lips as they were both determined not to break the silence. Turns out he had nerves of steel.

“Why were you asking the others questions about me?” Lilia finally asked after several minutes of pure silence.

“I wanted to see how you were.” He said gently, walking over to his desk. He wrote a few things down as his chin rested on his left hand.

“Why couldn’t you ask me yourself? That’s a little insulting, don’t you think?” Lilia rolled her eyes as she watched his hand write his notes, probably about her.

He looked up at her and smiled, setting his pen down. “I would think someone of your beauty would be flattered that someone was nervous to talk to you.” Langdon stood up and walked over to the other chair. “Were you not flattered?”

“Like I said, I was insulted.” She bit her lip to try to control what the hell she was saying. “There are rules and etiquette about this kind of thing, you know.”

He scoffed and moved closer to her. “The old world lived under a set of rules. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt love thy neighbor, etcetera etcetera. Rules that were clearly honored in the breach. I want a world without the hypocrisy. With the kinds of people who wouldn’t just eat the fruit from the forbidden tree, but cut the fucking tree down and burn it for firewood.”

“Why me, though?” She whispered.

“I think you’re made for that world, Lilia.” He knelt down in front of her and ran his fingers down her face. “I sense it in you.”

Lilia leaned against his hand, closing her eyes as the fire cooled in her body. Opening her eyes, she realized how close to her he was. She shot up and moved away from him.

“I have no idea who you are and yet, my body feels like it knows you.” She put her hands over her head as he walked over to her.

“You’re afraid of me.” He said, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “Of being who you truly are.”

Lilia laughed sarcastically. “I don’t know who I am.”

“What do you mean?” He tilted his head with a smile on his face.

“Ever since I came here, I’ve had this feeling that something or someone was trying to claw its way out of me. And it’s even worse now that you are here.” She confessed to him, trying to break free of his hand. “Please, let me go.”

“But I’m offering you a chance to live.” He said confidently.

A name popped into her head as she looked into his baby blue eyes. “Michael, please, let me go.”

He finally let her go as he stepped back from her. His eyes were as wide as saucers as his mind reeled from hearing her say his name. “How do you know my name?”

“I don’t know. It just popped into my head.” That was when she ran from his office, breathing hard.

She looked behind her to see if he had followed her and sighed a breath of relief. “What the hell was that?” Shaking her head, Lilia made her way back to her room, thinking of his hand on her face. “Stop it, Snow. He’s more interested in Gallant.” With that thought, she went back to her room to read.

That night, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way he said her name, held on to her with the gentlest of touches. She shook her head as she leaned her head against the cool wood of her vanity, trying to breathe past the knot in her chest. She knew that his bedroom was somewhere on her floor, but she didn’t know which one it was.

Lilia bit her lip as she looked over at her door, trying to do what she had been reading about. Concilium, the power of mind control, was supposed to be one of the simplest of the Seven Wonders to do. She closed her eyes and brought forth the image of Langdon. She thought of what she wanted him to do and tried to send it through the air to his beautiful blond head.

“Come to my room. I need questions answered.” She thought with all of her might to get him to her room. So much energy went into the thought that she slid out of her chair onto the floor and held her head.

She was so wrapped up in her power that she didn’t even hear the knocking or him calling out her name. Only until he grabbed her hands and pulled them away from her face did she know that it worked.

“You called?” He smirked at her and let go of her hands.

Lilia did something that she thought she would never do to another person after Winter. She lunged at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “How do I know you? How can I do magic?” Tears rolled down her face as she leaned away from his shoulder to look at him. “I want the truth, Michael.”

She could see him close his eyes when she said his name. “It’s time for you to remember who you are.”

[orientalonehphm]

The End of the Mystery: Part 2 - A Reunion Under Dire Circumstances

Summary: The gang reunite in Hog’s Head Inn where they ponder if they really want to join the fight.

Notes: A shorter second part but more to come in the next parts! Thanks for reading!

The sun set on the snowy village of Hogsmeade. The streets were quiet apart from the slight murmurs heard within Hog’s Head Inn. A loud snap outside the pub ringed through the air, startling a murder of crows. Rowan Khanna took a deep breath in, their face plastered with stress. Tightening the grip on their backpack, they released their breath and trotted over to the entrance. As the door swung open, they grimaced as the smell of something foul hit their nose. The bar was dusty and old, the furniture looked worn and the air was thick with the smell of goat. A tall, thin man with long, stringy, grey hair and a beard stood behind the counter. He met eyes with Rowan and nodded his head up the rickety stairs behind him. The nervous bookworm nodded politely and climbed the stairs. As their head poked up at the top of the staircase, they found familiar faces. Ben Copper sat in a booth to the far left. He was dressed in a grey suit sans a tie, his white shirt left tucked in and his top button undone. The smart-looking Gryffindor chatted to Penny Haywood who looked just as radiant as before. She wore a yellow T-shirt covered by beige dungarees, her signature potion belt tied around her waist. Dark smudges and stains dotted her dungarees, potion-making was never a tidy chore with the popular potioneer. Her hair was tied in a single-side braid that draped down the right side of her head and a pair of goggles sat on the top of her forehead. Leaning on the wall near a fireplace was Barnaby Lee. His spiky dark-brown hair and bright green eyes illuminated by the warm, orange glow of the fireplace. He wore a white, stripy shirt with a green tie tied around his neck and a dark brown coat that went down to his knees. He was making strange faces at a small bowtruckle that sat on top of his hand. Andre sat on a chair facing towards the fireplace, the purple robes of his Pride of Portee uniform draped onto the floor. He was examining his trusty broomstick, running his finger over a few of the scratches on the handle and checking the bristles of the broom. Next to him stood Bill Weasley, Tulip Karasu and Y/N Y/L/N. Bill wore a dark green jacket that covered a blue shirt. His clothes looked faded and slightly tattered from overuse. His ginger hair framed the deep scars on his face. He seemed to be in a lively conversation with Tulip who wore a black leather jacket, a blue t-shirt and black trousers. A pair of sunglasses poked out of her pocket and a golden dungbomb hung round her neck. Y/N was listening to their conversation when they noticed Rowan by the stairs.

"Hey Rowan!" Y/N swiftly closed the gap between them and hugged their old friend. Rowan's glasses shifted with the sudden force as they returned the hug to their old friend.

"Hey Y/N" The two friends pulled apart. The rest of the gang had noticed Rowan's presence and were now fixated on their old classmate.

"It’s been a while. How's Uganda been?" Y/N asked, keeping their arm around Rowan's shoulder, pulling them further towards the rest of the group.

"Amazing. Teaching at Uagadou has been a wonderful experience, the mountains are beautiful! How's life in New York?" The black-haired professor explained, adjusting their glasses.

"It's been good. Every day is exciting when you're catching crooks and dealing out justice!" Y/N announced in an almost superhero-like fashion. Rowan giggled at their silly friend.

"I feel like you're going to have to mature a bit if you're gonna be the head of MACUSA. ‘President’ Y/N" Tulip chimed in, elbowing Y/N in a teasing fashion.

"Yeah yeah well once I'm president I won't be able to keep bailing you out when you get caught. I knew you were a troublemaker but the New York Ghost really keeps enabling you. How many accounts of breaking and entering have you been accused of?" The auror reminded, wagging their finger at the red-head.

"Information is power, what can I say. If I don't get my hands dirty, the readers don't get the juicy scoop. Plus I only got caught once...as far as you know” Tulip winked at her auror friend. “I'm very good at my job." Y/N rolled their eyes.

"Don't tell me about any of the other times, otherwise I'm going to have to arrest you on the spot" The trio laughed as Bill walked over.

"Hey Rowan, good to see you. Thanks for coming" The ginger curse-breaker shook Rowan's hand.

"My pleasure, anything for Hogwarts." Rowan paused for a moment, glancing once again around the room. "Hey where's Tonks...or Charlie?" Bill's posture shifted slightly.

"Charlie was still in Romania when we contacted him. He's gathering reinforcements and he'll arrive when he can. I'm surprised you, Tulip, Y/N and Penny got here so quickly." Penny seemed to have overheard her name and was over in a snap.

"Nothing stops us from helping our friends, not even different time zones" Penny chirped happily.

"I was putting the bowtruckles to bed when I had to leave" Barnaby commented from behind the gang.

"As for Tonks, she's not joining the fight. She's at her mother's house, looking after Teddy" Bill continued.

"And Remus?" Y/N asked.

"He's here. He's already over at Hogwarts" the gang went silent.

"Well...she's gonna miss all the action then" Tulip joked, trying to bring a lightness to the conversation. The gang chuckled half-heartedly but silence soon struck the group once more.

"Guys, you don't have to do this. You can turn back, this doesn't have to be your fight" Bill explained, looking between the faces of his friends. Everyone was silent, some shifted in place, looking down at the floor.

"We thought curse after curse during our school years, no dark lord or evil army is going to tear that school to the ground. Harry Potter needs our help and we're going to do the best we can!" Y/N raised their wand out of their jacket and readied the weapon. Rowan and Penny cheered. Ben got up from his seat and straightened his blazer. Tulip twirled her wand in her fingers, confidence beemed from her face. Barnaby got up from his leaning position, standing next to Andre who stomped his broom against the floor. The bowtruckle stood proudly on the Slytherin's shoulders. Bill looked between them all, the Gryffindor had never felt more proud.

"Well okay then..." As if on cue, the portrait above the fireplace slowly opened, revealing a dimly lit passageway.

"Let's go save our school"

Part 1 <- -> Part 3 

[thnkfilm]

FOX, do us a toit solid and renew Brooklyn Nine-Nine!

Brooklyn Nine-Nine deserves to be renewed. I find it to be a true delight of a television show that defies stereotypes and is hugely progressive, whilst never failing to be consistently hilarious. It’s always refreshing to come across a sitcom that doesn’t rely on mean-spirited and cruel jokes for its comedy. I love Brooklyn Nine-Nine because it radiates friendship, respect, and joy, without ever coming across as sappy. Instead, its humour and wit are razor sharp. Watch any of the show’s cold opens and you’ll understand exactly what I mean.

Dan Goor and Michael Schur are the creators behind Brooklyn Nine-Nine, but they are also known for their work on the excellent Parks and Recreation. I adore both of these shows due to their portrayal of good-hearted people. A large part of the reason why Brooklyn Nine-Nine can be regarded as so progressive through its defiance of tired stereotypes can be pinned down to its depth and diversity of its seven lead characters:

Andy Samberg as Jake Peralta. This character could have been another version of the selfish man-child we’ve all seen a hundred different times on TV and film. However, throughout the series, we see Jake Peralta undergo huge character development. He apologises when he’s wrong, he cares deeply for his friends, and has learned to choose to do the right thing instead of the selfish option. Plus, Jake is hugely supportive of Amy. When Amy has doubts about their relationship when she’s taking her sergeant’s exam, Jake tells her that she can’t be afraid to be successful, she’s too good for that.

Andre Braugher as Raymond Holt. In the show’s pilot episode, we are introduced to Captain Holt. By the end of the episode, we learn that Holt is gay, he doesn’t try to hide it, but this isn’t the only defining thing about him. We learn that his achievements are hugely admirable - he caught the infamous Disco Strangler in 1981 - and that he has faced great hardship to get to his position as Commanding Officer. Braugher is a revelation in this role. Every year that goes by with Braugher not winning an Emmy for his performance is an absolute travesty.

Terry Crews as Terry Jeffords. Sergeant Terry Jeffords is every bit as delightful as Terry Crews. Holt and Terry are the two highest-ranking characters in the Nine-Nine. It’s fantastic to see two black man in positions of power. Terry’s character is wonderfully sensitive and caring. He enjoys yogurt, the farmer’s market, braiding his daughters’ hair, painting, Natalie Imbruglia’s music - yet none of these are guilty, secret pleasures for Terry.

Melissa Fumero as Amy Santiago. Fumero is fantastic as Santiago, never reducing her to the Type-A, uptight female character we’ve seen too often, but instead the character is immensely likeable whilst being fiercely ambitious. Plus, Fumero and the writers do a great job of ensuring Amy is never restricted to the role of Jake’s love interest. Amy is a fully developed character in her own right, who is equally funny and unique. For further proof of how awesome Amy Santiago is, watch the season three episode ‘Halloween III’, where she beats both Holt and Jake at their own game after they underestimate her.

Stephanie Beatriz as Rosa Diaz. Underneath the leather jacket and the black clothing, Rosa Diaz is a softie who supports her friends and likes to watch Nancy Meyers films, but if you tell anybody that, she will kick your ass. Beatriz has said herself how groundbreaking it is for a network show to have two latina women on it, both of whom are portrayed as intelligent and capable, but with two distinct and different identities. In one season five episode titled ‘Game Night’, Rosa comes out to her parents as bisexual. For me, this was the first time I had ever heard the words “I’m bisexual” said on TV. It was a remarkable episode, with Beatriz giving an incredible performance.

Joe Lo Truglio as Charles Boyle. This could have easily been the pathetic, loser character of the bunch who is constantly the butt of the jokes, however, Charles is a hard-working and competent detective. He’s also Jake’s doting best friend, but instead of us seeing Jake treating Charles like a burden, we see Jake loving Charles just as much. Joe Lo Truglio is terrific as the lovable Boyle, particularly shining when it comes to physical comedy.

Chelsea Peretti as Gina Linetti. What can I say about the brilliant Gina Linetti that hasn’t been said by her already? In the same way that I love Mindy Kaling’s character in The Mindy Project, I love it when I see female characters on screen who are unapologetically  confident and fabulous. They already know that they are fabulous and they don’t need anybody to remind them. Peretti is especially great when it comes to one-liners, she nails it every time.

Moreover, I’d be doing Brooklyn Nine-Nine a disservice if I didn’t mention how it well it incorporates relevant social issues into its storylines. Brooklyn Nine-Nine doesn’t shy away from the existence of corruption within the police force. Throughout the series, we are introduced to a number of corrupt cops (Madeline Wuntch, Keith Pembroke a.k.a ‘The Vulture’, Melanie Hawkins), as well as discussing the discrimination Holt has faced as a gay black man during his time in the NYPD, notably the struggle of being taken seriously and moving through the ranks. In one exceptional episode in the show’s fourth season titled ‘Moo Moo’, Terry is racially profiled by a white cop in his own neighbourhood whilst looking for his daughter’s lost toy. When Terry tells the rest of Nine-Nine about the incident, he says this was not the first time he’s been stopped by cops, which is surprising and completely unsurprising at the same time. With such episodes, Brooklyn Nine-Nine doesn’t make light of these social issues, however the show finds ways to bring about truthful comedy to highlight these issues with the appropriate levels of respect.

Brooklyn Nine-Nine is currently approaching the end of its fifth season, yet there is still no word on whether it will be renewed for a sixth season. The show deserves to be renewed. If the show ends up getting cancelled, then it would be a massive shame and a waste of an extremely talented cast and crew. Unlike a lot of shows that lose their mojo after its early seasons, it seems that Brooklyn Nine-Nine just keeps getting better and better. You’d be hard-pressed to find another show which is as progressive, hilarious, and joyous on TV right now. So please, FOX, do us a toit solid and renew Brooklyn Nine-Nine!

[mellieartcorner]

The Princess and The Prince Thief-Chapter Four

Summary: Princess Marinette of the Kingdom of Creaturae was very happy. Her reasons?-The notorious thief Chat Noir was locked up, her 21st birthday was soon, and she was going to become Queen. That is, until it was decided that she had to marry the mysterious Prince Adrien of the Kingdom of Mortem in order to become Queen. To make matters worse, Chat Noir escaped from jail and is visiting her almost every night. Having to run a kingdom is bad enough, but falling in love with a thief and a prince is the hardest part of all.

Genre: Fiction-Fantasy/Romance AU

Rated: T for Teen- Ages 15+

�� Patreon Supporters get Chapters a whole day early! For only $5 a month, you can too! Patreon.com/mellie711

Words: 2,510

Ao3

Fanfiction.net 

Chapter Four

-Gathering Intel-

Nino waited patiently right by the entrance of the gardens, just out of the way not to be noticed, but just in range to keep an eye on Adrien. He leaned against the stonewall of the palace, eyes closed, the sounds of a nearby fountain humming in his ears. He could hear Adrien and Marinette talking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. His charge, his liege, his best friend. The news that someone spotted Chat Noir last night put Nino on edge. This mission to find the ring was so important to Adrien, something that Nino knew would help stop the back-stabbing and the lies King Gabriel has been flooding the kingdoms, since the death of Queen Emilie Agreste.  If Adrien could get the ring and place it on Gabriel’s finger, no more could the tyrant threaten the black death upon people. Adrien could then use it to control his own powers and prevent the cycle from repeating. Nino’s family’s hands were tied, but his own weren’t. He wanted Adrien to take the throne, and this marriage to Marinette will only help strengthen that resolve.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that once Adrien took the throne, Nino would be able to take his own kingdom back and actually help Testudo, instead of his cousin, Bulla, working with Gabriel. Curse this traditional arrangement.

The door to the palace opened beside Nino, causing him to crack open an eye and meet Lady Alya’s worried gaze. They bonded over their mutual love and support of their charges, talking last night and at breakfast about the mess the young couple has caused so far. Nino quite liked Lady Alya’s determination and focus. She made sure Marinette was adequately prepared for become Queen, like Nino had to get Adrien ready to take over from his father when the time came.

“Hey, they are still talking, uh?”

Nino nodded, checking over to make sure the couple was still standing near by. They were now walking back towards the entrance of the gardens.

Nino responded, “Yeah, how was damage control in there?”

Alya sighed, “Well, King Gabriel has requested to speak to Princess Chloe and King Andre, King Tom is now at the morning patrol meeting, and Queen Sabine is knitting some small blankets.”

Nino raised an eyebrow for her to elebroate.

“She thinks that grandchildren are soon,” Alya shrugged and grew serious, “But I think we should be preparing for a massive outright war. I don’t trust Gabriel talking with Chloe and her father. And with Chat Noir here, I definitely don’t trust him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have reason to believe Chat Noir is working under the influence of King Gabriel. He started in Mortem, has hit every Kingdom so far, gathering intel and only stealing to hide his cover,” Alya drew a fist, losing herself in her words, “When I heard he was spotted, at breakfast this morning, I felt like I came to the right conclusion. He has got to be here to ruin the wedding.”

Nino kept his face clear, playing along, “I highly doubt that, I mean, he only steals objects that are cat-like or have cats on them. If he was only doing it to hide his cover, why those objects?”

Before Alya could respond, the young couple approached; Marinette holding a single rose and Adrien fidgeting with his scarf. Both had big love-bird looks, but awkwardly looked away from one another. Nino mentally let out a deep breath. ‘Don’t fall in love, you idiot! You need to use her and find the ring,’ he wanted to say to his charge.

They stopped in front of their mentors, and Alya placed her hand on her hip.

“Glad to see you two getting along now,” she commented, causing them both to grow pink in the cheeks. Nino was glad though; Alya was now focused on something else, and he didn’t have to keep lying to her. He liked her too much for that.

“I am going to go do my daily studies,” Marinette said, breaking away from Adrien and going towards the door, “Goodbye to the both of you, for now.”

Alya wrapped her arm around Marinette’s, leading her inside and closing the doors behind them.

Nino looked over at Adrien, who was watching Marinette walk away, his face brightly lit and full of light. ‘Well, at least he is happy, for once,’ Nino concluded, feeling a little bad popping the prince’s metaphorical bubble.

“Have you searched more for the ring?” he asked, placing a hand on Adrien’s shoulder, “And you know that you can’t get attached to her. She doesn’t even know who you really are.”

Adrien’s shoulders immediately fell, his face darkening.

“Speaking of,” Nino continued, “You have got to be more careful. Lady Alya is suspicious of Chat Noir, too, you know.”

Adrien made a sour face, “She is? Shit. I wonder who spotted him last night, too.”

Nino grunted, “Who ever it was, be glad they didn’t find out about you. Now, why don’t you head to the library and I’ll go into town? I’m sure one of us will be able to figure something out.”

Adrien nodded, sighing heavily. Creatuae had one of the biggest, if not the biggest, library in all of the seven kingdoms.There was bound to be something in there about the ring’s location. Even if it was just a fairytale his mother used to tell him before she passed away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lady Alya walked through the corridors of the palace, her attire casual as the evening was approaching fast. She spent the majority of her day helping Marinette with her studies, and of course, gossiping about her incoming feelings for Prince Adrien. Now that she had some free time, Alya wanted to get to the bottom of something that had been bothering her.  What Lord Nino said earlier tugged at her mind. Why is Chat Noir only stealing cat related objects? If she was to prove her theory correct, the best place to start was the royal library. She passed by Rose, on her way to Marinette’s room of course, with Juleka by her side; close by her side. Alya and Marinette knew they were hiding the truth about their relationship from everyone else, but Marinette made sure to reassure them that when she is Queen, they could get married and be open. Alya had to just make sure Marinette becomes Queen first.

  Through the palace grounds, adjacent to the gardens, stood the dome library. Home to artifacts, rare books. manuscripts, and the entire history of the royal family and even other families from different kingdoms, Alya knew she would find exactly what she was looking for here.

   The library welcomed her with the smell of books and soft music, playing from a bard with a cello visiting from Ovium. The front desk stood at the center floor, with two spiral staircases on either side reaching up four floors. Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books, tucked away in order, decorated the entire area. Not many people came and went, but those that did had piles of knowledge in their hands. Alya came up to the front desk, seeing the assistant librarian, Mylene Haprele, reading through a rather large book. Her hair was designed with braids, with different colored feathers and beads intermingled. A small brown beret sat on the girl’s head, with the mark of The Kingdom of Ovium resting on it; the sheep. Alya was glad to see her and not the head librarian, Madame Mendeleiev, who probably wouldn’t even say hello, let alone let Alya search alone.

“Good Evening, Mylene,” Alya said, smiling.

“Oh!” Mylene jumped, “Lady Alya, what a surprise! Two royals in one day! The last time that happened, Princess Marinette had to be escorted here by her mother after that incident with Princess Chloe and the fountain.”

Remembering that day well, Alya laughed and then realized what was just said, “Wait-two royals? Who else is here, Mylene?”

“Oh, Prince Adrien,” the young girl pointed to the right, towards the study area, “He hasn’t brought back his books yet, so I don’t think he has left. But, he said he didn’t want to be disturbed, so I don’t think I can let you go see him.”

Alya studied her options for a moment, bringing two fingers to her lips. She released a soft whistle, at a high enough pitch for Mylene to hear. A faint orange glow illuminated her fingertips as the sound passed through them.

Suddenly, Mylene stood up quickly with a shocked and frightened expression, “I am coming, Ms Mendeleiev!” She turned to Alya, “ I am sorry, Lady Alya, but I have to go now.”

Hating having to use her powers, Alya waved goodbye to Mylene as the poor girl ran towards the voice she thought she heard. Alya walked over towards the study hall. An area full of chairs, papers, ink quills, and sectioned desks, Alya searched for blonde hair. She found him, behind a fortress of books of different shapes and sizes. He looked tired, eyes red from the ink pages, and his hand resting his face.

“Need some help?”

Papers flew, books tossed on the floor, Adrien fell off of his chair with a thudumf.

A giggle couldn’t help but escape Alya’s mouth, as Prince Adrien looked up at her with annoying eyes, but then realized who she was.

“Lady Cesire! You scared me,” he began, getting back into his seat while cleaning up the paper trail. “I told Mylene I didn’t want to be disturbed, too.”

Alya sat across from him, studying his messy attempts at research,  “I am sorry, Your Majesty. But I was just thinking you look like you need a second pair of eyes. Maybe you can help me too.”

Adrien gazed at Lady Alya with a raised expression and a smirk, “Are we bonding, Lady Cesire?”

She played coy, tapping the prince on the nose, “Call me Alya, and yes; I’m looking for objects that are related to cats.”

Adrien’s eyes flashed something Alya couldn’t explain, but then he grinned, “Well, I was looking for something similar, actually.”

Excitement and hopefulness raced through Alya, as she stood up and braced the table between them. “Are you going to try to catch Chat Noir in the act too, before he ruins the wedding?!”

Adrien paused for a second, then nodded in excitement, “Why, yes I am! I want to make sure the wedding happens without any problems.” The Prince reached for a large black cover, beaten up old book, handing it to Alya. In golden letters, the front read, The Miraculous FairyTales of The Seven Kingdoms.

“I know these!” Alya began, flipping through the pages and seeing pictures of all the gods, heroes and monsters, “My mother would read these to me at night, and now she reads them to my younger sisters.”

She looked up, bewildered, “Why did you give me this, though?”

“It seems Chat Noir may be looking for The Ring of Plagg,” Adrien suggested, quickly adding, “Based on what he has stolen previously, it seems.”

Thinking back, Alya recalled the story, “ The Ring of Plagg, so named because it belongs to the God of Destruction and Chaos?  Supposedly gave your family their powers due to a curse? That is a fairytale story! There is no way it is real.” Alya flipped through the book until she found the picture of the tall, handsome God of Destruction, who was basically half-man, half-black cat. A sketch next to the God was of a black and silver ring, with a green paw print at the center of it.

Adrien grabbed another book carefully, this time a leather bound old diary that looked well preserved, “Well, Master Wang Fu found it, according to these journal entries.” Alya tried to reach for the book, but Adrien pulled away, “I’m sorry, Lady Alya, I promised Mylene I wouldn’t let anyone else touch this. It took a lot of convincing to let her even let me look at this, let alone read through it.”

“But Master Wang Fu was the one of the Draconus Lords, the first one, in fact. He was even around during the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms. Those writings have to be well over 1,000 years old,” Alya tapped her chin, her thoughts racing.

Adrien agreed, bracing his face on his hands again in a form of defeat, “But, that’s about as far as I got. The trail stops there. Master Wang Fu simply says, ‘I placed the ring within the land that can not die, giving it to the Lady of Luck.’ There is even a mention of something called The Earrings of Tikki that Master Fu gave this ‘Lady of Luck’.”

Alya dropped the book she was holding and gasped, “The Earrings of Tikki! Those are Marinette’s families prized possessions! They are given to the new Queen on her 21st birthday! The day she is crowned! They get placed back into the vault about a month before the next Queen is expected to take the throne. ”

Adrien’s eyes went wide, the realization hitting him squarely in the chest, “Are..are you positive?” Alya picked back up the book of fairytales, turning the page. She spotted what she was looking for.

“See?” she began, turning the book around and pointing at the page. It showed a elegant, beautiful woman, with a ladybug mask and a large gown decorated with ladybugs. Even ladybugs themselves danced around the woman. A pair of earrings, red and black spotted, were sketched next to the lady.  “That is the Goddess of Life, Tikki. It is said that Marinette’s family are descendants of her. That’s how they have the powers of creation. Since those earrings are real, it means that the Ring of Plagg is real too!”

Adrien stared blankly at the page in front of him, lightly brushing the face of Tikki with his fingertips. He looked lost in thought and conflicted emotions clouded his face.

Alya lightly coughed, jogging him back to reality. She grabbed the book and looked at the page again, trying to catch a glimpse of what Adrien could have seen.

“Sadly, I don’t think Chat Noir can get his hands on that ring. If it is locked up with the earrings, only a female from the House of Cheng can get inside the vault,” Alya causally stated, closing the book with a loud thud. “Which means, I really don’t have anything to worry about.” She flashed a bright smirk, standing up. “Thank you, Prince Adrien. I was worried since you were the son of your father, that you would try to manipulate Marinette like King Gabriel did to my mother,” she patted the prince’s hand in friendship, “But you really do have Marinette’s best interests at heart.”

Alya left the Prince and headed back the palace, wondering why he looked so sad at her parting words. A purple butterfly fluttered away from a nearby open window as Alya walked away.

[masscombustion]

Portraits of a Neighborhood’s ‘Wood Wide Web’

Sometimes, mature Douglas firs send sugar to saplings via miles of underground, gossamer-thin mycorrhizal fungi. Through these same passageways (the “Wood Wide Web”) birches can loan carbon to fir trees in the summer, while firs pay it back in fall. And trees of different species might share nitrogen leached out of salmon carcasses left over from a bear's lunch.

When the pandemic hit, photographer Andres Gonzalez retreated to his home in Vallejo, north of the San Francisco Bay. He started devouring novels, including Richard Powers' climate epic The Overstory, which was inspired partly by the forest ecologist Suzanne Simard's research on mycorrhizal networks. On long walks, Gonzalez began photographing redwoods in his neighborhood. To him, the trees, standing alone outside the braided forest, looked sick and isolated. But he knew that even these suburbanite Sequoia sempervirens survived in part thanks to the prodigious webs between them, some directly connected across adjoining lawns, and others, blocks apart, likely using the root systems of maples, laurels, yews—even ferns and herbs—as links, lifelines beneath our made world.

In January, Gonzalez's 90-year-old grandmother tested positive for Covid. She was soon hospitalized, and the doctor recommended that the family prepare to say their goodbyes. Thirty of his grandmother's saplings from Mexico to Sunnyvale gathered on Zoom, atoning, joking, praying. A nurse's “blue latex fingers occasionally floated into the frame to touch her, the surrogate for all of us,” Gonzalez says. His grandmother survived. And now when Gonzalez thinks of the way they all pooled into her room via buried fiber optic, he also thinks of the way isolated trees aren't really isolated.

[sinkingorswimming]

CONGRATION FOR 600 FOLLOWERS U DONE IT

more X-Men coming through, maybe not so “soft” anymore @linneakou

He could be doing a gig in DC at the 930 Club right now, but Ciao Ciao and his teammates are playin’.

An old friend of Celestino’s, Dr. Mireya Thomas, mentioned during a lunch date to check in and catch up her close neighbor’s son disappeared six months ago. She’d been searching for him—Leo had confided in her that he was a mutant, having moments where flames would appear on his body. Leo was a kind kid, she told Celestino—went to mass every Sunday, was in the church band, good grades in school, helped his local Kiwanis chapter—but he’d come to her because Mireya is a leading geneticist in the field of human mutation.

He prayed every night for a cure, he said then. 

Celestino handed her a tissue to dry her stoic tears and said he would try to find out what he could, keeping an eye out for posters or social media posts.

Thanks to some creative computing on Seung Gil’s part, they have the following—

1) There is some shadow org called The Right taking recently mutant-presenting teens.2) They have some kind of crazy financial backing that no one can properly trace. (”Yet,” grumbled Seung Gil with some acid.)3) Blackwater looking goons with masks do the aductions, and some shady dude who speaks only in a mixture of German dialects calls the shots.

Yuuri is in a costume that’s mostly different from his stage outfits. It’s black and made of some fabric Seung Gil calls “unstable molecules” so it’s fireproof, waterproof, bulletproof, shockproof, and Andre Leon Talley’s scathing critique proof. Chris handled the design, making a point to compliment its inventor on how it goes through a serger like a hot knife with butter. It’s a black-form fitting number covered in prismatic crystals, mesh inserts, and fingerless gloves so he can still use his Laser Hands (TM Phichit, not to be confused with his Laser Pants, also TM Phichit) and he puts in red contacts instead of the UV purple ones. His hair’s gelled back and the make-up that obscures his features is charcoal and crimson. 

Yuuri could dance before he could run, which is how he keeps ending up the point man. Little rainbow shimmers float in the air around him, a sublte method to distract people from paying too much attention to his voice or face. 

“I hate this.”

I know you do, Dazz, replies Phichit over their special earpieces. Just know Forge and I are right behind ya’ once you clear the security systems.

“He really can’t just hack it?” Yuuri arches his back, holding his right foot above his head in a Bielmann. The boots he wears have split soles like dance or wrestling shoes.

Sure I can, if I want the FBI on our door in two minutes, comes the inventor’s scating reply.

Yuuri stretches his other leg. Standing at the wall behind him, Longshot clears his throat. 

Yuuri gives him a look. Since he doesn’t have a secret identity at all really, he just lets his face show with nothing to conceal his features. 

His suit’s been modified by Chris to use the same fabric as Yuuri’s—instead of hot pink, he now wears a purple top attached to black fingerless gloves that begin at his elbows. His pants are a tight shimmery black like oil slicks, but his boots are more traditional combat style unlike the Dazzler outfit. The embellishments on his top are actually weapons—the cord doubles as a whip, the “braiding” is actually those short silver darts he throws, and so on. 

Longshot smiles, his eye glimmering with the gold burst for a moment. “Your lucky charm’s on stand by, beautiful,” he assures Yuuri with a wink.

Yuuri turns forward again so he won’t see that his cheeks now match his make up. He coughs, takes a look at the grid, reminds himself of his forays into acrobatics, aerial silks, and capoeira…and goes.

Phichit should really be doing this, he thinks as he manages to get a hold in a cloth banner above the laser grid, climbing it and then doing a triple somersault to the next one. He’s the one who can cling to surfaces that have friction and can freaking teleport. His eyes are better in the dark, too, but since they couldn’t get the schematics on where the grid stopped or if they continue inside the rooms in the facility (since if Phichit BAMFs into a room full of them, they’ll go off), Yuuri has to do it. 

He tumbles through, avoiding a moving grid with a randomized pattern using the steps from a Paso Doble Minako insisted he learn. There’s not much sound here, but it’s enough and when a random beam almost hits him, he manages to shield himself with a bit of white light at a differeing optical density so it refracts around him. 

Nice, Forge and Nightcrawler say in unison.

Only after doing a full split under the last few does he make it and disables the grid. He’s oddly not sweaty or throwing up or anything. Huh.

Longshot saunters to him, and when they’re face to face, he picks up Yuuri’s right hand, kissing his ring finger and then his cheek, the day’s stubble prickling against Yuuri’s skin in a way that makes his breathing stop and his heart stutter. 

The smell of sulphur and a black bit of smoke heralds Nightcrawler and Forge. Phichit doesn’t need a mask since his daytime appearance with the Image Inducer is one—his gold eyes, deep blue fur, and short fangs make him cute in a sinister manner. His costume is deep red and gold, while Forge wears a sedate gray-blue and black jumpsuit as Chris vetoed his idea for a loud costume like a rainbow.

They find an office with a terminal, and Forge cracks his neck and sets to work. It only takes him a few minutes before he can copy the relevant data. There’s a guard rotation but they timed their entrance with the shift changes. 

It only takes three minutes and they have six more before the gig is up. 

“Done,” Seung Gil says. He pockets the HD. 

“Jěng âh!” Phichit grins and his tail swishes like an excited puppy. The four of them link hands, Longshot giving Dazzler a particularly happy look, and they’re BAMFed out to an alley a couple blocks down.

Longshot pitches forward with a pain-filled cry. 

“Sorry,” Nightcrawler says with a sheepish shrug. “It’s hard on passengers the first…eighteen times.”

“I threw up twice,” Seung Gil adds in a voice that has no comfort whatsover.

Dazzler helps Longshot get back upright. “You okay?”

“It’ll be alright, beautiful,” he answers as Phichit sings some of the lines from Ellie’s “Something in the Way You Move” in the background. 

Yuuri might add it to his rotating encores after he punches Phichit for the heckling. It’s a moot point he forgets, because they end up back at the house Chris bought them—it’s a Park Slope multi-million dollar home that the Giacomettis have owned since it was built. 

Chris perfers a skyscraper’s penthouse so he can stretch his wings…literally, so since this was in disuse, they all moved in. There’s seven bedrooms—Celestino has the master, Seung Gil’s converted the parlor into his sleeping area and work shop, and Phichit keeps waggling his eyebrows that Dazzler and Longshot should double up.

Their rooms are the two on the second floor, which take up the whole thing. They share a bathroom and Yuuri let Victor have the room with the terrace access. 

The cellar has been expanded through the backyard, outfitted with steel walls, soundproofing, and Seung Gil’s hologram tech. It’s a gymnasium on steroids for all of them to refine their skills with their gifts, and boy did Seung Gil get a sour expression when Phichit called it the Danger Room.

He twitches every time someone else says it. He twitches a lot, because it’s caught on.

Chris happens to be waiting in their living and rec room when they get back—he’s discussing something with Celestio. Since he’s not acting as the face of Intoxicated by Giacometti or as a board member of Giacometti Corp, he’s wearing a shirt with a low back so he can have his wings out. 

Seung Gil boots up his computer to run the analysis of what they got. and Phichit BAMFs into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Mekhong and glasses for everyone filled with ice. He pours and they all take one, though Victor looks at his from every possible angle like it’s poison.

“Mote gaow!” Phichit shouts, and they echo it as they drink.

Victor stares at his glass after his initial sip. He looks confused. 

“It’s more or less rum,” Yuuri explains. Victor doesn’t look like he understands better. Right. Alien. Not from Earth. “Uh, it’s a…sugarcane beverage that can get you drunk.”

Victor lights up. “Ah!” He takes longer sip, and things seem pleasant enough until Seung Gil does a literal sitcom-style spittake at his montior.

“That’s not gonna be fun to clean,” Phichit deadpans. 

“What happened?” Ciao Ciao asks with a serious tone.

“Chris—” Seung Gil begins. “When’s the last time you reviewed GC’s R&D budget?”

Chris pauses, thinks. “Five years ago, if I’m honest. Josef insisted on handling the line items and minutiae so I can be free to do the public appearances and philanthrophy without conflicts.” His expression shifts from thoughtful to grim. “I’m not going to like what you say next, am I?”

“…Let me ask a follow up in that…you’re sure Josef is okay with mutants?”

Yuuri’s spine goes rigid. Even Phichit stops smiling. 

“He’s always told me he is since I presented,” Chris answers with no emotion in his voice.

“Well—” Seung Gil says. “He’s clearly lying. GC-0963 Project: The Right. There’s dozens of mutants in here that have either been abducted for experiments or—”

The silence hangs heavy, leaden with horror and dread.

“How many?” Chris says.

“Chris, maybe—” Ciao Ciao begins.

“How. Many.” Chris snaps.

Seung Gil gives Chris a look uncharacterisically filled with sympathy. “198.”

Phichit gasps, dropping his drink before catching it with his tail.

“They’re imprisoned at a facility out in Montauk,” Seung Gil says. “It’s similar to Supermax but for mutants—they have power dampeners most likely, or they’re sedated.”

“Well, we’ll get them out,” Victor says with resolution and stilted cheer. “It’s a good old fashioned jailbreak!”

“No.” Chris stands, reading the data on Seung Gil’s screen. It all bears out, it seems given the pallor in his face. His eyes look haunted. “We’ll do this in a softer way.”

“You’re hitting him in the board room, then,” Ciao Ciao answers.

“Yeah.” Chris nods. “There’s a nuclear option I can employ with the Board to get him out—and I’m sure we can kill this Project: The Right easily enough too. I don’t want my family name aligned with bigotry or human rights violations, and I’m fairly confident they’ll agree.”

Chris narrows his eyes.

“Plan B though,” he begins. “You all are my Plan B.”

[willpowerbutch]

Gay Oil: Chapter 1

A fan fiction by Tom Rob Smith

It was another frigid morning in Soviet America. Outside Eli’s front door, grey evergreens stood stark against the white pall of clouds, and the winter sun rose behind them like the communists had risen to power when he was only a boy: red, large, and full of nuclear threat. Being one of the denizens of New Trotskyville, it was Eli’s life-long habit to take this route to work at the silver mines – past the jutting cliffs, on threadbare government-issue slippers, clutching his coat to his chest while quietly whistling along to the morning broadcast. In the distance, there was the rustling of canvas as the breeze sent ripples through a mining encampment; and, there was the sun, mounted high now above the oil wells, the only part of the picture that wasn’t drab and lifeless. It sparkled in the sky in a way that reminded Eli of his phenomenal gayness.

It bears discussing for a moment just how gay, for Eli was not merely homosexed, but fruitilicious in a fragrant and radically soft way. Often, in his teenage years, he lounged on a garbage heap outside his house, smooth chest shining in the afternoon light as an electric fan blew photographs of Christopher Reeve between his thighs. Like this he languished for hours but to rise at the sight of an approaching straight man, whereupon he would hoola hoop nakedly into the center of the yard. “Why don’t you come have a sip of my water, baby boy?” he would call to them, only to be greeted by righteous beard frowns. Of course, homosexuality was subsequently outlawed, and Eli had to learn how to walk with his legs spread apart. He couldn’t count on his free hand how many times he had narrowly evaded the police at abandoned country restaurants; other times, he spotted them at the market among the cucumber-melon-scented bath soaps, just waiting to snap a pair of handcuffs over the carefully exfoliated wrists of a gay. Thus, he had been impelled to smell like peppermint social alcoholism for years.

He approached the silver mines, dropping his bag in the dust as he noticed the silhouette of a muscle daddy struggling on the ground. That’s my job, he thought, taking offense at the sight of a real man sprawled in the mud like a health spa happy ending. Pam Grier didn’t die for this amateur bottoming bullshit. He approached the homo-queer daintily, his oral sex nose sniffing fast, and admonished him. “Brother, you’re ruining your facial. This is not Arkansas.”

“I’m going to murder you,” said the daddy raising his head, his left eye twitching. “I’m going to drain you dry like a vanilla milkshake. Now bend over and adjust me.”

It being in Eli’s nature to follow grunted instructions, he spread his legs far apart and lowered his generous package to the ground. “Daddy,” he murmured, butterfly-kissing the man’s belt loop, “I’m this town’s least arrested psychic, and I think it would reassure the community if you visited my jiu-jitsu sex clinic. I do readings for the modest price of a second-hand butterscotch latte. Will you come?”

“Readings?” The daddy appraised him with extraordinary spectacularness. “I can make you give me one for the cost of Ben Whishaw’s box office value: I pay you nothing, and you gratify me in the privacy of an empty movie theater. Hmm? What do you think of that?”

But before Eli could stop licking his fingers long enough to reply, an eerily British Sylvester background dancer trundled toward them, weighted down by his ‘70s streetwalker mustache and lack of current television exposure. “Daniel!” exclaimed the girl, “I am your brother, Danny! I accept cash!” He fell weeping to the man’s feet, smearing mud along his naked inner thighs while all the studio executives in the world showered him with discontinued LSD gumdrops from a canon the shape of Ben Hur’s nipples. Then, his slim frame quivering with exertion from pretending to be a top, he vanished into the newly-risen, Rami Malek-esque sun.

“What are you running from, my boy? You, too, could get paid for shitting on Andre Bazin,” Daddy Daniel laughed after him with undeniable method acting. He then turned his attention back to Eli, who was busy braiding his leg hair. “Speaking of Will Smith, have you seen my sympathy son, Alex? He was here a moment ago, but he must have left to turn into a dick cowboy.”

“I have not, Daddy. We should check for him in a BBC nepotist’s syphilis dreams,” concluded Eli, lighting his crack pipe on a parking ticket.

Thus, the pair set out, Eli retaining his coral purse and Daniel genuinely bleeding out of his ears as the scent of Marxist documentarianism drifted to them on a wind of discrete builder farts. Eli’s excitement throbbed at the smell of flatulence, and as they sashayed across the rugged, biceptual terrain, he began to dream of one day gay-marrying a former child. Pulling his mink tighter, he led Daniel into the midnight grocery store where he had hosted his first erotic bathtub monologue, stopping in the entryway to reapply his favorite lipstick, Autocannibalism Red. As he sifted through the contents of his bag, Eli felt the daddy’s screwed, twitchy eyes turn on him once more, undressing every last stitch of his fishnet tights from him, and he froze. “Was there something else you wanted to ask me, Daniel?”

“You know what I want, Eli,” said the older man, flush and barely able to control his rage erection.

Being a dignified girl, Eli smirked. “I’ve already told you my price, Daddy Daniel.”

“Not that, you residual muck of one of my delicious milkshakes. Your bath oils, Eli,” he growled, indicating into Eli’s purse. “I want to buy them. Name your price for those.” Daniel withdrew his checkbook, but Eli merely wagged his finger.

“I’ll give them to you for free when Eddie Redmayne stops winning Oscars for whispering,” he replied. “You can keep your glorified chocolate milk. My fluids are my sheep, and I am their shepherd.”

At this, like a volcano of passionate incredibleness, Daniel Plainview burst into a groundbreakingly American display of angry sniveling which put to shame every dramatic performance ever. “ELI!” he screamed, and the bristles on his face stood up as high as the ones in his trousers, “If you do not, in accordance with your victimhood fetish, act like a murdered soap opera heiress and sell me your bath oils for this very reasonable 100 rubles, in the name of my sexually innocent math bitch, Alex, THERE WILL BE BLOOD!” Daniel reached out to strike Eli with his art conniption when, inexplicably, his hand was stayed. “Whitney,” he breathed.

The public radio had changed songs, and it was now Whitney Houston that played in Orwellian warehouses throughout New Trotskyville. Eli’s ears became a cesspool of optimism and ‘90s drumkits. He stared on in fabulous judgment as Daddy Daniel took her photo out of his breast pocket and licked it. “Her eyeshadow looks like Sean Penn’s divorce,” he told the daddy in disdain.

“Which ‘era’ of Whitney do you like, Eli?” asked Daniel, cracking his knuckles.

Eli was aghast. “The one where she hasn’t been relevant since Beyoncé happened, Brother. You really listen to this abstinence charity music?” The older man’s eyes bore into him, filling him with frightful, kaleidoscopic visions of leotards. Eli shifted uncomfortably. A cold silence stretched between them. “I suppose… I can see why you like her voice, Daddy Daniel,” he acknowledged at length, bowing his head, “since you, too, sound as if dental surgery turned you into a radio pervert.”

The man’s entire body shook with incredible extremeness. “Beyoncé is nothing but a post-apocalyptic Kate Bush. A lottery hoax,” growled Daniel. “The Dark Ages are over, Eli, and the power bottoms lost. I own the factory where you pedal your sex calendars now. And if you don’t sell me your bath oils right here, in this renounced nacho bar, I will break all your pussy power bracelets and feed them to my sad Abercrombie virgin, Alex.”

Eli was stunned silent. The house lights began to flicker out, slithering across his face like an ill-fitting condom. Finding no apology from Daniel, he made the sign of the Z and vanished into the club’s back room, where he screamed and flailed around like the girl from The Exorcist if she was sick on chocolate wine. When at last Eli regained his composure, he changed into his racist Dalai Lama costume, preparing for another afternoon of preaching to children about the importance of politically-gay movie extras.

TO BE CONTINUED

***

About the Author

Tom Rob Smith, screenwriter for the acclaimed television documentary London Gay and author of such novels as Vintage Suicide Communists and Momentary HIV, is a rampant fabulant whose gay suffering hard-on has inflamed the manfully heterosexual attention of the editorial staff of Manly Men! Magazine. This fan fiction is the first part of an ongoing media promotion of Paragon Shag’s new political action dinner group, Feel Dirty When You’re Seduced By Rentable Firemen Into Performing Celery Porn Again (FDWYSBRFIPCPA), the aim of which is to discredit the evil teachings of gay transgenders such as Paul Dano, Ben Whishaw, and Rick Perry.

[kinetic-elaboration]

October 8: 3% 3x04 (Duck)

Back at it again with my thoughts:

So I definitely knew that Tania was going to be (1) kicked out of the Offshore and also (2) eliminated from the Process but it was still really painful to watch. Like so painful that it started to feel like emotional torture porn at some point.

Tania then becoming the founder of the Cause was on the nose but I didn’t hate it--it fit in well with the current day developments, the frustration of the eliminated as a powerful force. I feel like this is kind of a retcon though? I thought Ezequiel was on the ground floor of the Cause? Or am I misremembering S2?

I also really liked Tania’s line ‘what does this test have to do with what we went through?’ because, I don’t know if I’m misinterpreting it, I took that to mean ‘I went to the Inland and I got strong and tough and hard and I became this forged-in-fire person like you wanted and then you gave me this silly little mind game and how does that matter at ALL?’ Which is a good point and ALSO fit in with the theme/current day events, with Michele admitting that the tests are inherently unfair/beside the point.

Speaking of, what a ballsy move. I like Michele. She’s imperfect for sure and that speech was not tactically wise (congrats on being the best!! you’re not actually the best, it’s basically dumb luck so get ready to work!!!!!), at least not short-term, but it was honest and I respected that.

They’re obviously trying to Affect me Emotionally with the Fernando references. I can’t believe he made little matching tests for himself and Michele to do when they were old... They were in love y’all.

Anyway back to Tania. So I think Lais was trying to coach her on the cube test when she was braiding her hair. I think the braiding motion she was repeating is how you make the cube. And I think she’s said/done this many times before, perhaps for no other reason than because the cube test is her favorite, and the last time, she was specifically hoping her daughter would remember and figure it out and beat the cube test using that old memory. Which, I mean, whoops.

Maybe this would be way Too Much but since she was eliminated...could there be descendants of their founding couple out there?

I knew Michele telling Joana about the Offshore’s offer would come back and be important. I’ve decided that Michele did the right thing in rejecting the offer and not telling anyone about it--I mean lbr the people would have accepted the aid rather than risk beng eliminated and that would be a short-term solution only. It would ultimately destroy the Shell. Her only real error was in telling Joana, which was obviously a Dumb Move. Michele has this weird blind spot about Joana. She doesn’t like you, Michele!

I’m not into extended chase scenes but the downed plane was an Aesthetic for sure.

Are Marcele and Andre fucking? Am I bad person for asking that?

I MUST KNOW what happened during Process 105. It sounds a bit like it didn’t finish.

My mom says that perhaps the Shell has too few people now. I think perhaps she is right and I would add to that: it has too few people and Michele pissed them off with her speech. Imagine showing up to your first day at Harvard and being told ‘hey you’re basically here because you’re not totally awful plus a lot of luck!’ That’s something you can understand and accept later (hopefully, or I will judge you) but not on your first day as a freshman, fresh off that application process, you know? And that’s what she did. She told them a hard truth at the worst time. I get that she was trying to instill them with a sense of responsibility, rather than privilege, and stave off any sense that they’re an Elite who can never accept the eliminated again, but...who’s going to want to wake up on the day after the Selection and get to work after that?

Perhaps it would have been better if she had just drawn straws on the first day. No one would have any sense that s/he was better or worse than anyone else for staying or going; it would be easier to accept back those who have gone when it’s time for them to return; the eliminated may not have had the same anger about ‘unfairness;’ it would have been way faster; and as Rafael pointed out with his test--it is fair. Chance might be the most fair of all, in a sense. Fair after all is a very specific quality; it’s not the same as ‘wise’ and it’s certainly not the same as ‘best.’

Also--I’m not sure the Shell needs the “best” people by any measure right now. I don’t think the qualities the tests were testing for are as important as just a straight up willingness to work hard.

But, in addition to the needs of the Narrative, I wouldn’t expect people who have grown up under the Process to be able or willing to think this way--that is, I don’t expect Michele to think of anything other than a “Selection” when she needs to make cuts, and I don’t expect most people to be willing to accept pulling straws in place of a “Selection.”

Brazilian Portuguese is such a beautiful language.

I’ve been a bit iffy on this season so far... I haven’t hated it but I haven’t felt like it was as edge-of-my-seat exciting as seasons 1 and 2. It’s a bit more sedate I guess. But I like this ep a lot and I think the second half is going to be much faster and more complex.

[dishmapping]

Making Sense of Food in Performance: The Table and the Stage1

To appear in Sally Banes and Andre Lepecki, eds., The Senses in Performance (New York: Routledge, 2006) ======================================================================

Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett New York University

What would theater history look like were it written backwards from the Futurist banquets and Dali dinners and performance art? Canonical histories of theater take as their point of departure that which counts as theater in the modern period—namely, theater as an autonomous art form—and search for its "origins" in fused art forms. Central to the notion of theater as an independent art are plays, and as an indication of the maturing of this form, a dedicated architecture or theater (literally a place of seeing). Canonical theater histories are written with the aim of understanding how modern theater came to be. The search is, understandably, for corollaries in the past. Thus, Oscar G. Brockett’s History of Theatre is a history of drama and its performance: it does not view courtly banquets, tournaments, royal entries, and street pageants as performance genres in their own right but as occasions for plays and playlets. Such histories attend not to the fusion, but to the seeds of what would become an independent art form called theater.

It has taken considerable cultural work to isolate the senses, create genres of art specific to each, insist on their autonomy, and cultivate modes of attentiveness that give some senses priority over others. To produce the separate and independent arts that we know today, it was necessary to break fused forms like the banquet apart and to disarticulate the sensory modalities associated with them. Not until the various components of such events (music, dance, drama, food, sculpture, painting) were separated and specialized did they become sense-specific art forms in dedicated spaces (theater, auditorium, museum, gallery), with distinct protocols for structuring attention and perception. It was at this point that food disappeared from musical and theatrical performances. No food or drink is allowed in the theater, concert hall, museum, or library. In the process, new kinds of sociality supported sensory discernment specific to gustation, the literary practice of gastronomy, and increasing culinary refinement. Food became a sense-specific art form in its own right, as Marinetti's Futurist Cookbook so vividly demonstrates (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1989).

Opera Gastronomica

Though food was removed from the theater as the theater became an autonomous art, the table and the stage continued to have a shared history. Indeed, the musical banquet, or opera gastronomica, may well have preceded the theatrical opera in musicaby more than a century. According to Jenny Nevile, the musical banquet "had already reached a state of complete or 'operatic' composition by the late 15th century. The dining hall, it seems, was one of the first scenes of modern musical theatre" (Nevile 1990: page #).2

A legacy of such courtly banquets, the tish, literally "table" in Yiddish, is a distinctive Hasidic event during which the rebe (charismatic leader) holds court in the community's house of study. The tish is a musical banquet of sorts, during which the rebewill bless food, deliver a discourse, lead song, and dance with his followers. It is as part

Making Sense of Food in Performance 2

of the tish that musical plays are performed in fulfillment of the religious obligation to gladden the heart of the rebe on the holiday of Purim. In what is essentially a command performance before a regal figure, the actors play to the rebe, who is seated directly in front of them on a throne-like chair. For those in attendance, the rebe and his reactions are the center of attention, not the play, and the best seats in the house are those that afford an unobstructed view of him (and secondarily of the play). The stage is literally a physical extension of the table such that the performance could be said to take place on the table itself.

The food the rebe blesses, while it includes the basic components of a festive meal, is present not to satisfy physical hunger but rather in the interest of commensality. People eat beforehand. The hunger they bring to the event is spiritual. Once the rebe has blessed the food and eaten a little of it, his leavings (shirayim) are eagerly grabbed by his followers, who may well number in the thousands. The rebe's leavings have been transvalued by his touch.3 While the quantities presented to him are grand and the vessels are lavish, neither he nor his followers eat out of physical hunger. Nor is the food itself spectacular, though the large braided hallah, a festive braided bread made with white flour and eggs, is beautiful. Like the courtly banquets to which it is related, the tish is a multi-sensory event and food is an essential component of it, even in the absence of appetite.

The European banquet is one of four types of festa, the others being the entry, the tournament, and the popular carnival, according to Nevile. Historians of modern operatic traditions have "detected a long series of pre-operatic experiments in musical theater, going back mainly to the dining hall, but also the ballroom, the riding school, the courtyard, the city square, the garden and other spaces temporarily adapted as theatre before there were any such regular structures available" (Nevile 1990:117). These experiments, which were based on "the model of the sacred banquet, and its musical elaboration in the sung mass," resulted in "artistically planned and fully composed musical banquets, particularly those with music performed throughout the dining" (117).

As Nevile notes, "the official banquet had always functioned as an elaborate meal and social occasion. By combining "the skills of cooking, decoration, music, dancing, poetry, architecture (for scene construction), costume design and painting," the banquet made tangible and sensuous the power of the host and those being honored (128). It was not, however, until the latter part of the 15th century that all the different elements that had been part of the banquet for several centuries (that is, music and dance, as well as food), were united to produce a coherent performance with a single theme—in other words, a 'gastronomic opera'" (128). It had become "a unified theatrical event," as can be seen in Italian examples between 1450 and 1475 (130). Such events might last as long as seven hours—the Hasidic tish, it should be noted, can last all night and well into the morning.

The banquet was the most "total" of Renaissance festive events, particularly in the way that it engaged the senses and the various media associated with them: "The drama of the musical banquet was finally presented as a fusion of all the arts of music, dancing, poetry, food, painting, sculpture, costume, and set design, to present a feast for all the senses, as well as the intellect, in a range of moods encompassing the tragic, the comic, and the pastoral" (134). (It could be said that the orgy is even more complete in so far as included not only eating, singing, dancing, eating, and drinking, but also sexual activity.4) If the 15th-century French banquet was marked by abundance, the 16th century

Making Sense of Food in Performance 3

banquet was characterized by rarity and refinement (Wheaton 1983:52). Moreover, what had been a fused form became separate specialized entities, as can be seen from the transformation of the entremets, the between-courses divertissements. According to Barbara Santich, the entremets:

were visually and theatrically spectacular, incorporating elements of surprise and trickery to amaze and impress the guests. Almost invariable, music was an integral part of the entremets, which were the product of the kitchen [though they were designed by professional artists], elaborated under the charge of the head cook...For the banquets of the 16th century, however, the entremets had undergone a transformation. The culinary and the theatrical elements separated. The entremets as spectacle became almost purely theatrical (music, mime, dance, and acrobatics can all be subsumed under the heading of theatre), leaving the cooks free to devote all their skills to the culinary art, the visual display. (Santich 1990:110)

One reason for this development in France, she suggests, is the development of greater technical proficiency in the culinary arts and the movement north of Italian banquet traditions. In Santich's view, "[a]s a total art-form, the banquet probably reached its apogee in the 17th century, when Louis XIV entertained at Versailles" and with Inigo Jones's Banqueting House in Whitehall, which "was more important as a theatrical setting for court masques than for feasts" (111). Les plaisirs de l'isle enchantée, in the spring of 1664, was the first and perhaps best remembered of Louis the XIV's grand fêtes, thanks to the engravings by Isräel Silvestre.

According to Barbara Wheaton, the record is generally "silent on the details of banquet menus" in France, though these events were lavishly documented in engravings and accompanying text, which listed many of the foods on the table (Wheaton 1983:42). Perhaps food was so fused with spectacle that the images and accounts that remain of the edible allegorical tableaus are the playbill and menu in one. Consistent with evidence from the Middle Ages, these commemorative documents say more about what food looked like than how it tasted. Visual effects, rarity of ingredients, opulence, and the sequence of events, Wheaton suggests, were more important than the dishes, their ingredients, preparation, or flavors. Indeed, flavor might even be compromised for the sake of appearance (15,49). And, for good reason.

These were monumental events, viewed from a distance by crowds of people over many hours. Flavor cannot be witnessed. Appearance can. Flavor is momentary. Appearance endures. The operating principle, "for show," required that appearance dominate, as did the emphasis on a legible (edible) visual language of emblems and signs. This was, one might say, a cuisine of signs, a world made edible. It was discursive food addressed to the senses. It was food to be seen, touched, inhaled, ingested, absorbed, and embodied—not only as substance, but also as meaning.5 It was made to disappear, if not down the hatch, then pillaged at the end of the meal. Wanton destruction was the height of luxury, a dramatic gesture of conspicuous consumption. A surfeit of labor, skill, and material, expressed clearly in visual excess, surpassed the limits of appetite, which is otherwise relatively quick to be satiated. The fugitive nature of food is perfectly suited to such stagings.

Making Sense of Food in Performance 4

Repas en Ambigus

Banquets were important to court life and continued into the Baroque period, a feature of which is the transferability of devices from the stage to the dining room. Therepas en ambigu (an elaborate formal composition of dishes laid out in a room), which was fashionable in the late 17th century could, "in instances of particular luxury...transform the whole dining room into culinary theater"(el-Khoury 1997:58). As Rodolphe el-Khoury explains:

In the "ambigu", the temporal succession of multiple courses is thus eliminated in favor of the visual effect of a unified tableau. Such meals are composed as a spectacle for the eyes and do not necessarily involve an oral consumption of food: "the pleasure of seeing them is greater than that of touching them" states L.S.R.... The "surtout de table," the central element of the "ambigu", is often directly transposed from the stage set of the theater and is obviously not meant for oral consumption. (el-Khoury 1997:58)6

Indeed, the repas en ambigu is a one-act play: "it seeks the utmost impact in the first glance; it attempts to embrace the entire range of possibilities in a single scene" (quoted by el-Khoury 1997:60, from Stewart 1985). Not surprising, then, that the repas en ambigu was not only theatrical in its own right, but also lent "its name to a series of plays and in 1769, to a theater specializing in the genre," according to Philip Stewart (quoted by el-Khoury 1997:62, from Stewart 1985:89).

A startling contemporary example of the convergence of table and stage—with an uncanny affinity with the tables volantes or tables machinées in 17th century France— occurs in Arbeit macht frei vom Toitland Europa, which I saw the Acco Theatre Centre perform in Haifa in 1996.7 In this environmental performance, there is a point where the audience is ushered into a low-ceilinged room and seated on benches around its perimeter. Suddenly, an enormous table drops down from the ceiling, as if from nowhere, and we are pressed to eat delicious food, which we do, as the actors barrage us with violent language and painful "topics of conversation." Suddenly, the table is hoisted up and disappears. Compare this scene with a 17th-century proposal for a flying table, which could be:

lifted all at once by a machine in such a way that the surface of the table, the frame as well as its attachments, is composed by a section of the raised floor...When the guests enter the dining room, there is not the least sign of a table; all that can be seen is a uniform floor that is adorned by a rose at its center. At the slightest nod, the leaves are retracted under the floor, and a table laden with food makes its sudden ascent, flanked by four servants emerging through the four openings.(el-Khoury 1997:62, citing Bonnet in Grimod de La Reynière, Alexandre-Balthazar-Laurent, and Bonnet 1978:64-65)

In another instance, the table disappeared into the basement and a new one descended with the next course (el-Khoury 1997:60). The spectacle was not however solely for the pleasure of the diners, for their delight was a spectacle in its own right and royal banquets might include places for spectators. By the 19th century, we can find the elaboration of an explicitly theatrical gastronomy: "The dining-room is a theatre wherein the kitchen serves as the wings and the table as the stage. This theater requires equipment, this stage needs a décor, this kitchen needs a plot" (Aron 1975:214, citing Chantillon-Plessis 1894).

Making Sense of Food in Performance 5

Culinary Theater

With the French Revolution, but already before it, such courtly practices as the banquet were supplanted by new forms of festivity, as Mona Ozouf (1988) has shown, and new forms of sociability, for which Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1971, first published in 1825) provides a manual. With the weakening of guilds, proliferation of free-lance cooks, the professionalizing of chefs, and the emergence of restaurants, food becomes part of a different mode of sociality, one that is more intimate and better suited to focused attention on the nuances of taste.8 The restaurant emerges as the dedicated space of food theater—"Traditionally, the menu has been a kind of playbill, varying with the theme of the drama" (Patton 1998). About his recent design for a Houston nightclub on the theme of Shakespeare's The Tempest, Jordan Mozer said, "What better metaphor for a restaurateur than the magician—or the playwright—who uses his art to transform other people's lives in the span of three hours?" (quoted in Henderson 1992:70) Mozer's circular radial plan "suggests the island upon which the play takes place" (Henderson 1992:70). The circular dance floor and skylight and the architectural twists and tilts evoke a windswept island, eye of a storm, and magic circle. Of his design for Kachina, in Los Angeles, David Kellen said, "I didn't want it to be just a specialty restaurant, but more like an abstract stage for a play set in the southwest"(quoted in Richards 1992:76). These restaurants are overtly theatrical in their staging of another time and place. They provide a setting, an ambience, and a script for social encounters that can involve food, drink, conversation, music, and dance.

Self-consciously theatrical restaurants heighten the already staged nature of public eating places. Some clearly demarcate the front and back regions, with serene dining rooms out front and industrial kitchens in back (see Goffman 1959 and MacCannell 1976). Others bring the back region of the performing kitchen forward and restage it as a back region. Artisanal techniques are specially suited to staging and are frequently visible from the street or dining room of even ordinary restaurants. The pizza maker rolls and twirls the dough in a window facing the street. The brick pizza oven may be visible from the dining room. The Indian chef slaps naan against the hot interior walls of a tandoori oven within a glass room looking out onto the dining room of an upscale restaurant. At Honmura An, an upscale Japanese restaurant in Manhattan, diners can watch a chef making their soba noodles in a glass cube within an elegant dining room lined with teak. Chinese cooks wield their choppers on glazed ducks and whole roasted pigs next to the cash register. Working at a long counter, the deli man slices hot pastrami and piles it high between slices of fresh rye bread, offering tidbits to customers in hope of a tip. Sushi chefs trim the glistening fish, pat the rice into neat ovals, and artfully arrange a platter before the diners seated at the bar before him. Diners walk past their dinner swimming in fish tanks lining the entrance to seafood restaurants, in which case it is the food itself that might be said to perform.

Maître d's understand their dining rooms and chefs their kitchens as performances. Roger Fessaguet, former chef-owner of La Caravelle Restaurant in Manhattan, which closed in 2004, after 43 years in business, describes himself as a conductor and his kitchen as an orchestra, with sections paralleling the strings, wind instruments, and drums.9 He is describing the experience of working in a particular type of kitchen, one that was developed by Georges Auguste Escoffier (1847-1935) to organize what were then the new large hotel restaurants. They had to produce many different meals quickly, while maintaining high quality. Escoffier was inspired, not by

Making Sense of Food in Performance 6

the orchestra, but by the rational techniques of mass production and the divisions of labor associated with the factory. Rather than have one person make one dish from start to finish, in the manner of a traditional craftsman, Escoffier segmented the various tasks and organized a division of labor in the kitchen and interdependence among workers grouped according to type of operation, rather than type of dish. Stephen Mennell compares the two approaches with respect to one dish, oeufs à la plat Meyerbeer: "Under the old system, it would have taken a single cook about fifteen minutes to prepare in its entirety; under the new, the eggs were cooked by the entremettier [department responsible for soups, vegetables, and desserts], kidney grilled by the rôtisseur, and truffle sauce prepared by the saucier, and the whole assembled in a only a few minutes" (Mennell 1985:159). While the arrangement is efficient, it makes for a particular kind of cooking experience.

Fessaguet's characterization is meant to capture the intensity, focus, split-second timing, and extraordinary coordination required to complete innumerable dishes, each of them made of up of many components, in ever changing combinations and sequences, so that each table in a room of many tables may be served what it has ordered for a particular course all at the same time, at the right temperature. Not only stringent quality standards but also grace under pressure must be maintained under these demanding conditions. Indeed, this consummate performance must appear effortless. Or rather, effort must be carefully staged and performed as a marker of the value of the meal and the experience. Fessaguet's orchestra metaphor —he literally "conducts" the kitchen—clearly envisions cooking process as a performance. When everything is working, the kitchen is an ensemble performance improvising on a scenario. The diners get a three or four act play, each table its own performance, complete with program notes or menu. For the staff, the whole evening has a rhythm and a dramatic structure.

Timing is critical to the sensory character of food and more specifically to the interaction of the thermal, haptic, and alchemic. More than a tuning of the instruments or warming up of the performers, the kitchen runs on multiple clocks. Those clocks are set to the conditions of light, heat, cold, air, and agitation that produce wine, vinegar, pickles, olives, cheese, bread, sauces, roasts, over years, months, days, minutes, and split seconds. Freshly picked corn must rich boiled water so quickly that should one trip on the way from the field to the pot, the corn will arrive too late, so it is said.

Timing becomes performative in a distinctive way the closer the food comes to the diner, the more precipitous the moment twixt the cup and the lip, the smaller the temporal window. It is reported that Escoffier was preparing individual dessert soufflés for 100 guests at a state dinner. The after dinner speeches went on longer than expected and there was no clear indication of when they would end. So that the soufflés would be ready at the exact time the speeches were finished, Escoffier began baking off 100 of them every three minutes until the speakers were done (Lang 1980:93-94).10 Only the last 100 were taken to the table. So important is timing, that "[a]s Madame de Sévigné recounted in a celebrated letter, Vatel [the officier de bouche of the Prince de Condé during the 18th century] killed himself because provisions on which he was counting did not arrive in time"(Revel 1982:191). He had been counting on fresh fish from Boulogne for a dinner planned for the king and "if he had not committed suicide, he would have been put to death by either the officier de cuisine or the master of the household" (191).

Restaurant kitchens are fascinating to watch and some restaurants put them on display. Display kitchens, according to Lee Simon, create the perception that the cuisine

Making Sense of Food in Performance 7

is of higher quality, the preparation more careful, and the food safer, but above all provide “an element of theater” (Simon 2004, part 1) However, not all kitchen functions are “appetizing” and washing and garbage areas are not likely to be included in the display. Simon explains that designing a display kitchen should take into account the visual impact of “layers of activity,” whether in the form of equipment that is always going (rotisseries, ovens, broilers) or strategically located stations, the kinds of view afforded from the dining room, and flow (smooth rather than chaotic interaction of kitchen staff and servers) (Simon 2004, part 2).

A "display kitchen" is the centerpiece of Brentwood Bar and Grill in Los Angeles. According to an industry magazine, "culinary theater at Brentwood is packing the house"(Foodservice Equipment and Supplies Specialist, 1990:57). What kind of theater it is it? It is a classic example of what happens when performance, in the sense of doing, is a show. The key to this form of culinary theater is the exhibition value of labor that has been staged in a transparent workspace. Brentwood Bar and Grill does not just have a kitchen. It has "[a] truly dazzling display kitchen with a Waldorf-style cooking line [that] showcases culinary talent as entertainment"(57). One kitchen consultant explicitly likens this kitchen to theater and ballet. While this kitchen offers a work environment that is at once functional, social, and comfortable, an industry magazine says of the Waldorf-type line: "Primary, of course, is its display value"(58). Indeed, true to the etymology of theater, from Greek terms for watching and viewing, this kind of culinary theater converts performance, in the sense of doing, into theater, that is, into an exhibition of itself. This restaurant, which caters to movie industry crowds, has become a place for the "beautiful people...to see and be seen, to watch and eat" (57). Thanks to the design, they can look through glass partitions from the bar and see into the dining room as well as into the open kitchen. That kitchen has been created in line with the principle of "full-exhibition design"(58). It has, in a word, been staged for viewing. As reviewers have noted, “Cooking-themed theater productions are all the rage, but nothing compares to the drama of a bustling open kitchen at a real restaurant. Plus, you get to eat the props” (Rausfeld and Patronite 2004). A prized table is the one within the restaurant kitchen itself, whether in the open or in its own glass room, with food preparation visible on all sides.

While table-side cooking has long been a feature of classic French restaurants— the waiter finishes the dish in the dining room—chefs are also moving out of the kitchen to cook in the dining room. What they call "exhibition cooking" expands the dining experience to include the sensory pleasures associated with cooking by exhibiting it. Emil Cerno Jr., the chef at Richardson-Vicks in Connecticut, prepared stir fry in the dining room in a wok on a gas flambé range. Patrons chose their ingredients, which he prepared with aromatic "walnut or sesame oil so it smells good, and you hear the sizzle when the meat hits the oil. It looks good, smells good, sounds good and tastes good" (Restaurants and Institutions, 1990:A-232).

This is however cooking in the dining room not eating in the kitchen: the meat that will go into the wok is presented in decorative cups of kale leaves, "so the presentation is nice" (A-232). Chefs become "exhibitionists," according to an industry magazine: "Customers are treated to a show in dining rooms as chefs cook a variety of food in front of them" (A-230). Note the terminology of showing, which suggests that doing has become demonstrating, and exhibitionism, which suggests a certain excess in displaying what would normally just get done. While "exhibition cooking" does produce food that patrons will eat, preparing food in the dining room before their very eyes also

Making Sense of Food in Performance 8

"gives chefs a chance to get out of the kitchen and meet their customers while giving customers opportunities to see their food freshly made" and to order (A-230). “Freshly made” is both an issue and an illusion: the omelets, for example, are made in advance and filled to order. In other words, even the idea of “freshly made” must be signified. It is not simply performed, in the sense of carrying out an action. It is show business, literally.

Exhibition cooking differs from the display kitchen. Not only does it occur outside the kitchen, but also it is staged differently—from the aesthetic mise-en-place on a steam table to such specialized equipment as the butane gas burner or the enormous griddle in Mongolian barbecue restaurants. Moreover, some dishes are considered showier than others or better suited for exhibition, including the sushi bar, raw oyster bar, crepes, large roasts, and, of course, stir fry. Anything that can be completed from start to finish in a relatively short period of time is a candidate, particularly if the process involves a visible transformation. The process itself provides the dramatic structure. As one chef observed: "Tossing salads and cooking to order are show times for us, and it's good customer contact" (Restaurants and Institutions 1990:A-234).11

Entire scenes form around a particular food (pizzeria, steakhouse, pancake house, creperie, bagelry, crab house, lobster palace, and clam bar) or beverage (coffee shop, tea house, soda fountain, juice bar, milk bar, gin palace, tap room, wine bar, cocktail lounge, and beer garden). These scenes are distinguished by their architecture, décor, ambience, social style, equipage, schedule, music, fashion, and cuisine, and by the close attention paid to the details of the provisioning, preparation, presentation, and consumption of the defining food or drink.

Describing his career as a bartender since the early 1970s, Dale DeGroff had to learn finesse and showmanship. "The bar is a stage," he said. "The curtain goes up, the spotlight is on you and you perform" [Grimes 1991:C1]. What does the patron see? "When shaking a cocktail, [DeGroff] counts a slow 10 times and works his silver shaker hard, alternating between a graceful over-the-shoulder flourish and a front-of-the-body maraca-style move" (Grimes 1991:C1). His sense of vocation is expressed in a strong sense of pride in the history and tradition of the cocktail. The bar may be a stage, but it is also a kind of museum: DeGroff characterizes the saloons of New York as "a natural resource, like the redwoods in California...I like to think of myself as a forest ranger" (Grimes 1991:C1). Wherever there are mixtures (cocktails, chili, bouillabaisse) or fermentation (wine, beer, cheese, olives) or varieties, whether by virtue of species or processing (coffee, tea), there is a wide berth for connoisseurship. Small variations form a kind of foodprint or signature by which a particular bartender or chili maker can be identified, and devotees will gather themselves around their favorite provisioner.

The cocktail, more than the other examples cited here, lends itself to fantastic elaborations. To be found at Asia de Cuba in the East Village of Manhattan, in 1998, is the Tiki Puka Puka, "a two-fisted, three-person $18 libation served in what Trader Vic's used to call a volcano bowl. Ringed with dancing hula girls, a miniature Krakatoa rising from the middle, this ceramic vessel could double as a South Seas tureen" (DeCaro 1998). The drink itself is made with rum, Cointreau, lime and tropical fruit juices, and "garnished with two umbrellas, three 16-inch straws, four cherries, six chunks of pineapple and a crushed-ice snowball doused in grenadine and 151-proof rum" (DeCaro 1998). The event—the performance, if you will—is the cocktail, fully staged in its own volcano bowl. It is a performing object and reminder, on a small scale, of the sotelties,surtouts, and conceits that surprised and amazed guests at the Renaissance banquets

Making Sense of Food in Performance 9

discussed above. Frank DeCaro relates the scene represented by this drink to the loungecore movement—"it is the latest craze among the post-neo-Rat-Pack hipsters"— and a resurgence of interest in Tiki culture. Just ten years earlier, Donald Trump closed the motherlode of Tiki culture, Trader Vic's, which had been at the Plaza in Manhattan for about twenty-five years. It had "gotten tacky" and Trump considered a health club and restaurant featuring Chinese and Japanese cuisine more in keeping with the image of the hotel (n.a. 1989).

Under the banner of the Cocktail Nation, the cocktail has also become a rallying point for a stylishly oppositional subculture of the swank and fabulous that is part retro, part Queer, and part mystique.12 According to Joseph Lanza, "The cult of the cocktail is a successful religious ceremony transformed into a secular rite. The bartender is the high priest, the drink is the sacramental cup, and the cocktail lounge is akin to a temple or cathedral that uses lights, music, and even ceiling fixtures to reinforce moods of comfort and inspiration" (Lanza 1995:74). While DeGroff offers showmanship in the execution of his duties as a barman, Lanza is characterizing the social performance of the lounge and its intense ritualization. The language of cult and sacrament suggests not so much the Mass as the Dionysian orgy, a theme expressed more explicitly in drinks that fall under the heading "Blush on the Rocks" (Hess 1998).13

Both are attuned to the role of these sites as third places, which Ray Oldenburg (1989) defines as places of sociability that are neither home nor work. The founder of the Salvation Army, William Booth, recognized that "The tap-room in many cases is the poor man's only parlor. Many a man takes to beer not for the love of beer, but for the natural craving for the light, warmth, company, and comfort which is thrown in along with the beer, and which he cannot get excepting by buying beer" (Booth 1890: part 1, chapter 6). Until reformers could compete with the social attractions of the tap-room, he explained, they would not succeed in getting rid of the place and the drinking associated with it. So defining is the conviviality of the café that cybercafés have proliferated online and offline.

Even the word cybercafé has entered the dictionary, the 1997Microsoft®Bookshelf®Computer and Internet Dictionary© to be precise. This dictionary defines cybercafé first, as a coffee shop or restaurant that provides both Internet access and food and drink, and second, as "[a] virtual café on the Internet, generally used for social purposes," using a chat program, newsgroup, or Web site (see Schumacher 1998). While the Internet allows one to enlarge the social world to which one has access from the phenomenal café, the virtual café, which is entirely online, is strictly about conviviality. And, though it borrows many of the conventions of the café, the online cybercafé cannot supply coffee. What it can supply is the kind of conversation one might expect over coffee. Not surprisingly, cafés have Web sites and a cybercafé may will operate both on and offline. In a related development, the café is both the name and the model for web sites and listservs associated with scenes (Café Los Negroes, NYC, is "New York's black and latino virtual hangout”) and zines (Café Blue) and magazines (Atomic Café, now a webzine).14

Food in the Theater15

Commenting on the preponderance of food on the stage during the 1989 theater season in New York, Mel Gussow remarked:

Making Sense of Food in Performance 10

The obsession reflects the interests of a public that is captivated by the theatricality of the dining experience, by designer restaurants where presentation is as important as the food. People demand sizzle in their fajitas—show business for the money. In the theater, it may be an attempt to win back an audience that prefers to spend its entertainment dollar (of $100) eating rather than watching. Both "Tamara" and "Tony 'n Tina's Wedding" capture two segments of the population by serving dinner along with drama. In the other examples of theater of food, the theatergoer becomes a voyeur, Only the aroma passes his way [if that]. (1989:5)16

Gussow cites the grouper tortellini in Richard Greenberg's Eastern Standard and the swordfish without butter in Wendy Wasserstein's Heidi Chronicles. Scenes are set in trendy cafés, dingy coffee shops, Chinese restaurants, and bars. Characters are waiters, diners, maître d's and chefs. While cocktails are prevalent in plays about WASP society, "[a]lmost every play at the Pan Asian Repertory Theater has an obligatory eating scene, and on every opening night there is a Pan Asian banquet in the lobby"(9). Gussow even posits a "Hall of Fame for Food on Stage," to include cornflakes from Harold Pinter's "The Birthday Party"(9). He might have added the carcass from André Antoine's 1888 production of Fernand Icre's The Butchers. In what was a radical practice at the time, Antoine's Théâtre Libre, in Paris, was famous for using real properties, when possible, for the most realistic effect (Brockett and Findlay 1973:91).

But what exactly are the actors on stage eating? And, under what conditions? For George Furth's "Precious Sons," Anthony Rapp had to down a mound of scrambled eggs that were really "a cold, gooey mixture of gelatin, pineapple juice and yogurt. What's more, he has to look as if he is enjoying a nice warm breakfast" (Bennetts 1986). In other words, this brand of verisimilitude demands that he really eat, but not that he really eat scrambled eggs, and that he fake the indicators of sensory response (only he knows whether the eggs are hot or cold). The act of eating—not the substance and not its sensory qualities (except for appearance)— must be convincing. The theatrical sign is indeed arbitrary. All that is required is that the food look like what it is supposed to be and that the actor be able to swallow it, a challenge in itself. Actors are asked to endure fake shrimp ("stale Wonder Bread cut to look like shrimp and painted with food coloring") and cold meat with cold, canned gravy (Bennetts 1986). They often consume what they are served under demanding conditions—under high speed, in large volume, or while doing something else. They must eat on cue whether or not they are hungry and no matter what the food is or tastes like. Is such food, which is surely more unpleasant than necessary, a test of their professional mettle?

In the case of expensive foods like shrimp and caviar, the need for substitutions are understandable, particularly when vast quantities are called for—150 gallons of caviar for Saturday Night Live—and very little if any of it may be eaten. Moreover, some skits call for foods that would challenge the most intrepid of actors—eyeballs on baked potatoes or a neon-blue fish—for these are first and foremost props. Tony Ciolini, a professional restaurant chef who created food props for Saturday Night Live in the 1980s, made the "caviar" from 40 pounds of tapioca colored with burnt caramel (22 pounds of sugar) and the eyeballs (for a Halloween skit) from mozzarella and black olives (Collins 1990:6). Food may also fill in for other substances: in response to "the request for something to accessorize the show's Flab-o-Suction machine, a liposuction device for movie stars," Ciolini and the crew thought of "using 10 pounds of custard for the suctioned flab" (6). The qualities valued here are not only the look, but also the

Making Sense of Food in Performance 11

consistency of the food, for these props have to perform in their own right. Pork chops were blackened and frozen so they would respond like hockey pucks in a sketch featuring Wayne Gretzky, the hockey star: "he was playing a busboy who like to clear tables with a hockey stick" (6).

Whereas these props operate outside the body, the circus, sideshow, and magic show provide a rich repertoire of stunts that challenge the body to incorporate and eject such foreign things and substances as light bulbs, swords, live animals, and fire. In juggler Penn Jillette's apple routine "he eats 100 needles stuck into an apple; then he eats a length of thread; then he eats the apple, swallowing ostentatiously—and then pulls out of his mouth several yards of meticulously threaded needles" (Bennetts 1986). In contrast with the faux foods made as props for the stage, Jillette uses actual apples and stages the sleight of hand itself. Functions of the hand—threading a needle—are displaced to the body's interior. The body's portal, normally a barrier to "foreign" objects is violated, with impunity. There is easy, if magical, movement in and out of the mouth. Reversing the normal process of eating, what comes out of the mouth is not only intact, but in better condition (the needle is threaded) than when it went in. The body's interior has the quality of chamber, the limbs retracted, where needles can be threaded, swords enter and leave, fire disappear.

Inspired by vaudeville and performance art, Blue Man Group does a send-up of art making and the art world by making a mess that becomes a painting. Their performances have been described as "an opportunity to regress," an "all-out sensory assault," and as bringing "an element of untrammeled infantile sensuality" into the theater (Frank Rich quoted by Hubbard 1992; Leonard 1997; Goldberg 1991). Blue Man (actually three men, heads shaved and painted cobalt blue, act in concert) is a humanoid from "inner space" that his creators picture as "having been born off a painting, being this moist gooey thing" (Leonard 1997; Hubbard 1992). Matt Goldman, Phil Stanton, and Chris Wink, who invented and often perform Blue Man, yearn for the community and communication that they identify with the salon and try to blesh (a science fiction term for blend and mesh) with their audience. If you sit in the first few rows, it will be under a sheet of plastic to protect you from the mess that flies in all directions. Blue Man "wades into the audience more than once, and in the ecstatic finale dances on the armrests of the spectators’ seats," while the entire space of the theater is filled with pulsating sound, throbbing strobe lights, and paper streaming down on the audience (Goldberg 1991). Blue Man also invites audience members to come up onto the stage, share the "feast," become painting tools or musical instruments, and subject themselves to the food assault.

With backgrounds in business, catering, art, and theater, the creators of Blue Man group draw on everything they have learned, and then some. Tubes, which opened at Astor Theatre in Manhattan in 1991, is appropriately named, for they use tubes from industrial food processing, gardening hoses and their fittings, and insecticide spray cans to fling, splatter, splash, spritz, and extrude food and paint with the force and trajectory of projectile vomit. Using sixty pounds of bananas, enough jello for a seventy-pound mold, and many marshmallows and Twinkies in each performance (Goldberg 1991; Hubbard 1992), they "perform a symphony for teeth and Captain Crunch cereal, squirt snakes of banana from their chests and catch paint-filled gum balls in their mouths, among other stunts" (Hubbard 1992). This is extravenous performance. Substances are propelled through tubes that exit from the body to land where they will.

Making Sense of Food in Performance 12

Such acts confound the boundaries of the body and the limits on what can go into and come out of it. This body's mouth is directly connected to the anus, with neither stomach nor guts in between. Indeed, the two orifices are interchangeable, for the anus is displaced to the mouth, which both ingests and excretes, as well as to other parts of the body and clothing, which exude surprising substances. This is visceral performance without viscera. This is dirt as defined by Mary Douglas as "matter out of place," in her appropriately titled essay "Secular Defilement" (Douglas 1966:36).

In contrast with food as substance, as a plastic material equivalent to paint, food becomes a character in its own right in musical revues of the 1920s that featured anthropomorphized fruits, vegetables, chickens, pastries, and every drink from Coca Cola and sarsaparilla, to Chianti and a Manhattan cocktail (for a number entitled "I'm a Great Little Mixer")(Hirsch 1987: 298).17 Showgirls in food costumes were the dishes at lavish feasts and the ingredients for a "Follies Salad"—"Oil was slinky, draped in a very glossy one-shouldered satin gown, which fell in rivers onto the stage" (294). Erté designed the vegetable costumes for a ballet number in "Scandals" (1926)—"Potato had only small potatoes covering her breasts" (295). The "Music Box Revue" (1921) animated all the elements of the "Dining Out" scene, including the oysters, chicken, various vegetables, salt and pepper, pastry, demi-tasses, and "at the end of this costumed meal, a showgirl portrayed A Cigar and another The Check, and eight chorus girls were dressed as The Tip" (296). Chorus girls dressed as chocolates and peppermint sticks popped out of a big candy box in the number "Winter Garden Sweets" in "Doing Our Bit" (1917), while "Showgirls dressed as candles topped a cake formed by a single satin skirt in 'Just Sweet Sixteen' in the Greenwich Village Follies (1920)" (297). These edible women—the play on food and sex is fundamental to the enterprise—reverse the direction of food as a performing object. Here it is the showgirl (and the occasional male performer) that is made into an object for eating, but in the absence of actual food.18

Some theater ensembles have made food an integral part of all their performances. Bread and Puppet distribute bread at their performances, while Great Small Works hold a monthly spaghetti dinner, followed by performances (see Chang 1998). They neither script the meal or bread, as the case may be, into the play, nor do they offer a show to go with dinner. Rather, food is kept simple and elemental, abundant and cheap. The staples —homemade bread, pasta—are the basis for transforming an audience into a community, by breaking bread and eating together. As these groups establish a regular audience, a sense of community develops through shared experience over the course of many years. It is through commensality, more than cuisine, that these artists are redefining the nature and meaning of theater.

Bread, a 1984 Bread and Puppet manifesto in the form of a recipe, opens with a long dictionary definition of "bread" from Funk & Wagnall's New Standard Dictionary of the English Language (1937, 1976). Bread is not only "an article of food," but also "food in general; also, the necessaries of life; as, he cannot earn bread for his family"(Schumann 1984: unpaginated). The meanings and usages ramify to include—"to break bread," as in taking a meal or enjoying hospitality, and "to partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper.” Peter Schumann draws on his childhood memories in Silesia for images of coarse rye bread baked in a communal oven. "Why bread?" he asks rhetorically—"In 1963 in a loft on Delancey Street in New York, as a normal frustrated city-artist and esoteric puppet show-maker, I decided to connect the bread with the puppets" (Schumann 1984: unpaginated). This connection made the actual puppet shows more "purposeful" and less about "painterly and sculptural ambitions." It "seemed like a

Making Sense of Food in Performance 13

correct first step in the fight for the immediate elimination of all evil" (Schumann 1984: unpaginated). Both "feed the hungry." Bread concludes with a list of aphorisms about bread and a "tentative recipe" for sourdough rye bread (Schumann 1984: unpaginated).

Contemporary Opera Gastronomica

In Feeding Frenzy, cooking is an integral part of the musical score.19 In precisely 90 minutes, each of four cooks prepares ten portions of ten courses. The amplified sounds of chopping, sizzling, steaming, and grinding are part of "an instructional, time delineated score," performed by four musicians on strings, reeds, pipa, and keyboard. Mr. Fast Forward's "sculptural approach to creating sound" ties the sound of the objects, substances, and processes of cooking to "the physical gesture that creates the sound" (Forward 1999). We not only see the cooks. We also hear them.

The entire room is projected onto a large screen from two video cameras that roam the space, settling for a moment on the stir-frying, the plucking of pipa strings, guests eating, waiters rushing about. Washing over us are the slow, low resolution, and sometimes overlapping, video images, together with waves of music, noise, and chatter. I feel like a large ocean mammal, drifting in a vast dark sea of ambient sound, smells, and images. All of a sudden, a cook whacks a bell with a knife. A course is ready. Five waiters collect the servings and randomly serve them to us. We are seated at about twenty-five round tables for four. My senses are on the alert as a new course comes into view. Will the waiter choose our table for the margarita rolls (frozen cylinders of margarita wrapped in Vietnamese rice sheets)? Will the mushroom matzo balls or tea- smoked bean curd skin "duck" come our way? Who will get the crème brûlée in individual Chinese soup spoons (the sugary surface is torched on the spot) or the Berberseitan, rice ball geology lesson, or poached pear in kaffir broth? Time is running out. The cooks are frantic. A large digital display at the back of the room, sometimes projected on the screen, counts down the minutes. Zero. Everything stops.

Following Escoffier, Fessaguet's kitchen must complete innumerable dishes, each of them made of up of many components, in ever changing combinations and sequences, so that each table in a room of many tables may be served what it has ordered for a particular course all at the same time, at the right temperature. Forward departs from the principles of Escoffier's kitchen in two ways. First, Forward reverses the division of labor typical of the Escoffier kitchen. Each of Forward's cooks prepares each dish from start to finish and in an average of nine minutes. Second, Forward shifts the choice of what will be eaten from the diner to the waiter. What you are served is arbitrary.

Feeding Frenzy is a work that is conceived from the outset in such a way that food—its preparation, presentation, and consumption and its full range of sensory pleasures—is an integral part of the work. While very different in character, the same can be said of the edible installations of Alicia Rios, who is based in Madrid.20

While food in everyday life is very much about doing and behaving, the reciprocity of table and stage has a long history. One of the ways that food is made to perform is through the dissociation of food from eating and eating from nutrition, and the disarticulation of the various sensory experiences associated with food. Artists work not only with these possibilities, but also the processes associated with food as substance and food as event. And they do so all points along the alimentary canal, from the mouth to the anus, and at all points in the food system, from foraging and cultivating to cooking,

Making Sense of Food in Performance 14

eating, and disposal. Because of the way it engages the senses, food offers particular challenges and opportunities for artists, both those interested in spectacular theatrical effects, and those working on the line between art and life. 21

Making Sense of Food in Performance 15

References

Aron, Jean-Paul 1975 The Art of Eating in France: Manners and Menus in the Nineteenth

Century. New York: Harper & Row. 1986 "On New York Stages, Food's the Thing," New York Times (19

Bennetts, Leslie March):C3.

Blumberg, Skip 1985 Flying Morning Glory (on fire). 3.57 minutes, color, sound. Distributed

by Skip Blumberg.

Booth, William 1890 In Darkest England, and the Way Out. London: International

Headquarters of the Salvation Army. Project Gutenberg’s Etext:http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext96/detwo10.txt. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Bower, Anne, ed. 2004 Reel Food: Essays on Food and Film. New York: Routledge.

Brillat-Savarin, Jean Anthelme 1971 The Physiology of Taste; or, Meditations on Transcendental

Gastronomy, translated by M. F. K. Fisher. New York: Knopf. Brockett, Oscar G.

1968 History of Theatre, Fourth Edition. Boston: Allyn and Bacon.

Brockett, Oscar G., and Robert R. Findlay 1973 Century of Innovation: A History of European and American Theatre

and Drama Since 1870. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall.

Chang, Dong-Shin 1998 “Building Community: The Spaghetti Dinner.” Unpublished paper. New

York: Department of Performance Studies, New York University.http://www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/chang.pap. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Chantillon-Plessis, James B. Herndon, Joseph Dommers Vehling, and Herndon/Vehling Collection

1894 La vie à table à la fin du XIXe siècle théorie pratique et historique de gastronomie moderne: Physiologie, discussions, moeurs et mode pratique, service de la table et des réceptions, le boire, la cuisine, grandes recettes culinaires du siècle, la patisserie, les restaurants, nouveaux classiques de la table, mélanges et fantaisies. Paris: Firmin- Didot.

Collins, Glenn 1990 "There's a Parody on My Plate," New York Times (2 May):C1, 6.

Making Sense of Food in Performance 16

Cox, Nell 1969 French Lunch. Pyramid Films.

DeCaro, Frank 1998 "Bali Hai, Now on Avenue A," New York Times (10 May), Section 9, p.

3.

Douglas, Mary 1966 "Secular Defilement." In Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of

Pollution and Taboo, 29-40. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

el-Khoury, Rodolphe 1997 "Delectable Decoration: Taste and Spectacle in Jean Francois De

Bastide's La Petite Maison." In Taste and Nostalgia, edited by Allen S. Weiss, 49-62. New York: Lusitania Press.

Epstein, Shifra 1979 The Celebration of a Contemporary Purim in the Bobover Hasidic

Community. Ph.D. dissertation. University of Texas, Austin.

Ferry, Jane F. 2003 Food in Film: A Culinary Performance of Communication. New York:

Routledge.

Foodservice Equipment & Supplies Specialist 1990 "Food as Theater Earns Standing Ovation in LA's Posh Brentwood," Foodservice

Equipment & Supplies Specialist 43, 3:57-60.

Forward, Fast 1999 “Feeding Frenzy,” New Concert Works, MrFastForward.com.

http://www.mrfastforward.com/newconcertworks/newconcertworks.html

. Last accessed 7 February 2005. Goffman, Erving

1959 The Performance of Self in Everyday Life. Garden City: Doubleday.

Goldberg, Vicki 1991 "High Tech Meets Goo with Blue Man Group," New York Times (17

November): Arts and Leisure, 26.http://www.blueman.com/newspress/theatrical.php?id=133_0_6_0_C. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Grimes, William 1991 "A Bartender Who Stirs and Shakes But Allows No New Twists," New

York Times (27 March):C1.

Grimod de La Reynière, Alexandre-Balthazar-Laurent, and Jean-Claude Bonnet 1978 Écrits Gastronomiques. 10/18 [i.e. Dix/Dix-Huit]; 1261. Paris: Union

générale d'éditions.

Making Sense of Food in Performance 17

Gussow, Mel 1989 "The Curtain Rises on Kelp Lasagne and Chopped Liver," New York

Times (26 February):H5, 9.

[Handman, Gary] 1996 “Food in the Movies: A Short Bibliography of Book and Articles in the

UC Berkeley Libraries.” Media Resources Center, Library, University of California, Berkeley. http://www.lib.berkeley.edu/MRC/foodbib.html(Updated 21 January 2005. Last accessed 7 February 2005).

Henderson, Justin 1992 "Magic Muse," Interiors 151, 10:70-73.

Hess, Robert. 1998 "Cocktail Anxiety."

http://www.drinkboy.com/Essays/CocktailAnxiety.html. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Hirsch, John E. 1987 Glorifying the American Showgirl: A History of Revue Costume in the

United States from 1866 to the Present. Ph.D. Dissertation. New York: Department of Performance Studies, New York University.

Hubbard, Kim 1992 "Masters of Splatter May Turn Your Mood Indigo: You Ain't Seen Blue

Till You've Seen Blue Man Group Get Offbeat Off Broadway," People37, 22 (8 June):108-110.http://www.blueman.com/newspress/theatrical.php?id=135_0_6_0_C. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara

1989  "Appetizers: Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett on Edible Art," Artforum

International 28 (November):20-23.

1990  "Performance of Precepts/Precepts of Performance: Hasidic Celebrations of Purim in Brooklyn." In By Means of Performance: Intercultural Studies of Theatre and Ritual, edited by Richard Schechner and Willa Appel, 109-17. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

1997 "Alicia Rios, Tailor of the Body's Interior: An Interview," TDR 41, 2 (T154):90-110

1999 "Playing to the Senses: Food as a Performance Medium," Performance Research 4, 1:1-30.

Lang, George 1980 Lang's Compendium of Culinary Nonsense and Trivia. New York: C.N.

Potter.

Lanza, Joseph 1995 The Cocktail: The Influence of Spirits on the American Psyche. New

Making Sense of Food in Performance 18

York: St. Martin's Press.

Leonard, Roy 1997 "Blue Man Group, Feature Review," Roy Leonard's Going Out Guide.

http://www.blueman.com/newspress/theatrical.php?id=136_0_6_0_C. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

MacCannell, Dean 1976 The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class. New York: Schocken.

Marinetti, Fillippo Tommaso 1989 The Futurist Cookbook, translated by Susan Brill. San Francisco:

Bedford Arts.

McKewan, Richard 1998 “Cocktail Renaissance: The Re-emergence and Re-invention of the

Cocktail Way of Life.” Unpublished paper. New York: Department of Performance Studies, New York University.http://www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/mckewan.htm. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Mennell, Stephen 1985 All Manners of Food: Eating and Taste in England and France from the

Middle Ages to the Present. Oxford: Blackwell. 1989 “Trump to Close a ‘Tacky’ Trader Vic's,” New York Times (25 January):

n.a. B1.

Nevile, Jenny 1990. “The Musical Banquet in Italian Quattrocento Festivities.” In Food in

Festivity: Proceedings of the Fourth Symposium of Australian Gastronomy, edited by Anthony Corones, Graham Pont, and Barbara Santich, 125-35. Sydney: Symposium of Australian Gastronomy.

Oldenburg, Ray 1989 The Great Good Place: Cafes, Coffee Shops, Community Centers, Beauty

Parlors, General Stores, Bars, Hangouts, and How They Get You Through the Day. New York: Paragon House.

Ozouf, Mona 1988 Festivals of the French Revolution. Cambridge: Harvard University

Press.

Patton, Phil 1998 "Reading between the Lines: Deciphering the Menu," New York Times (4

February):F6.

Pfferman, Naomi 2002 “A Taste for Yiddish,” The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles (4

October). http://www.jewishjournal.com/home/preview.php?id=9352.

Making Sense of Food in Performance 19

Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Pont, Graham 1990 “In Search of the Opera Gastronomica.” In Food in Festivity:

Proceedings of the Fourth Symposium of Australian Gastronomy, edited by Anthony Corones, Graham Pont, and Barbara Santich, 115-24. Sydney: Symposium of Australian Gastronomy.

Poole, Gaye 1999 Reel Meals, Set Meals: Food in Film and Theatre. Sydney: Currency

Press.

Rausfeld, Robin and Rob Patronite 2004 “Dinner and a Show,” New York Magazine (November 15),

NewYorkmetro.comhttp://newyorkmetro.com/nymetro/food/features/10313/. Last accessed February 6, 2005.

Restaurants and Institutions 1990 "Chefs as Exhibitionists," Restaurants and Institutions, A230-A234.

Revel, Jean-François 1982 Culture and Cuisine: A Journey through the History of Food. Garden

City, New York: Doubleday.

Richards, Kristen 1992 “West by Southwest: David Kellen Sets a Southwest Stage in a New

L.A. Restaurant,” Interiors 151, 10: 76-77. 2000 Performing History: Theatrical Representations of the Past in

Contemporary Theatre. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

Santich, Barbara 1990 “Metamorphoses of the Banquet.” In Food in Festivity: Proceedings of

the Fourth Symposium of Australian Gastronomy, edited by Anthony Corones, Graham Pont, and Barbara Santich, 108-14. Sydney: Symposium of Australian Gastronomy.

Schama, Simon 1988 The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the

Golden Age. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Schumacher, Max 1998 “The Fourth Place: My Cafe Is My Sand-box.” Unpublished paper. New

York: Department of Performance Studies, New York University.http://www.nyu.edu/classes/bkg/cybercafe.fd. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Schumann, Peter 1984 Bread. Glover: Bread and Puppet.

Rokem, Freddie

Making Sense of Food in Performance 20

Simon, Lee 2004 “Display Kitchens: A Feast for the Eyes.” Escoffier Online (23

September), part 2: http://escoffier.com/phpnuke/html/contentid-34.html; part 2: http://escoffier.com/phpnuke/html/contentid-34.html. Last accessed 7 February 2005.

Spang, Rebecca L. 2000 The Invention of the Restaurant: Paris and Modern Gastronomic

Culture. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Stewart, Philip 1985 "L'ambigu, ou la nourriture spectacle," Littérature et Gastronomie: Huit

Étude, edited by Ronald W Tobin. Biblio 17, 23. Paris and Seattle: Papers on French Seventeenth Century Literature.

Toepfer, Karl Eric 1991 Theatre, Aristocracy and Pornocacy: Orgy Calculus. New York: PAJ

Publications.

Trubek, Amy B. 2000 Haute Cuisine: How the French Invented the Culinary Profession.

Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

Wheaton, Barbara 1983 Savoring the Past: The French Kitchen and Table From 1300-1789.

Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

Making Sense of Food in Performance 21

1 This essay is a companion piece to Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1999, which deals more fully with food in everyday life and in relation to performance art. The focus here is on the staging of food in restaurants and theaters. 2 According to Graham Pont (1990:123-124), the term opera gastronomica "was first used in the title of the musical banquet, Les goûts réunis or Apollo in the Antipodes: opera gastronomica in tre atti. This was the celebration which concluded the Fourth David Nichol Smith Memorial Seminar in 18th- Century Studies and the First National Conference of the Musicological Society of Australia, held at University House, Canberra, 31st August, 1976."

3 See Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1990 for a more detailed discussion of this event. I have been attending the Purim festivities in the Bobover Hasidic community in Boro Park, Brooklyn, since 1973. See also Epstein 1979. 4 See Toepfer 1991. 5 See the chapter "Feasting, Fasting, and Timely Atonement," in Schama 1988, for a discussion of the role of food in festivity in Holland. Food iconography in Dutch art reveals a richly iconographic language of moral discourse and visual conventions for conveying the sensory experiences of eating. 6 A particularly famous example is the surtout that displayed scenes from the Opéra de Bardes, described in 1808 by Grimod de La Reynière in Almanach des gourmands (el-Khoury 1997:58). 7 For a discussion of this play see Rokem 2000:56-76. 8 On the history of the restaurant in France, see Spang 2000. On the professionalizing of French chefs, see Trubek 2000. 9 Roger Fessaguet, personal communication, 1989. See also the documentary film of La Caravelle Restaurant (Cox 1969). This fifteen-minute film focuses on the motion and tempo of the kitchen when it is in full swing. 10 Thanks to Mitchell Davis for alerting me to this anecdote and to Robin Leach for the citation. 11 This of course is in a long tradition of street food vendors and food stalls in markets, which predates the relatively recent advent of restaurants. For an excellent example of spectacular cooking performance in an open market, see Skip Blumberg’s 1985 documentary short Flying Morning Glory (on fire), which celebrates the “flaming ‘cuisine art’ performance of a virtuoso sidewalk chef in Phitsanulok, Thailand.” (Electronic Arts Intermix,http://www.eai.org/eai/tape.jsp?itemID=3079. Last accessed February 7, 2005). 12 This discussion is inspired by McKewan 1998.See also Hess 1998. 13 Judging by the names of some drinks, the cult of the cocktail includes a libertine (if not adolescent) element. Hess (1998), under the heading "Blush on the Rocks," lists Orgasm, Slippery Nipple, and Blow Job. Under "Shooters," which are appreciated "for the visual effect that they impart," he includes Brain Hemorrhage, Cement Mixer, Cum in a Hot Tub, and Embryo. 14 Café Los Negroes http://www.losnegroes.com/ began in 1994 and closed in 2000; Atomic Caféhttp://www.sfn.saskatoon.sk.ca/current/atomic/about.html (last accessed 7 February 2005). 15 While food in films has attracted considerable attention, much less has been written about food in theater. On food in film, see Bower 2004, Ferry 2003, and [Handman] 1996. Poole 1999, who is a scholar and actor, deals food in film and theater. 16 Since Gussow’s article, many more theatrical works have made food—cooking, eating, restaurants—their focus, to mention only Fully Committed, Cookin’, which was developed in Korea in 1997 and playing in New York City as of this writing (http://www.cookinnewyork.com/Last accessed 7 February 2005), and Esn: Songs from the Kitchen, a klezmer music performance that includes cooking, which features Frank London, Adrienne Cooper and Lorin Sklamberg (see Pfferman 2001). 17 This account is based on Hirsch 1987. 18 In contrast with food on the stage, dinner theatre captures two market segments, diners and theatre goers, by combining dinner and theatre in various ways. Eating can occur before, after, during, or as part of the performance. The two activities may be in separate spaces or both may

Making Sense of Food in Performance 22

occur in a theatre or in a restaurant. Obvious examples include dinner theatre, recreations of historic feasts, character dining, murder mystery dinners, and such theatrical restaurants as Lucky Cheng's and such environmental performances as Tim and Tina's Wedding. In addition, restaurants play an important role in the occupational culture of the entertainment district, not only as place to network and do business, but also to celebrate. Sardi's and Elaine's in New York are but two examples. These topics are beyond the scope of the present essay. 19 I saw this performance at The Kitchen, a Manhattan performance space and laboratory for artistic experimentation, in February 2000 and first wrote about it in Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2000.20 On Rios, see Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1997. For other examples, see Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1999.21 Warm thanks to Anurima Banerji, Sally Banes, Mitchell Davis, and Chava Weissler.

[alehamora]

April 21, 2018 | Kilbourn Avenue aka Casa Bear | Day 272

I’ll always remember the day I became instantly obsessed with braiding my hair. It was Junior year in Madame Bojnansky’s class. The group of us going three year’s strong (you know who you are) were huddled together, the non-chalance and subtle pretentiousness oozing off of us. It’s a truth universally known that senioritis can begin as early as the last month of Junior year and us peoples, soon to be Seniors of this establishment, had basically shut down weeks prior without a fuck to give between us.

My hair, untouched and unscathed, ( #virginAle) fell to my waist. Samantha was seated behind me and twirling my hair in her hands while Andres and Cabarcas scribbled nonsense in my French dictionary. I remember Samantha asking me if she could braid my hair (the itis hit hard and deep) and expecting two pigtails or one long regular braid, I nodded and expected nothing more while I continued with les aventures de Tintin.

When she finished, all I could hear were people gushing about the braid. I remember flip phones (#MotorolaRAZR) popping out for an overly pixelated photo while I ran my hand down the braid. It is still the most beautiful French braid I’ve ever seen. While I started adding simple braids and twists to my hairstyles, tt wasn’t till Laura at UF that I attempted to learn how to French braid my own hair. She was a model example in patience. After that, it was a wrap. I have found countless ways to stylishly add a braid and even chose it for my MOH look. With great power comes great responsibility and I proudly offer my services - even to certain individuals who like to play the “I’m Going to Invite Ale Over Early As A Sign of Friendship and Inclusion But Really It’s So She Can Braid My Hair While I Finish Getting Ready” card. ( #hashtagsforaye)

The photo captures one of my favorite braids on me: two French braids (from my personal part) that are twisted into a bun and then pinned (#somanypins) and loosed. Now that my hair is short and slightly layered, I have less control but still my favorite go-to. You’re welcome. Pero seriously, a shit ton of pins.