#imagine they are dried apple slices

[shogunish]

𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿.

pairing. student! gojo satoru x reader

genre. fluff, slice of life, idiots in love

warnings. tooth-rotting fluff

summary. and when you laugh at his stupid comment, leaves of all colors and sizes in your hair, cheeks red from the low temperatures, he finally knows why you love autumn so much.

words. 901

note. don't imagine falling in love with toru in autumn, sharing hot chocolate, cozy movie dates and him giving you his sweater bc yours don't keep you warm enough

comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! <3

satoru doesn't know why you love autumn so much when it's not only the busiest time for sorcerers, but also annoyingly windy with sudden downpours out of nowhere. days are cut short since the sun would set earlier than usual and dark skies would envelop tokyo at five pm instead of at nine in the late evening. autumn is the season in which everything starts dying or hiding away; may it be trees drying out and shedding their once lush leaves or that small hedgehog across the street searching for a cozy, safe place to hibernate.

a scowl rested on satoru's handsome face. the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks are bitten red by the chilly temperatures lingering in the streets. snot runs from his nostril and he sniffles. even the coat paired with the scarf wrapped around his neck can't stop his runny nose. satoru isn't sick, oh no. if anything, he's sick of the weather.

chilly temperatures always equal a runny nose for satoru.

he sighs, cerulean eyes rolling behind pitch black shades. "next time, you go on that walk by yourself. my doctor will hear about you if i get sick."

a light bounce is in your step. turning to face satoru, you smile at him. "stop exaggerating. i just wanted to see you and spend some time with you." satoru is right next to you, eyeing you from his peripheral. "you've been away so much ever since autumn came."

he just scoffs. luckily, satoru's cheeks are already red or else you would've called him out on the blush blooming across his cheeks. he likes to pretend to be tough and immune to your words when in reality, each of your honeyed words cut through his defenses like butter.

"must miss me real bad, huh? how cute." satoru puffs his chest out, proud of the comment he's just come up with.

a little pout rests upon your lips and all of a sudden, you feel a little shy, because yes, you do miss satoru real bad and feel almost..lonely without him. but with an ego as massive as satoru is tall, you can't give him that sort of satisfaction. so all you do is huff in response. "all i heard is that i'm cute."

selective hearing, hm?

despite the several layers of clothes hiding your skin and keeping you toasty warm, satoru knows how to worm his way through every single layer until he is underneath your skin, flustering you and making you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

popping into your personal bubble, he wears a smug smirk on his chapsticked lips. "ohhh, you do miss me!" satoru chirps, tosses his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side.

occasionally, satoru forgets how strong he is compared to you and is a bit rougher with you than he should be. the pull is sudden, makes you squeak as you slip on a damp leaf and lose your balance. instead of finding yourself in satoru's arm, your butt lands in a pile of dried leaves.

dumbfounded you stare at satoru, owlishly blinking at him while a few leaves get stuck on the top of your head. he thinks he fucked up, will get a real good scolding from you, telling him to be more careful, but your nagging never comes.

instead, you laugh heartily with round cheeks and your teeth showing off. a melodious sound that fills the park and drips right into the cracks of satoru's heart, turning the snow into sweet, saccharine honey.

his heart does this funny thing again. the thing where it skips a beat and pumps just a tad bit harder, making him feel warm from the core up.

before satoru can even think about teasing you, a handful of leaves is flung right at his face and he finds himself laughing along with you. "what was that for?"

"for letting me fall and getting my ass wet!" you're still laughing, then your face scrunches up as satoru flings his own fistful of leaves at your face.

you begin chasing him with two fistfuls of leaves. suddenly, red, yellow and orange is stuck in his hair and you realize..it makes his eyes look even more mesmerizing than they already are. how unfair.

"not my fault you're getting your ass wet over me!"

oh, he's having the time of his life chasing you around the park, flinging dried leaves at each other and laughing so carelessly without a worry in the world. your laughter mixes with his, creating a symphony that only something akin to love could compose.

"oh, shut up, will you?!" playfully, you shove satoru into a pile of leaves, but if he's going down, he's taking you with him.

grabbing you by the collar, satoru falls into the pile of leaves with you and laughs alongside you. a tangled mess of limbs and puffs of white smoke fill the space around you. your head rests somewhere on satoru's chest while his arms and legs are sprawled out like a starfish.

"i'll only shut up if you make me, darling." satoru wiggles his eyebrows at you, all in good fun.

and when you laugh at his stupid comment, leaves of all colors and sizes in your hair, cheeks red from the low temperatures, he finally knows why you love autumn so much.

taglist; @torusmochi

[thesharkbaitspellbook]

Apples

We see apples everywhere in myth. However, one of the problems identifying apples in religion, mythology and folktales is that as late as the 17th century, the word "apple" was used as a generic term for all (foreign) fruit other than berries, but including nuts. So thinking of what we know as an apple today may not be very helpful in piecing together what was actually meant. On the other hand, apples themselves are originally native to a region in Asia, not spread until the 14th century… therefore in a way they are a "foreign fruit" and the associations put onto them from myth and folklore would still hold.

Correspondences:

Magical Properties/Rules: food for departing spirits/dead, love, health, attracting unicorns, underworld, healing, peace, rebirth, immortality, beauty, wisdom, sex, fertility, harvest

Deities: Idunn, Satan, Beelzebub, Hel, Gia, Hera, Aphrodite, Athena, Manannán mac Lir, Macha, Epona [this for me is mostly because of the Legend of Zelda games], Eris, Nehalennia, Venus, Dagda, Aengus Og

Heroes/Places/Things: Hercules, Tree of Life, Avalon, Teachers, Johnny Appleseed [USA Folklore figure], Mythical gardens, Snow White

Ways to with: The fruit, oil, seeds, fragrances, candles, imagery, infusions, decorations, the trees, apple blossoms, culinary infusions

Apple colors:

Red: Passion, vitality, strength, survival, fertility, courage, sexual potency, mercy, action, danger, war, fire element, conflict, sports, independence, assertiveness, competition

Yellow-Pleasure, success, happiness, learning, memory, concentration, persuasion, inspiration, imagination, solar magic, charm, confidence, air element, travel, flexibility

Green- Prosperity, abundance, money, physical & emotional healing, growth, luck, marriage, tree/plant magic, acceptance, weather, counteract envy/greed/jealousy

Sayings: [good little spell inspo!]

Apple a day keeps the doctor away

Apples to Oranges

Apple of my eye

Being a bad apple in the bunch

Uses:

Dried apple slices are some of my favorite offerings

Apple Cider [including the alcoholic kind] is also a favorite of mine

SO MUCH KITCHEN MAGIC TO BEHOLD

If you have an iPhone… you always have apple imagery with you…. interesting little note

Apple scents for several uses

Seeds are good jar spell ingredients

Fall activities often involve apples

Leaving out an apple to the ancestors.

I found Apple wine once that was pretty good for sex magic.

[mybreadsmybutters]

once upon a time, almost a month ago, i came across a worm stranded in the middle of the pavement after a rainfall. it was struggling to get somewhere, but the sun was rapidly drying up the puddles and i knew it wouldn't make it on it's own. i often wonder what my true nature is, in a dualistic "kind vs indifferent" sort of way. do i look past suffering naturally? do i pick the worm up off the sidewalk?

in theory, in which i am typically very brave and red-blooded and masculine, i am not grossed out by things which wriggle on the ground.

in practice, i begin imagining the texture of the worm, were i to pick it up with bare hands. i'm not sure if worms are slimy. it seems like it would feel like foreskin, really dry foreskin. worms taste with their bodies, i think. it is very small, and a very tiny part of the ecosystem, and i could find 20 more in seconds if i went digging.

but this one is right in my path. directly struggling where i have the power to stop it, to end it's pain and suffering, one way or the other. and what is the kind option? is the worm too dried out? the pavement is hot. the air is full of steam. is it dying? dehydrating?

am i the kind of person who can kill a bug? i normally shirk this responsibility by screaming for help, or scooping it up, nicely isolated behind paper and cup and dumping it outside. i read an article once, though, that moving them outside can actually kill them anyways though. so maybe it's kinder to splat them. maybe, in fact, to be a kind person, to end suffering, i need to stomp on the worm.

but it is a kind of murder. objectively speaking, i am acting as judge-jury-executioner. i am looking at this worm, on the hot pavement, sizzling almost, and i am deciding whether it should live or die. i am deciding.

i don’t feel bad about eating meat. i've taken the eucharist, can certainly appreciate a sacrifice, a body on the tongue, a little salt, a little pepper, an extra slice of bacon on the sandwich. could the worm ascertain this, were i to pick it up? taste it on me? do worms even eat meat? i know nothing about worm biology. pathetically little.

when i was a child, young enough to excuse it but old enough to know better, i learned that snails dissolve in salt. so i gathered the snails, with the help of an unwitting friend, hundreds of them. ok maybe like 20. i was old enough to count. all different sizes, all moving slow and with thin, grey, fragile shells that almost disintegrate if you pick them up too indelicately. we scooped them carefully, surrounded them with a circle of salt, and waited for them to try to pass. nothing so crude as an apple in a tree.

several minutes later, my mom came out to ask if i was done with the salt, and found me watching them churn like the muscles in a stomach, one on top of the other trying to get somewhere, bumping against the barrier like cattle in the chute, as salt rained down from on high. she frantically asked if i knew that salt killed them, snatched the shaker from my hand and gripped my brutal wrist. i did not hear them sizzle, or scream, or act like they had been stuck in a pot of acid. they didn't seem to act all that different from how they behaved before.

this thing the worm and i have is very intimate. an opportunity to make up for past wrongs. is my action better than my inaction? worse? does my skin taste like salt?

i am a good person. not a great one. i pick up a stick and try to lift the worm up. this proves difficult. i grab another stick, this one more of a twig, really, and attempt to lift it up again. like chopsticks, but i don't know how to use chopsticks. everyone else knows how to use chopsticks. i'm stabbing the worm now, in essence, which is awful. totally against what i'm trying to do here. i try to flip it along, and it writhes faster and faster, confused, screaming. i feel like satan. i feel like i have been cheated. i begin trying to roll it closer and closer to the grass, more and more frantic, beating it, pummeling it, and it wiggles and cries and prays and i throw the stick down.

i don't cry, but i try to. i reheat a hot dog for dinner in the microwave. in practice, i am a very selfish person.

[ninevehsage]

I dried these apple slices for decorational purpose. We shall see do I use them on my Samhain altar or will I leave them for the Yule. I'm not sure yet, but they are perfectly good for either one of those sabbats or just for the Autumn - Winter seasons. They can be used as a garland or parts of a wreath... only the imagination is your limit! 🥰

[another-lost-mc]

this is a really random and silly thought but what are some of the fruits karasu azra and zee like, i was eating fruits earlier and just thought about them

-🪶

Not random at all! Part of the fun is imagining OCs in their little domestic moments and that includes the types of foods they like to eat and what/if they cook for you.

Karasu prefers citrusy or tart fruits since he doesn't really have a sweet tooth at all. (He shares a fruit salad dessert with MC on their first date.) He doesn't buy fruit on a regular basis though.

Azra orders desserts off the club's lounge menu sometimes, usually chocolate-dipped berries or candied fruit slices drizzled with honey or dusted with sugar. Finger foods, basically. He also swipes cherries or orange wedges if he's passing by the bar, even though he could easily order them from the kitchen. (His bartenders know his habits by now so they usually keep a little bowl ready for him in case he pops by, so he doesn't get in their way lol). He's not picky about the type of fruit as long as it's peeled/sliced and ready to eat.

Zee likes most fruits. He makes a lot of simple meals for himself like oatmeal for breakfast or parfaits if he wants dessert - he'll add berries to those. He makes his own trail mix with dried or candied fruit pieces that he can snack on when he's working or reading at home. He likes poison apple pie, but he's not skilled as a baker so that's something he orders if he goes out to eat. Unlike Azra, he doesn't usually eat at the club.

[goblinwithartsupplies]

for the children of dryads of fruit-bearing trees, the fruits from the trees of mother/father parents have the same effect as ambrosia or nectar - healing and restoration.

for example, if the daughter of an apple dryad eats at least dried apple slices from her mother's tree or drinks juice from her apples, her wounds will heal and she will regain strength.

That’s so sweet!!!

Imagine Grover and Juniper’s kids carrying around juniper berry jam and shoving tiny handfuls into their mouths to heal their cuts and scrapes

[laurelsofhighever]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 3/? Rating: T Warnings: None Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read it on AO3

--

Cloudreach, 9:29 Dragon

The Couslands ate breakfast together every morning, by tradition. Compared to the dinners in the great hall it was an informal event taken in the library, at a round, walnut table draped with embroidered linen, with the morning light streaming through windows that looked north over the sea. After setting the places, the servants retreated to have their own meal, and, left to the privacy of each other’s company, the family helped each other to platters of eggs, cooked meat, and fruit. The dogs – Bryce’s Mallard and Rosslyn’s Cuno, still with the gangliness of puppyhood – also had their place, tucking into their own breakfasts on leather mats laid out to save the priceless Rivaini carpets from the ravages of slobber and grease.

If not for their grand surroundings, the Laurel motifs decorating the furniture and the rich weave of their clothes, they might have been any ordinary family, with ordinary squabbles. The battle on this particular morning raged around Oren, who had inherited the strong Cousland jaw and his mother’s onyx-dark eyes. He sat high in his cushioned chair, digging through his bowl of porridge for the dried apple slices hidden in its depths and ignoring the entreaties from both his parents to behave.

“I’m three-and-a-half,” he insisted, when Oriana dipped her own spoon into the bowl to try and coax at least one proper mouthful.

Across the table, Eleanor levelled a disapproving stare at her grandson. “When your father was three-and-a-half he knew the benefit of eating everything on his plate,” she told him. “How do you think he got to be so tall?”

Oren’s eyes went wide, turning on his mother. “Is it true?”

“Yes, pequeño,” Oriana replied, ever-patient. “We want you to grow big and strong.”

“And Aunt Rosslyn too?”

Rosslyn glanced up from her book. She had taken to bringing one to breakfast in recent months to keep her own company while the rest of the family got on with their business – there was no one else to talk to, after all, and if she kept herself occupied with such volumes as The Travels of Ebullient Ser Claremore of Stannis it distracted her from the reason why misery gnawed at her like a mouse, stopped her dwelling on the fact that it was her own bloody fault no letters had come from Denerim since the Landsmeet.

“All Couslands eat their porridge,” she replied mildly. “Haelia and Mather started the tradition when they drove the werewolves out of the North.”  

A white lie, but the renowned twins, heroes even among the famed and fabled ranks of Cousland ancestors, had held Oren’s imagination like little else could since he heard the story, the illuminations in the family book weaving him tales of wild chases through the forest and daring battles waged against fang and claw.

“I wish you wouldn’t read at the table,” her mother chided, as if she had only just noticed.

“Aldous wants me to broaden my horizons.”

Her father’s eyebrow lifted, amused. “I doubt Aldous meant for your studies to get in the way of your table manners, Pup.”

“It’s not like anyone’s here,” Rosslyn pointed out. “And besides –”

The door to the library opened, cutting off the rest of her protest to admit a human page in a woollen surcoat of deep Laurel blue.

“Calmett?” Bryce turned at the intrusion.

Calmett bowed. “Forgive me, Your Lordship, but a letter just arrived by courier. I thought you’d want to read it.” He offered over a square envelope of thick, cream-coloured paper on a silver tray and Rosslyn saw the flash of a scarlet seal on the back when her father took it.

“‘To His Lordship, Bryce Cousland’,” he read.

Fergus, who was closer, peered at the direction. “That’s rather formal for Alistair.”

The air squeezed from her lungs. She did not miss the curious glance her brother sent her across the table, nor how Oriana’s brow furrowed; it would be one thing for the king to write to the teyrn himself, formal and aloof, but Alistair knew them as well as family and had long since grown out of the shrinking need to call his foster-father by his title.

Cheeks warming, she dropped her gaze to her plate of half-eaten jam toast, though not quite fast enough to avoid catching her mother’s eye. It was a steady look, a shared confidence; it reminded her of the noble’s mask she had been taught, the blank face required to stare down your worst enemy and make them flinch first. She straightened her shoulders. As her father read the letter she watched with a face of mild, polite interest, taking in the downward pull of his brows as he went on, the way the corner of his mouth flattened into the greying edges of his beard.

“Well? What does it say?” Fergus asked.

Startled, Bryce looked up. “He’s being sent to Starkhaven. From Denerim. King Cailan wishes him to be an aide to the ambassador.”

Fergus clicked his tongue. “Surely Cailan would have allowed him to travel from Highever if he had asked.”

“It isn’t for you to second-guess the king,” Bryce chided, his voice unusually severe. “There might be any number of reasons why the ship left berth at Denerim.”

For a moment, the table stewed in the tension chafing between the teyrn and his eldest child, until Fergus turned his head away with a nod and a sigh and picked up his spoon again. Unnoticed by either of them, Rosslyn frowned at the paper in her father’s hands, the guilt that churned in her stomach for driving Alistair away aclash with a growing anger at his lack of loyalty, his cowardice. Ever since he had first gone to Denerim, no correspondence had ever come back to Highever without at least a small note addressed to her. Did he think no one would notice the change? Did he fear her so much, or put such value on his injured pride that he would shield himself behind the king’s will to neglect his duty to her family?

“May I see the letter?” she asked.

Her father gave her a long look, but passed it to her all the same, as gently as if the paper itself might bite. Curbing her annoyance, she unfolded it and scanned the lines. The unmistakeable scrawl that Aldous had tried so hard to smooth out in their lessons was unchanged, the words short, signed at the bottom with a formality out of place for the person she knew. Despite this, glimmers of humour shone through the stiff, careful style, pulling a traitorous twitch from her lips as she read:

Your Lordship –

I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing you this news in a letter instead of coming to tell you in person. King Cailan has requested that I go to Starkhaven to assist the ambassador there, and since he requires no delay, I’ll be sailing from Denerim as soon as the ship is loaded and the tide is with us. It’s likely I’ll pass by Highever at the same time this letter reaches you – just in case, I’ll wave from my cabin and keep my eyes towards the castle.

If all goes well and I don’t make a complete fool of myself stepping off the ship at journey’s end, it may be some time before I can return to Ferelden, and so this is – for now – a farewell. This is a great opportunity for me to ‘cut my diplomatic teeth’, as my brother keeps on telling me, but I could not leave without at least writing to thank you for everything you have done for me. Without your kindness I don’t know where I would have been by now, but it certainly wouldn’t be here, and I will be forever grateful for that. I hope in return I’ll be able to do you proud.

In my own hand,

Alistair Theirin

It took two days for a courier to take a message from Denerim along the coast, maybe less if the relay used good horses, but half a day less still to cover the distance by water. He would be out on the open sea by now, with Ferelden a smudge of green on a distant horizon.

Starkhaven. It was a place she knew by reputation and court gossip more than anything else. Nate had spoken of it well enough since leaving to become a squire to one of the knights there, and in his own quiet way had painted a picture of exotic markets and gilded palaces merry with the splash of fountains. At least he would be a familiar face to help Alistair orient himself, such a long way away from home.

She wished he had written to her.

[xgoldxnhour]

‘you’ve been gone for hours.’ (Mrs & Mrs verse)

@mettleborn

Days off are hard to come by in this work, so, they take in stride—indulge in little hours of pretending of what could be assumed as normal. It was an early morning as she took a run on the East River path alongside all the other normal people on their normal routines. Most were on work calls or listening to latest weekly podcast of whatever hyperfixation was highlighted that week. Passing by careers, flourishing and downfalls, El couldn’t help but smile. It seemed nice but the separation was necessary. How none of these people know about what exactly happens right under their noses. Ignorance is bliss.

And on her way back, she found the community had set up their annual art & wine festival—right there out on the street only a mile or so up the road. Collaboration of farmers and their organic harvests and homebrewed wines and spirits. Artists of all forms and all backgrounds. A melting pot of cultures and expressions. Truly the embodiment of New York. So, she dilly dallied and moseyed along through every aisle and every tent to see what treasures lies behind them. There was an older woman named Sunny who made her own fermented ginger honey and ‘boozy pies’. Peach bourbon. Salted Whiskey Honey. Apple Pie Moonshine. She sparked up quite the conversation about her husband and how they exactly discovered this little passion project of theirs when they were little drunk and high and baking in the middle of the night. She then proceeded to ask El if she’s married and what he may like. “Oh, we drink. For sure.” El laughs with a tilted smile.

Walking through the door, bags in hand, she makes her way to the kitchen with her findings with John waiting. Pumpkin seems to make a kinder introduction as he rubs against her legs as he walks by. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were waiting up on me.” There’s a tinge of sarcasm but far less than her usual jabs. It was the truth.

“Went on a run and made a couple of stops. There’s a whole…like…festival down the way. I got some lemons and sun dried tomatoes for that pasta dish I wanna try tonight.” Setting it down, she begins to unpack her adventure. There were a couple of other ingredients and fresh herbs for dinner and just to have. Some plant-based cat food that Pumpkin will probably ignore and a hefty slice of that Peach Bourbon pie. She wasn’t gonna buy a whole one in case Sonny was full of shit but didn’t hurt to try and share. Hell, they might love it. Imagine that. “Support local and all.”

She turns her head towards him, attempting to discern if he was actually angry or not. Anger, annoyance or genuine worry. Did they get a new mission unexpectedly? Mr. Hihi was pretty good at surprises. Slowly, she walks towards him, hands on her hips—leaning close. “Why? D’ya miss me, John?”

[nuagederose]

As the Seasons Grey | Chapter Forty-One: Diamond Heart

ao3 link

“This is fantastic.”

It was a quarter to nine in the evening, after a hearty dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes prepared by Wendy, and Christine and Alex had already eaten dinner at her apartment, and she opened the piece of Tupperware with the babka inside. Just as Valentina had recommended, Christine served it on a small plate with some whipped cream to give it a little more nuance lest the cake dried out over the course of the day. But Alex indulged in the small slice of babka that she had given him, and with each and every bite, it seemed as though he was having the biggest sense of euphoria in his life, the biggest orgasm he could have for himself.

He closed his eyes and let the tines of the fork stay in between those lush cherry lips as if he had come down on her between her legs. The smell of cinnamon was utterly intoxicating from his plate as well as inside of the Tupperware; Christine propped her head up onto her chin and watched him with intent.

“Mmm, oh, god,” he muttered at one point. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip to rid of the extra whipped cream. “God damn. Nothing beats the real thing from the hands of a Jewish grandmother.”

“Did your grandma ever make it?” she asked him.

“Once in a while,” he replied in between bites. “It's kind of a bitch to make, like there's a lot of preparation ahead of time and a lot of work that goes into it. It's like this whole affair that takes place over the course of a couple of days. The last time I actually had babka—chocolate babka, which I actually like better than cinnamon—was from my grandmother and my mother. I was twenty five. It was delicious. The challah bread part was perfect, and the chocolate melted in your mouth. Silky and lush and... sensual, even. I know, that word sounds weird in junction with my grandmother and my mother, but it's true. It warmed me up from the inside out, and I remember leaning back in my chair with my hands on either side of my plate and just letting my belly hang out over my belt. This was back when I didn't have the pot on me now: I was still really slender and trim, so imagine how good it felt. If I remember correctly, I think I actually unbuttoned my pants, too.”

She chuckled at that, and then he took another bite.

“Is it just chocolate and cinnamon?”

“Oh, no, you've got apple, and cheese—like a cheese danish—and cinnamon raisin, and I think there's also a poppy seed variation and other kinds made with different jams and pastes like almond paste. I've always wanted to try the cheese one in particular, just because of the reminiscence to cheese danishes.” He took one last bite, that time with his eyes closed. He leaned back in the chair and unbuttoned his pants, and then he ran his fingers through his hair.

“That's the good stuff right there,” he said to her in a low voice, and he put his hands behind his head.

“So cute,” she remarked as she leaned over for a little loving pat.

“That was really good meatloaf, too,” he remarked. “Your mom knows how to do it.”

“I've been trying to get it out of her since I was like... thirteen,” she confessed with a shake of her head. “She never tells me about it.”

“She should tell you,” he quipped. “You're her daughter, for god's sake. She should, at the very least, tell you.”

“Did you ever get the recipe for the babka out of your grandmother?”

“I don't bake. I can barely cook as is—forget it with baking.”

“You ought to. Do you know how sexy that would be? Being a teacher, a musician, and a baker at the same time?” He chuckled at that. “It's true, though,” Christine insisted. “Do you know how much you could turn me on by being a triple threat like that?”

“Triple threat, eh?” he echoed her with a twinkle in his eye and a raise of his eyebrow. “How would you feel if I told you I'm also a writer? Or have I told you that already?”

“I don't remember you telling me that,” she confessed.

“But I'm a writer, though,” he replied as he took his hands from behind his head and rested them on his belly. “I'm a triple threat as is.”

“So you could be a quadruple threat,” she corrected herself.

“Oh ho ho, that'd be something.” He nodded his head and gave his belly a gentle massage. “You know what I really want right now? And it's a shame because I actually didn't think about this coming over here earlier: a bottle of wine.”

“Ooh, yeah, like a nice dessert wine,” she said.

“Exactly! That's my girl.”

“Does your mom have any?” And then he stopped in his tracks. “Oh, yeah, that's right.”

“Yeah, my parents are both recovering alcoholics. In fact, the very last drink my mom had was one of those cheap box wines you get at the grocery store.”

“Ew, yuck.” He grimaced and shook his head at that. “If I drank that, I'd sober up, too.” They both laughed at that.

“My dad's last drink was gin,” she continued.

“I don't think I've ever had gin,” he confessed. “All I know is it's pungent, like you can smell it from clear across the room. I remember smelling it once and I thought, 'no way. Like beer and wine are enough, thank you.'” He fetched up a sigh and shifted his weight in the chair. “Phew. I think I overdid it.”

“You were going to town on that meatloaf and that babka,” she pointed out. “Like, you were making love to both of them.”

“Speaking of making love,” he began. Christine ran her tongue along her bottom lip at the mere suggestion of that.

“What?” she asked him with a little grin on her face.

“I'm sitting here leaning back with my pants undone and my legs wide open,” he told her with a straight face, but she could see the look in his eyes, the one laced with his venom. The glasses perched on the tip of his nose only added to it. “Don't you think it'd be an opening for you make love to me and my body.”

“Make love to you and that little belly of yours,” she followed along. He then leaned forward in the chair with his hands rested on either side of the seat: his hair floated down over his shoulders if it was made of lace. The way the light overhead hugged the shape of his body and the crown of his head to give it a golden glow.

“I want to know what you would do to me,” he confessed to her in a near whisper.

“Well, I'd kiss you all over for starters. And then I'd move my mouth down to your dick after I give you some kisses on your tummy.” He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Any touches there would lead me to below the belt, and I can tell you that without even thinking twice about it. Especially when I know how delicate you are there.”

Alex nudged his glasses back up his nose and then leaned back in the chair again. Christine lowered her gaze down to his pants once again, and in particular the way that the fly hung open below his waist. She could lurch forth with her hand under his shirt and then down inside of his pants within a few minutes with no questions asked.

“Tell me, Christine,” he began again. “What is happening in that heart of yours? That broken, barricaded heart of yours? Surely there has to be something other than the complete and utter unbridled raw lust that absolutely ravishes you on a regular basis.”

“I'd have to tell you through the journal assignment that we're supposed to do for you in French literature,” she quipped with a wag of her finger.

“I'm not gonna read the journals,” he assured her, “but the essay part of it. That should be equally fun, though.”

“You don't have an aide?” He shook his head. “I want an aide. But part of getting the full-time position is to... just have your eyes on it first. If you do it right, you can probably get an aide in the future. Barring if I stay in French lit.”

“How do you like it, by the way?”

“I like it a lot,” he confessed. “It's not music theory or jazz—I'd love to take either of those in the future adjacent to lit.”

“Or both.”

“Or both! Ha!”

“Then you'd be a triple threat!” she quipped, and he burst out laughing at that. Christine inched her chair closer to him, especially when she noticed his eyes drooping. It wasn't even eight o'clock in the evening, and yet he was already getting sleepy.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked her.

“Let me just touch you again,” she admitted with her hand extended over to him. “Because when I patted you, I noticed that you're actually very warm there.”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I'm about as warm as they come. Two big helpings of the meatloaf and potatoes, and that babka... stick a fork in me, I'm toasty and warm straight out of the oven.” Christine placed her hand on the fullest part of his belly and gently rubbed him there.

“Ooh, that's good,” he gasped. “It really is like getting a hand job. A hand job but on steroids.”

She leaned down closer to him. “How do you feel?” she whispered into his ear.

“It's like all of the times you've ever kissed me,” he told her. “It always gets me hot and bothered. It gives me such a silky feeling in my stomach and makes me move a little down below.”

“Do you always think of my kisses?”

“Always. Without a doubt. It's always the way that you do it, too. It's like the way Henry Miller would always think of Nin during their affair, when he was with June—he would always think of her instead. No doubt that she had wriggled her way into his mind the way that you have with mine.”

“Did she ever stuff him to the gills as part of seducing him?”

“I don't think she did,” he confessed with a nudge of his glasses up his nose. “Although she would probably see that as interesting. She would want to know why you find the things erotic to be so... erotic.”

Christine moved her hand up to the side of his face so he could look at her in the eye.

“Would she want to know how I kiss you?” she asked him.

“I would think so,” he lowered his voice to that whispery tone again. “I think she would want to analyze every single one of your kisses.”

“Like this one?” She pressed her lips onto his, and she slipped in a little bit of tongue. She moved back to look into his face, and his chest rose and fell from the feeling.

“Definitely.”

“Or this one?” Slowly, she moved back in for a second one, and that time she let her tongue go deep into his mouth. He slid his feet under the table out of surrender to the feeling. Christine very slowly moved her lips away from his, and she let her tongue slither forth like that of a snake. A soft blush crossed his face and he left his lips slightly parted at the mere sight of her.

“Oh…” His chest heaved a bit as if he had just ran up a flight of stairs. “Oh, god. That was…” He turned his head away and ran a hand down his full belly. “…phew.”

“Really sexy?”

“Oh, god, that was…” He fanned himself with the side of his hand. “…that got me all kinds of hot.”

Christine chuckled at that.

“Why don’t you take a shower?” she offered him as she tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Take a shower and I’ll clean up here.”

“After those kisses, I’m gonna need some cold water like you wouldn’t believe,” he quipped with a low whistle and a running of his fingers through his hair.

She offered to help him up to his feet but he assured her he had it in his control. As she put the remaining meatloaf away and rinsed out the Tupperware, she thought about him in that shower, completely naked and dripping wet. The way the water caressed his body and his hair, the softness and silken nature of his skin.

The feeling burgeoned within her but she also wanted to curl up in bed next to him, especially on such a cold wintry night. It was difficult to even concentrate on putting the meatloaf away and into the refrigerator.

She swore that it was only a few minutes when he switched off the shower. She considered surprising him with her pajamas when she could hear his footsteps in the hallway. Christine dried off her hands with her hand towel and turned around to find him there in the kitchen doorway, wearing nothing but a clean towel around his hips: the break in the towel looked to be an inch from his crotch; the hem remained below his belly button so she could see the complete roundness of his middle. She clasped a hand to her head.

“Like what you see here, my Strawberry Girl?” he asked her as he nudged his wet hair back from the side of his neck.

She stuck out her pinky finger and her thumb to imitate the shape of a phone and brought it to her ear.

“Hello, police? There’s a very big, very sexy naked man in my apartment and he is dripping wet on my kitchen floor.”

Alex busted out laughing at that, and she ran her fingers through her hair.

“I don’t know about you but I’m kind of ready for bed,” he confessed as he brought his hands to his hips. “I’m very full and clean, although it is still early. I do have my nylon guitar with me, but I don’t really know how people in the building here will react to it.”

“Do you have any books with you?” she asked him.

“Not on me, no,” he replied with one hand on his bare belly. “You do, though.” Christine tucked her hands into her back pockets and lingered closer to him.

“Indeed, I do,” she said in a low voice.

“Yeah, you’re feeling cozy, aren’t you?”

“I guess you could say I am. Just before you walked in, I thought of slipping into something more comfortable.”

“Please do,” he told her, and he never moved his hand. “I shall do the same. We can get cozy together under the covers.” Christine licked her lips and eyed his body, and then she leaned in closer to his face as if to give him a kiss. But then she hesitated, and he raised an eyebrow.

“A little teasing?” he whispered. “That’s new.”

She puckered her lips at him, and then she ducked back into the hall and eventually to her room for a clean black velvet camisole over her body. She thought of putting on pajama bottoms, but she rested a hand on her panties and smiled to herself.

Christine tousled her hair a bit before she strolled out of the room and made her way into the front room where Alex was putting on flannel pajamas and nothing else. She ran her fingers down the curvature of his back right as he spritzed a little cologne on his neck.

“Ooh, that was luscious,” he noted as he put the cap back on and stuck it back in his overnight bag in the couch. He turned towards her and gasped at the sight of her. “Cute! So very cute.”

“You look really cute, too,” she decreed as she lovingly patted his bare belly. Alex nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and showed her a little smirk. Christine sashayed her hips as she walked back to her bedroom; Alex lingered back to lock the front door and switch off the light. She stood by her bedroom door and awaited him with one hand to her hip and the other hand up next to the door frame.

He emerged from the darkness with his thumbs tucked down inside of the waistband of his pajama bottoms as if to bring attention to his hips.

“Shall we?” she asked him.

“Let’s get in bed, my dear.”

Christine led him into the comfort of her room, to which he left the door slightly ajar. She nudged the box with the old books and things off to the side, and yet he never asked her about it. She peeked back the covers and let him climb into bed first: Alex took his spot in the edge of the mattress and pushed on the top with his hand.

“This is comfy,” he remarked, and Christine climbed over the foot of the bed to join him on the other side. She lay down with her back to the wall and he lay down next to her, flat on his back.

“My very own teddy bear for the night,” she breathed out, and he nestled down on the bed to get himself comfortable. Alex took off his glasses and lay them on the desk next to the bed, and then he rolled over onto his side to be face to face with her. Christine reached down for the blankets, and she cuddled down next to him: her bare legs brushed against the flannel of his pants such that it sent a shiver up her spine.

“Really comfy bed,” he whispered to her.

“It really is,” she agreed. “I always lay down here and I go right to sleep, even after a high intensity day—you know, those days where you think you can't go to sleep the night before.”

“Oh, yeah, those,” he said as he nestled down next to her. The blankets accentuated the full, avocado shape of his body; a lock of black hair dangled down over his face, such that he looked rather boyish and soft. She kept her arm out over the top of the comforter to feel him.

“You have really lovely hips,” she remarked. “Gorgeous hips and thighs. You're very full there.”

“Love how you describe it as 'full',” he said.

“Very big and round,” she added as she stroked the back of his thigh. She inched closer to him so her body was up against his own. While under the covers, he put his arm around her and held her close to his body. There was a part of her that wondered if the evening was still too early to lie in bed together.

“I feel like we should be doing something here,” she confessed.

“Christine, it's almost ten o'clock at night. I have a belly absolutely filled to the brim with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and cinnamon babka, the latter of which I haven't eaten since my late twenties—the last good babka much further back than that. I am so full and well-fed right now that I feel like I could roll right You know I'm up for anything as long as it makes you happy.”

“As long as it makes me happy?” she asked him as she gazed into his face.

“Yeah. This is your apartment, too. I'm a guest: it's only fair to you if you want love or not.” She pursed her lips at that, especially as she flexed her fingers on the back of his thigh, which in turn made him stick out his tongue to her.

“Can we cuddle?” she asked him.

“Oh, you know I'm always up for a nice little cuddle,” he assured her with a little smile. “Shall I turn off the light?”

“Please do…” Alex reached up and switched off the light in the desk. Once the darkness wrapped around them like a blanket in and of itself, they nestled down together in her bed. Christine tucked her arm under the covers so she could better feel his warmth.

“Oh, god, you're so warm,” she breathed. “So soft.”

“You can touch me if you want,” he whispered to her, and she moved her hand to between his legs to feel him there. Last thing she remembered, she had fallen asleep with her hand still there.

She swore that she felt his lips on her own as she lay on her back on his desk. He was teaching jazz music theory, and he was feeling hot on top of everything else. That velvet tongue between her legs as he taught her a few licks from the greats, his body next to her as Miles Davis played softly in the background behind them and she found herself down below his belt with her tongue for him. For a second, she swore that his black hair became curly, and his bright eyes darkened to that rich brown again.

For a second, she believed that she had been reunited with Chris yet again, and they had found the time in the classroom, and in front of everyone. Music theory mixed with sex education for an unlikely cocktail that only Alex could make for her.

She woke up to the feeling of her own fingers running along the soft, round part of his belly, right around his belly button. She had no idea that she had been asleep for that long as she was met with gray sunlight through the curtains over her desk.

Alex groaned from the feeling of her fingers on his bare skin; he shifted his weight there next to her as she moved her hand to below his waist, where his skin resembled the softest silk she never found.

“I’ll give you like… ten years to stop that,” he told her in a voice broken with sleep. “That feels really good.”

“You have such a sexy voice,” she confessed to him. “It’s so warm and round. Like your body.”

“Even when it’s like this?” he asked her with a slight clearing of his throat.

“Even when it’s like that,” she echoed him. He finally opened his eyes to face her, and he cracked her a smile.

“I don’t think either of us moved all night,” she suggested as she touched his chest.

“Yeah, you were not kidding in the slightest when you said this bed is comfy.”

“And… I assume with me next to you like this.”

“Oh, you bet,” he whispered to her, and then he wrinkled his nose. “Damn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I gotta use the bathroom. Early in the morning after we had gone to bed early, yeah, definitely.” Christine still pressed her lips onto his own for a second before he climbed out of bed, and he showed her a little smirk at that. Once Alex left the room, she turned to the clock on her desk.

“Almost six o’clock, wow,” she muttered as she climbed out of bed to make the covers and get dressed. Once she had a sweater on in lieu of her big green coat, Alex strode into the room with his clothes slung over one shoulder and the waist of his pajama bottoms down below his waist to accentuate the roundness of his body. 

“So cute!” she exclaimed.

“You should have seen me right before Christmas,” he said with a running of his fingers through his hair. “My pants were actually snug on me.” He then rubbed his hands together. “So, do we have anything for breakfast?”

“Not at the moment,” she replied. “It being Saturday, I usually go over to my mom’s place across the hall for breakfast and then she and I go grocery shopping. I don’t even have a coffee maker.”

“You should get one,” he advised her. “Coffee at school is good but it’ll cost you after a time. I’ll get you one.”

“Oh, no, Alex, you don’t have to do that,” she quipped with a shake of her head.

“I insist! I’m getting paid more now, so I’ll get you one. I’ll find you a colorful one, you being a colorful person and whatnot. Early birthday present.”

Christine put a hand to her chest and tilted her head to the side.

“That is so sweet,” she said in a soft voice, and she strode over to him. She gently rested a hand on his belly and raised herself on her toes to kiss his neck. “So, so sweet…”

“I assume I’m going to have to put a shirt on,” he quipped with a soft blush in his face.

“It would be so cute if you went over there with me like this, though,” she joked, and he chuckled at that.

“What would your mother think?” he asked her with a raise of his eyebrows.

“If my mom asks, you just came over for breakfast,” she told him. “And… you did!”

He chuckled again, and she gave him another kiss on the neck to catch him off guard.

“I’ll be waiting,” she whispered to him, and then she strolled out of the room to give him privacy. And yet, she could still hear him put his pants on as well as a clean shirt and his sweater. When he surfaced from her bedroom, she was already eager to find what Wendy had in store for them across the hall.

Alex helped himself to a cup of coffee and a little omelette that she made for him, while Christine took to some scrambled eggs and sourdough toast with gooseberry jam on top.

“Oh, man, that looks delicious,” he noted as Christine spread the jam on the bread.

“Be careful with it, too, Chris—that jar’s not cheap,” Wendy advised her as she rested a pan filled with cobbler between the three of them.

“Oh, my,” Alex noted.

“Hope you two saved room for more afterwards,” Wendy said as she took her seat, and she turned to Christine right as she relished in her toast. “Especially since you and I are going to be out and about all day. Some blackberry cobbler made just yesterday afternoon!”

“So, that’s why it smelled so good over on this side of the building,” she recalled with one hand over her mouth.

“Babka with whipped cream the night before and blackberry cobbler the very next day for brunch, it's like you wanna fatten me up,” he teased her.

“Oh, keep frequenting over here and we're going to make you as plump as a Christmas goose, dear Alex,” Wendy promised him with a sly smile. “Unless you want to do something for yourself to balance things out.”

“Nah, I would rather indulge in something like this than not eat anything,” he said with a shake of his head. The three of them did in fact indulge in the cobbler, and at that point, Alex looked ready to fall asleep in his chair.

“I don’t know if I can make it home,” he confessed with a hearty chuckle. “I feel like I’m about ready to roll around on the floor.”

“I can call a cab, if you’d like,” Wendy sweetly suggested. Christine eyed Alex’s hand rested on his belly again, as well as the lush shape of his body, even lusher from the night before. It was then she had another journal entry in the wings.

“I have to brush my hair, change my clothes, and check some things for school,” she told her mother.

“We’ll be right here,” Wendy assured her with a wink. Christine took one final sip of her coffee before she left the apartment and ambled across the hall to change her clothes and put on her shoes. However, she sat down at her desk, and she took the robin’s egg blue journal out of her bag, and she plunked it open to a fresh page. With her pencil in her hand, she believed that she couldn’t write anything.

But then the words flooded out of her like the streets following a torrential downpour.

I've been lying. I've been lying to you, Alex. I wish I wasn't lying to you. I've been lying to myself, too.

I hate that I've been lying to you, too, because you deserve the truth. You're a good guy and you deserve the truth and every single iota of it. I hate that I feel like I can't tell it to you because it should be obvious but alas, it isn't.

I just wish I could tell you the truth about how I feel about you, Alex. I wish I could say it to your face without feeling like a complete idiot in the process. I really do feel like an idiot every time I think about it.

I really love you. I am really, truly in love with you. It would make me so sick to see you with another woman, and it makes me sick thinking and realizing you're with her. 

You are the love of my life.

I just want you for myself. I know, that's greedy and shitty and awful but I can't candy coat anything, though. I dream too much. I fantasize too much. But that’s the truth about you, though. This is what you do to me, Alex. I think of so much, of books to read, of movies that I love, of friends and people to see and things to learn but I always find my way back to you.

I don’t know, I’m not an artistic person by any means, and I’m trying hard to understand what it is that you see in me about it, but I want to draw you. I want to paint you. I want to kiss every inch your body and soul with art. I’m sorry, that’s too much. I know you won’t see this, but I’m apologizing anyway.

I love you. I want to lay next to you. I think of last night, when you and I were sharing my bed together, and I get that “silky feeling in my stomach” like what you said to me. A little pit in the belly that cascades down to between the legs and everything goes crazy inside.

You drive me crazy. You drive me wild. You make me want to cross some lines and do things I would never in my wildest dreams do. You bring the fire to the swirling, whirling whirlpool inside of me to the point it dances about and it drives me insane.

Let’s walk together on the beach in the springtime. Let’s walk and hold hands.

I can wear a bikini and you can wear your shorts with your shirt open to let your belly hang out in all its sexy glory.

Let’s walk together in the Poconos in the autumn. Let’s walk together and have some apple cinnamon toast and ginger snaps, and then have soup under the tree. Lay your head on my lap and let me stroke your hair and kiss your forehead.

I’m coming off too strong. I always do. But I have this fucking burning feeling inside of me. Burning with the torrential feeling of raging waters. Goddamn it, I WANT YOU.

Let me be yours. I am yours. In fact you said that yourself. I’m yours, and you’re mine. Fuck, I live across the hall from my mother. I know you think it’s lovely, but there’s no denying my own trembling disposition when I think of you. I’ll admit that I’m immature and that I need time, but I’ll admit that. I need to be around you more, not just while in school and definitely not the version of you that exists in my head, either.

The you that exists in my head. Oh, god, the you that exists in my head! I don’t have that many friends—I have friends just not that many—and I admit to feeling wary about talking about you to my parents: my mom doesn’t even know that you and I are a thing. I feel like the you that exists in my head is all that I’ve really got.

When I stayed the night with Valentina last night, and we had that babka, I thought of you. I knew you would like it. In fact, I love how you love to eat. I want to get you a new guitar. I want to make you a strap for it, too, like actually make a strap: find myself a book on leather work and study it so I can craft you a strap for the guitar, or for your nylon.

I want to bake you a pie, especially with Nelly being AWOL for another few weeks, a nice big pie to fill your gorgeous belly. I want you to eat.

And yet, I really love your body no matter what size you are. I would be in love with your body if you got very fat, and I would be in love with your body if you lost a hundred pounds and got skinny. 

I think about the young version of you, the slim beautiful boy with the long black curls. I would date you. I would date the shit out of you. I would take a hold of you and never let you go. To have my arms around that slim, delicate waist and always kiss you. So sexy and cute at the same time.

To kiss those young lips, lips like sugar cane and saltwater taffy, lips like the ripest fruit from the tree.

I wish I was good at writing poetry. I would write poetry about you for the entire month of February just because the month calls for it.

I do pretty well for an old tin can sailor, a baker with no appetite. My head is a complete mess. I’m a mess. I’m a complete wreck and an idiot for feeling this way. I want to think of other things that yet I come back to you. I want to know more about you, the books you read, the music you love, the story that resides behind that cool demeanor lined with a shock of silver.

I don’t think I’m good enough for you, though. I’m not an architect. Would you love me if I was?

I come from the worst background possible, with alcoholic parents, grandparents who had little influence on my parents’ ways, an extended family that tried to get me away from my parents even though they weren’t abusive, our house burning down, death from a young age, an awful eating disorder that nearly killed me on more than one occasion, bullies, and losing my best friend. My internal world has somehow kept me going, even though it’s hard to put into words sometimes. I want more books. I want more art. I want to be more active and work out when the weather starts warming up. 

But I cannot be an architect. I’m too dumb. I’m not refined enough. I’m a diamond in the rough and a jerk.

It's like what I said on the street that one time when you and I were fighting: I don't like her. I don't like her at all. In fact, I hate her. I'm not the kind of person who hates, either, so that alone should tell you something. I'll admit it. I'm shitty and horrible. It took me an entire dance with an eating disorder to feel this way, and I hate that I feel this way, too, but I want you for myself. I want to get you away from her. I want you to get away from her.

Maybe I'm just immature, but I can't let you go. I can't let you go knowing that you aren't happy with her. If you were happy, I would be more than happy to let you go.

“If you love something, let it go.” And if you were knowingly happy, if it was obvious to me, if I knew it in my heart that you were happy with her, I would let you go and be happy, because your happiness is my own happiness. We would be one of those couples that just goes their separate ways but they always love each other and they are always madly in love with each other, too. They'll always stare at the same sun as it rises in the morning. Their memory would always be there with each other, as my friend Chris' grandmother used to say whenever she witnessed something like that.

Chris. Chris. I mentioned his name here. I can't mention his name to you to your face because... well, that's a journal entry for another day. I know you're not going to see this journal as is, but I know that I'm going to have to tell you about Chris at some point or another.

Christine set down her pencil on the desk and leaned back in the chair. She placed her hands on either side of the journal with her face flushed and her heart pounding in her chest. It was as if she had just ran up and down the block several times: her mind could hardly keep up with the strokes from her hand. Her mind raced at the pace of a lava flow straight out of a freshly erupted volcano and everything within her flowed out like the strength of a storm surge from the biggest, baddest hurricane she could possibly imagine. The hurricane with the volcano.

She closed her eyes and let out a low whistle. She focused on her heart and her breathing to calm it all down before she walked out of there and visited Wendy for some dinner that evening.

All of that emotion, and all of those thoughts, all of them down on paper in that journal. She knew that Alex would never see the journal, but she knew that she would have it there every single time that she cracked open the journal. She knew that she would have to let her eyes graze over those same words over and over again in hopes to find a solution to the problem, but the problem persisted regardless of anything she did.

She lifted the front cover of the journal cover and closed it, especially when she knew Wendy waited for her.

The only problem now was having to funnel all of that, an utter monolith and torrent of volatile emotions, into an essay for him. She was going to have to tell him the truth, but she was also going to have to gloss it all over.

[mutantenfisch]

Lemon Rice, Baked Chipotle Beans with Tofu, with Salsa (Fisch Style)

Ingredients for 4 servings, adjust as necessary Important! If you don't have canned chipotle beans, use: - 200g of canned and drained black or kidney beans - 1 generous tablespoon of tomato paste - either some chipotle paste or, if you have access to those, 1-2 whole chipotles - alternatively, you can use some jalapenos and some smoke salt or a few drops of liquid smoke

Mix the beans, the tomato paste, the chipotle paste or the alternative options together and either use a blender or a blending stick to blend them into a smooth homogenous paste. If it sticks to your blender too much, add a bit of water or ketchup, set aside until needed. If you have canned chipotle beans or have prepared them as described above, continue with the other ingredients: - 2 cups of rice - 2 cups of water - 1 lemon - 1 cup / 200g of plain yoghurt of choice - 4 large tomatoes - 2 large red bell peppers or 3-4 pointy peppers - 1 avocado - 1 cucumber - 2 small or 1 large brown or red onions - garlic (no measurements given because in this house we answer the question of 'how much garlic?' with YES) - half a block of smoked tofu - some oil for frying (I prefer rapeseed), more oil for the salad - some red wine vinegar or apple vinegar - salt, pepper, sugar, a bay leaf - dried oregano, rosemary and tarragon (or fresh if you have), ancho chilli - 1 can / 200 g of chipotle beans

1. Pour rice into a pot, bring the water to a boil either with the rice on the stovetop or with a kettle and pour it on rice. Add a pinch of salt, pepper and the bay leaf. Put lid on the pot and turn off the heat, let rice soak up hot water. 2. Meanwhile, peel the onions and garlic and cut them into fine slices. Cut the tofu block into thin sticks, ca 5 mm wide. Bring oil to medium high heat in a large pan and first add tofu. Push it around a little to keep it from sticking. Once tofu begins to brown, add half the onion and garlic and let it slightly brown as well. Add the chipotle beans and heat up the mix while stirring a few times to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. 3. Cut the cucumber, tomatoes and red bell pepper into small cubes (5mm-1cm in size), transfer to a large bowl. Add the remaining half of the onion and garlic. Cut the lemon in halves and squeeze the juice of one half over the veggies in the bowl. Add the vinegar and a little bit of oil, the herbs, salt, pepper and sugar to taste. Stir until mixed well. 4. Squeeze the remaining half of the lemon's juice over the rice, remove the bay leaf and add the yoghurt of choice. Stir until well combined. 5. Cut up the avocado, remove the stone and cut into slices according to taste. 6. Prepare by dividing up the rice and chipotle-tofu-beans to 4 large bowls or medium size plates with rice on one side and beans on the other. Add salad/salsa (I really need to learn the difference) and decorate with avocado slices. Enjoy! Addition: you can mix up the ingredients as you like. I think black olives would be a great addition, as would sunflower seeds or some nuts be. You could also add crumbled or diced feta or fry some sliced or diced halloumi and add it. Or maybe make an omelette and cut it into strips. Most important is, have fun and prepare something to eat that you enjoy. Addition's addition: If you realise you made more than you can eat in one meal, even if you changed the measurements, no worries. The salad and rice can be combined to a rice-salad and stored in the fridge in an airtight container for up to 4 days. I would keep the bean paste separate though, because it gets too soggy if stored in the same container as the salad. However, if you give it a slightly more viscous texture (by adding water or ketchup), I imagine it would be a nice spread on some breakfast bread.

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Christmas Invoice

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC (Eliza, no mention of specific race/looks)

Warnings: None, just fluff!

Word Count: 521

Summary: Bucky had his fellow Avenger Eliza wrap his Christmas presents, and now it’s time to pay up for the favor.

A/N: Sorry this one is so late, I’ve been in bed with a stomach bug all. Damn. Day. Fluffcember day 14! Hope you enjoy it!

Fluffcember Masterlist

Since she was the best at it, Eliza was the go-to person at the Avengers compound for present-wrapping. However, in exchange for keeping gifts a secret from their recipient and to pay her for her time, she would give out what she called, ‘Christmas Invoices.’

These weren’t typical business invoices, even though they looked similar. Instead of a dollar amount, she would enter in requests. For example, she’d requested that Tony provide proof that he’d gotten a full 8 hours of sleep or a $50,000 donation to a charity of her choice. Planned Parenthood thanked her for her generous contribution. 

She would put these invoices in neon pink envelopes with the person’s name written in black sharpie on the front. At breakfast, that morning she handed one to Natasha, one to Steve, and one to Bucky.

“Your presents are under the tree,” she chirped as she sat down and helped herself to a large helping of eggs and bacon. Bucky’s metal hand held the envelope, his flesh hand itching to open it and see what she wanted from him. Since she’d been hired as an Avenger, Bucky couldn’t help but develop a crush on her. His first crush in close to seventy years, as a matter of fact, and Steve had — of course — noticed and would not let him hear the end of it.

The sound of tearing paper tore him from his thoughts; Natasha and Steve didn’t have any patience when debts were owed, apparently.

“One night borrowing that little black cocktail dress that makes me look like sex with legs,” Natasha read out loud, the smirk evident in her voice. “You got it, babe.”

Bucky almost choked on his mouthful of coffee at the way his imagination ran wild with that visual. Eliza was gorgeous, but he hadn’t seen her in a cocktail dress. It might just be the death of him.

Steve chuckled as he read his invoice, “Your mother’s apple crumble recipe, or that you make me apple crumble once a month for the next six months. You’re serious?”

“Deadly serious,” she responded, “I’ve been dreaming about apple crumble since Thanksgiving.”

“Sorry, but I’m taking that recipe to my grave. I’ll make it for you, though.” Steve responded, fondness flashing in his ocean blue gaze. Bucky remembered when that fondness was directed at him, then suddenly it was. “What did she want from you, Buck?”

Bucky startled out of his remembrance, “Oh, uh, I haven’t…one second.” He said, tearing into his envelope. He extracted a piece of paper, all typed up and official looking, and read the ‘Payment’ section.

‘One date. Christmas Eve. Meet me at the Christmas tree at 10 pm.’

His throat dried up and he knew his eyes were the size of saucers. He glanced across the table at Emily and she winked at him while biting into a slice of bacon. 

“So, Buck? What’s your payment?” Steve pried, noticing the sparks flying from their eye contact.

“Something I most definitely look forward to,” Bucky answered, winking back at her. “Maybe you’ll cash in your favor from Natasha at the same time, doll.”

Fluffcember Masterlist

[sakhshimandal]

Pizza-Making Classes with a Twist: Unique Flavors and Toppings

Traditional pizza will always have a special place in the hearts of food lovers, but for those who crave something more adventurous, pizza-making classes with unique flavors and toppings offer an exciting alternative. These classes focus on experimenting beyond the standard tomato, mozzarella, and pepperoni, inviting participants to explore an array of non-traditional ingredients and bold flavor combinations. Whether you’re a pizza enthusiast or someone seeking a creative culinary experience, these specialized classes add a refreshing twist to the art of pizza-making.

Why Take Pizza-Making Classes with a Twist?

Pizza-making classes that emphasize unique toppings and flavors are ideal for foodies who enjoy trying new things and breaking away from the norm. These classes not only cover the basics of crafting a delicious pizza but also push participants to step outside of their comfort zones. You’ll learn how to balance bold and unexpected flavors, experiment with global ingredients, and create pizzas that taste as extraordinary as they look.

These classes are particularly popular for groups, couples, and corporate events because they encourage creativity and fun. Rather than sticking to classic recipes, participants have the freedom to craft something one-of-a-kind, making these pizza-making sessions memorable experiences that spark both culinary curiosity and community.

Exploring Global Flavors

One of the highlights of these unique pizza-making classes is the chance to explore global flavors. Instructors introduce participants to ingredients and styles from around the world, allowing them to infuse a variety of cuisines into their pizzas. Imagine a Mediterranean-inspired pizza topped with feta, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and a drizzle of olive oil, or a Japanese-inspired pizza featuring teriyaki sauce, seaweed, and thinly sliced mushrooms.

Another popular variation is Mexican-inspired pizzas, topped with spicy chorizo, black beans, jalapeños, and fresh avocado slices, offering a fun and flavorful departure from the traditional Italian style. These globally inspired creations not only satisfy cravings for something new but also offer an opportunity to learn about different cultural flavor profiles and cooking techniques.

Unique Toppings and Flavor Combinations

In these specialized pizza-making classes, the toppings go well beyond the usual ingredients. Think about experimenting with caramelized onions, figs, goat cheese, and a balsamic glaze for a sweet-and-savory combination, or adding truffle oil and wild mushrooms for a rich, earthy flavor. For meat lovers, classes often introduce options like prosciutto, spicy salami, and smoked sausage, which bring out bold flavors when paired with unique sauces.

Vegetarians can get creative with toppings like roasted bell peppers, artichokes, zucchini, and even fruits like pineapple or apple slices paired with cheddar or brie. These pizzas often incorporate various fresh herbs and spices, allowing each participant to tailor their pie to suit their personal taste. Some classes even offer vegan cheese and gluten-free crust options, ensuring everyone can join in the fun of creating unique and tasty pizzas.

Customizing Sauces and Crusts

One way these pizza-making classes create truly unique flavors is by allowing participants to experiment with different sauces and crusts. Instead of sticking to traditional tomato sauce, instructors might introduce alternatives like pesto, garlic cream, or even pumpkin puree as a base. These sauces add layers of flavor and complement a variety of toppings, transforming the pizza into something entirely unexpected.

Crust customization is another exciting aspect. For a healthier option, some classes offer whole wheat, cauliflower, or gluten-free dough. Others might introduce stuffed crusts filled with cheese, garlic butter, or herbs, giving the pizza a delicious twist from the very first bite. The options are endless, and the creativity involved in customizing each element is what makes these pizza-making classes so enjoyable and unique.

Perfecting Techniques for Creative Pizzas

Instructors in these classes teach essential pizza-making skills like kneading, dough shaping, and getting the perfect bake. However, there’s also a focus on techniques that specifically enhance unique flavor combinations. For instance, participants may learn how to caramelize toppings, work with fresh herbs, or create toppings that add a perfect touch of crunch. The cooking techniques covered in these classes ensure that each pizza isn’t just interesting in flavor but also well-crafted in texture and presentation.

An Interactive and Social Experience

These creative pizza-making classes are as much about having fun as they are about cooking. Since participants are encouraged to think outside the box, the environment is typically lively and interactive. Group members can compare creations, swap ideas, and even compete to make the most inventive pizza. For couples, it’s a perfect way to collaborate on something delicious, while families and friends can enjoy the experience of working together on unique culinary creations.

Pizza-making classes with a twist often end with a tasting session where everyone can sample the different creations. This brings a sense of satisfaction and community as participants get to enjoy their one-of-a-kind pizzas together.

Conclusion

For those looking to elevate their pizza-making skills and explore new flavors, pizza-making classes with unique toppings and global ingredients are a fantastic option. These classes combine culinary creativity with hands-on learning, inviting participants to break free from tradition and explore flavors that range from savory and spicy to sweet and fruity. From customized sauces to globally inspired toppings, these sessions make pizza-making an unforgettable experience that goes well beyond the ordinary.

[calmdownandcook]

Calm Down and Cook Coleslaw

Coleslaw is something people ask you to bring to neighborhood picnics or it randomly shows up in a tiny bowl next to a sandwich you just ordered.  It can be a topping for a pulled pork sandwich or a hotdog or you can just eat a big bowl of it standing in front of the refrigerator, for dinner when no one is looking. Coleslaw can be delicious, it can also be horrible.

The “authentic” recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken Coleslaw has ⅓ cup sugar in it. That’s unnecessary and kinda gross. But that’s just me.  I have never put sugar in my coleslaw, but you can if you want to, you do you. You can actually put anything you want in coleslaw, but it usually starts with cabbage. 

Let’s make your “slaw”. I follow no official recipe which really lets me go with what I’m craving. Green cabbage is where I start. Any green cabbage works. Cabbage in coleslaw should be chopped or very finely shredded. Sometimes, I can find a bag of pre-shredded cabbage in the produce section at the grocery store and I celebrate that step was done for me (these serve about 4 people). Red cabbage can also be used, just don’t let it break your heart when it tints everything pink. Just call the pink “festive” and move forward as if you did it on purpose. 

How much should you make? This is where you get comfortable with “eyeballing” the amount. Does it look right, does it look like enough? Can you imagine the bowl you make it in serving 4,6, or 8 people? Are they big eaters or do you want leftovers? I know you know what this looks like.

Once you have your cabbage ready, you look to embellishments. The cabbage is going to be 50 to 75% of your dish, you get to choose what else goes in there. The remainder will be made up of Cabbage Friends and Cabbage Sparklers. These are just my words, friends and sparklers, you can name your ingredients whatever you want. A Cabbage Friend is what will make up the rest of your slaw. This can be almost anything, fruit or vegetable. A classic slaw usually has carrots and red cabbage but I encourage you to think outside of the box and use what you have or what appeals to you. Just try to cut in a size that’s similar to the cabbage. A Cabbage Sparkler is that random accessory that makes people ask “what’s in here”? A light sprinkle of something that will dress up your Coleslaw. Something like a dried cranberry adds a little sweetness or sunflower seed adds a surprise crunch. Cabbage Friends and Cabbage Sparklers are the things that make your Coleslaw expressly yours. Don’t let your cabbage be lonely. See the inspiration list below and then take it from there.

Finally, don’t drown it in the dressing, use just enough to lightly coat everything. The dressing can be any favorite one you already have in the fridge or you can be inspired by the flavor profile of your main dish and create one from scratch. A vinaigrette (​​3 parts oil, 1 part vinegar with the herbs and spices of your choice) is one way to keep the coleslaw light. A creamy ranch (a salad dressing that features buttermilk and mayonnaise combined with herbs and spices) is a classic.

You’ll just slice or chop your cabbage, then choose a Cabbage Friend and Cabbage sparkler and you’re ready to go. 

Cabbage Friends 

(Things to shred, combine, and add to the cabbage)

Carrot

Jicama

Radish

Red onion

Scallions

Roasted Golden Beets

Apples (spritz with lemon juice to keep from browning)

Pears (spritz with lemon juice to keep from browning)

Fresh Fennel

Your favorite vegetable you are currently obsessed with

Cabbage Sparklers -  

(Things to sprinkle on judiciously, with good judgment or sense)

Peanuts

Sunflower Seeds

Sesame Seeds

Grapes

Raisins

Dried Cranberries

Parsley

Chopped Pickled anything

Crunchy Chow Mein noodles

Chopped Kimchi

Fun things to throw together in a dressing.

Miso

Sriracha

Buttermilk

Mayo

Yogurt

Sour Cream

Whatever you want The key to coleslaw lies in using a variety of crunchy ingredients and avoiding soaking in a dressing. Be daring and proceed with confidence. It can be a side dish but I see no reason it couldn’t be a main dish. Toss in some tuna, leftover chicken, or Salmon (look at you! Putting salmon in your coleslaw, so fancy). Letting coleslaw rest for 3 to 4 hours lets it soak up the flavors and tenderizes the cabbage but that's not mandatory. Served right away it highlights its crispness and each ingredient shines separately as you chew. Again, you do you. Embrace the process and make a new one every time. Make good coleslaw. Soon it’s your signature dish.

[artikumari123]

Journey into the World of Freeze-Dried Fruits

Imagine biting into a handful of strawberries that burst with flavor, leaving no sticky residue on your fingers. This is the magic of freeze-dried fruits, a wonder of modern food preservation that captures the essence of fresh produce in a light, crunchy form.

I first stumbled upon freeze-dried fruits during a hiking trip. My friend pulled out a bag of freeze-dried apple slices, and I was amazed at how something so light could pack such a punch of flavor. Since then, these little wonders have become a staple in my kitchen.

In the morning, I sprinkle freeze-dried raspberries over my yogurt. They slowly rehydrate, releasing their vibrant flavor and color, transforming my mundane breakfast into a delightful treat. My baking has also taken a turn for the better. Adding freeze-dried blueberries to muffin batter means I get the burst of berry goodness without the excess moisture that can make the muffins soggy.

One of my favorite uses is blending freeze-dried fruits into smoothies. They give an intense fruit flavor and a smooth consistency, perfect for a quick, nutritious meal. Even my cocktails have benefited. A few freeze-dried strawberries in a glass of sparkling wine create a beautiful and tasty garnish.

Freeze-dried fruits have proven to be more than just a snack; they are an adventure in culinary creativity. Each crunchy bite is a reminder of how versatile and delightful these fruits can be.

[duskylory11]

Indulging in Dry Fruit Delights during the Rainy Season

As the pitter-patter of raindrops echoes against the windows, the air becomes crisp and the craving for something warm and comforting sets in. During the rainy season, there's nothing quite like snuggling up with a cozy blanket, a steaming cup of tea, and a delectable array of dry fruits. These little gems not only satisfy our taste buds but also provide a nutritional boost to help us weather the chilly, damp days.

One of the joys of the rainy season is the abundance of dry fruits available. From juicy apricots and succulent figs to crunchy almonds and tangy cranberries, the options are endless. These dried delights are not only packed with flavor but also offer a wealth of health benefits. Dry fruits are rich in fiber, vitamins, and minerals, making them the perfect snack to fuel our bodies and keep us energized during the dreary weather.

When the rain is pouring outside, there's nothing quite like indulging in a platter of dry fruits. A well-curated "Dry Fruit Tray" can be the star of any rainy day gathering, offering a variety of flavors and textures to satisfy every palate. Imagine a spread of plump, juicy apricots nestled alongside crunchy cashews, chewy dates, and tangy-sweet cranberries. This vibrant display not only looks visually appealing but also provides a nutritious and satisfying snacking experience.

One of the best things about dry fruits is their versatility. Beyond simply snacking, they can be incorporated into a wide range of dishes to add a burst of flavor and nutrition. During the rainy season, why not try baking a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies or stirring some chopped figs into your morning porridge? You could even experiment with creating a delectable trail mix, blending together a variety of dry fruits, nuts, and even a few dark chocolate chips for a truly indulgent treat.

Another way to enjoy dry fruits in the rainy season is by adding them to your favorite warm beverages. Toss a handful of sliced almonds or chopped walnuts into your steaming cup of tea or hot chocolate for a delightful crunch and added nutritional boost. Or, try simmering some dried apricots or plums in a pot of mulled wine or apple cider for a cozy and comforting drink.

The benefits of incorporating dry fruits into your rainy day routine go beyond just the taste. These nutrient-dense snacks can also help boost your immune system, which is particularly important during the damp and chilly rainy season. The antioxidants and vitamins found in dry fruits can help strengthen your body's defenses, making you better equipped to ward off any pesky colds or flu bugs that may be lurking.

So, the next time the rain starts to fall, don't reach for the usual potato chips or cookies. Instead, indulge in the delightful world of dry fruits and create your own rainy day masterpiece. Whether it's a beautifully arranged "Dry Fruit Tray" or a warm, comforting beverage topped with crunchy nuts, these natural wonders will not only satisfy your taste buds but also nourish your body and soul on those dreary, rainy days.

[zencha]

Day 6 - Autumn fruit

death // endings, change, transition

I briefly mentioned it yesterday, but the cafe will be going on Winter Solstice break starting from tomorrow. I know, I know, it's been just about a week since I opened shop for the first time, but I'd booked consultations with a number of tea farms around my family farm, for research and development for the sake of the cafe, and they'd only managed to slot me in around the Winter Solstice period, so I decided I'd combine this business trip together with a quick visit home. I've not been home for a few years, and I certainly haven't told my parents about opening this cafe, so I've got plenty of news to bring home, for sure.

In the meantime, a travelling satyr merchant stopped by today with some seasonal produce. She told me her name was Lilah - she'd heard about the cafe from a couple of her pixie friends, and decided to stop by to check out the place. It seems that she gathers produce from all over and travels around to sell it for a living, and she ended up bartering a few croissants for a bushel of the last of the autumn persimmons. I was pretty excited by this offer - I haven't been able to go foraging properly ever since we opened for business, and it's been a bit of a struggle trying to stretch a menu with only witch-hazel and a couple of teas. The addition of persimmons promises some variety for our newer menu items, which is a pretty exciting development.

I never used to eat persimmons much as a child - our neighbours ran an apple farm so we always had plenty of apples, but persimmons were something far more exotic. The first time I had one, I was already considerably well-travelled. We'd been heading from one city to another, and along the way had stopped to help an old lady who'd been dealing with an infestation of giant rats in her farm. As thanks, she shared with us some persimmons from her crop. When I bit into a slice of that persimmon for the first time, I instantly felt like I was basking in the sunshine of a warm autumn afternoon - juicy, honey-sweet, the juice resting on my tongue.

Of course, a whole bushel of fresh persimmons would go bad instantly. But I've decided that since I'm going to be away for a while over the Winter Solstice, I might as well try preserving them for use in future food items for the cafe. Dried persimmons, of course, are a given - I strung up and hung a good half of the persimmons from the ceiling rafters once we'd closed for the day, and The Viscount Baxter helped me knot the strings tight. I've set up a ward to protect them from mold - hopefully in a month or so we might have some nice dried persimmons to experiment with.

The other half of the persimmons I've layered with some rock sugar in a large jar, and left on the bottom shelf of the pantry - I've heard of people making syrup with plums this way, and if plums can do it, why not persimmons? I can already imagine all the things we could possibly do with persimmon syrup.

Any new recipes, though, will have to wait until Winter Solstice! I'll come back hopefully filled with new ideas and ready to experiment. Until then, see you!