#irish whisk

[rabbitcruiser]

International Whisk(e)y Day

Whiskey has a long and venerable history as one of the most recognizable forms of distilled spirits in the world.

The name for Whisk(e)y comes from the Gaelic language, where it was referred to as Uisce na Beatha, which means ‘The Water of Life’. It wasn’t long before the name was shortened to Uisce (Merely “Water”) and then the pronunciation slowly changed over time from Ish-Key, to Whiskey. And that pronunciation has remained ever since.

Now, it’s time to enjoy, share, and celebrate this day that is all about Whiskey!

History of International Whisk(e)y Day

The history of International Whiskey day is intrinsically tied to the history of the beverage, so that seems like a good place to begin. Whiskey is the result of a distillation process, a chemical/alchemical process known as far back in history as Babylon. While no one quite knows if they created a beverage quite as wonderful as modern-day whiskey, historians have confirmed that the process was available to them.

All whiskey starts with a ‘mash’, which is a mixture of grain and water that is slowly heated in order to break down the starch into sugars. The kind of grain that the maker uses will determine what kind of whiskey comes out as the end result. The result of this process is then known as wort and is just the beginning of this amazing drink’s life journey.

Aging in a barrel is usually part of the process as well. But the amount of time spent in the aging process is certainly worth it!

Here’s a quick rundown on the different types of grains that result in all of these unique types of whiskey beverages:

Bourbon starts from a mash that is 51% or more corn base, though it becomes a Corn Whiskey once it reaches 81%.

Malt whiskey is made from 51% malted barley.

Rye is 51% plain rye.

Wheat Whiskey, as one might suspect, is made from Wheat.

So where did International Whiskey Day come from? Well, it was first announced in 2008, and subsequently celebrated in 2009 at the Whiskey Festival in the Northern Netherlands.

This was all done in honor of a whiskey (and beer) connoisseur and writer, Michael Jackson. (No, not the King of Pop.) He was a man who was well known for his writings on Whiskey and who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. His whiskey-loving friends wanted to not only celebrate his love for whiskey but also help find a cure for this difficult disease. Since Michael’s birthday was March 27, the date is a nod to him.

So, the purpose of Whiskey Day isn’t just the raising of awareness of whiskey and its charms, although that is certainly a great reason. The purpose is also to spread awareness for Parkinson’s, a disease that whiskey aficionado, Michael Jackon, suffered from in his later years.

How to Celebrate International Whisk(e)y Day

The most obvious and practical way to celebrate this holiday is to either imbibe a favorite variety of Whiskey or to try a new one! Check out these ideas for celebrating Whisk(e)y Day:

Try a New Kind of Whiskey

Even better, get together with friends and introduce each other to your favorites, and maybe check out a few new vintages or styles. Look into these, for example:

Irish Whiskey. Smooth, made from a mash of malt, caramel-colored, and must be distilled for at least 3 years in a wooden cask.

Scotch Whisky (also called ‘Scotch’). Made with either malt or grain, must age in an oak barrel for 3 years.

Canadian Whisky. Light and smooth with a high amount of corn, must be aged in a barrel for 3 years.

Bourbon Whiskey. Made from at least 51% corn, aged in a new oak barrel, and must be 80 proof or higher. (Tennessee Whiskey is a sub-type of bourbon with special filtering step.)

Japanese Whisky. Methods and taste are similar to Scotch, often used with mixed drinks.

Learn How to Spell Whisk(e)y

It seems strange, but there are actually two correct ways to spell this word, depending on the context. Originally, Irish Whiskey included the ‘e’ and Scottish Whisky did not. Ultimately that carried out so that Americans adopted the ‘e’ version for their whiskey, but Canadians and Japanese Whisky makers did not! Thus, the correct, inclusive spelling is: International Whisk(e)y Day!

Grab a Whiskey at a Pub or Bar

Many different bars and pubs have gotten on board with celebrating Whisk(e)y Day. They’ll often provide drink specials, food specials, and possibly even opportunities to win door prizes–such as a special bottle of whiskey. So grab a friend and head over to the pub for a drink of whiskey (or beer will do just as well)!

Introduce Whisk(e)y to a Newbie

What could be more fun than opening up the world (and a bottle) to someone who has never tried whiskey before? Although it might be hard to imagine, many people are out there who are new to whiskey and have no idea how to enjoy it. Grab one of them, open a bottle, and reveal to them the myriad of reasons why Whisk(e)y Day is absolutely worth celebrating!

Donate to a Parkinson’s Disease Charity

Don’t forget to make a donation to your favorite Parkinson’s charity while you’re at it! Team Fox, the charity created by actor Michael J. Fox, who lives with early-onset Parkinson’s Disease, often teams up with various Whiskey Day folks to build momentum for celebrating the day and raising funds for the charity.

While you’re at it, be sure that everyone gets home safely. The best way to celebrate International Whiskey Day is drinking responsibly, and making sure everyone can talk about it again tomorrow!

Source

[eroselless]

─────────────── the spaces between us // 2

series summary: when you accept a job as an au pair in the irish countryside, you expect to spend your days caring for your little new pal but its all upended when his charming uncle arrives to stay for the holidays. [3k]

[paul mescal x reader]

masterlist | part 1 | part 3

warnings: kinda angst, sort of complicated family dynamics

note: hiii sorry it took me a little longer to get this out. i originally wanted to post the next part a few days ago but I came down with a nasty cold and could not sit down to focus. hope y'all enjoy it!

The soft patter of footsteps pulls you from your sleep much earlier than usual, a familiar giggle echoing through the quiet house. As you stir, you recognize the laughter—the one that never fails to bring a smile to your face. With a quiet sigh, you slip out of bed and wander into the kitchen.

The room hums with life. The gentle clink of cutlery against porcelain mingles with hushed murmurs, shushes, and the sound of laughter that fills the space. The first rays of sunlight filter through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over the scene.

At the kitchen island, Paul and Callum sit together, sharing a pancake. Callum picks at the edges, pulling out the chocolate chips poking through, giggling as Paul swipes a few from the bowl beside them. The moment feels peaceful, intimate in a way that tugs at your heartstrings.

Leaning against the doorframe, you can’t help but smile at how easily they fall into sync. Callum stretches across the plate, tugging the bowl of chocolate from Paul’s hands. “Uncle P, stop stealing the chocolate chips!”

Paul glances up, a mischievous glint in his eye as he chews dramatically. “I’m quality-checking them, mate.”

Callum bursts into uncontrollable giggles, his face alight with pure joy before stuffing a handful of chocolate into his mouth, just like his uncle.

You clear your throat softly, and they both turn toward you. Paul’s blue eyes crinkle warmly with a smile, a look mirrored almost perfectly in Callum’s face—Niamh’s eyes, the same striking shade of blue shared across their family.

“Mamaíín!” Callum cries, nearly toppling off his seat as he rushes toward you. His sticky hands wrap around your legs, his face nuzzling into your middle as he beams up, mouth smudged with chocolate. “We made pancakes!” he exclaims proudly, tugging you toward the counter. “Uncle Paul let me do the whisking!”

 “Oh, did he?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at Paul.

Paul shrugs casually, leaning back in his chair. “He insisted. And I wasn’t about to argue with the chef.”

You chuckle softly, pulling out plates for yourself and Niamh. As you put the coffee on, ready to start the day, you feel Paul’s gaze linger on you for a moment before he turns back to Callum. Moments later, Niamh appears in the doorway, sharp as always, her notebook and phone balanced in one hand.

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” she asks.

Your eyes flick briefly to Paul, who raises an eyebrow as if sensing the shift in tone, before you follow Niamh into the hallway. Her usual composed demeanor falters ever so slightly as she turns back to you.

“I need the house to myself today,” she says bluntly. “Callum’s father is coming by to pick up a few things, and… it’s not something I want Callum around for.”

You blink in surprise, catching the strain in her voice. “Of course. I’d planned to take him out today anyway. It works perfectly.”

Her shoulders relax faintly, though her voice remains tight. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Paul can go with you. He’s got nothing else to do, but I’d prefer Callum not be alone with him all day.” You understand the implication—trust him, but not entirely. “We’ll keep him busy.”

When you arrive at the community center, it’s buzzing with its usual chaos. The building, modest and tucked at the edge of town, is alive with bright posters, hand-painted murals, and the unmistakable scent of too many feet. Children squeal and race around, filling the space with noise and energy. You unclip Callum’s coat, and he bolts into the crowd, a toy airplane clutched in hand.

Paul trails behind as you find a seat in the parents’ waiting area. Hands shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, he looks distinctly out of place.  “Didn’t think I’d ever feel intimidated by toddlers,” Paul murmurs softly.

“You’ll survive,” you reply, suppressing a grin at his unease.

“I don’t like being outnumbered,” he mutters, glancing nervously at the many curious eyes turned your way. You wave at a few familiar faces before settling into a chair. Paul watches the scene before him, bemused.

“This is madness,” he chuckles. “There’s no way we were this loud as kids.”

“You probably were,” you tease lightly.

Callum soon spots you both, his voice rising above the chatter. “Look! I’m making a castle!” He grins, holding up a tower of oversized blocks. Paul smiles. “You’re an architect, mate.”

Just then, a tall brunette in a fitted sweater saunters over, her smile a touch too bright, her gaze fixed on Paul. “Well, well, Callum’s uncle, is it?” she purrs, her words dripping with sugary charm. “I thought you were a myth. It’s nice to finally see you back in town.”

Paul straightens awkwardly, caught off guard. “Uh… just visiting for the holidays.”

Her smile tightens as she gives you a once-over, her silent question clear: What’s he doing here with you?

“How lovely for you,” another woman chimes in, her tone sharper than her smile. “Having company must make things so much easier.”

Your cheeks flush at the insinuation, a pit settling in your stomach. “Oh, it’s not—” you begin, glancing at Paul, who has been pulled into Callum’s growing block tower project.

“Isn’t it?” the brunette—Maeve, you realize—drawls smugly. “I mean, who wouldn’t want someone… handsome to share the load?”

A third woman, gentler but still teasing, interjects. “Oh, leave her be. You’re just jealous, Maeve. If I had someone like him tagging along, I’d be smiling too.”

Maeve laughs sharply. “Careful, sweetie, or we might just steal him from you.”

Before you can muster a reply that doesn’t sound defensive, Callum’s small hands tug at yours, breaking the tension like only he can. “Mamaíín, we need you! Uncle Paul keeps messing up our pirate tower.”

Relieved, you let Callum drag you toward the community garden, an open space enclosed by glass walls that let the crisp winter light stream in. The air is a little sharper, less dull than it is outside, the walls only offering you a little bit of shelter from the December air.

You crouch beside him, seeing the remnants of a tower. Callum is huffing, taking sticks and stones from Paul’s hands as he sits next to the partial tower. 

“We need the strong ones,” Callum declares, shifting through smaller ones in his hands and tossing them away. “This one’s going to be really tall. Tall enough to see all the pirates!” 

You laugh at how he keeps taking sticks from Paul, frustrated at his uncle's lack of pirate tower building knowledge. You brush hair from your face as you collect bigger stones. “We’ll need a solid base first. Otherwise, the tower will topple as soon as there’s any wind.”

Callum nods solemnly, getting down to help you. Paul sits still, watching you both. His arms are crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed but his gaze almost contemplative.

“Callum, just look at how careful she is,” he says suddenly, his tone light. 

You glance up, a little confused. “Careful?” Callum makes the same face, watching as his uncle shifts in his spot. 

He gestures vaguely to the stick in your hands, lucking one out of your open palm. “The way you handle things. Like a bird—delicate, precise.”

Before you can even think of a response, Callum’s face lights up, his giggle bright. “Oh, yes! Like a mamaíín bird!”

You blink, startled. “A what?”

Callum giggles, clearly delighted with himself. “A mamaíín bird! You’re little, and you take care of everything, like the birdies do!”

Paul chuckles softly, crouching beside Callum. “He’s got a point. You are a bit bird-like.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

Paul grins, his blue eyes meeting yours for a beat longer than necessary. “Oh, it is. Trust me, Birdie.”

The way he says it—low, teasing, yet laced with warmth—sends an unexpected flutter in your chest. You turn your face away, hoping to hide the flush on your cheeks, but the name lingers in the air settling into something unspoken yet significant.

“Mamaíín bird, can we make a nest too?” Callum tugs at your sleeve, breaking the moment.

You laugh, ruffling his hair. “Let’s finish the tower first, and then we’ll see about a nest.”

Paul leans back on his heels, his smirk widening. “Careful, Birdie. Looks like you’re getting roped into full-time bird duties.”

You glance at him, your smile faint but genuine. “As long as you’re willing to help.”

“Of course,” he replies, his voice playful but steady.

You sit there for another half hour, the tower collapsing a few more times before it finally stands. Callum, satisfied, dashes off to collect pirate swords, leaving you and Paul behind. He sits quietly, twisting a twig between his fingers.

“He’s been calling me that for a while—mamaíín,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “But he won’t tell me what it means.”

Paul raises an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Has he now?”

You hum, brushing dirt from your hands. “And Niamh won’t explain it either, something about not wanting to bring too much attention to it.”

Paul chuckles softly, his tone turning more serious. “Mamaíín… it’s Irish. A diminutive, like a pet name. It means ‘little mummy.’”

Your breath catches slightly as you glance at him. “Little mummy?”

Paul nods, his gaze steady, thoughtful. “It’s affectionate. It’s how he sees you. Someone who takes care of him. Someone he trusts.”

The weight of the explanation settles warmly in your chest, heavy and tender all at once. “Oh,” you murmur, turning back to the half-finished tower. “That’s… sweet.”

“It is,” Paul agrees quietly. “And fitting.”

There’s something in his voice—gentle, sincere—that makes your cheeks flush. Before you can respond, Callum charges back, shouting about needing rocks for a cannon.

Paul ruffles Callum’s hair as he joins in, leaving you alone for just a moment to let the weight of his words settle.

✧・゚: ✧・゚:

The playgroup winds down mid-afternoon, the earlier chaos subsiding as the children begin to tire out and parents begin gathering their things. Callum’s cheeks are flushed as he clings to Paul, one hand caught in his while the other wobbles his airplane. 

“Seems like you’ve got a fanclub now,” you murmur to Paul as you tug Callum’s jacket back on. 

Paul groans faintly, clearly uncomfortable from all the wandering eyes and snarky comments. “Yeah, Maeve’s got me down as her next trophy.” 

You laugh under your breath, but the moment is cut short as your phone buzzes in your back pocket with a message from Niamh. 

Niamh: This is taking a little longer than expected, would you be able to pick up some groceries on your way home? I’ll send you a list.

You frown slightly at the message, feeling for her frustration. Soon another message pings through, the list of items she needs. 

“Everything alright?” Paul asks, crouching to help Callum with his snow boots.

“Niamh needs a few things from the shop,” you say, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Since we’re already out.”

Paul straightens up, almost effortlessly scooping Callum up into his arms. “Groceries it is, then. My culinary expertise might come in handy.”

“You mean sneaking crisps into the cart?” you tease lightly.

Paul smirks, poking at Callum’s red cheeks. “Can’t let him grow up without the essentials.”

The town’s grocery store is quiet when you get there, smelling of fresh bread and cleaning supplies. Callum rides in the cart, humming to himself as he waves his airplane around. 

“Alright,” you start, scrolling through Niamh’s list on your phone. “Alright,” you say, scrolling through Niamh’s list on your phone. “Milk, bread, eggs… and tea.”

“Don’t forget snacks,” Paul chimes in, grabbing a bag of crisps off the shelf and tossing it into the cart with practiced ease.

You glare at him playfully. “Those weren’t on the list.” 

Paul simply shrugs, pushing the cart forward. “Snacks are the universal currency, right Callum?”

“Yes!” the boy pipes up, snagging a bag of treats from his uncle's hands. You roll your eyes but can't stop the giggle that falls from your lips as you continue down the aisles, Paul slipping forbidden treats into the cart whenever you turn away, Callum laughing conspiratorially under his breath. 

At the dairy section, you stop to reach for a carton of milk, looking for a specific brand. Before you can react, Paul, ever observant, grabs it for you, handing it over as Callum babbles about pirates and towers. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, a smile trying to make its way onto your face. 

“Anytime, Birdie,” the man replies, the nickname slipping out so effortlessly you feel like you could drop the carton of milk he just slid into your hands. You narrow your eyes at him, but his attention is elsewhere, already halfway down the aisle, rambling about what brand of tea you should get. 

As you catch up to the pair of boys, a woman pauses next to you. She’s a stout elderly woman, her long silver hair cascading down her back. She watches as Paul listens in wonder as Callum chatters away about “canon towers.”

“Well, don’t you have a handsome boy there,” she coos, smiling at him warmly. Callum beams, holding up his toy airplane for her to admire.

The woman then looks between you and Paul, her sharp eyes twinkling with curiosity. “You two must be so proud. He’s the spitting image of his father.”

Your heart jolts. “Oh—no, he’s—”

Paul stammers at the same time, “I’m just his uncle—”

The woman waves a hand dismissively, clearly not listening. “It’s always the way, isn’t it? The mother does all the work—nine months of carrying, all those sleepless nights—only for the little one to come out looking like his da.”

You freeze, heat creeping up your neck, unsure whether to laugh or correct her again. Paul, equally flustered, rubs the back of his neck. “Er—he’s not mine. She’s—”

The woman isn’t paying attention anymore, her focus back on Callum as she coos again, “Lucky boy to have such loving parents.”

Before either of you can say another word, she shuffles off, leaving you both standing there in stunned silence.

Callum, oblivious, turns in the cart and beams up at Paul. “Uncle Paul, did you hear? I look like you!”

Pail blinks, letting out a quiet slightly awkward laugh. “Seems like the Mescal genes are strong in you, mate.” 

You stare down at the tea in your hands, unsure how to respond. Callum, thankfully, breaks the tension. “Uncle Paul, look! It’s pirate tea!” He’s holding a box with cockatoos on it, a hibiscus flower on the front. 

Paul clears his throat, ruffling Callum’s hair as he grins faintly. “Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.”

The awkward feeling lingers between you as you make your way to the checkout. Paul insists on loading the bags into the cart while once again Callum chatters away, entirely oblivious to the exchange. 

As you step outside, the sky now much darker than before, Paul finally breaks the silence. “That was… something.” 

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

Paul raises an eyebrow, “People thinking I’m your husband?”

You roll your eyes, the teasing note in his voice making your cheeks warm up for the umpteenth time today. “People making assumptions. Families come in different shapes and sizes, you know.”

Paul glances at you, something thoughtful in his expression, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he focuses on Callum, who’s waving his airplane toward the horizon like it’s searching for treasure.

“Where to next, Captain?” Paul asks, his voice light. He pokes at Callum's cheek, using one hand to push the full cart.

“Home!” Callum shouts, his enthusiasm unending. He twists in the cart, pointing towards the car as if to say Onward! Letting out a whoop, Paul pushes off the ground, hopping onto the bottom rail of the cart. He balances on it as it drifts forward.

You smile softly as you lead the way to the car, feeling a warmth you can’t quite explain settle in your chest.

✧・゚: ✧・゚:

The house is quiet when you arrive, the silence feeling heavier than it did before. There's a single glass of wine sitting on the counter, its contents empty, save for a few drops at the bottom. 

Callum charges up to play, disappearing and fully unaware of the somber mood in the house. You and Paul settle into unpacking the groceries in the kitchen, the soft rustle of bags and clinking of glass on the counter filling the empty room. 

It's not long before Niamh appears in the doorway, almost echoing this morning’s encounter. Her shirt isn’t as crisp as it was this morning, her eyes now rimmed with red and remnants of mascara. She looks exhausted, pieces of her auburn hair slipping loose from her carefully coiffed bun.

“Groceries?” she asks, her voice slightly clipped. 

“All here,” you reply, gesturing to the half empty bags that are still left lined up on the counter. 

Her eyes skim over the unpacked items, flicking over to Paul briefly before settling back on you. “Thank you, I appreciated it.”

The words are simple but her tone is strained, you can feel the weight on her shoulders. 

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, drawing closer to where she’s standing by the archway. Her arms are crossed over her chest—a sort of coping mechanism she’s passed on to Callum. 

“It’s been a long day. I had… some conversations that were necessary.” Her words falter for a moment, her gaze dropping before she masks it quickly. “Nothing to worry about.”

You glance at Paul, who’s watching Niamh carefully, his brows furrowed. There’s questions in his eyes but he doesn’t voice them. He lets her stand on her own, just as she always has. 

“If you need anything…” you begin gently, reaching out to put a hand on her arm but she pulls it away before it lands. She shakes her head. 

“Thank you. You’ve done enough,” she says. On any other occasion, you’d feel a bite to her words but they sound more like a quiet admission. Her eyes soften as she meets yours. “He’s happy with you, that’s what matters.”

The weight of the words settle in the air around you, you’re not sure whether it’s a compliment or something else—a reminder of what she’s failing to do herself. 

Niamh’s gaze flicks to Paul again, lingering. “Callum shouldn’t be up late. Keep an eye on him.”

With that, she leaves the kitchen, her footsteps soft as she retreats upstairs.

a/n: haiiii, if you gotten this far I wanted to say thank you for reading! any feedback and reblogs are appreciated :)))

[reinersbigmilkers]

☕️ How the aot cast takes their caffeine ☕️

Includes: Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Reiner, Annie, Bertolt, Marco, Historia, Ymir, Levi, Hange, Erwin, Pieck, Porco, Zeke

Eren: Pre-time skip, he does not fuck with the bitterness of coffee. Some tea is fine, so long as there's ample milk and sugar. He does discover that he's a fan of frappes when Armin decides to get one on a whim. And he'd definitely be weird about ordering a 'girly' drink, begging Mikasa to get it for him while trying not to make a scene. It's major "he asked for no pickles" energy between the two of them. (She'd still give him a hard time about it, regardless.) Post-time skip though, he doesn't gaf about ordering a frappe. He also doesn't really care where he gets his caffeine from. A 7/11 machine that probably hasn't been cleaned in three years? That's fine. Better yet, give him a Red Bull or a Monster since he's built such an insane tolerance. (He also has a preference for cold drinks)

Mikasa: Partial to tea, but she orders according to the weather: a London fog for a wintry day and a Vietnamese iced coffee during the summer. Oh, everyone wants to grab boba instead? A red bean matcha at 50% sweetness, no dairy, please. Mikasa also orders an affogato on occasion.

Armin: King of herbal teas, he sticks to decaffeinated drinks since he's caffeine sensitive. (He has soo many sleepy time tea boxes in his cabinet to help his insomnia.) He gets the jitters easily and doesn't care for how it can make his heart race. When he does crave caffeine, though, I could see him using a French press in order to steep it to his liking. Probably sweetens it with honey and adds a flew splashes of milk.

Jean: He's the snob of the group, but admittedly has good taste when it comes to espresso. Wdym you're getting a latte from that drive-thru barista stand?? Can't you tell that it's burnt and pulled all wrong? He'll walk out of a café if he hears the steam wand screaming: he's that particular. A cappuccino is his go-to from his favorite café and he uses a Moka pot at home.

Connie: I'm pretty sure with the last name 'Springer' he's ethnically Irish. But still, he looks soo much like a silver-toothed kid I can't view him as anything else lolol. So naturally he'd have an ice-cold Coke on deck, maybe some Jarritos in the fridge too. Connie doesn't drink coffee, and prefers sodas as a pick-me-up, especially Red Bull Italian sodas flavored with watermelon syrup.

Sasha: She's also not a coffee drinker and would rather sip on fruit teas. If they're lightly caffeinated with green or white tea leaves, she's fine with that, but doesn't like how black tea makes her lightheaded.

Reiner: He and Jean constantly butt heads on how coffee should be ordered, respectively lying on either end of the spectrum from the other. For Reiner, it's simple: add a few spoonfuls of grounds to the filter and brew. If he's feeling fancy, a plain latte will suffice. He doesn't understand how Jean can claim one shop's espresso is worse than any other's when it all tastes the same. Jean just loves to over-complicate everything, according to Reiner.

Bertolt: Finally, a based tea and coffee fan. He never gets weird about one form of caffeine being better than the other, and happily alternates between loose-leaf Earl Gray and his favorite medium roast. He just enjoys all the subtle aromas in coffee and tea, sipping his beverage as he watches Reiner and Jean debate about their drinks for the millionth time. He'll also order from the seasonal menu.

Annie: No frills no fuss, just black with a splash of half-and-half. She might whisk in some collagen powder if she's in a rush that day, just to help get some extra protein in.

Marco: Another frappe enjoyer, he's a Starbucks person lmfao. (he would NOT survive the sbx boycott) He's got the app on his phone and regularly orders a caramel frappuccino.

Historia: She's a big fan of matcha, like Mikasa, and also enjoys anything lavender flavored.

Ymir: Okay she's not quite the nonbinary barista in the black apron. But, she is the tatted-up and pierced lesbian behind the counter. Do not put her ass on the register because she will get into a yelling match with a customer over how impossible (and stupid) their drink is to make. During her fifteen she's out back, smoking and sipping on her iced oat milk latte, scrolling through twitter. (We know what you are, Ymir)

Levi: Surprisingly doesn't drink caffeine. He says he feels more 'even' without it, and has other vices like the occasional drink after a long day. He did have a phase with cold brew though.

Hange: Their go-to order is a simple chai latte, with the addition of a shot of espresso if they have a long night ahead of them. Hange's developed quite the discerning palate when it comes to their beloved chai and can tell when a joint is using pre-made syrup versus mulling the spices in-house. They're also lactose-intolerant and sticks with oat or coconut milk.

Erwin: Good god someone get this man a new coffee-maker. That thing is like old enough to vote, all the buttons are illegible, and it hasn't been descaled once in its miserable life. The poor thing's on 24/7, duct-taped to life support, and brewing up some of the strongest coffee known to man; the cracked carafe pouring its black sludge into Erwin's seasoned coffee mug. Yeah, he's that kind of person. He's been gifted plenty of new mugs, but always finds himself reaching for his unwashed tumbler that used to say "World's #1 Boss" fifty years ago.

Pieck: She prefers hot beverages year-round and loves rose flavored drinks. Pieck also enjoys a good loose-leaf English breakfast or orange-spiced black tea. She has a collection of fun animal-shaped tea infusers and prizes her Animal Crossing to-go mug.

Porco: Another no frills no fuss kind of guy, Porco keeps instant coffee stocked in his pantry and microwaves the water/milk he stirs it in.

Zeke: He's worse than a snob. He's picky. When Zeke pops into his local café, it's like the air shifts and everything suddenly goes quiet. Yeah, he'll have that shaken, not stirred, pulled as a double ristretto, blonde roast, frothed, never steamed, with room and double-sleeved. He recites his order so fucking fast too, the poor teenager at the counter helplessly stands there like they just got flashbanged. Oh, there's a rush going on? He hadn't noticed. But if he's on the go, he'll just grab a kombucha from his fridge.

[yespleasetommyshelby]

Always ~ Tommy Shelby ~ Seven

Summary: Leah Hart had left the Shelby's in her past, or so she'd thought, a surprise wedding invite pulls her back to Small Heath. A place filled with people she had tried so hard to leave behind, but as her mother had used to say, somehow, you'll always find your way back home.

Tommy Shelby x OC (Leah Hart)

Word count: 2300 (approx)

Look at me posting twice in two days! 😉 Fair warning, Grace is coming!

Stuffing her hands into her pockets Leah shivered slightly as the summer heat had broken to a cold breeze on the paths of Small Heath, the street quiet as the clock ticked closer to nine o'clock. As she rounded the corner her eyes landed on the garrison, the only source of light being a small glow in the front window. Pausing outside of the wooden doors she took a deep breath, before pushing them opening and stepping into the quiet pub.

Her heart stopped as her eyes landed on the only two people in the pub, one stood behind the bar with wide eyes while the other sat on a stool with a glass of whisky in hand.

"You're back." Grace was the first to speak, her eyes watching Leah while her heart raced in her chest, she'd heard from Harry that the infamous Leah Heart was back and she'd been on edge ever since.

"Why yes, Gracie, yes I am." Leah sent her the most over the top smile she possibly could, the same hatred that she'd felt a year ago coming back full force. "It's a boy, by the way." Leah spoke, her eyes moving to Tommy.

"Congratulations Ada." He muttered as he raised his practically empty glass into the air, downing the last of the amber liquor before slamming his glass onto the bar, Grace immediately reaching for the bottle to refill it.

"But the thing is Thomas." She carried on, wanting nothing more than for him to look at her. "Two minutes after said baby was born his father showed up, and two seconds after that three policemen came barging in and threw him against the wall!" Her words were calm but her volume said otherwise.

"And you think that had something to do with me?" He asked bored, his eyes still on his glass as he listened to what she had to say.

"Polly does yeah, she's out for blood and if it wasn't for the fact that Ada is currently fucking heart broken she'd be the one here now and it wouldn't be so fucking calm." She took a step closer as she spoke, watching his face for any kind of give away that he had something, anything to do with it. "As for me? I don't think it was you, yes you're an asshole and yes you're a piece of shit for ever agreeing to anything with that sleazy bastard of an Irishman. All offence ment there Gracie." She looked to Grace for a split second as a scowl formed on the Irish girls face. "But I don't think you did, no. As much of an asshole as you are-"

"Which you've stated multiple times." He interrupted her speech with a mumble, feeling absolutely done with the entire day.

"And I will shout it from the fucking rooftops Thomas Shelby. You are one of the biggest assholes I have ever met.." she paused, her next words coming out much calmer than any other she'd spoken since she'd been back in Small Heath. "But you love your family, and I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't do that to her, not to Ada." She trialled off with a shake of her head, her eyes only focused on him as he finally looked up and met her eyes with his own.

"It wasn't me." He shrugged. "I told Freddie he could have tonight and they'd both need to be gone in the morning, I gave him my word." He sighed, running his hand over his face before finishing yet another glass of whisk, glass number 5 if he was counting correctly.

"Well I suggest you find a way to prove that then, before Polly takes your balls." She spoke with a slight laugh, knowing that if there was one thing that scared Tommy Shelby it was his Aunt Pol.

"And how do you suggest I do that Le? Aye?" He turned to face her properly, letting his eyes run over her figure before landing back on her face.

"I don't know Tom." She shrugged sadly, before her eyes flicked over to Grace who was stood watching the conversation. "Who did you tell that Freddie would be there?" She asked, keeping her eyes on Grace, not missing the way her eyes darted to the floor.

"I didn't tell anybody." He shrugged, pulling Leah's attention back to him. It was a lie, he knew he'd told Grace but she wouldn't have betrayed him, and there was no need to start another fight with Leah over Grace.

"You must've told someone Tom." She sighed, knowing that he was lying but he'd never own up to it. "Whatever, just think before you tell anyone of your next plan, aye." Turning to walk away she stopped as her hand grabbed the handle and turned slightly to see the pairs of them still watching her from their positions. "And if was you I'd hurry up and find a way to show it wasn't you, Pol really is out for blood." She warned, turning her attention to Grace. "Gracie, displeasure as always." She smirked, letting out a laugh as she pushed to door open and walked off into the night.

"Who did you tell." Tommy spoke after the doors had closed, spinning to face a wide eyed Grace. "You're the only fucking one I told about Freddie, so who the fuck did you tell?!" He raised his voice, his glass shattering against the bar as he slammed his hands down sending it toppling.

"I didn't tell anyone Tommy, I swear to you." Her Irish voice rushed out, her hands trembling as she watched in fear as he slowly lifted his head to look at her.

"If I find out you're lying, you'll end up in the cut, do you understand me?" He growled, his feeling towards the girl changing the second that Leah had shown up again, his view of the Irish girl becoming clearer and clearer every second.

"Yes Tommy, I promise it wasn't me." Her words sounded off, but Tommy couldn't focus on that right now, he had to find a way to clear his name.

-----

"Says it wasn't him." Leah huffed as she walked into the kitchen on Watery Lane, the Shelby family seated around the kitchen table as they tried to come up with a plan, anything to find out what the bloody hell was going on.

"Of course he did." Polly scoffed and she dumped a basket full of food onto the kitchen side.

"Still no luck?" Leah asked, knowing that Polly had been trying to get into Ada's little bedsit for the past few hours.

"No, the bloody girl won't open the door will she, thinks we're all in on this shit." She muttered, flopping down into a chair and lighting a cigarette.

"Give her a few days Pol and she'll be right as rain." Arthur offered his words of wisdom, putting his hands up surrender as both woman turned to him with unamused faces. "Alright keep ya hair on, anyway, next question, who the fuck is Alfie?" He asked as he looked towards Leah, her heart dropping at the fact she was about to have this conversation.

"Alfie is.. a.. friend.. from London.." She shrugged slightly, not wanting to go into any major details. She sighed as she looked at the faces of the three Shelby's sitting around her, their looks making it quite clear they weren't going to be believing her bullshit. "It's a long story alright." She huffed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

"We've got time." John spoke for the first time, taking her attention for a second before she closed her eyes and nodded.

"Fine." She huffed, her finger tapping on the table, a nervous tick she'd had since she was a child. "When I got to London I had no idea what to do next, so I found myself a shitty little room and went out knocking on doors to find myself a job." She paused as the memories from her early days in London passed through her mind. "I ended up knocking on the doors of a bakery, well, it was a bakery on the outside but turns out it was just a front for a distillery. I ended up impressing the owner and he gave me a job, then one thing lead to another and the next thing I know I've moved in with him and have a diamond ring." She shrugged, her heart hurting at the fact there was no longer a rush when she thought about Alfie, not since she'd been back in Small Heath.

"You're engaged and you didn't even think to fucking tell us?!" John yelled as he flew up from his seat, his chair clattering to the floor nothing but background noise as the two best friends stared at each other, one in anger and one in regret. "Is that why you never answered my letter? You just threw us away for someone else?" He seethed, his neck flushing red as he struggled to keep his rage in check.

"No John, it was nothing like that!" She protested, looking up at him with wide eyes. "When I read your letter about what had been happening since I left it really hit me what I'd left behind, I couldn't keep reading about what was going on here when I wasn't here, so I decided it would be easier if I just didn't answer." She shrugged sadly, the first tear slipping down her cheek.

"So you left us because it was too dangerous just to go and run off with a-fucking-nother gang?" Arthur all but yelled as he stood up, running his hand over his face in frustration.

"It wasn't like that, I swear I-" "You what?" John interrupted her, the look of anger on his face breaking her heart. "You didn't mean to totally forget about us and move on with your life?" He laughed sarcastically. "You know what Tommy was right, go and run back to London, to Alfie." He scoffed, turning and storming out of the house with Arthur behind him, the door slamming behind them.

Slamming her head onto the table she couldn't stop the sobs that came, the comforting hand of Polly on her shoulder doing nothing to ease the rip she could feel tearing through her body. After the sobs had stopped and the only noise that could be heard was the small hiccups that now came from the girl, Polly spoke first.

"So, what are you going to do?" She asked calmly, knowing that it was the only way she'd be able to talk to Leah without rilling her up, she knew it was the only way, stay calm and so will she.

"I don't know Pol, I just don't fucking know." The girl spoke, lifting her head from the table using her cardigan to dry her face.

"Try this love." Polly whispered, taking the young girls hands in her own and turning so they were facing each other. "Close your eyes, just do it." She carried on after seeing the amused look on Leah's face. "Right, now breath." She continued after Leah's eyes had fluttered closed. "Now imagine you're at your own home, a nice big house, a big garden, and tell me what else is in the garden." She spoke quietly, calmly, she'd heard of this approach, she'd read about it in a book or something that she couldn't remember.

"This is silly Pol- ow!" She exclaimed, opening her eyes as Polly squeezed her hands - hard. "Okay, okay." She muttered, closing her eyes again after another look from Polly. "There's a pathway leading to a fountain, flowers on either side and there's stables at the side of the house." She whispered, she hadn't really been a big fan of horses before falling in with the Shelby boys, and to be honest she still wasn't the biggest fan now, but-

"Why stables? I thought you didn't like horses." Polly's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I don't, not really." The girl shrugged with her eyes still closed. "But I made a promise once, that no matter where life took me I'd always have a space for horses." She mumbled, her heart racing as she thought back to who she'd made the promise to.

"Now we're going to go into the house, you've just walked though the doors and you hear footsteps on your right, there's a voice calling your name, a huge bouquet of flowers in their hands, for you." Polly watched as the girls eyebrows furrowed slightly, a small smile forming on her lips. "You turn to face them, and standing there is.." she trailled of, waiting to see who Leah would say, and hopefully it will answer the question at hand.

"Tommy." Leah whispered, a lone tear escaping through her closed eyes as she imagined him stood there, bouquet in hand, smile on his face as he whispered.

"Welcome home Mrs Shelby."

"This is stupid." Leah suddenly said, opening her eyes and rushing up from the table, she quickly made her way to the front door and out onto the streets.

"What's happening?" Finns little voice made Polly jump as she moved her eyes from the door Leah had disappeared through to the youngest Shelby.

"She's figuring it out." Polly's voice interrupted shrugged with a knowing smile. "It'll all be over soon."

---

And there we have it! Feelings galore! I hope you enjoyed!

Previous part here:

[mad-hatter-memes]

BDylanHollis Starters

A collection of dialogue prompts from the videos of BDylanHollis. Feel free to edit quotes if needed.

TW: Suggestive references and drug references,

"This recipe is making me cry, not the onions..."

"Are we sure this recipe wasn't written by a cat?"

"Buy me dinner first."

"It's ten PM and I'm boiling prunes in my kitchen..."

"You know, it's not bad...It just vaguely tastes like a felony."

"Tastes like a boot! Like a size ten boot!"

"I didn't know tuberculosis had a color scheme."

"I think I summoned something..."

"Are you still here?...Dammit!"

"You could just use canned pineapple...if you're a communist."

"It doesn't tell you how to eat it...So I don't know if I need a knife and fork or if I need to tie my hair back."

"Do I call the police or a priest?"

"Can we at least have coffee first?"

"I bet this recipe is just all the wrong answers on a baking test."

"Well I don't have sorghum, cause I don't have a life expectancy of twelve!"

"Sweetie, none of this is my liking."

"Are you just making things up? Who are you?!"

"You know I've never been particularly religious, but today might be the day..."

"This ain't food, honey. This is a bioweapon!"

"I am in utter fear..."

"Hello, you are very green sir."

"Did you just kill my blender?"

"This is personal now, you swung first!"

"Welcome to the world; it's awful!"

"Were you really worried that I was gonna mix a fully constructed pie shell into this?!"

"I'm a fool, not a idiot!"

"Thought this was a joke, turns out I'M the joke...'

"Or what? I'm gonna ruin your disaster?"

"This is from 1938, it's only electrocuted me twice!"

"If I cut off my feet do we still have to do this?"

"Celery's just like your parents; dirtier than you think!"

"What have you perfected?! Garbage?!"

"Now in my personal experience, depression and ice cream are a match made in heaven."

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that Jell-O is inevitable!"

"Sweetie, this needs a lot of things but water isn't one of them..."

"It doesn't need salt, it needs help!"

"Normally I'm quite comfortable handling meat, but this is physically disturbing me..."

"This is giving me emotions previously unknown to man..."

"Are you supposed to eat this on crackers or on drugs?"

"What are you trying to do, live longer?"

"What do you take me for? Grown?"

"He looks like if you get a tattoo, you'll be written out of the will."

"Precisely what realm of mathematics do you inhabit?"

"Did you just throw a grenade down aisle 6?!"

"I'm not concerned about your precious Grind-o-Mat!"

"The only thing this is going to rise up from is the dead."

"You know they invented a tool for that, it's called a whisk."

"Bacon is always a good idea!"

"What exactly are we trying to raise up, hope?"

"What is it with dead people and their obsession with this?!"

"Yes I know it's hot you git, it's an oven!"

"No I have never had these, you must remember I'm not an American."

"I am a [Nationality] and we grew up with things like party rings and custard creams."

"Is the pudding related or did you just want a snack?"

"Were you subject to a fall from a great height?"

"I'm serious, don't disrespect the Irish. They can be mean..."

"Don't worry, my hands are the only touch I know."

"This is sacrilegious! Preposterous! Daft!"

"Yeah it's alright, but it's all wrong!"

"I'm not sure if you know, but beef is a COW. You know, the mooing?!"

"Smells like a Palm Springs retirement home..."

"It could be because I like illicit substances, or like psychiatric disturbances, being held at gunpoint, these types of things..."

"Ow! Ow! It's got ranged attacks!"

"What you've never put cereal in a blender before?"

"I don't like boxes, people get buried in them..."

"If it looks like oil, it must be good!"

"Thank you, I'd hate to have an uneven disaster. That would be terrible..."

"It's hot! I'm sunburnt! There's bugs!"

"I'm feeling like a rotisserie chicken out here!"

"Are you supposed to eat this for Christmas or for punishment?"

"It's so good, it's in danger of becoming my dinner!"

"Who's fingers they are we'll never know...They might even be Charlotte's!"

"Where do bugs go in the winter? And why are birds?"

"But [Name}, what if I'm allergic to peanuts?"

"You and your ancestors have obviously done something to deserve such a malady."

"It looks like I microwaved a squirrel...again."

"What part of Italy are you from? Kentucky?!"

[memories-of-ancients]

For Whisk(e)y drinkers

Please leave lots of comments, especially if you drink something in the "Other" category

[foodshowxyz]

🍀 Irish Cream Pie Recipe 🍀

Ingredients:

For the Crust:

• 150g graham cracker crumbs 🍪

• 50g granulated sugar 🧂

• 115g unsalted butter, melted 🧈

For the Filling:

• 240ml heavy cream 🥛

• 100g granulated sugar 🧂

• 3 tablespoons cornstarch 🌽

• A pinch of salt 🧂

• 360ml whole milk 🥛

• 3 large egg yolks 🥚

• 60ml Irish cream liqueur (e.g., Baileys) 🍀

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 🌼

For the Whipped Cream Topping:

• 240ml heavy cream 🥛

• 2 tablespoons powdered sugar 🍬

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 🌼

• Crumbled graham crackers or toasted coconut for garnish (optional) 🥥

Instructions:

1. Prepare the Crust:

• Preheat your oven to 175°C (350°F). 🔥

• In a medium bowl, mix the graham cracker crumbs and sugar. Stir in the melted butter until well combined.

• Press the mixture into the bottom and up the sides of a 23cm (9-inch) pie pan.

• Bake the crust for about 10 minutes, or until lightly golden. Remove from the oven and let it cool completely.

2. Make the Filling:

• In a medium saucepan, combine the heavy cream, sugar, cornstarch, and salt. Cook over medium heat, whisking constantly, until the mixture begins to thicken and comes to a boil. 🥄

• In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks. Gradually add a small amount of the hot cream mixture to the yolks, whisking constantly, to temper the eggs.

• Pour the tempered egg yolks back into the saucepan with the remaining cream mixture. Continue to cook, whisking constantly, until the mixture thickens further and begins to bubble. 🔄

• Remove from heat and stir in the Irish cream liqueur and vanilla extract.

• Pour the filling into the cooled crust. Cover with plastic wrap, pressing it directly onto the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate until set, at least 4 hours or overnight. ❄️

3. Prepare the Whipped Cream Topping:

• In a large bowl, beat the heavy cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract until stiff peaks form. 🍶

• Spread the whipped cream evenly over the chilled pie. 🎂

4. Garnish and Serve:

• Sprinkle crumbled graham crackers or toasted coconut over the whipped cream, if desired. 🌰

• Slice and serve chilled. 🍴

[pagan-stitches]

Fifth Friday of Lent Fish Dinner — Irish Fisherman’s Pie

Fish pie, often seen as a staple in Irish pubs, is akin to the well-loved shepherd's pie but with a delightful twist. Instead of the traditional lamb or beef, this comfort food showcases the wonders of seafood, making it a cherished dish among Irish fisherman.

While the potatoes boiled I simmered the fish in milk and dry white wine with garlic, a dab of Dijon mustard and dill weed.

I mashed my potatoes with a ricer and stirred in milk, butter, egg, parsley and cheese to make a really rich topping.

I separated the fish from the cooking broth and put both to the side, heating butter in the pan and stirring in flour to make a simple roux. I then added the cooking juices back to the pan slowly while whisking.

I then added the flaked fish to the sauce and poured the mixture into the bottom of a greased pie dish. I topped it with the mashed potatoes, sprinkled a little more cheese on top and baked it for 15 minutes until the top of the potatoes was slightly crispy.

[rose-of-oz]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆… 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐄𝐑𝐀 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐀 𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐍𝐄

❝ Up until receiving her Hogwarts letter at age eleven, Orla hadn’t realized at all that her father was a wizard. Really, she hadn’t realized he was anything at all - she’d never met him, and her mam had never talked about him, except to tell Orla, when she’d asked about him at the tender age of six, that he was a “right thumpin’ bastard” who’d fled the second Orla’s mother had told him she was pregnant.

But now, eleven years later, a stern bespectacled woman was showing up in their little house in their little Irish village, informing them that Orla’s da had, in fact, been a wizard, which made Orla something called a “half-blood” and, more importantly, a witch. And then she was being whisked away to a magical hidden street filled with strange shops and getting spellbooks and a new cat and a bloody magic wand, and then only a few weeks later Orla was standing in a great castle in the Scottish highlands, putting a weird talking hat on her head and hearing it proclaim that she belonged in Hufflepuff, whatever that was.

Orla was pretty sure she’d never been as confused in her life at she was at the very start of her Hogwarts career. But then, in her very first class, she’d made friends with Gryffindors Lily Evans and Mary Macdonald, both of whom were something called Muggleborns and also new to this strange, amazing world, and it had gotten a little better. It had improved even more once the three girls had made friends with another girl named Marlene McKinnon, who had been raised by magical parents and could therefore answer any questions the others had, and who had also kicked an older boy who had insulted Mary where the sun didn’t shine, which in Orla’s opinion was just deadly.

And so it had gone. By this point, at the start of her fifth year, Orla is fairly sure she’s stopped being confused about the wizarding world. She’s learned a lot through experience and all the questions she’s asked Marlene and Sirius, another Gryffindor from a wizarding family whom she really likes even if Lily kind of hates his best mate, and now she’s fairly confident she’s done being confused. As the school year starts, she’s very much looking forward to spending time with her friends, little study parties with Sirius and his boyfriend Remus, and watching James Potter utterly fail at getting a date with Lily.

But then, at the very first Quidditch party of the year, Orla gets drunk and kisses Mary. Mary, her very best friend, who’s always been there for her and has had a million deep late-night chats with her and made Orla laugh when they compared Irish and Scottish slang. Mary, who Orla is just now starting to realize is gorgeous and funny and the dearest person ever… and who Orla has now taken to avoiding because she can’t look at her without remembering what her lips felt like through a booze-fueled haze.

Just when Orla thought she had everything in her life, it turns out the universe has seen fit to turn her life topsy-turvy once again. ❞

Wizarding World Taglist: @manyfandomocs, @of-asters-and-roses.

General Taglist: @hiddenqveendom, @foxesandmagic, @artemisocs, @reyofluke-ocs,

@endless-oc-creations, @stanshollaand, @ginnystilinski-reblogs, @luucypevensie,

@ginger-grimm, @arrthurpendragon, @fakedatings, @impales, @claryxjackson,

@dancingsunflowers-ocs, @eddysocs, @lucys-chen, @ocappreciationtag.

[wickedsrest-rp]

Regan Kavanagh She / her

"It wasn't an Irish death cult. It was Irish, and there was death, but extended family is always a little strange."

SPECIES: Banshee OCCUPATION: Medical Examiner AGE: 35 Years Old (Looks to be about 25) PLAYED BY: Casey FC: Rose McIver

BIOGRAPHY:

TW: Parental death

Sean Kavanagh had a secret: An Irish family full of traditions dark enough that once he was grown, he fled and moved to Maine, intent on putting everything behind him to protect himself. One blissful marriage, a home in Augusta, and three sons later, he thought it would never come to light. But he couldn’t quite escape his family’s ways after his daughter, Regan, was born. 

Death had a way of clinging to some people, and Regan knew that better than almost anyone. She could never explain how she kept finding dead animals while she played outside with her brothers, or what made her come running back home with a human toe after a day at the beach. Sean saw the signs, especially after Regan’s early proclamations of becoming a Medical Examiner. It was so much death – could he really keep the family secret from her? He doubled down, ensuring Regan lived the most risk-free life possible. But Regan’s plan never wavered. 

She had just begun her forensic pathology residency when she came face to face with her father's secret. Though Sean had tried to run from his traditional banshee family, Fate caught up with him in the form of Cliodhna, Regan's grandmother. And finally, after so many years of trying to escape it, Sean Kavanagh fulfilled his duty at the end of Cliodhna’s knife, simultaneously bestowing Regan with her birthright. It wasn't what Cliodhna had in mind for her Regan – hardly ceremonial enough – but it would have to do. So she whisked a terrified Regan away to fix her. Regan would be in the right place now, and with the right people, in an aos sí near Dublin called Saol Eile.

For the first couple of years with the banshees, any attempts at explanations and forgiveness slid off of an inconsolable Regan. She didn't believe any of it, couldn't work through the trauma of what she saw and what she was. But if nothing else, she knew she needed to control the scream. Regan saw no other option than to submit herself entirely to the torture that masqueraded as training, which her grandmother insisted was the only way to gain control. She lived for the principle of primum non nocere. So instead of risking the harm of others, she harmed herself and her psyche, clawing through years of unspeakable miseries and emerging as a husk of her former self who had hard-won control, in a kind of death that left no cadaver to autopsy. To add insult to injury, she made a terrible banshee. Little came naturally due to her late activation, and her grandmother's approval was nonexistent. 

For eight long years, Regan remained in Saol Eile, cut off from her human life and medical career. The bright spot was that the banshees lacked a true physician until now, so she served the health of others in the aos sí with more gusto than she served Fate. Remaining a doctor gave her a purpose beyond the one Cliodhna attempted to instill, tethering her to her old life. Over time, Regan's knowledge of fae physiology grew, making her a reluctantly valuable member of the community, even as she failed to meet their expectations as a banshee.

Everything changed when the banshees started bringing her human “patients” they intended to sacrifice. They didn’t even try to hide it; they wanted her to make sure they were nice and healthy for their big day. Regan, still in a daze of conditioning, obeyed without question. But when she started getting visions of their sacrifices, something in her broke through the years of brainwashing. As a doctor sworn to do no harm, she couldn't continue. In a moment of clarity, she fled Saol Eile, eventually making her way back to Maine.

With her medical career interrupted for years, Regan had to struggle not only with readjusting to human society but also her residency. She found an opening for a forensic pathologist in a town called Wicked’s Rest. Slowly, very slowly, she formed a web of connections that mattered to her, and years of conditioning loosened their grip.

Until Siobhan. Another banshee, an exile with her own agenda that involved retrieving Regan for Saol Eile. Regan finally agreed to go so as not to harm the friends she had made and the woman she came to love, but Wicked's Rest followed her to Ireland both literally and figuratively. As Cliodhna attempted to break Regan one last time, Regan fought back, pushing her grandmother into Saol Eile's revered tar pit, where Cliodhna would spend years slowly sinking to her death. It was not without punishment. After a trial in front of the real “fae court,” Regan was to spend 100 years in Saol Eile, and Siobhan violently cut the wings off her back before having a moment of empathy and allowing Regan to leave. She could return home.

Back in Wicked's Rest, Regan struggles with her identity. Now that she's rejected her duty and the other banshees for good, she isn't so sure who or what she is anymore. Not a banshee, that's for certain. How about a human? Yes! She’ll be a human. Easy, and increasingly the truth, as far as Regan is concerned. Because, well, if she were a banshee, that would mean facing everything she's been running from – her grandmother's cruelty, her decision to end it, her abandoned duty, and the fear of losing control that started it all. So she’ll write “undetermined” on those autopsy reports rather than seek the supernatural truth, and she’ll ignore the fact her control is slipping, and that her necklace’s glamour magic won’t last forever. But when those walls of denial inevitably crumble and her comfortable fantasy unravels, and more people get hurt, Regan might not be able to hide the truth anymore, even from herself.

PERSONALITY:

Serious · Dedicated · Gentle · Curious · Compassionate · Cold · Demanding · Opportunistic · Private · Odd · Entitled

OTHER INFO:

Though her father fled Saol Eile, he himself was quite brainwashed, and Regan had a strange upbringing as he attempted to shield her. Her mother was only somewhat of a mitigating force.

As a Medical Examiner, Regan has vast knowledge of forensic pathology and death investigation. Outside of forensic pathology, she is a competent doctor, though really prefers working with the dead. She is familiar with fae (banshee, mostly) physiology and spent time treating them in Ireland.

Regan has three brothers, named Reilly, Alvin (Al), and Liam. She’s the youngest of the four, though born the same year as Al. She’s close with Reilly, often the voice of reason among bickering siblings.

Given Regan’s years of particularly intensive, brutal, and at times brainwashing training, she has fine control over her abilities when she’s focusing and giving in to the training and methods she was taught with. However, her control comes with great personal sacrifice, and she recently stopped making those sacrifices. 

Regan has large cicada-like wings that lie flat against her back, with green venation and transparent membranes. They function but she doesn’t like them by association. She can’t glamour them herself and has a necklace to help out.

Thanks to her “immersion” years in Saol Eile, Regan has become fluent in Irish, and picked up a slight lilt, though not enough to be considered an accent.  

During Regan’s return to Saol Eile with Siobhan, banshees from Saol Eile came to Wicked’s Rest, creating chaos and danger for those Regan left behind. Even now, Regan doesn’t have the full measure of what the banshees did. But consequences are sure to catch up to her.

[ronniefein]

People joke that for every Jewish holiday there’s a different food and that’s actually true (except for fast days, which means no food, but food is still a thing if you know what I mean).

Of course other religions and ethnic groups also have holiday food. I like those too! So, even though I’m not Irish I enjoy Irish coffee on St. Patrick’s Day! And I don’t observe Lent, but I do very much love pancakes so when I her that Pancake Tuesday (Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday) is coming, I’m all in.

Actually our family enjoys pancakes all through the year, particularly this German Apple Pancake, which is so filling it can be dinner. When I make this recipe in the fall I use new crop Rhode Island Greening, Gravenstein or Jonagold apples. For right now I use Honeycrisp.

Follow me on Instagram @ronnievfein

GERMAN APPLE PANCAKE

2 large, tart apples, peeled, cored and sliced

3 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup milk

4 large eggs

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

6 tablespoons butter

1-2 teaspoons sifted confectioner’s sugar, optional

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Place the apple slices in a bowl. Add the sugar and cinnamon, mix and set aside. Mix the flour and salt together in a bowl and set aside. Combine the milk, eggs and vanilla in another bowl, add the flour mixture and whisk the ingredients into a smooth batter and set aside. Heat the butter in a heavy skillet, preferably cast-iron, over medium heat. When the butter has melted and looks foamy, add the apples, including any juices, and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the apples are soft and caramelized. Pour the batter over the apples. Place the pan in the oven. Bake for about 20 minutes or until the pancake is puffed and golden brown. Invert onto a serving platter. Serve as is or sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar. Makes 2-4 servings

[doyoubelieveinmonsters]

happy st paddy's day, here is THEE chocolate guinness cake. actually normally I double this and bake it in a big roasting pan

for the cake: * 1 cup Guinness stout * 1 stick unsalted butter * 3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa * 2 cups granulated sugar * 3/4 cup plain greek yogurt * 2 large eggs * 1 tablespoon vanilla extract * 2 cups all-purpose flour * 2 1/2 teaspoons baking soda

for the frosting: * 8 oz cream cheese, softened at room temperature * 1 cup confectioner’s sugar * 1/4 cup Bailey’s Irish Cream * 1/4 cup heavy whipping crea

DIRECTIONS make the cake: preheat the oven to 350*.

butter a 9″ spring form pan and line the bottom with parchment.

butter the parchment and set aside.

in a large saucepan, heat the Guinness and butter until butter is melted, then remove from heat. in a small bowl, mix the sugar with the cocoa powder and stir into the saucepan.

in a second bowl, beat the eggs, yogurt, and vanilla; add into the saucepan.

in a third bowl, combine the flour and baking soda. whisk the flour and baking soda into the liquid mixture until no lumps remain.

pour into the prepared pan and bake for 45-50 minutes, testing after 45 with a toothpick in the center.

cool in the pan on a wire rack.

make the frosting: beat the confectioner’s sugar and the cream cheese until smooth.

beat in the 1/4 cup of Bailey’s until smooth.

beat in the heavy cream until a spreadable consistency.

pile into the center of the cake and spread outward with an off-set spatula.

[sitp-recs]

Hey! Hope you're doing good!! :) I'm wondering if you know any Drarry fics that have mythological elements / stories as part of the plot. For example, a fic based on Greek myths like Hades/Persephone?

Hi anon! I’m doing great, what about you? :) oh that’s a really cool ask, I hope you enjoy these! I strongly recommend checking khalulu’s stuff as they always explore different mythologies and cultures across their works. I’d love to get more recs on this theme, too!

Nordic:

Veðr by @shealwaysreads (M, 3k)

Norsemen have ranged far enough inland to find Harry, alone and abandoned by his kith and kin. But they bring far more than danger with them, they bring adventure, they bring magic.

Swedish:

Sweden | A Midsummer Night’s Dream by @drarrelie (M, 5.5k)

With the war finally over, you’d think Harry would finally be granted that “normal life” he’s always dreamt about. Finally free from the Dursleys, from that nose-less megalomaniac, from Horcruxes, Hollows, Death Eaters, Dementors, Prophecies… you’d think that he, for the first time in his life, would be allowed to be just a normal teenager. You’d think he’d deserve that much, right?

Russian:

S’Mitten by khalulu (G, 6k)

Harry and Draco aren’t enemies any more, but it seems their history will always stand between them – so let’s try some other histories on for size! The fickle finger of fate is muffled in one of Mrs Weasley’s mittens. Did I mention kisses?

Norwegian:

East of the Sun and West of the Moon by khalulu (T, 6k)

One stormy Thursday evening, a big white bear named Draco turns up to carry Harry away from the dreadful Dursleys. They get along fairly happily together until one night Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him, and Draco is whisked away to his wicked aunt’s castle, East of the Sun and West of the Moon. It will take a strong wind to bring Harry that far…..

Albanian:

What Country, Friends, Is This? by khalulu (M, 8k)

When Harry and Draco are paired up for a nebulous “capstone project” in 8th year, Draco suggests they use it as an opportunity to take a free Grand Tour of Europe. Harry isn’t interested in being grand, and they soon veer off the beaten path. The journey to find what (and who) you really want can lead to unexpected places. (As well as Bertha Jorkins’ aunt, Illyrian Serpent cults, heroic baby Draco tales, and Slytherins singing Motown.)

Hindu:

Birds of Dreams / Remover of Obstacles / Guardian of Waters by khalulu (G, 12k)

Harry is exploring his Desi heritage, and Draco runs into him in colourful circumstances. Luna has a penchant for puns and the Patils watch Bollywood. Paper is folded, a flying carpet takes an Indian road trip, and a phoenix is found. Love blooms along the way, a flower that’s free.

Finnish:

Sparks from the Fox’s Tail by khalulu (T, 17k)

Draco is frustrated with his career as a travel writer, when a mini-tirade from Mrs Weasley and an encounter with the portrait of an intrepid great-great-great-aunt lead him to Finland to study wandless magic. Harry is – just being contrary and following his sweet-tooth, or taking the subtle route to saving the world?

Multiple:

The Hardest Hue To Hold by @cavendishbutterfly (M, 17k)

Harry needs to get the hell out of England. So he sets up a teaching assistantship in America, hops on a plane, and heads off to a fresh start. Except there’s a familiar face among the university faculty, and it’s really not the familiar face that Harry wanted. Or at least, it’s not who Harry wanted at first.

Irish:

Offer Up Our Hearts by @tackytigerfic (M, 23k)

Harry Potter has a very nice life, thank you very much. He's a top Curse-Breaker with a lucrative Ministry contract, and exciting prospects ahead. Sometimes he does wish that he had time to pursue something official with Draco Malfoy - they're half in love with each other, after all, and a great team (in and out of bed), though Draco is still one of the most infuriating people he knows.

Egyptian:

Memory Lost | You Found by @maraudersaffair (E, 30k)

After his Auror training, Harry's assigned to guard the Department of Mysteries - specifically the room where Malfoy is being held in comfortable captivity. Yet no one will tell him why, and what's more concerning? Malfoy doesn't remember Harry at all. To uncover the mystery, Harry must travel all the way to Egypt where he discovers a magical community living in the great pyramids and a long held secret that is dangerous to anyone who knows it.

Arthurian:

The Compact by astolat (E, 64k)

Hermione frowned. “The real question is why the magic of Britain would be failing now, in fact.” “That is not the real question!” Ron said loudly; he’d woken up fully by now, and Harry had too; it was starting to sink in that they’d found the problem. “The real question is, how do we fix it?”

Brazilian:

A Sense of Scale by @fantalfart and dragontamerdrarry (M, 70k)

In which Draco spends an obscene amount of time thinking of new nicknames for The Living Git, lying to himself and using his charms to seduce an extremely uncooperative sentient school.

Celtic:

The Stars Have Courage by @fantalfart (M, 85k)

Draco waited five long years to watch his husband wake up from a coma. He's not ready to meet a Harry with no memory of anything that happened after he died at The Battle of Hogwarts, twelve years ago.

Greek:

Close Behind by @oflights (M, 134k)

To rescue Draco from the Underworld, Harry has to look forward. Unfortunately, Draco has to look back.

Bonus: dark fae AU 🧚‍♂️

Mushrooms of Wiltshire by @shiftylinguini (T, 5k)

There's no point unpacking―Harry's not staying long, and besides, there's just bundled rags in his valise. The illusion of belongings, of a man heading to a new position at a prestigious manor―one beset with rumours of old magic and of impish forest dwellers causing chaos and mayhem amid the phosphorescent toadstool glow. Bugger the job. Harry's here for the rumours. He's been chasing them for years.

[bakingtherapy]

Just Keep Baking #4 Irish Apple Cake

Sul Sul, gerbits. Today is Saint Patty’s day and because of that I wanted to find and share with you an Irish Apple cake recipe.

I will provide you with some history about Irish apple cakes. They were first steamed in pots besides an open fire. One of the main apples that you can see in Ireland is the crab apple. And Crab apples play an important part in Ireland and Celtic mythology.

Crab apples are very important to the legend of Avalon. One of the sacred places where Arthur went to recover from his wounds at the Battle of Camlann, is called the Isle of the Apple Trees.

Hearing the history of this dish, it makes sense why the apple flavor is not extremely prominent. Because they would have been using crab apples, not the large apples that we know so well. 

Okay, know that you know the history of this recipe. Let’s begin. 

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F. And line a 10-inch cast iron skillet with parchment paper and set it aside.

The recipe will be in the description down below. 

You will need:

flour

baking powder

butter

white sugar

cinnamon

nutmeg

1 egg

milk

vanilla.

About 1 cup of apples, which makes sense because crab apples are relatively small.

You will also need a little more sugar, cloves and cinnamon. 

Add the flour and baking powder to a medium bowl. Cut 8 tablespoons of butter into the flour with a pastry cutter or your fingers until the mixture has the texture of coarse crumbs. Add sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg to the flour and butter mixture. Whisk sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg into the flour and butter mixture. 

Make a well in the middle of the bowl and add the milk, egg, and vanilla. Almost like a scone dough. Mix until soft dough forms.

Put dough into the parchment-lined skillet . Lay thinly sliced apples on the dough. Sprinkle over the apples a teaspoon of sugar and a few dashes of each cinnamon and cloves.

The skillet should be placed on the middle shelf of your oven. 

You will need to bake for 30-35 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. 

The recipe states that you can broil it for 2-3 minutes if you want. 

Let the cake cool slightly. Cut it into wedges and dust it with powdered sugar, if you like. 

This was another simple apple recipe, and I was fascinated with how apple cakes vary across countries. Most of the ingredients are the same, but the procedure is different, so the outcome is different. I hope you enjoyed this recipe. Check out the recipe down below. Vadish, Dag Dag. 

Show the original author some 💖💖💖 31 Daily

Printable version of this recipe: on the blog

Feel free to support me on:

🐥Patreon 🐥 Kofi 🐥 Facebook 🐥 Pinterest 🐥

[keepsmagnetoaway]

Marvel Super Hero Contest of Champions 1 (June 1982)

Mark Gruenwald, Steven Grant & Bill Mantlo/John Romita Jr & Pablo Marcos

Marvel Super Hero Contest of Champions (to give it its full, overlong title) is an extremely historically important miniseries which features several X-Men characters, hence our reading it. It's also fucking terrible.

Contest of Champions (as I'll now be calling it, for my sanity) was conceived in 1980, in very funny circumstances: the 1980 Olympics was coming up, in Moscow, and Marvel thought it would be fun to do a superhero Olympics comic. This explains the international focus of Contest of Champions, which (along with dozens of American heroes) features a number of extremely cringy heroes from countries around the world, many of them invented specifically for this comic and appearing here for the first time as they're whisked off to some mysterious location.

So why is this coming out in 1982, with no mention of the Olympics anywhere? Well, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan and the US decided to boycott the Moscow Olympics, sending no athletes and turning it (from the US perspective) into a huge damp squib that couldn't be used as a tie-in for a comic. So the whole idea sat in a drawer for a couple of years.

But - unfortunately - you can't keep a bad idea down, and a couple of years later Marvel dusted off the idea and rewrote it with a new framework, having the heroes be whisked off by two mysterious cosmic powers to become pawns in a struggle for yadda yadda yadda.

This, then, is how we got something that would go on to be commonplace: a massive, company-wide crossover event, where everyone is pulled together for a limited series that awkwardly tries to cram way too much plot and way too many characters into a big Event Comic that makes a nightmare of everyone's individual storylines. It all started with a failed attempt at a tie-in Olympics comic, and that's extremely funny.

Also, the two mysterious cosmic guys (one of them is fully unidentified at this stage, though it's very obvious who it's going to turn out to be) then each choose twelve heroes to be their champions, so the vast majority of the guys who were zapped up are then just not used. What was the point of this? Surely these cosmic gods could just have zapped up the twelve they each wanted and left everyone else alone? The international nature of the competition, meanwhile, ensures that of the chosen heroes, many of them are here to "represent" their country, which means they're total nobodies as far as Marvel is concerned. Can't wait to see *checks notes* Vanguard and Talisman face off!

We don't even get to any fighting in this issue, as it's all taken up with the selection process and the overall conceit. All that can be said for it is that it produces a few very funny character moments (mostly unintentionally), as when Captain Britain eyes Shamrock "suspiciously", in that he's absolutely checking out her ass. Also, if you thought Banshee was a one-dimensional representation of Irishness, hoo boy, welcome to Shamrock.

Mostly though it's just extremely normal, totally natural conversations like this.

Jesus christ. Thankfully this is only three issues long.

[edey63]

Irish Potato Candy

Irish Potato Candy is a yummy dessert that contrary to popular belief, has no actual potatoes in the recipe. This is a classic treat you’ve either grown up adoring or never heard of before. Either way, you are going to want to save this!

Ingredients:

4 oz cream cheese softened

¼ cup unsalted butter softened

4 cups powdered sugar

2 ½ cups shredded coconut

1 tsp pure vanilla extract

1 tbsp ground cinnamon

½ cup light brown sugar

Instructions:

Using a hand mixer, cream together the butter and cream cheese until combined and smooth.

Beat in the vanilla until combined.

Gradually mix in the powdered sugar until combined.

Using a rubber spatula, fold in the shredded coconut.

Cover with foil and place into the fridge for 1 hour.

Line cookie sheet with parchment paper.

Using a tablespoon, scoop out some of the mixture and roll it into a ball.

Set onto the cookie sheet, repeat step until all of the mixture is rolled into a ball.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the brown sugar and cinnamon.

Coat each dough ball in the brown sugar mixture.

Place onto a serving tray and continue the step until all balls have been coated.

Enjoy 😊