#julienne posts

[monsion-no2]

Greetings & Salutations from the Atypical Challenge!~

Are you bored with league gym challenges? How samey they all are, focusing on one type and easily beaten with one move used over and over? So are we! That’s why we’ve made our own challenge with leaders that use key aspects of pokémon and battle culture~

Below are some brief intros to our 10 leaders. The first 8 are main leaders, the last 2 minor ones due to other occupational priorities~

Heya! I’m Buddy, they/them, and I focus on friendship and all the joys it brings!!

I’m Caprice, she/they, my team are known to be a bit… Loud.

Name’s Evie, any pronouns. My squad train to be our strongest versions of ourselves! 💪💪

daisy, she her, status effects

I am Meriwether, he/him, and I utilise weather & terrains to my advantage.

I’m gimma, she/they, I use the powers I’ve gained across many regions in my battles!!! XD

Hecate, it/its. My pokémon are known to change, as am I.

Sully, he/him.

Hi, I’m Julienne, he/she. I own a diner in Nimabsa, so it should be no surprise I love food-like pokémon!

My name is Archie, he/they. I am a historian and as such my team is comprised of pokémon of the past.

The main leaders active on here will be Buddy, Gimma, Meriwether and Sully by virtue of them having their phones on them at all times. If posts are directed to a specific leader, we will pester them into responding!~

If you see us around, why not battle us? I’m sure we’ll be an Atypical Challenge!~

ooc time hey hi hello! This is a pkmn irl rotomblr account thing run by 5 people, each in charge of different characters. Quick outline below with the people’s pseudonyms and their characters.

Addy = Buddy & Caprice

Min = Sully & Hecate

Demi = Gimma & Daisy

Love ❤️‍🩹 = Meriwether & Archie

Other = Julienne & Evie & post checker for SPaGetTI (spelling, punctuation and grammar et tags & indicators; very forced for the sake of pasta)

We’ll prolly keep our actions low-no stakes, might comment on anything higher, we’ll tag the events in such cases. In cases of injury & harm & [x]phobia & pokémon consumption i’ve see tagged & etc, tags will be #cw [thing]

[speckled-biscut]

ssilly timeeee:]

[alovethatkilledme]

Was reading the comments left on some of my fics and they made my heart swell. It’s giving me courage to post another fic. I’m all emotional. Thanks again!

[servants-hall]

Call the Midwife: Magazine Round Up - 13x01

Here are the CTM features and synopses of in the latest UK TV Magazines:

6-12 January 2024

TV Times

Radio Times

TV & Satellite Week

What's on TV

[doyouknowthemossinman]

thoughts on “hear me out” cakes

[gayness-and-mayhem]

Absolutely fascinated by the effortless way Sister Julienne gets off her bike at the beginning of the 2012 Christmas Special.

[lhaagain]

@sicktember Prompt 5 - Preventative Measures (Not Taken)

“Dr Turner,” Mildred said. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, thank you for coming in,” he said, stepping back from his office door and gesturing for her to step inside.

“I suspect that I know what, or rather who it is you wanted to speak to me about and some things are better addressed away from prying ears.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Miss Higgins has just stepped out for lunch.”

“So,” Mildred said, settling into a seat before his desk. “Sister Julienne.”

Read more on AO3

[booknerdblogger]

What an ending! What an episode! Thank you @CallTheMidwife1, for brightening up my Sundays, and for making me cry like a baby & laugh too 😭😅 I'm soo happy for Trixie, she deserves happiness 🥰

12 Seasons, hard-hitting storylines, loved characters. extraordinary writing & fabulous cast. There isn't a show like @CallTheMidwife1 that can make you cry, laugh & scream at the same time! Counting down till Christmas 😊❤️

[felidthing]

I LONG FOR PERMANENCE i want to live in one place for so long that i can buy kitchen appliances without wondering how i'll pack everything when i move

[sisterjulienne]

250 ‘Sister Julienne says’ posts!

[monsion-no2]

Juliene, sorry if this is pushing boundaries or insensitive in any way, why do you use he & she?

Hi anon, I find it alright. I’m intersex, my body’s a mix of traits I will not go into detail on that are male and female. Instead of picking one to be, like people “pressured” me about, I decided to be both. So, here I am, a bigender intersex person who uses he & she pronouns. Hope that helps.

[rocksibblingsau]

I saw your original post for Bergen Branch and I got ideas I wanna share.

Since Branch is the only happy Bergen there are rumors that he's hiding a supply of trolls somewhere and is harassed on the daily because of it.

When Bridget becomes friends with Poppy and her friends she takes them to Branch (after her date) with the hope they'll be able to help them get out of Bergen Town.

They talk about the science of happiness. Branch goes on a whole rant on how Trolls are nothing but a drug and a short term solution and true happiness takes work.

Branch does agree to help Poppy and her friends but they try to get him to help them find Creek. He refuses.

When the rest of the village is found and captured and Trollstice is brought back Branch goes 'screw it' and deiced to storm the castle.

Love these!

So a fun headcanon I have about Bergens is that Chef is actually named Chef. Her last name, that is. All/most chefs who worked trollstice are from the Chef family.

This is relevant because I imagine Bergen Branch is of the Chef family. He's not really sure of his exact relation to Chef, something like 2nd cousins twice removed or something. He really only met her once at a family thing.

Bergen Branch was named Brine, but changed it to Branch after he left the family. He may or may not have four brothers with similarly themed names (Julienne, Braise, Char and Fry).

He also has a pet spider named Klutzy who he's researching as part of his investigation on why trolls make bergens 'happy'.

[cuoredimuschio]

a little start of something that may end up being Something, expanding on this post about eddie teaching steve to play guitar

(3.1k - no upside down, but still set in the spring of '86)

now on ao3 | part two

---

Jenna Burke is the girl of Steve’s dreams.

Yeah, yeah, he’s made that claim before. A few times. 

About Nancy. About Robin (he was half-right that time). About a dozen girls in between.

But Jenna’s different. Jenna’s the real deal.

They haven’t even been out on a date yet, but he knows. He can tell. He can feel it in the air every time she comes in to bring back her rentals. Which she always does when he’s working. Never on Tuesday when he’s off.

And let him just say, real quick: he knows how crazy that sounds. How crazy he sounds. But there’s something there, some kind of connection that sparks every time their eyes meet, something just waiting for the right moment to happen. And honestly, he’d have to be even crazier than crazy not to be completely mad about her. 

Because she’s everything anyone could ever want. She’s everything that Steve has ever wanted, and more. Intelligent, funny, sincere, kind, movie-star cool but still firmly planted down on Earth, confident, artistic, athletic, a heavenly laugh, a knockout smile, sun-kissed freckles, hair like caramel honey, gorgeous enough to blow Phoebe Cates clear out of the water: he could go on. 

And he has. 

He’s talked Robin’s ear off about her, shift after shift after shift, until she threatened to cut his tongue out, julienne it, and feed it to her cat if she had to hear one more time about Jenna’s dimples and how the left one is just the slightest bit bigger than the right one—as if she wasn’t ten times worse when she was crushing on Vickie. Steve was once treated to an entire sermon about the way the fluorescent lights of the band hall reflected off her pearl barrette. But anyway, that’s beside the point. The point being that, threats of violence aside, even Robin’s had to admit that Jenna is—by all accounts and in every way—perfect.

There’s just one problem.

Steve is not the guy of her dreams.

She’s always flirted back with him—or at least, she’d always seemed amused by his attempts to flirt. Always met him halfway, played along and giggled at all his jokes and lame lines, definitely checked out his arms when he leaned on the counter, even twirled her hair a few times. He could’ve sworn it was all there, every sign lit up green and pointing to ‘go’. But when he’d finally laid it all on the line and asked her if he could take her out for dinner and a movie on Friday, she’d hit him with the worst eight words in the English language: you’re really sweet, but you’re not my type. 

And what is her type? Springsteen, Bon Jovi, rockstars and their wannabes, apparently.

“There’s just something about a man with a guitar,” she’d said, her sea-shine eyes dancing with starry mischief. “Drives a girl wild.”

Then, she’d taken her movie, dropped a smile and a twiddly wave over her shoulder, and swept out the door with Steve’s heart stuck to the bottom of her Keds, leaving squelchy, sappy stains on the sidewalk with every step. And that was that. A beautiful flower, nipped before it could even bud. He couldn’t even really be surprised, shouldn’t have expected anything different given his recent track record.

It wasn’t until he was locking up that night, ready to go home and wallow, chalk up another failure in the books and look for comfort at the bottom of a beer or two, that it had hit him: the obvious solution, the one she’d handed right to him, with a wink and a nudge. 

He’s not the guy of her dreams, but he could be. 

All it’d take is just one little change. And he’s more than willing to make it.

Which is why he’s now slinking back to his old stomping grounds, picking his way through the grey, gnarled trees huddled behind the track, and hoping with all he’s got that Eddie Munson didn’t get busted at some point in the last year and move to another neck of the woods. And that he’s in a generous mood.

Steve should probably explain. Because ‘obvious solution’ and ‘Eddie Munson’ don’t often belong in the same metaphorical sentence. But desperate times call for desperate measures. 

There’s just no way Steve can teach himself to play guitar. He wouldn’t even know where to start, and he’s always learned better when he has someone to watch anyway, when he can see, step by step, what he needs to do before he does it. And Munson…Still doesn’t seem like the obvious choice, granted. But he was always hanging up those messy, handmade posters for his weird band, plastering them all over the school, talking big about their gig at The Hideout every Tuesday; even though Steve had never caught one of their shows, never heard Munson play a single note, he figures if an actual bar hired them and let them keep coming back, week after week, he must be pretty good. 

Plus, with that whole rock-n-roll, long-hair-denim-and-leather thing he’s got going, he’s honestly not too far off from Bon Jovi. Steve’s not sure either party would appreciate that comparison, but the fact is, Eddie Munson is the closest thing to a rockstar that Hawkins has to offer. If he’s going to learn from anyone, Munson’s his best bet.

It’s quiet as Steve approaches the clearing—nothing but the birds squawking up in the branches and the weak crunch of the leaves under his feet. It’s so quiet, too quiet, and all wrong. Because ‘quiet’ and ‘Eddie Munson’ have never belonged in the same sentence either; they don’t even belong on the same planet. If he was here, Steve probably would have heard him before he even got out of his car. So he must’ve switched spots or maybe he’s busy with his nerdy club. This was always a pretty damn long shot, but preemptive disappointment closes around Steve’s stomach anyway.

He almost turns around. It’s a good thing he didn’t.

Because he steps out into the clearing and there Munson is: holed up at that same rotting picnic table, squatting on the bench, hunched like a gargoyle as he scribbles into an old, tattered notebook, stopping every few seconds to gnaw on the end of his pen, twisting his hair around and around his finger. It’s warm enough that he’s ditched his signature vest and jacket, thrown them down on the table and pushed his sleeves up, showing off a select few of his ghoulish collection of tattoos. Steve can hear now that his watch—the same dorky kind Dustin wears—is beeping, softly, incessantly, but Munson doesn’t seem to hear it. And he doesn’t seem to realize Steve is there either, too absorbed in whatever he’s cooking up in his notebook, mouthing something to himself over and over again.

Steve clears his throat. “Hey, Munson—”

“Fucking sh—” is all the further Munson gets before he topples; he flails, arms striking out, trying to keep his balance and save himself, but gravity wins this round, and he lands, hard, on his on his back in the dirt.

Not off to a great start. 

Steve steps forward, a hand ready to help him up, an apology brewing on his tongue, but Munson pops right back up, breezily brushing dead forest junk from his shirt. His eyes widen slightly when they land on Steve, a brow starts to twitch up, but he tosses on that smarmy, showman smile and slips into his usual act seamlessly.

“Ah, salutations, your majesty.” He doffs an imaginary cap and tucks his arm in against his stomach, bowing so deep the tips of his frizzy hair brush the leaf litter. It’s a damn shame, to have a killer mane like that and not even know how to take care of it; he clearly overwashes it and uses the exact wrong shampoo for whatever his hair type is; his curls are so limp he looks like a cocker spaniel after a night left out in the rain. “Long time, no see. To what do I owe such an auspicious honor? What brings you back to my humble shop on this fine afternoon?”

Alright, here goes nothing. 

“I need a favor,” Steve says. Short, simple, and to the point. 

That brow inches up a bit higher. “Well, unless ‘a favor’ is what the cool kids are calling an eighth these days, I regret to inform you that you’re a bit S-O-L, sire. My supply—” He raps his knuckles on top of his battered lunchbox “—ain’t what she usually is at the moment. Had a bit of a Spring Break blowout sale on Friday, everything must go, you know how it is. But…” He wedges his hands in his back pockets and sighs, as if Steve’s really busting his balls and twisting his arm here. “If you know what you want, I can try and get it for you, but I make no guarantees, and it probably won’t be ‘til next week.” His eyes pick their way up and over Steve, all the way up from his shoes, and a smirk spreads, like a fungal infection, across his lips. “Usually don’t take special orders, but I can make an exception for the king.”

He says ‘king’, but it’s pretty obvious he means something more in the realm of ‘jackass’ or ‘douchebag’. And that the offer’s not exactly coming out of the kindness of his heart. So, things aren’t boding well for Steve. 

But whatever, he doesn’t need Munson to like him; he just needs Munson to teach him. And besides, he can’t really blame him for being less than enthusiastic about helping Steve out; it’s not like he would be Steve’s first choice either, if he had a better option. Or any other option, really. The guy’s weird. And loud. And abrasive. And a lot. Not to mention, they have next to nothing in common, and he means ‘next to’ as in ‘on the negative side of’. 

“I’m not here for drugs,” he says.

Munson’s face darkens, something hardened in his eyes that almost makes him look as dangerous as concerned parents say he is. 

“Then you’re in the wrong place.” He drops back down on the bench and picks up his pen again, pulling his notebook close. “Despite what your lovely friends like to say about me, I don’t offer those kinds of services. I’m not that desperate.”

It takes a second for Steve to realize exactly which friends and which services Munson’s referring to, but when it clicks, a bucket of gooey heat dumps over his head, searing his ears and turning his stomach. “Jesus Christ, you really think I’d—No. God no. Believe me, if that’s what I wanted, I wouldn’t be coming to you of all people. I wouldn’t need to.”

Munson props his chin in his palm, and now his eyes literally twinkle, catching a shard of the patchwork light that falls through the scraggly canopy, as he leers up at Steve. “Tell me, Harrington, have you ever asked somebody for a favor before? ‘Cause I gotta say, this is a unique approach.”

Right. Probably shouldn’t be insulting the guy who he’s throwing himself at the mercy of. 

If only Munson weren’t so damn good at being so damn annoying.

“Look,” Steve says, gingerly sliding onto the bench across from Munson, praying his jeans will protect him from getting a splinter up the ass, “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Let me try again: you play guitar, right?”

“Yeah?” Munson narrows his eyes and slams his notebook shut before Steve can spot much more than a few choppy doodles. “What, does his majesty require entertainment for one of his soirees?”

“No, I want you to teach me.”

That brow disappears up behind his bangs. “How to tie your shoelaces or…?”

Steve pauses, takes a deep breath, pictures Jenna’s beautiful, smiling face. She’s worth it, he reminds himself, do it for her. “No,” he says again, nice and calm and level. “How to play guitar, asshole.”

“Why?”

“Uh, because you know how to play and I don’t?” He’s totally doing this on purpose, being deliberately contuse or whatever the word is. And Steve can’t help himself. “I would’ve thought someone who’s been in school as long as you would understand the concept of teaching by now, but I guess maybe that explains why you still haven’t graduated.”

“Get fucked,” Munson snaps, but it’s dull, all bark and no bite, more of a reflex than anything. “I meant why do you wanna play guitar, dickhead.”

“Oh.” Yeah, okay, Steve deserved that one. He’s burning bridges, and fast, but Munson hasn’t walked away yet, which means he’s still got a shot. And he’s gonna take it. “Jenna Burke.”

He can’t even say her name without cracking a smile. That’s how he knows it’s real.

Munson is decidedly less enchanted. He twirls his pen once, twice between his fingers and starts sketching a spider web around his knuckle. “Care to elaborate?”

“I’m into her. She’s into guys who play guitar.” Steve pauses, letting that information sink in. “Can you put those pieces together on your own or do I need to spell it out for you?”

Something surprisingly bitter curls up in the corner of Munson’s mouth. He laughs, but it’s not really a laugh at all. “Nah, I hear ya, loud and clear, your majesty. And the answer to your humble request,” he says, “is no.”

Steve blinks. “What? What do you mean no?” 

He hates—a little bit, a lot—how much he sounds like a spoiled child, but this isn’t just not getting some stupid toy he wanted on Christmas; it’s potentially missing out on the love of his life. He needs this.

“I mean no,” Munson repeats, nice and slow, dragging out the ‘o’ and puckering it off. “N-O? Commonly known as the opposite of yes? As in ‘not fucking happening’?” He tilts his head to the side. “Huh, I would’ve thought somebody with a brain in their thick skull would be able to understand such a simple concept.”

Steve crosses his arms; definitely not helping himself on the ‘spoiled child’ front, but it’s the best way to stop himself from punching—or strangling—that smug smirk off Munson’s smug face. “Why not?”

“How many reasons you want? ‘Cause I can give you a few.” He sticks up his middle finger, adorned with a flying pig’s head. “One: learning guitar takes a shitton of practice, patience, and passion. It’s not something you just pick up one day to impress a chick. It’s serious shit. If you’re not doing it for the pure, honest love of the music, then you have no business even breathing in the same room as a guitar. And it’s my sworn duty as a defender of the faith to hold the line and keep the rabble—” He jabs his middle finger in Steve’s direction, in case it was unclear who the ‘rabble’ was in this scenario “—back from the gates.”

“Jesus, who do you think you are? Some kind of musical messiah?” Steve scoffs. He shouldn’t, he needs Munson on his side, but something about the guy just gets under his skin and itches. “How about you get off your fucking high horse for two seconds?”

“Hey, man, you came to me. If you wanted sympathy, you should’ve knocked on a different door. And I wasn’t finished, alright? Two,” he says, lifting his other middle finger, “I have no interest in helping you get your rocks off. I, frankly, don’t give a fuck about the state of your rocks. And call me uncharitable or inhumane or whatever you like, but I think your little fella will survive if he has to stay in your pants this one time. Three—” He raises his left pinky “—I don’t fucking want to. It may not have occurred to you, my liege, but I have better things to do than listen to you butcher Hot Cross Buns over and over again until you inevitably give up because you’ve never actually had to work for anything in your life.”

Again, Steve probably deserves that, but still. “Jesus, man, you don’t have to—” 

“And four,” Munson says, even louder. He lifts his right pinky, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “No, actually, that pretty much covers it. So if you’re done wasting my precious time—” He pushes up from the table and sweeps his arm toward the tree line, his smile more plastic than Barbie’s “—you can kindly return to the Hell from whence you came, your majesty.”

“Munson, come on. I’m sor—”

“Buh-bye! Thanks for coming!” He turns his back, as if not being able to see Steve will make him disappear faster. “Don’t let the door kick you in the ass on the way out!”

Fuck. 

Steve blew this. 

He blew this so hard. In every way he possibly could’ve. 

But there has to be something he can say, something he can do—

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts, before his brain can catch up and think better of it.

Munson stills. Just for a second before his I-don’t-give-a-shit act kicks back in, but it’s enough. Steve knows he’s got him on the hook. Now he just has to reel him in. 

“Twenty bucks a week,” he offers, wincing even as he says it. “I just need you to teach me the basics and help me learn one song. That’s all you gotta do. And after that, we go our separate ways, and we never have to talk to each other again.”

Munson mulls that over for a second, a long second, fingers fiddling at his split ends, before he spins around. There’s something almost hungry in his eyes: the kind of hunger you see on a stray dog waiting by the dumpster behind a butcher shop. “Make it thirty.”

Two years ago, Steve wouldn’t have blinked at that number, would have forked it over happily. Now, it hurts, physically. Now, he can barely get the word past his gritted teeth, but he finds a gap and shoves it out. For Jenna.

“Done.” 

He can’t, technically, afford it. Not on his skimpy paycheck. But he’s been saving up, squirreling away whatever cash he could spare so he can put this town in his rearview someday; it’ll set him back a few months, maybe a year, but he can dip into his savings a bit, maybe pick up a few shifts to cover the extra. It’ll be fine. Jenna’s worth it. More than.

“Well, shit, Harrington.” Munson shakes his head, and he doesn’t look or sound any more enthusiastic about the whole situation—he actually looks kind of seasick—but he sticks his hand out. “I guess you’ve got yourself a deal.”

[demilypyro]

thank you for reblogging ema x franziska art. i only ever shipped her with like. julienne andrews, the assistant lady from the matt engarde case, so i never even considered "what if post timeskip she got together with ema". my mind is blown

WHAT IF WE WENT TO GERMANY TO STUDY CRIME TOGETHER

AND WE WERE BOTH GIRLS

[listenheresweaty]

Food for Thought: Wilbur Soot Chef!Au

this is unedited. This was also originally an ask I planned to send someone but I ended up posting it here. ——-

Thinking about Wilbur, chef au. like— ratatouille, without the rats. An inexperienced new chef (reader) comes to the 5 star family run restaurant called the Syndicate and is for some reason hired. Wilbur, the sauce chef (third highest ranking, after techno the sous chef and Philza the big man chef— master chef. Idk), is assigned to show them the ropes. He is already cranky for ranking in *third* among his family of four, even though he loves his brother and father very much. And now they dump the newbie into his hands??? Don’t they know he has better to do?

he was going to make your life hell. if only you weren’t so damn intriguing.

the first week, he’s cocky and arrogant, sweeping through the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance to you, giving the most vague instructions to purposefully tick you off. —-

“so the pan over there goes here when the heat is on that level, then that goes there, and there over there.. yknow.. get the bottles from the fridge, put ‘em here, turn the heat on like so—“ he turned the oven nozzle on and then back off again, too quickly for you to see the heat level. He turns to you, hands behind his back. “Any questions?”

he took your gaping silence as a yes. “Good. Follow me. You’ll wash pans for the day, then we’ll see each other tomorrow morning.”

____

Oh you hate the smug bastard. But as you watch him effortlessly dice a variety of vegetables and scrape them into the pot in a matter of seconds, you realize that hatred and admiration is an awful combination.

one late night— when you had received the infuriating assignment of “master high-speed julienne cuts on these onions before you get to go home”—- you tried to replicate his movements, growing increasingly frustrated as the onions stung your eyes, the clock ticked past midnight, and Wilbur snickered faintly in the background. You were so intently focused on getting that stupid onion into strips that you didn’t notice your finger getting in the way. With a yelp, you drop the knife, hissing and staring at your cut thumb. Wilbur looks up sharply, uncrossing his arms and moving away from the counter he had leaned against. “What the hell did you do now?”

“it’s nothing,” you grit out, “don’t—“ but you are cut off by Wilbur taking a hold of your hand, lifting it to his face and inspecting the cut.

“proper safety is important in the kitchen.” He states, not taking his eyes off the cut. “Not only for our sakes, but for the safety and hygiene of those who will eventually eat the food we prepare.”

you know that, but your words die in your throat as he rifled through a medicine cabinet and took out some antiseptic and gauze. the room is silent, silent except for the ticking of the clock and the occasional ripping of gauze and tape as he patches up your thumb. His face remains impassive, neutral, showing no real friendliness but none of the hostility from earlier.

”Right.” He finishes taping down the gauze and steps back, turning to take some fresh onions out of the fridge, and a new knife and cutting board.

“do I have to do the exercise all over again?” You ask in dismay.

He pauses. “No. No, you don’t.”

you let Wilbur maneuver you to stand in front of the new cutting board— and freeze up when he stands close behind you, grabbing your hands from behind and guiding them to the knife. “put your thumb there— no— like that, yes. There. That’s the correct way to hold a chopping knife. Now, since you’ve mangled your hands, follow my lead.”

He gently guides your hands to the onion, positions them, and cuts it smoothly.

“there. You see?” He says, his voice quiet and close to your ear. It’s a lot more gentle too, or maybe that’s just the late hour getting to him as well.

“Y-yeah.” You manage, clearing your throat. “Seems simple enough.”

”hm.” He hums, amused, and lets go of your hands. “I think that’s all for the day. It’s quite late.”

you sigh in relief, dropping the knife on the counter. Instead of walking to the front door and getting your coat, however, you pick up the boards and cutlery and make your way across the room.

“what are you doing?” Wilbur asks.

“Washing the dishes. “ you blink. That was the first rule you learned in the kitchen. A chef always cleans up after cooking, and never procrastinates or postpones the work, no matter how many plates need to be cleaned.

“…I’ll wash up.” Wilbur sighed. “You go on home.”

Who the hell was this guy, and what did he do to Wilbur? “are— are you sure? What about you?”

Wilbur cracked a smile. “I’m sure. Don’t you worry about me. I can manage.”

“alright.” You acquiesced, getting your coat from the hanger and sweeping it over your shoulders. You pause before leaving through the door, and look back. “Good night, Wilbur.”

“good night, love.” Wilbur paused. “And remember to be here at 5:00 AM Tomorrow, at the latest.”

you groaned and shut the door, listening to his chuckles fade into the distance as you trudge your way home.

[kon-igi]

SENTITE DI DOVERMI QUALCOSA E VOLETE SDEBITARVI?

Esiste un posto tra Milano e Brescia

un posto mal distinguibile se non si fa uno zoom decente con Google Maps

no... forse un po' di più

ecco così va meglio.

Si tratta di un piccolo paese che dal 2004 si fregia del titolo di città ed è SONCINO, un comune italiano di 7.486 abitanti della provincia di Cremona, in Lombardia.

Soncino, oltre che conosciuta per aver condiviso la sua rocca con quella del Castello di Torrechiara per alcune scene del film fantasy Ladyhawke, è famigerata per un prodotto che è il motivo di questo post e che andrò subito a illustrarvi

LE RADICI DI SONCINO

che sono una roba assolutamente disgustosa e immangiabile per la loro amarezza, peraltro simile a molte altre radici consumate masochisticamente in parecchie regioni italiane

SENONCHÉ

un giorno a casa di @surfer-osa abbiamo mangiato una conserva in agrodolce di tali radici sfilettate à la julienne e aromatizzate all'anice, acquistata in qualche sagra e ora la missione di vita della nostra famiglia è averle per il pranzo di Natale.

Consequenzialmente, la mia missione di vita è diventata la vostra e quindi dovete assolutamente procurarmi uno o più vasetti di tale conserva affinché io sia felice e spargere nel mondo tale felicità.

Hint: era una produzione locale di cui non ricordiamo nulla e quindi introvabile sull'internet... tranne che per persone esperte e motivate come voi.

Grazie dell'eventuale gentile reblog e dei numerosi invii multipli a DOTT. KON-IGI MURASAKI c/o TABACCHERIA ROSATI DI ROSATI MARIA Via Di Case Trombi, 5 CAP 43037, Lesignano de' Bagni, Parma.

<3

P.S. Se non trovate le Radici di Soncino e mi volete spedire altri prodotti tipici delle vostre terre mica ci sputo sopra, ecco.