#key and peele french restaurant

[pricelessemotion]

Lectori Salutem | E.M.

Summary: [5.1k] you and eddie shoot pool and spill secrets.

Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist! reader

Warnings: drinking, language

Notes: things are finally picking up! next chapter will include some 18+ content so you must have your age in your bio for the taglist!

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Eddie clambers into the passenger seat of your car. Upon leaving the diner, you managed to convince him to let you drive to your next destination, citing a general need to live. 

The drive back to Eddie’s was considerably less nerve-wracking. This go around, he decided to obey the speed limit and not split lanes like a maniac. Not only did he give you peace of mind but he also spared the delicious french toast that you ate from making a reappearance. 

Turning the key, the car starts with a light rumble. The sound of electric guitars and heavy drums shatters the silence between the two of you. 

Fuck.

You still had the Corroded Coffin tape in your stereo. 

Eddie is turned away from you, grabbing the seatbelt. At the sound of his own voice being played back to him, he slowly turns around to look at you. The grin on his face would put the Cheshire cat to shame. 

“I didn’t know you were a fan, sweetheart.” The nickname is saccharine coming out of his mouth. 

“I–” You sputter, trying to come up with a good defense. “I’m thorough in my research.”

Eddie is obviously amused at the fact that he’s caught you red-handed. His seatbelt is already buckled, but it’s stretched thin as he leans across the center console. He smells like syrup and cigarettes. For a second, you consider turning the stereo off completely. 

“Should I be scared? Do you have a shrine to me in your room? Do you have my face tattooed on your ass?” With each question his voice gets louder and louder, filling the tiny space with his velvety timbre. 

Though your face is hot with embarrassment, you’re secretly relieved. Any semblance of tension from bringing up Evelyn at the diner has dissipated. It’s been shredded with every strum of a guitar. You find it’s easier to be around Eddie this way. It’s easier to give in to his playfulness, rather than try to maintain the facade of professionalism. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You say, casting him a sideways glance. 

Eddie, for the most part, remains stoic. But you catch the twitch of his mouth and see the tell-tale shade of pink flood his cheeks. If anything should be indicative of the fact that you’ve stunned him, it’s that he’s stopped talking for the first time since you met him. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: He never shuts up. 

You release the parking brake and peel off into the streets. If Eddie is at all bothered by listening to his own music, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he takes the opportunity to quietly sing along, only stopping to pepper in commentary about the track or to give you directions. The richness of his voice is so distracting that you haven’t even noticed that you have no idea where he’s taking you.

Trying to find street parking in East Hollywood is a fruitless endeavor. You almost wish you had taken up Eddie’s offer to ride his bike. Eddie directs you around the backside of a building where a sign indicates that it’s a private parking lot, not meant for public use. He assures you that you won’t get towed.

The Blue Line is a bar tucked in between a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaners. Walking up to the doors, you’re hit with the clashing scents of peanut sauce and fresh linen.  

There are very few people inside, given that it’s a bar and it’s barely even five o’clock yet. The soles of your shoes stick to the floor, making a quiet but awful velcro-like sound with every step you take.

“Buckley!” Eddie’s voice booms as you enter the establishment, echoing off the concrete floors and exposed brick walls.

A tall, freckled girl springs up behind the counter. At the sound of her name, she grins, her dark lipstick contrasting pearly white teeth. 

“Munson!” She yells back. The few patrons that linger around various areas of the bar are evidently disturbed by the sudden change in volume, turning their heads and scowling. She doesn’t seem to care. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just looking to shoot some pool in the best bar in L.A.” Buckley audibly snorts at the last part of his statement. “My tab still open?”

“Always.” She shakes her head and raises her brows at him as if to say, of course. She turns to look at you. “Who’s your friend?”

Your mouth opens, but the words die on your tongue. You and Eddie are not friends. At least, you’re not supposed to be. But you don’t know if you want to tell this woman, who Eddie is clearly close with, that you’re here on assignment to try to cherry-pick the best parts of him and turn them into something palatable. 

At your hesitation, Eddie swoops in and makes the introduction for you. He doesn’t mention the fact that you’re a journalist. Whether the omission is for your benefit or his, you’re not sure.

“Nice to meet you,” She throws the rag she was using to wipe down the counter over her shoulder and extends her hand. “I’m Robin.” 

Her handshake is firm, but her eyes are soft. The fine bottles of liquor behind her are backlit by an unseen light source, giving the illusion of stained glass. She quickly turns around and rummages through the minifridge and grabs two beers. 

“You know the rules, Munson, don’t get too rowdy and clean up when you’re done.” She says, popping the caps off of the beverages and setting them down on the counter.

“Me?” Eddie grasps his chest in faux incredulity, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Too rowdy? Never.” 

Robin sticks her tongue out at him in response right as she’s being flagged down by a customer at the far end of the bar. She salutes the both of you, flouncing away to refill the man’s old-fashioned. 

To your right, there’s something akin to a hall of fame. A collage of pictures of different celebrities that have visited the very room you’re standing in. You wonder if Eddie is up there, but you don’t dare to go see for yourself.

“Can you play?” He asks, walking towards the pool table. 

You make a noncommittal noise. You had played your fair share of games of pool, sure, but never in a setting quite like this. Never with someone like Eddie. Setting your bag down on one of the empty tables that lined the perimeter of the room, you pull out your tape recorder.

“You mind?” You ask, holding up the device in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie grimaces and shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over a bar stool at the opposite end of the table. The motion draws attention to the plethora of ink that litters both of his arms.

“Do we have to?” His face scrunches up as he asks the question, a slight whine in his tone. 

You almost feel inclined to say no, if only just to see the wrinkle that has formed between his brows disappear. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: he is very hard to say no to. That’s how you ended up in this bar in the first place. 

It would be easy to forgo the tape recorder and pretend that the two of you are just friends hanging out. But if there’s one thing that you know, it’s that the human memory is fallible. You can't risk the quality of your article for the sake of his comfort. 

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Eddie bristles at your response but says nothing. He takes a square of blue chalk and thoughtfully rubs it on the end of his pool cue. The sunglasses he took off are tugging down at his v-neck, exposing sharp collarbones and even more ink. 

“I have a proposition for you.” Eddie declares. 

You raise an eyebrow. 

“For every ball you sink, you get to ask me a question about my life. For every ball I sink, I get to ask you about yours.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, thinking that he can’t possibly be serious. But he just stands there, staring at you as he sets the blue piece of chalk down at the edge of the table. 

“Final offer. Take it or leave it.” He throws both palms up in the air, pool cue tucked into his side. 

For the second time today, you take Eddie’s words as a challenge.

“You’re on.” 

Eddie takes his time setting up the game. While he’s leaning over the side of the table gathering the scattered spheres, you can’t help yourself from admiring his silhouette. The back of his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of skin that you cannot tear your eyes away from. 

Oh my god.

Eddie Munson has a tramp stamp. 

A chaotic collection of branches and thorns surrounds a Latin phrase: lectori salutem. You rack your brain, trying to remember the one semester of elective Latin that you took back in freshman year of college when Eddie suddenly turns around. You quickly look up to meet his eyes, but the smirk on his face reveals everything. 

For the second time today, Eddie has caught you staring. 

“Ladies first.” He says, grandly gesturing toward the table. 

You break the rack. A blur of colors bursts forth in every direction. Despite your best efforts, none of the balls make it into a pocket. Looking back at Eddie, you see he’s still got that smirk on his face. He leans over and effortlessly knocks a ball into a pocket. Stripes. 

“Where did you go to school?”

“NYU.” You reply, having been asked this question so many times that the response is practically automatic at this point.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. “Out-of-state tuition must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“I had a scholarship.”

“Wow. Pretty and smart. You’re kind of the whole package, aren’t you?” The teasing lilt in his voice doesn’t take away from the sincerity in his words. 

The compliment flusters you, which you’re sure is the whole point of Eddie’s making it. 

“Only one question, remember? It’s still your turn.” 

Eddie sees right through your attempt to deflect. Graciously, he doesn’t point it out. He just leans down once again and lines up a shot. Stripes Twelve. Right lower pocket. 

“Why do you hate New York?”

The sureness with which he asks the question throws you for a loop. Whatever you had expected to come out of Eddie’s mouth, it definitely wasn’t that. 

“What makes you think I hate New York?”

“Tsk tsk. I’m asking the questions here.” Eddie scolds, but his voice is devoid of any real ire. He plants his hands on the table, leaning towards you. You can just barely see the faint outline of a gravestone on his right forearm. “You don’t hate it, but you don’t love it either.”

In the five minutes that have passed since he started questioning you, Eddie has managed to see right through you. You’re starting to wonder if you’re actually that transparent or if he is just that good at reading people.

“I don’t know. My dad is from there. Whenever he talked about New York, it always seemed like some mythical place. He always said ‘Don’t live in New York so long it makes you hard. Don’t live in California so long it makes you soft.’ I guess I went to New York to prove to myself that I could, y’know. Prove that I could leave the nest and not fall flat on my face.”

Heat blooms in your chest during your ramblings. The pressure you feel is so much that you’re surprised steam hasn’t started coming out of your ears. Despite knowing exactly why you went to New York, you’ve never said the real reason out loud. It didn’t seem like it mattered to anyone but you. 

Eddie has a thoughtful look on his face. “3,000 miles is a long way to go to prove a point.”

You shrug. Eddie pauses for a moment, waiting for something. At the realization that you’re not going to say anything more, he leans over the table and shoots.

Stripes. Thirteen. Top right pocket.

“Did you?” Eddie posits, elaborating on the quirk of your brow. “Prove your point?”

You want to laugh. That’s the same question you’ve been asking yourself since you made the move back west. The prodigal daughter returned with nothing to show for it. 

“I proved that living in California my whole life made me soft.” You admit, gazing down at the table, the floor, your shoes, anywhere but his face. 

Eddie frowns in your periphery. He has a clear shot at the far end of the table. You wish he would take it already. 

“It’s not a bad thing, y’know.” Eddie’s fiddling with his pool cue, generously rubbing more blue chalk on the end. You don’t know much about pool, but you doubt that it’s necessary. It seems like he’s doing it more to prolong the inevitable. “Being soft.”

“Isn’t it?”

You’re almost sure that he’s joking. Actually–you’re sure that he’s making fun of you. He must be. The notion makes you angry. Oh, of course, the heavy metal rockstar is extolling the virtues of being soft! You look up, a snide remark already on the tip of your tongue. But when you finally meet his eyes, his gaze is intense. Contemplative, even. You take another sip of your beer and hope it washes away the lingering bitterness. 

Eddie Munson and his damn sincerity.

He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then decides against it. He leans over, lining up that clear shot that you had spotted earlier. His necklace hangs from his neck, the red guitar pick grazing green cloth. 

Stripes. Nine. Middle left pocket. 

“So,” Eddie starts, smiling satisfactorily to himself. “Do you actually have my face tattooed on your ass?”

If his earlier question about hating New York shocked you, then this one was like being struck by lightning. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You should’ve known that this would come back to bite you.

“It’s just a question.” He defends. “I’m genuinely curious.”

“No, Eddie, I do not have your face tattooed on my ass.” 

“But you do have a shrine of me in your room.”

“I am this close to using this pool cue to poke both your eyes out.” You threaten, absolutely buzzing with mortification. 

“Fine! Fine, I’ll let it go.” He concedes, before saying the next few words under his breath. “For now.” 

Eddie is the opposite of a bad sport when he misses his next shot. He only clicks his tongue and gives a slight shake of his head. You’re relieved that you finally have the chance to get out from under his microscope. 

Solids. Four. Bottom left pocket.  

“What do you like most about living in LA?” You ask. You know that it’s cliché, that everyone who moves here is asked the same question. But you can’t help but want to hear everyone’s answers. Each person you meet paints a picture of your hometown with vibrant colors. It’s always refreshing to hear a new perspective. 

“The food, oh my god, the food!” He practically moans. “I swear whatever bullshit they were passing off as Mexican food back in Indiana should be investigated.” 

Eddie goes on a whole tangent about tortillas that could easily be used in a commercial advertising the food scene of southern California. All of the talk about tortillas reminds him of his favorite food truck, located in East Los Angeles. It’s parked right across the street from a record store. He discovered it while trying to visit every record store in the city. 

“And speaking of record stores… I mean, fuck, you can’t find half the obscure shit that you have here back in Indiana. There’s no point in shipping your shit out to the midwest if no one’s gonna buy it I’m guessing.”

“I never even thought of that.” You admit. Every time you walked into a music store, there was always a new shipment waiting for a band you had never heard of. “Growing up, my favorite thing was always to go to the record store. Even if I didn’t buy anything, I would just sit in one of the booths and listen to vinyl.”

You smile at the memory of the sun streaming through windows and chunky headphones too big for your adolescent head. The nostalgia clouds your mind so much that you fumble the next shot, accidentally knocking a striped ball into a pocket and giving Eddie the chance to ask you yet another question. 

“Do you regret going to NYU?”

“No.” You say, and you mean it. “I think it’s good to get out of your comfort zone. I think… I think it’s important to figure out what’s wrong for you. Maybe even more important than figuring out what’s right.”

Eddie hums in agreement and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. You take the opportunity to eject the tape from the recorder and put in a fresh one. Tucking the tape into your bag, you remember that you still have the mixtape Eddie made for you. You make a mental note to listen to it on the way home.

“Having fun?” Robin appears next to you, gathering a few bottles that hapless patrons have left behind. She lifts Eddie’s off the table and adds it to her collection. You hadn’t even noticed that he had finished it. 

“Eddie is absolutely kicking my ass at pool right now.”

She barks out a laugh. 

“I know the feeling. We used to play with each other all the time back in Hawkins. I think I only won once, and that was because he was high off his ass.” 

Your ears perk up at the mention of the small town in Indiana. You could tell from their interactions that they were close, but this was a whole other level. Does she know about 1986? 

“Maybe he’ll have mercy on me.” You muse, slightly wincing at the doubtful look Robin gives you.

“I have faith in you. Don’t let Edward get into your head.” She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, the glass bottles clinking in her wake. 

So, you think to yourself, Eddie stands for Edward. It’s a regal-sounding name. A little too refined for the rockstar who’s rough around the edges.

When Eddie returns from the bathroom, he holds two more beers in his hand. You’re about to say that you still haven’t even finished your first one. That you think one is enough. You still have to drive back, after all. But he sets both of them down next to his leather jacket, making it clear that they’re both for him. He sniffles as he approaches, giving a small cough to clear his throat. His knuckles brush the tip of his nose until it glows an angry red, even in the dim lighting. He pulls up his pool cue right to the edge of the green-striped ball. He’s got a clear shot. 

He shoots.

He misses. 

You quietly breathe out a sigh of relief. Despite the fact that your job is to get into the nitty-gritty of people’s lives, you’ve never been on the receiving end. It’s unnerving. There’s a reason why you’re a writer. You like the control of rough drafts and rewrites and edits. It leaves less room for misinterpretation.  

Circling the table, you hope to find an easy shot. 

“You have to actually hit the balls with the stick for them to go anywhere,” Eddie says, taking a long sip from his second beer. “Just wanted to make sure that you knew that.”

You roll your eyes at his obvious attempt to psych you out. Leaning over the far end of the table, you balance the pool cue delicately between your fingers. When you finally make the shot you smile to yourself as not just one, but two of the balls go careening into pockets at opposite ends of the table.

“You know, I’ve half a mind to think you were hustling me, sweetheart.” Eddie takes a long sip from his second beer, the condensation dripping down his hand. 

“It’s not hustling if you just assumed I would be bad at it.” You’re so proud of yourself that you can’t help the smugness in your voice. “What’s your middle name?”

“Now you’re crossing the line.” He deadpans. “That’s just too far.” 

“Oh come on, Edward.” At the sound of his legal name, Eddie’s facade drops. The reaction encourages you to continue your teasing. “It can’t be that bad.”

“How do you know that’s what Eddie stands for?”

“I have my sources.”

“Your sources could be wrong. It could stand for Edison. Or Edmund. Or Edgar.”

“Something tells me my sources are correct.” Your eyes flick over to the freckled girl behind the counter. Eddie catches your glance and kisses his teeth, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“What if you’re secretly a fairy who’s trying to get me to say my full name so that I’m indebted to you for the rest of my life?”

“Fine. Don’t tell me your middle name.” You concede, trying to come up with a better question.  “How did you know that I was a writer? Back in your room–when I picked up the book–you called me a writer.” 

“Isn’t that like, your whole thing?” Eddie waves his hand flippantly. 

“Yeah. But there’s a difference between journalistic writing and fiction writing. How did you know that I do both?”

Eddie takes another drink from the beer in his hand, thumb grazing the label. 

“Maybe I’m ‘thorough in my research’ too.” He says, quoting your words back to you.

It’s a non-answer and both of you know it. You decide not to press the issue. Maybe Eddie isn’t such a good sport after all. You started winning and he stopped playing fair, dodging your questions left and right. For someone who is supposed to be getting interviewed, he isn’t doing a very good job. You settle on a topic you hope he’s willing to actually talk about. 

“Patsy Cline.”

“What about Patsy Cline?”

“She didn’t exactly fit in with all of the metal.”

“My Uncle Wayne loves Patsy Cline. He would always play her records whenever he was cooking or cleaning. I guess listening to it reminds me of home.”

“So do you actually like it? Or do you just find it comforting?”

“Is there a difference?” Eddie muses at you from behind the lip of his beer bottle, before taking a long swig. “Wayne actually gave me that vinyl as a parting gift. He said it’s for ‘when you want to listen to real music’. He was only joking. Kinda.”

Eddie visibly softens while recalling the man who raised him. His tense shoulders have drooped and his jaw unclenches. He speaks of the older man with an unmatched fondness. 

“Wayne sounds like a funny guy.” You smile, sidling up to Eddie. “What’s he like?”

“He’s the best. He took me in when I was just about this big.” He juts his palm out at his waist.  “I had big ears, a buzzcut, and a gigantic chip on my shoulder. I was so– I was so angry at the world. He was the first person who told me it was okay to feel that way. 

He was a trucker before I came along, but then he quit and started working at the plant so that he could be there for me. Everything I do, it’s all for him.”

The words make your heart clench. Sparing yourself the embarrassment of revealing just how much his words got to you, you take your next shot. With misty eyes, you see the flash of blue make its way across the table and into a pocket. You already know what you’re gonna ask him. 

“Say you get everything you want. You win Grammys. You sell out Madison Square Garden. What next?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” Eddie polishes off the third beer. “I’d probably start by buying Wayne a house, but that’s if he’ll even let me. He’s always saying that I’m the kid and he’s the adult. That he’s supposed to be taking care of me, not the other way around.”

He lets out a quiet burp, which he muffles with his fist. His pool cue has been long forgotten next to him. The configuration on the table before you tells you that you can win in just two more rounds. You’re not sure if you want to. You try anyway. 

Solids. Three. Middle right pocket. 

“Does your reputation actually matter to you?”

“That’s a loaded question.” Eddie leans backward. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, the effects of the alcohol seeming to finally kick in. “Off the record?”

“Off the record.” 

You make a show of grabbing the tape recorder and clicking the stop button. You slide it over the wooded lip of the table, proving to him that the device really isn’t recording anymore. 

“Of course, my reputation matters to me. Anyone who says they don’t care about their reputation is lying. Sure, you learn to brush it off. You learn to expect that everyone you meet is gonna have preconceived notions about you. Whatever. People have always had some shit to say about me, I say let ‘em talk.

But it never gets any easier realizing that everyone you meet thinks they know you just because of some shit they read in a magazine. It never gets easier knowing that nothing you do belongs to you anymore.”

Eddie’s words weigh on you. Whether or not he realizes it, you fall into both those categories. You had turned your nose up at the lousy headlines. You had thought he was just another reckless rockstar. Now, you’re tasked with writing him a new one, one that’ll make people like you see him in a better light. It's still the same. He still doesn’t get to control how this story ends. 

“Is that why you agreed to this interview?”

You know you’re essentially wasting a question. Whatever his answer will be won’t matter in the long run, because you won’t be able to use it. You want to know the answer anyway. 

Eddie looks down at the table and then back to you. You know that he could tell you that you used up your question. That if he was a little less drunk he would probably diffuse the tension by quipping back to you, only one question, remember? He doesn’t. He sees that you have the winning shot perfectly laid out for you. This time, he doesn’t prolong the inevitable.

“Yeah, it is.”

You make the shot. Just like that, the game is over. Your victory feels hollow. 

A blue-striped ball sits lonely on the table. A question left unasked. An answer left unheard. 

Eddie puts his leather jacket back on and brings the empty beer bottles back to Robin. You pick up the tape recorder. It feels like dead weight in your hands.

You meet Eddie at the counter, where he’s happily chatting with an amused Robin, all previous tension regarding your last question seemingly forgotten. You bid your goodbyes. The two of you shuffle awkwardly together towards the entrance before Eddie gets distracted by something.

“Oh my god, I love these!” Eddie regards the gumball machine full of small, shitty prizes with a childlike wonder. 

He grabs his wallet from the pocket of his jacket, dutifully pulling out two quarters. He shoves them both into the coin slots and cranks the handle. The machine spits out a plastic capsule with a bright green lid. He takes the prize and thrusts it into your hands. 

“For you.”

You’re confused by the sentimental gesture but decide not to question it. Shaking the contents out into your hand, the prize reveals itself to be an 8 ball keychain. 

“Hey! We match!” Eddie pulls out the motorcycle keys from his pocket, and sure enough there’s an 8 ball hanging from the key ring that’s identical to the one you’re holding in your hand. 

“Yeah.” You smile to yourself, twirling the small sphere between your fingers. “We do.”

The drive back to the house in West Hollywood is quiet this time. You elected to switch from the cassette to the radio as soon as you got in. The sounds of classic rock drift between the two of you. Eddie spends the entire drive looking out the window, proving himself to be a quiet and contemplative drunk rather than an obnoxious and outspoken drunk. 

Pulling up to the curb, you feel slightly awkward. You’ve never been good at goodbyes. 

“You doing anything tomorrow?” Eddie’s head flops in your direction, his body language giving away the depth of his inebriation. 

“Um.” You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he might be planning. “It depends. What time?”

“Around noon? We have a recording session tomorrow and I just thought maybe you’d like to hear some of the stuff we’ve been working on. Plus you’d get to meet the other guys. It would be good, right? For your article.”

He says the last sentence as if it’s an afterthought. 

“For the article.” 

“It’s at the recording studio near Sunset? Big red sign, can’t miss it.” He’s using his hands again as he talks. The silver rings glint under the yellow of the street lamps. “Can I have your number, though? Just in case it gets canceled or something. I don’t want you to show up and think I’m sending you on a wild goose chase.”

“Sure.” You rattle off the number for him. Eddie continues looking at you, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to write it down for you?”

“I have a good memory.” He grins toothily, tapping his temple with his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

With that, he tumbles out of the car and stumbles to the front door. You watch his retreating figure with the realization that you’ve barely scratched the surface of who Eddie Munson is.

You remember to swap cassettes before pulling away. As you begin mentally writing the beginnings of his article in your head, the mixtape plays softly in the background. 

Living in a world of make believe 

I can hide behind what's real

But wearing your emotions on your sleeve

And they all know what you feel

taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren@cloudroomblog@amira0303@forrestfae6@aysheashea@vintagehellfire@poisonedluv @kimmi-kat@mmunson86

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[lemoncrushh]

Cubicle // 6) I Wanna Be with You

STORY PAGE

Word Count: 1545

Roni

Harry pulled up to the valet and handed him the keys. The doorman greeted us as we approached, and I suddenly felt very posh and important. With Harry's hand on the small of my back, we walked up to the hostess. I had no idea Harry had made reservations, but I suppose that's what one does when going to such a fancy restaurant. Still, he earned a couple more points with me because of it.

Once we were seated, a waiter quickly appeared to welcome us and take our beverage order. Harry asked me what I liked, and I told him I'm a red wine drinker, so he ordered a bottle of whatever the waiter suggested. The entire menu was in French, and I don't speak it, so when the waiter left, I leant over and told Harry to ask him to do the same with my food.

"No problem," he smirked.

Closing his menu, Harry placed his hands on top of it and leant forward. He stared at me for a moment, not saying anything. I felt something run through me - not nerves because I'm not particularly a nervous person. But I suddenly felt a bit self-conscious and warm in the face. I took a deep breath, wishing the waiter would return with some water.

I took the next moment to survey the room. This restaurant is lovely and lives up to its name with white and gold decor, but not in a gaudy way. I was fixated on a crystal chandelier when I heard Harry say my name.

"Hmm?" I sounded before peeling my eyes away.

When I looked at him, he still had the same expression on his face, though his eyes looked darker. I cleared my throat.

"I'm so sorry," I exclaimed. "I'm being rude."

"No you're not," Harry said. "I enjoy looking at you."

The waiter appeared then to deliver the water glasses and to pour our wine. But Harry and I were not phased. We just continued to stare at each other. I slowly grazed my teeth against my bottom lip, not quite biting it. I could tell it drove Harry crazy because he gulped and shifted in his chair. He thanked the waiter while I grinned down at the table, trying not to laugh. After the waiter had taken our order, Harry turned his attention back to me.

"Tell me about your tattoo," he inquired.

"Oh," I mouthed, absent-mindedly touching my shoulder. "Actually, it probably sounds silly, but I just like lilies. All kinds. But I'm particularly fond of stargazers. So I decided to get a tattoo of one."

"I like it," Harry commented. "Very pretty. Suits you well."

"Thank you. I think white ones signify purity, and although I love white lilies, I didn't really think that fit me. So I went with a pink one which is supposed to signify wealth and prosperity. And sometimes romance."

The corner of Harry's mouth curved up slowly and sent shivers down my spine. I grabbed my wine glass and was about to take a sip when he stopped me.

"Wait," he insisted, holding up his hand and taking his own glass. "We need to toast."

"Oh, okay."

Harry licked his lips as he raised his glass. "To you Ms. Graver. To a wonderfully magical evening. And what I hope will be the first of many."

Alright, so the boy finally made me blush. I couldn't help but giggle a little bit as I clinked my glass with his. Our eyes locked as we both took a sip of wine, and a rush of desire ran through me. Sometimes the anticipation of what's to come can be greater than the end result. But I had no doubt in my mind this was not going to be the case. I knew I wanted Harry. Shit, I knew it the first moment I met him. Being with him is a delight, and he's charming as fuck. I just couldn't wait to see what he was like in bed.

Harry

Dinner was amazing. I couldn't stop staring at her. Jesus, she's so fucking beautiful. As she told me about her tattoo, I imagined touching it, licking her soft skin. Part of me wanted the time to hurry up so we could get back to her place, but the other part of me wanted to savour every moment.

I knew she wanted me. The look in her eyes was obvious. The way she lightly bit her lip almost made me come unglued. I actually caught her blushing when I made the toast. The slight show of vulnerability made me like her even more. I'm not saying she has a hard exterior; I don't really think she's that tough to crack. But she does display a certain confidence that might come off to some as being cold and intimidating, but to me is sexy and intriguing.

By the time we'd finished our entrees, as well as our bottle of wine, we were in full flirt-mode. Roni was laughing at my stupid jokes again, a couple of times reaching over and grabbing my hand. When the waiter returned to ask if we wanted dessert, Roni insisted she couldn't eat another bite, but I took it upon myself to order the chocolate dipped strawberries. They arrived whilst Roni was in the ladies' room. The waiter asked if we were enjoying our evening, and I told him very much. Then he said we made a lovely couple.

When Roni took her seat again, I took one of the strawberries in my hand and offered it to her. With unspoken understanding, she grinned and took a sensual bite. Licking her lips, she grabbed another strawberry and did the same to me. As I bit into the luscious fruit, I felt her foot touch my leg under the table. She moved it up and down, her eyes never leaving my face. We continued to tease each other until we'd devoured all the strawberries. I winked at her as she sucked on her fingertips. The waiter came and asked if we needed anything else.

"No, I think we're good," I replied, my eyes still on Roni.

When I'd paid the cheque, I asked Roni if she wanted to take a walk as the restaurant wasn't far from the river.

"Absolutely," she agreed.

As we walked around the corner, I took her hand. She looked up at me with her beautiful smile and laced her fingers through mine. We talked a little about work. I asked her how she enjoyed her first week and she shrugged and said it was okay. I had to laugh when she made it a point to mention her disdain for Gerard Holcomb.

"He's so full of himself," she said.

"Tell me about it," I snorted. "Has he tried to hit on you yet?"

"You mean like you did?"

I stopped in my tracks with my mouth open. "I ..."

Roni chuckled. "I'm just playing. You were a gentleman. Gerard's a slime ball."

"So he did hit on you?" If she only knew the things I had been thinking when we met.

"A few times," she rolled her eyes. "My first day, mind you, he actually called me his baby doll and told me even if any of the other sales people gave me work to do, I should do his first."

I want to kill him.

"I'm sorry," I said through gritted teeth.

"Not your fault," she smiled as she pulled me closer.

We reached the River Thames and stood by the railing, looking out at the moonlight bouncing off the water. A light breeze blew through Roni's hair making her appear angelic. I let go of her hand and wrapped my arm around her waist.

"As many times as I've looked at it, it never ceases to take my breath away," she mused.

"Mmm," I agreed, my head facing her. "I know."

I spotted her mouth forming into a slow smile as she first looked at me out of the corner of her eye before shifting toward me. I took the opportunity to pull her even closer, so that her stomach met mine. Then I lightly brushed her shoulder with the back of my hand, making my way up to her neck. Leaning in cautiously, I kept my eyes on her lips, wanting so badly to kiss them. When she placed her hand on my chest and licked her lips, I took it as a green light and let my mouth touch hers. Soft, baby kisses at first, taking my time.

When I heard a delicate gasp rise from her throat, I deepened the kiss, letting my tongue separate her lips and meet hers. She tasted so sweet, like wine and strawberries. Her hand moved up from my chest the back of my neck, her fingers in my hair. Both of us were breathing hard when we finally separated. Then Roni did that fucking sexy lip bite that drives me insane.

"Maybe, um," I started to say but had to clear my throat. "Perhaps we should start walking back."

Roni nodded a few times before saying yes. I took her hand again as we backtracked toward the restaurant. I couldn't wait to get her alone.

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[onlinemarketingbangalore]

Mastering the French Fries Distribution Arena

In the bustling world of the food industry, the ubiquitous French fry serves as a golden key to unlocking vast economic potential. This universally cherished snack, transcending cultural and geographical boundaries, plays a pivotal role in the global food supply chain. For French fries distributors, the journey from humble potatoes to lucrative profits is paved with opportunities and challenges. By delving into the intricacies of French fries economics, distributors can optimize their operations to achieve unparalleled efficiency, sustainability, and profitability.

Pathway from Soil to Service: The French Fry Production Odyssey

The genesis of a French fry is in the rich, fertile soil of potato farms, where select varieties are cultivated for their perfect balance of starch and moisture. The choice of potato is crucial, influencing the fry's final texture and flavor. Post-harvest, these tubers are transported to facilities for transformation, undergoing processes like cleaning, peeling, cutting, and an initial frying phase. This journey underscores the importance of quality and consistency, hallmarks of a successful distribution strategy.

Technological Triumphs in Fry Fabrication

Technological advancements have significantly streamlined French fry production. Cutting-edge machinery automates slicing and sorting, slashing labor costs, while innovative freezing techniques extend the fries' shelf life without sacrificing quality. For distributors, staying ahead of technological trends is vital, enabling them to offer superior products at competitive prices.

Eco-Enlightened Supply Chains

The push towards sustainability is reshaping the French fry supply chain. From water-saving agricultural practices to carbon footprint reduction in logistics, distributors are at the forefront of eco-friendly initiatives. By sourcing sustainably and optimizing distribution routes, companies not only enhance their appeal to environmentally conscious consumers but also contribute to a healthier planet.

Conquering Global Market Dynamics

The French fries market is a vast, international playing field, with its set of export challenges and opportunities. Distributors must navigate complex trade regulations, adapt to currency fluctuations, and forge strong international partnerships. A deep understanding of global market trends empowers distributors to seize growth opportunities beyond their borders.

Marketing Magic: Catering to Consumer Cravings

The key to distribution dominance lies in tapping into consumer trends. Organic, non-GMO, and flavored fries are just a few examples of evolving preferences. Through social media engagement, market research, and product sampling, distributors can stay aligned with consumer desires, ensuring their offerings remain relevant and sought-after.

Partnerships and Pathways: Expanding Distribution Networks

Success in French fries distribution relies on robust partnerships and diverse channels. Collaborating with restaurants, fast-food chains, supermarkets, and online platforms ensures a broad market presence. Efficient order and inventory management further streamline operations, cutting costs and enhancing customer satisfaction.

Quality: The Quintessential Criterion

At the heart of French fries distribution is an unwavering commitment to quality. From farm to fryer, maintaining high standards is essential for winning consumer trust and building a reputable brand. Continuous improvement through supplier audits and client feedback is the bedrock of quality assurance.

The Economic Essence of French Fry Distribution

Beyond the crispy delight of each fry lies significant economic impact. French fries distribution fuels job creation, agricultural advancement, and innovation in food processing. By mastering market dynamics and strategic insights, distributors can not only profit but also contribute to economic growth and sustainability.

In essence, the transformation of potatoes into profits embodies a complex yet rewarding endeavor. Embracing innovation, nurturing partnerships, and responding to consumer trends are crucial for thriving in the French fries distribution landscape. As distributors, our mission is to ensure this favored snack continues to captivate palates worldwide, driving sustainable profits and making a positive mark on the economy.

[briantwomeydallas]

Understanding The Michelin Star

Introduction

For connoisseurs of fine dining and culinary excellence, the Michelin Guide serves as the ultimate gastronomic authority. A Michelin star is one of the most coveted awards a restaurant can receive, and the Michelin rating process is shrouded in mystery. In this blog post, we’ll peel back the curtain and take a closer look at the meticulous and rigorous Michelin star rating process, providing insight into how restaurants are evaluated and what these prestigious stars truly represent.

A Brief History of Michelin Stars

The Michelin Guide, originally created by the French tire company Michelin in 1900, was initially designed to provide travelers with information on where to find accommodations, restaurants, and other services. Over the years, it evolved into a respected culinary guide, with anonymous inspectors visiting restaurants to assess their quality.

The Michelin Star Rating System

The Michelin star rating system is a symbol of culinary excellence and prestige. Restaurants can receive up to three stars, with each star representing a different level of quality:

One Star: A one-star Michelin rating signifies a very good restaurant that offers a consistently high level of cuisine and is worth a stop.

Two Stars: A two-star Michelin rating indicates excellent cuisine and skillfully prepared dishes, worth a detour to visit.

Three Stars: The pinnacle of the Michelin rating system, a three-star restaurant offers exceptional cuisine, a unique dining experience, and is worth a special trip.

The Michelin Star Rating Process

Anonymous Inspectors: Michelin inspectors are the unsung heroes of the rating process. These individuals are highly trained and dine in restaurants anonymously to avoid any special treatment.

Consistency is Key: Inspectors visit each restaurant multiple times to ensure consistency in quality. They pay for their meals, making the experience as genuine as possible.

Strict Criteria: Michelin inspectors follow a set of strict criteria when evaluating a restaurant. This includes the quality of ingredients, mastery of cooking techniques, the harmony of flavors, the personality of the chef in the cuisine, value for money, and the consistency of culinary standards.

Secrecy: The identity of Michelin inspectors is kept a closely guarded secret to prevent any undue influence on the evaluation process. This secrecy adds to the mystique surrounding the Michelin Guide.

Anonymous Reports: After each visit, inspectors write detailed reports that are sent to Michelin’s headquarters for review. These reports are the basis for awarding stars.

Selectivity: Michelin stars are not handed out liberally. Restaurants must meet exceptionally high standards to earn even a single star, and many excellent restaurants do not receive any stars at all.

The Impact of Michelin Stars

Receiving a Michelin star can have a profound impact on a restaurant. It brings international recognition, attracts food enthusiasts from around the world, and can significantly boost business. However, it also comes with immense pressure to maintain the highest culinary standards.

Conclusion

The Michelin star rating process is a meticulous and comprehensive evaluation system that separates exceptional restaurants from the ordinary. Earning a Michelin star is a testament to a chef’s dedication, creativity, and commitment to culinary excellence. For diners, the Michelin Guide serves as a trusted resource for discovering world-class dining experiences, making it an invaluable tool for food lovers and travelers alike.

[chemicalresearchupdates]

Potato Processing Market Size, Share, and Forecast: Exploring Opportunities for Processed Potato Products in a Dynamic Market Landscape

Introduction: The potato processing industry has witnessed remarkable growth in recent years, fueled by increasing demand for processed potato products worldwide. From french fries and potato chips to dehydrated potatoes and frozen potato products, the market offers a diverse range of processed potato options to cater to the evolving consumer preferences. In this blog, we will delve into the potato processing market, exploring its key segments, growth drivers, challenges, and future prospects.

Market Overview: The potato processing market encompasses the various stages involved in transforming raw potatoes into value-added products. It includes primary processing (washing, sorting, and peeling), secondary processing (cutting, blanching, frying, and freezing), and tertiary processing (packaging and distribution). The market caters to both the foodservice industry and retail consumers.

Growth Drivers: a) Increasing Consumer Demand: Rising urbanization, changing lifestyles, and a growing preference for convenience foods have boosted the demand for processed potato products globally. b) Product Innovation: Continuous innovation in product flavors, shapes, and packaging formats has expanded the consumer base and created new market opportunities. c) Technological Advancements: Advancements in potato processing technologies, such as automated sorting and cutting machines, have enhanced production efficiency and product quality. d) Expanding Fast Food Chains: The proliferation of fast-food chains and quick-service restaurants has increased the consumption of processed potato products, especially french fries.

Market Segmentation:Product Type:i) Frozen Potato Products ii) Dehydrated Potato Products iii) Potato Chips iv) Potato Flakes v) Others (including canned potatoes, potato starch, and potato-based snacks)Distribution Channel:i) Foodservice ii) Retail (supermarkets, hypermarkets, convenience stores)Regional Analysis:a) North America b) Europe c) Asia Pacific d) Latin America e) Middle East and Africa

Challenges and Opportunities: a) Fluctuating Raw Material Prices: Volatility in potato prices can impact the profitability of potato processors. b) Sustainability Concerns: Increasing consumer awareness about sustainable food production practices necessitates the adoption of eco-friendly processing methods. c) Competitive Landscape: The potato processing market is highly competitive, with several major players vying for market share. Companies must focus on product differentiation and branding strategies to stay ahead.

Future Outlook: The potato processing market is poised for significant growth in the coming years. Factors such as expanding consumer base, rising disposable incomes, and the emergence of new potato varieties suitable for processing are expected to drive market growth. Additionally, the growing trend of healthy snacking and the rising popularity of plant-based diets present opportunities for the development of innovative, healthier potato-based products.

Conclusion: The potato processing market is witnessing robust growth, driven by changing consumer preferences and advancements in processing technologies. As the demand for convenient, ready-to-eat potato products continues to rise, potato processors must adapt to evolving market dynamics, focus on sustainability, and explore new product avenues to capitalize on the immense growth potential in this thriving industry.

[logos-no-mj]

Key and Peele French Restaurant skit cutout for my sis' bday. ...one of our many Key and Peele-based internal jokes

[seat-safety-switch]

Couple of years ago, I worked in a chicken restaurant. It wasn’t a fast-food restaurant, more like a family eatery. Not very classy, though. Sure, they had the normal accoutrements, and the tables looked like they were made out of actual wood. People brought their kids there, and then they ate some chicken. Peaceful. Normal. And then it happened.

When you work in a food-service environment, even the most professional and upstanding ones, there is a hierarchy. France figured this out first, by using a bunch of soldiers to tell everyone to make croissants at gunpoint. The head chef is God, and if he or she so demands it, you will walk into Hell Itself, find a little stool, and start peeling an entire sack of potatoes there. Maybe you’ll cry in the walk-in freezer a little bit. I digress.

I only lasted at that job for like one week, because I didn’t know the difference between “sour cream” and “creme fraiche.” This is mostly because my high-school French teacher was an alcoholic who listened to books-on-tape in order to learn French herself, and accidentally bought a Spanish tape one month before the final exam. As you can imagine, that became a problem when labouring under the French battalion system in the kitchen. Disgraced, I was ejected into the cold, Anglo world outside.

In order to prepare for my next job, I went to the grocery store and started reading every cereal box I could find. Soon, I was hooked. Pictures of Mustangs left my bedroom wall, and in their place went indecipherable drawings of Citroens, whose drivers were cartoonish waifs, waving cigarette holders together. Things got so bad that my parents called for an intervention, which at the time consisted of hiring a priest to pretend to perform an exorcism and ask for five hundred bucks on the backend. I awoke a couple days later, my pants around my ankles, having vomited out most of the contents of my stomach (Pillsbury instant croissants, Orangina, the keys to a Renault 8 Gordini which I did not own.)

Now, I tour high schools, telling other kids to stay away from the restaurant industry, and more importantly, French shit in general. Stick with the things we know and love, I implore them: Japanese cars, ideally not ones made by Nissan. If it’s got lots of revs, that’s what you need to buy.

[ms-maj]

For @theheavycrown​ on her birthday. Sarah, thank you for all the laughter, support and friendship and for being an all around awesome human being. xoxo

It’s not that he doesn’t like mornings, he does, it’s just that Jughead Jones has come to learn that few good things happen before nine a.m. Yet here he sits at seven, a fine layer of silt covering his beloved Honda, his leather jacket, his helmet (next time he’ll make sure the route he takes avoids as many of those dirt roads as humanly possible; he really wishes he’d stuffed his backpack in the saddlebag instead of wearing it on his back.) The goggles he’s pulled down rest under his chin as he slides his helmet off, his hair feeling heavy and hot in the already building humidity. The helmet clanks against the steel frame as it hangs from the handlebars, dust kicking off in a little cloud as it sways. 

He sighs, peeling the filthy eyewear off his head and wipes the lens across his dirty jeans before hanging them on the opposite handlebar. This is not his scene. Well, it’s not not his scene, Jughead is pretty well known as the patron saint of all things forgotten and bygone,  so the flea market isn’t too out of turn but taking time off his life to pursue nothing but leisure? Not so much. So when he heard tell of the best collection of antique cast iron this side of the Mississippi he knew he’d be remiss if his cross-country culinary trek didn’t at least find him some new pieces to add to his ever-growing collection. The one that personally threatened to take over another corner of his small house, and the one he’s building a culinary empire on. He exhales forcefully, lifting his coffee from the holder, thankful he opted for the tall, solid cupholder as it somehow managed to save his necessary caffeine from the horrors of the open country road. 

Finish below or on AO3

Sipping on his "coffee" he watches as the vendors turn into the old yet still operating drive-in, the name Sunset peeling off the ancient sign. This weekend’s fare, Jaws and Jurassic Park, piecemeal spelled out in crumbling letters on the old marquee. Truck after truck, some with trailers and others just loaded to the brim, turn in a steady stream and supposedly have been doing so for the last hour. There’s a strange excitement that simmers just under the surface, it’s as if he knows he’s going to find exactly what he wants today, maybe even if it’s not at all what he’s been looking for.

Jughead likes to think he’s lived. In his—some glorious and others very much not—thirty-four years on this earth he’s eaten, what he thinks, is the finest food on every continent. He’s trained under classic French chefs in Michelin starred restaurants and with street vendors from Thailand to Peru. His own restaurant, a quaint throwback bistro in the heart of upstate New York is the culmination of those years and years and years of hard work. His passions, he’s come to find, cannot be confined, nor defined, simply by the walls of a kitchen. They’re in the pages of his acclaimed cookbooks and the mystery series he’s been stringing together since high school that he was sure would never amount to anything. 

But it did, and here he is. The very definition of latchkey, Jughead Jones grew up the poor son of a couple of addicts and con artists. The ones he hasn’t seen since he got his high school diploma. The moment that piece of paper was in his hands, he loaded his rucksack onto his rusted out Kawasaki and never looked back. 

He’s lived in trailers and dorms, in cramped studios and lavish flats, and once, in the projection booth of a drive-in theater. Very much like the one he assumes is in the middle of this one. He sighs, leaning back against his bike, forgetting the heat from the muffler until it starts burning beneath the heavy denim of his jeans. 

“Shit,” he mumbles as he shifts uncomfortably away, dislodging his near burnt calf but manages to spill the bitter, gas-station coffee he’d been absently cradling down the front of his white t-shirt. The next expletive out of his mouth is not so quiet. “Fuck me!”

The cup drops to the ground as he wipes at the seeping stain barehanded. “I might have a tissue,” he hears. Instantly he stops the futile attempt to clean himself, looking up when the laughter reaches his ears. “Though I can’t imagine it would be much help.”

The corner of his lip pulls up despite this recent bout of bad luck. She’s in a bold, floral print sundress with the kind of soft hem that dances with the breeze as it blows across the nearly empty lot. The sunhat is floppy, almost too big over the cascade of soft waves that hit her shoulders, she smiles, warm and amused before she takes her lower lip between her teeth, eyes darting from his to the growing spot of wet fabric sticking to his chest.

“I would say I’m well prepared,” he gestures back toward his bike with its ample enclosed storage, and his dust-covered backpack draped over the rear seat. “But apparently I wasn’t thinking this morning. This is also my last clean shirt, so, really batting a thousand today.”

Pink tongue peeking between her teeth as she laughs her eyes narrow as her head dips to the side. “Hmm,” she runs that tongue over her lower lip, looking at him with hooded eyes before seemingly catching herself; clearing her throat she starts again. ”I just pulled my car out of storage, I might have something in the trunk if you want me to take a look?” She half turns to follow where she’s absentmindedly pointing, and he sees the very moment her left foot doesn’t seem to get the memo. If he waits another second she’ll be in the dirt and without even consciously thinking about it, his arms wrap around her waist and keep her from toppling.

She lets out a shaky breath, fingers digging into the leather that encases his bicep. “Sorry, I, uh,” her head darts from side to side before she rights herself and extricates herself from his grip. “I wish I could say I wasn’t normally this klutzy but that would be a lie.” She sweeps the dirt and imaginary wrinkles from her dress and adjusts the hat that now sits just askew on her head.

“Glad I could be of assistance,” he drawls, watching as pink colors her cheeks. “So, a shirt? Maybe?” 

Nodding, she turns (with a skosh more grace than before) and walks to the end of the makeshift aisle. “Right this way.”

 “You’re not trying to lure me behind an abandoned building so that you can murder me, right?” He thinks it sounds playful, flirtatious even, though both things are patently out of his wheelhouse, but he can’t help but wonder why this gorgeous woman even stopped and looked in his direction.

“Oh, no, see this building might be abandoned, but these grounds aren’t going to be for too much longer. And I have a feeling you might be a screamer.” 

Choking a little on his own spit, he slows, swallows, and drags his eyes back up to find hers looking back over her shoulder. She winks, then stops between the fins of some powder blue oddity Jughead has never seen the likes of before. 

“I don’t usually find myself at a loss for words but you seem to have found my weakness.”

“And what is that exactly?” She questions as he moves next to her, almost too close, he can feel her breath shuddering against his skin as she places an oddly shaped key into the opening on the trunk. 

“Klutzy green-eyed blondes,” he can tell he’s caught her off guard when she gasps as the latch lets go on the trunk lock. 

“Okay then,” she’s smiling back at him, that lip caught between her teeth again when he realizes he’s already mapping out their future and he doesn’t even know her name.

“Jughead. Jones.” he supplies, voice cracking like he’s all of sixteen again. He wasn’t nervous, not before this simple moment in which he provides his chosen name and she either laughs or…

Her dainty hand hangs between them. “Pleasure to meet you Jughead, I’m Betty Cooper."

His large, calloused hand engulfs hers, happy to find the spark he thought he felt before was very real, and much, much more than a spark.

Their clasped hands hang between them, neither too eager to drop. Betty finally pulls away with another one of those flustered head shakes, before she starts to rummage through the cavernous trunk. It’s fairly empty, save for whatever Betty is looking for, and it's clearly all the way in the back.

 “Okay, but really, you can’t tell me that you haven’t thought, you know hypothetically of course, about how many bodies you could actually fit in this trunk,” he’s taken a step back to get the full picture, which is mostly just Betty stretching the entirety of her gorgeous frame into the depths of the unknown to find him a shirt, but his writers’ mind can’t help but wonder.

She stops her scavenging and with a triumphant grunt, she’s righting herself, the strap of a black duffle bag between her fingers. “Aha! And honestly, who hasn’t seen an old car and thought about the sheer amount of fuckery one could get away with simply based on interior cargo space.”

He knows he’s staring, gaping really, but he can’t seem to help himself. Betty shrugs, unphased, and goes to open the bag. She rummages around for a few seconds then pulls out a Johnny Cash t-shirt. 

“I know it’s a little wrinkled but it doesn’t seem to smell,” she pulls the aforementioned garment from her face and hands it to him. 

“Even if it did it—anything is an improvement over,” he waves his hand over his sticky shirt and worries she can tell his heart straight-up skips a beat when she laughs. 

Jughead takes off his leather jacket, passes it wordlessly to Betty who tries to clean it as best she can with a small rag from her car. He slips his arms inside of his soiled shirt and pushes it up around his shoulders, sliding it off as he pulls on the clean one. When he looks back at Betty she looks a little perplexed.

“What?”

“Just wondering what prompted the middle-school locker room style shirt change. If my seeing you topless would’ve been too much for your delicate sensibilities than perhaps I’ve misjudged—”

“That is quite enough out of you,” he points a menacing finger in her direction but is laughed down. His glare breaks quickly and the smile that takes over almost hurts. Has he been that out of practice with even smiling that the muscles in his face don’t know what to do about it? It’s a definite possibility. It just seems to come so naturally around Betty that he doesn’t want to question, and subsequently, jinx it.  

“Oh yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?" Eyebrow raised, she leans closer, arm outstretched with his coat.

He reaches to grab it but he misses the jacket altogether and brushes his fingers against hers. "Sounds like you'd love to find out, " it's from who winks this time. Betty's grip falters and the leather falls into his hand. Words form on his tongue but before he can get them out a shrill ring cuts through the ambiance of the morning. 

The trunk is slammed close; the moment is gone. “Shit, it’s a client, and a big one so I have to take this. I, um, I’ll see you in there? Hopefully?” He knows the disappointment is etched on his face, but he tamps it down and nods in her direction. Her smile back is enthusiastic, she looks sanguine; before he turns around he hears, what he assumes, is a happy lilt as she greets whoever is on the line.

He stuffs the jacket and his soiled shirt into one of the saddlebags, slides on his trusty (and dusty) grey beanie, grabs a few canvas tote bags, and heads into the flea market. There’s a moment he thinks he hears her voice but when he turns he's met with the endless drone of tires as the lot begins to fill.

It seems silly—feels silly—to be missing someone after such a short time. Not only just since you’ve seen them but also because you’ve only exchanged a handful of words in the entire five minutes that you’ve known one another.

There’s a small line at the gate. As he waits to pay his admission, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and tugs at the edge of his hat, trying to keep this weird, swirly sensation inside instead of letting it bubble out lest he ends up skipping through the lanes. 

He lets out a mirthless laugh, the kind he finds usually echo throughout his empty home only this time it's met with the hustle and bustle of the early-bird crowd. There's no time to dwell, no reason to wait; just the time (and patience) to find himself that thirteen-inch Spider skillet, and maybe a new Dutch oven...or two.

Or, he remembers after he's grabbed new forty-fives for the jukebox, old carnival prints for Toni, a snake ashtray for Sweet Pea that he knows Val will hate but it's so ugly he can't help himself, that while he may be able to mail himself whatever he can't carry across the states...he still has to get it there in the first place.

It's why he talks himself out of the awful Rocky poster. It's not for him, of course, but rest assured it would be most appreciated by Archie and Reggie. Jughead can actually picture exactly where in their apartment where they'd hang it. Their housewarming present would have to wait until the next flea market.

He hasn't even made it to the small cluster of more upscale dealers before he's at the snack stand, walking away with a blue icee and cotton candy like the grown man he is. While enjoying his treats he's only half paying attention to the stalls and tables that line each of drive-in’s aisles, surely missing out on some choice vintage toys and housewares that he has no use (or room) for.

Mostly, his mind wanders as he weaves through the ever-growing throng. He’s been looking for a floppy sun hat but, unfortunately, many, many people seem to be concerned about the adverse effects of UV rays. Not that that in and of itself is not unfortunate, it’s just not helping him at the moment. If he couldn’t look down and see the physical evidence of their interaction, he’d believe he hallucinated the whole thing. The universe doesn’t just drop his idyllic dream girl into his path, well, it absolutely would allow him to see her once and then never again. But he doesn’t want that…

He wants to know what it feels like to have her legs wrapped around his waist, on the bike, in their bed. He wants to see her tangled in their bedsheets or sitting at the counter as he feeds her his latest culinary creation. Not that he’s ever been one to live inside the delusions, his upbringing has forced his ‘manifest your own destiny’ lifestyle to never rely on the dreams, just use them as touchstones for achieving said ruminations. But these, the daydreams are so vivid, so real that he almost walks right past the intended object of his affection.

And it’s only the melodious cant of saccharine condescension that brings him back to the moment. 

“I realize that I’m here later than we discussed, but that shouldn’t affect the price we agreed upon, right?”

Betty’s arms were crossed over her chest, head cocked to the side, the sunhat effectively obscuring her beautiful face, which by her tone, Jughead assumes is sporting a proper scowl. 

“It shouldn’t, no,” the vendor starts. He stands a good foot and a half taller than Betty, broad-chested and fully bearded, he runs a calloused hand over the gray whiskers. “It’s just that this is a highly collectible item—”

“Which you are being more than fairly compensated for! You acquired it for me, I don’t understand why you’re being so obstinate now.”

“C’mon Betty Boop, you know exactly why. You’re looking so pretty today, go on a date with me and I’ll throw in that Griswold trivet I’ve seen you eyeing up,” Jughead sees the man's hands come down on the table as he leans closer to Betty. He watches her body swell with a deep inhalation that releases as her hands hit the table to mimic his pose. 

“Not if you were the last man on Earth, Andrew. Just sell me the damn dutch oven and I’ll be on my merry little way.”

The vendor sucks air through his teeth so loudly it whistles. “Doesn’t sound like I’m getting anything out of this…”

Jughead is practically standing over Betty’s shoulder now, the tension and frustration rolling off her like waves. “Andrew, I swear to all the gods in existence, if you don’t take the agreed price and put my dutch oven in this fancy bag here I’m calling your Gran.”

Jughead isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone deflate so quickly. The man grunts holds out his hand and in it, Betty presses a neat stack of cash. The large, lidded pot makes its way to the table and from his vantage point can tell it’s a Wapak and in pristine condition.

“Nice looking piece of cookware you got there,” he says loudly behind her. She startles straight, turns slowly, and greets him with the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen.

“Jughead!” Her arms are around his neck and face pressed against the planes of his chest before he can blink. She seems to realize herself and is out of his arms and standing in front of him within the second it takes to realize how much he misses her warmth.

“What, did you think you could get rid of me that easily? I still have your shirt,” his hands rest on her waist, he hasn’t dropped them, and she hasn’t moved further away so he’s going to assume it’s not unwelcome.

She hums.”Well, it looks much better on you than in did crumpled up in my trunk

“Everything okay here?”

“We’re just peachy, right Andrew?” Betty questions, turning away from him and out of his grasp. She grabs the bag he’s placed on the table and with a most unrefined grunt, hoists it over her shoulder.

“We’re good, Coop. Just try to be on time from now on, it’s not very,” he pauses. Jughead can feel the man’s eyes slide from Betty to him, looking him up and down with a displeased expression. “Professional.”

“Oh, Andrew. Green is not your color. If you weren’t the only person in the tri-state area who could get me this stuff then I would never give you my business, ever again. But since I clearly work for sadists who love forcing me to interact with you, we’re at an impasse,” she shifts the bag on her shoulder and continues. “However, you make any more assumptions about my professionalism or personal life, then they’re going to have to find a new liaison.”

Andrew groans. “Don’t be like that, Betty! You know it all comes from the heart,” he crosses a hand to his and pats, and then he’s reaching under the table. “Here’s that trivet you had your eye on.”

Jughead moves up next to her and takes the trivet before it reaches her hand. “Is this a 1739? I’ve only been able to find pictures of these!”

He holds the metal piece reverently between his hands, long fingers tracing the intricate lace pattern, running over the feet, brushing against the logo that was stamped into the bottom some seventy years ago. “You know Griswold?” Betty’s tone is more than just surprised, there’s a slight breathlessness he can’t quite place as he places the trivet into her hands. 

“Oh, uh,” his head shakes a little with the chuckle. “Yeah, cast iron is pretty much why I’m even here. My best friend told me that if I was looking for something special, this would be the place to find it.” Suddenly feeling very shy, he rubs nervously at the back of his neck.

“Interesting,” Betty’s eyes narrow and fix on him, but it doesn’t make him feel as uncomfortable as he thought it would. Maybe it’s because an hour ago he was flirting like a lovesick teenager and he’s merely happy to be the object of her attention. He hears her bag hit the ground with a heavy thud. “If you’re looking for something in particular, this is your guy. I wasn’t being hyperbolic when I said he had the best. And if he doesn’t have it on-site, he’s usually able to procure it in a very short time.”

Andrew smiles at her praise and nods along. “Yeah, man, if you’re a friend of Betty’s you must be in the know. What tickles your fancy?”

Not really sure how to process, or address, any of what the man in front of him has just said, he locks eyes with Betty and lets out a sharp breath. She’s got the kind of smile that they used to write poetry about and he knows he’s done for. He’s smiling himself now and with a quick turn of his head he’s looking at Andrew again. “What do you know about Spiders?”

They’ve managed to walk the rest of the flea market, Betty picking up a few random items along with the (many) client requests. He learns she owns a small but successful antique shop in western Mass but she's rarely there. Mostly, she travels and he wonders what she's running from. She says it's to procure the things people want versus the things she thinks they would want to buy. It's not about the money, although it seems to pay well, she insists it's the history, the adventure, the joy it brings when she tracks down a vase-like what was on Grandma's table or an album that your grandfather taught you to dance to. She talks about antiques like he talks sous vide, the process, the art, how when it all comes together...life is magic.

"I can’t believe he’s going to find me a thirteen Spider! Do you have any idea how rare…oh, well, I suppose you do being an antique dealer and all that,” he bumps his shoulder (the one not carrying her stupidly heavy dutch oven) against hers, her head ducks in response but he can see the rosy hue on her cheeks. 

“If you’ve known each other for so long why all the shit for being late? And if I’m what made you late I apologize—”

“No, Jughead! Not even a little,” she grabs his shoulder and pulls him to stop beside her. “Andrew was just being a dick because that’s who he is as a person. Yes, I was late to meet him but that was because I was having a little car trouble this morning.”

“What, the marvel of modern engineering you’re tooling around in is finicky? Who’d have thunk?”  He holds out his (second) icee, offering Betty the last sip but she politely declines. He shrugs as best he can and finishes the cold red syrup in a quick gulp. The sun is blazing, scorching them from on high before he knows it. Jughead feels the sweat beading on his brow, threatening to drip down his face in the most unbecoming of ways. He's thankful they're heading back toward their respective vehicles. It's not that he wants this day to end, in fact, he's kind of hoping he can repeat it forever, but he really would like to get out of the sun. 

She smacks his arm playfully. “Don’t talk about Edie that way!”

“Edie? She’s even got an old ladies' name, Betts,” they finally reach said car and Jughead heaves the bags from his shoulder and drops them in the dirt.

Betty sighs as the lock clicks, trunk springing open. "She's an Edsel. You're not wrong about her being an old lady but trust me when it comes to classic cars Edsels are…"

Jughead scoffs. "I might have a proclivity for two-wheeled machines but I do know a thing or two about the four-wheeled varieties as well. The Ford Edsel, only produced between 1958 and 1960, was an ode to Henry's wife but was too modern and impractical to gain popularity. What?"

Jughead Jones knows a thing or two about food, and how people look when they're truly enjoying something. At this moment he'll tell you he feels like braised short ribs or a perfectly cooked steak or a decadent slice of dacquoise, with the way Betty is looking at him.

She swallows, audibly. "No one knows Edsels. No one knows they exist let alone know actual details about their launch, and subsequent failure."

"Hmm, sounds to me you just haven't been meeting the right people," he hoists her heavy bags off the ground and puts them in the trunk. 

Betty's hand reaches for the lid and lingers for a moment before she gently closes it. "You might be onto something, Jones.”

He steps forward, careful not to invade her space too badly but unable to resist the urge to be closer. “Do you maybe want to grab a bite to eat?”

The diner is nice, albeit the interior leaves a little something to be desired. It’s cliche in the way you want a retro establishment to be; walls lined in old adverts, gas and oil cans on shelves, kitschy to a fault. They're tucked in the corner, in a  red, squeaky vinyl booth and had to cross a very large expanse of cheap, sticky linoleum. He just hopes the food makes up for the fact he had to peel his feet up with every step. That’s not a sound one wants to hear in the place where they’re going to eat.

He explains as much to Betty, how atmosphere can change and engage perception, how the menu is designed to make you want the items that make them the most money, and not necessarily the ones that they cook well. After their food comes and he samples the fare he raves about the milkshakes but is unimpressed with everything else. 

“This is farmland, Betty. I passed not two, but three farms coming back. And at least one of them had Angus! Why are we being served frozen burgers?”

Betty eats a fry and pretends to look thoughtful.“I guess it never crossed my mind, Jug. You certainly have strong feelings about food.”

“Yeah, and that’s about the only thing,” he leans back in the booth and lays his arm across the back. “It might align very closely with what I do for a living.”

“You’re a chef,” Betty says matter-of-factly. “That explains your love of cast iron cookware and,” she vaguely gestures around the room. “How you know so much about the business. Still doesn’t answer how you know about Edsels.”

Jughead chuckles in response. “Misspent youth” When she shoots him a questioning look he sighs. "There may be some less than savory characters in my past. I wasn't one of them per se but I could have been described as gang adjacent."

Nodding, Betty takes a sip of the cold confection in front of her. She starts to speak and pauses like she's rolling something around before she says it. Next, she's looking at him as though a lightbulb has gone off. "Wait, wait, you're not a chef you're the chef! The author," Betty’s eyes narrow ever so slightly before going wide, her mouth gapes a bit before she produces words. "You're Forsythe."

How the fuck? "How the fuck?"

"My client from earlier was looking for a dutch oven for her partner's friend, a chef, whose niche is cast iron cookware. This same friend has also authored a series of cookbooks and a youth mystery."

“And what about any of that makes you say my name is Forsythe?” His voice comes out lower than he expects, a harsh timbre colors his words. "And it was not a youth mystery. It sounds like some Tracy True or Baxter Brothers nonsense when you say it like that."

“You are. Holy shit! And they set this up! Oh, those sneaky, brilliant, beautiful women,” Betty buries her face in her hands and groans. 

“Would you please fill me in because I am feeling ten ways of lost and, if I’m being honest, a little creeped out.”

Betty looks up, soft eyes, and smiling. “Oh, Jug. Apparently, our friends have finally gotten sick of our wallowing.”

“What friends? Who has friends?”

She rolls her eyes. “It would seem we do. You see, Cheryl is my cousin and Veronica is my best friend from high school."

"Wait, Cheryl, as in Blossom? And Veronica Lodge?"

Betty nods in affirmation. "They were oil and water through most of our formative years and then after their first year at Sarah Lawrence, well, they came back together. Fast forward two years and enter Toni Topaz, who I'm assuming is the missing link here, yeah?"

"Toni would be one of the three people on this planet I consider family, " he's leaning across the table, elbows making divots in the surface when suddenly he has his own lightbulb moment. "Elizabeth? The itinerant eccentric antiquarian?"

“Wow, is that a Cheryl or Veronica description?" She rubs the bridge of her nose, head shaking as she takes it in. "Doesn't matter, but with a title like that, it's no wonder that you were never around when I was. Oh, and surprise! It would appear your pseudo-sister and her girlfriends are giving you a dutch oven for your next birthday. Congrats.”

Jughead is trying to process, though it feels an awful lot like failing. Until suddenly, it all makes sense. “She's the one who told me I needed to stop here and check out the cast iron. Insisted there was something I needed, something she was certain I would find."

"Well, " Betty looks up at him from under the thick veil of her lashes. "Was she wrong?"

 For years he’s traveled from place to place; running from anything and everything. Even when he decided to put down roots it was relatively far from even the best of his friends. No one could just ‘drop by’, it’s not like he’d have been home anyway. He’s buried his loneliness in new recipes; it’s scratched into the margins of his favorite books, in the words poured from his own hand. He looks at the woman sitting across from him, strawberry milkshake in front of her, glowing under the harsh neon lights that contrast so glaringly will all her soft edges. 

The realization comes easily. He doesn’t have to think about anything more than ‘do I take this risk’ and he’s never been one to say no to risks before. 

He drops his arm, reaching across the table, and before it can rest on the Formica Betty slots her fingers between his. “She has never been more right in her life, but please don’t tell her that."

Betty’s laughter peals through the restaurant. He smiles despite himself. For the first time that he can recall, something good came before nine am. As a matter of fact, when her thumb traces the back of his hand, he’ll even go as far as to say it's something great. 

[randomrichards]

BEST MOVIE MOMENTS OF 2020

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Abe Makes Dinner from ABE

Teen chef protégé Abe (Stranger Thing’s Noah Schnapp) hopes that his dinner blending Israeli and Palestinian dishes will mend a bridge between his Israeli and Palestinian families (as well as his atheist father). But he gets a sad dose of reality when he learns the hard way that a wedge between families can’t always be solved with a meal.

“Wait for It” from HAMILTON

On June 16, 2016, Leslie Odom Jr. surprised many by beating Hamilton star/creator Lin-Manuel Miranda for the Best Actor award at the Tony Awards. And now they understood why thanks to Disney+ presenting the musical. And it all has to do with the song “Wait for It.”

In this soulful musical number, Odom Jr. allows us to understand Aaron Burr’s beliefs in letting fate leads his path. Whether it’s winning the heart of a married woman or watching all his loved ones parish, Burr is willing to wait for destiny to reveal why. It also showcases the contrast between Burr and Hamilton. This song changes Burr from History’s villain to a complicated anti-hero.

10)          Deku and Bakugo go full Super Sayan in MY HERO ACADEMIA: HEROES RISING

My Hero Academia always delivers great action scenes and they truly shine in their latest round in the cinema.

In his final battle to protect young brother and sister Mahoro (Tomoyo Kurosawa in Japanese, Dani Chambers in English) and Katsuma (Yuka Terasaki in Japanese, Maxey Whitehead in English) from ruthless power-stealer Nine (Yoshio Inoue in Japanese, Johnny Yong Bosch in English), underdog hero-in-training Izuku “Deku” Midoriya (Daiki Yamashita in Japanese, Justin Briner in English) transfers his “One-For-All” power to hotheaded classmate Bakugo (Nobuhiko Okamoto in Japanese, Clifford Chapin in English). The result is an image of the in super powered form resembling Super Sayans.

When Deku reaches 100% power, the film suddenly turns white then stretches into abstract imagery.

Honestly, the main reason I put this on the list is because it’s pure awesome and I’m not afraid to admit it.

9)            A Survivor Model from COLLECTIVE

This documentary follows the reporters of Romanian Newspaper Gazeta Sporturilor as their investigation into the Colective Club fire in Bucharest that killed 27 people and left 180 injured exposed vast health care fraud that caused survivors to die in the hospital and would bring down the government. Another key focus is a survivor who was so badly burned she lost most of her fingers. The camera focuses on her as she watches conferences about the fire.

In a standout moment, she models for photo shoots. In this moment, we see a beautiful woman who refuses to allow her disability to stop her, revealing her power.

8)            the Wuhan Flu Song from BORAT SUBSEQUENT MOVIEFILM

Many best scenes of 2020 will focus on the bed scene with Tutar and Rudy Gulianni. But I prefer to focus on the scene where Borat (Sacha Baron Cohen) performs the “Wuhan Flu Song” at a Anti-Masker Rally. Not only is it deliciously cringy and hilarious, but It perfectly captures all of Cohen’s strengths as a comedic performer.

As with Borat’s previous cringy yet catchy “Throw the Jew Down the Well, Cohen uses the Borat persona exposes the ugliest side of America. Watching the Qanon conspiracy theorists cheering on Borat (under the guise of Country Steve) singing about injecting Obama with the Coronavirus horrifies while splitting sides. This moment reveals the dangerous consequences of misinformation and conspiracy theorists on society. Plus, the song is shamelessly catchy as hell.

Add the fact that Cohen was nearly attacked during this scene shows how far he’s willing to go to make a point and get a laugh.

7)            The Dinner Scene from LET HIM GO

This scene is a perfect example of how you put subtext in a scene. On the surface, It’s just Weboy matriarch Blanche (Lesley Manville) serving porkchops to her daughter in law Lorna’s(Kayli Carter) former parent in laws Margaret (Diane Lane) and George Blackledge (Kevin Costner). But with the context of Margaret and George trying to deliver Lorna and their grandson from her abusive husband, you can feel the hostility in the atmosphere.

It’s a credit to the actors and their ability to hide their aggression under a mask of southern hospitality. It’s especially true for Manville, who brings to life a woman who is a master of hiding her cruelty under a pleasant smile. She may sound welcoming to them, but you can tell something’s off about her. No wonder she’s able to manipulate the police into siding with her. Hell, many audience will be surprised when they find out she’s British in real life.

Lane matches her every step of the way with the most nuanced jabs.

It won’t get as much appreciation due to it’s unassuming nature. But it’s a perfect scene to show how to bring nuance to a performance.

6)            The Restaurant Scene from THE INVISIBLE MAN

At first, it seemed Cecilia (Elizabeth Moss) finally has the drop on her sociopathic control freak ex Adrian (Oliver Jackson-Cohen). After days being tormented by him, Cecilia finally has proof of how he turns invisible. Now she goes to a public restaurant to convince her sister Emily (Harriet Dyer). But then a  levitating knife appears out of nowhere and slits Emily’s throat before flying into Cecilia’s hands.

Director Leigh Whannell and cinematographer Stefan Duscio do an excellent job using everyday envirnoments to create a sense of unease. Whenever the camera lingers on a kitchen, you search with anxious eyes for any sign of Adrian. In this case, they use the ambience of a crowded fancy restaurant to create a false sense of security. And yet, you can’t help but wonder if Adrian’s still watching them.

It’s in this scene where title character goes from a good villain to a great villain. Here we see what a cunning monster he truly is. The scene also showcases Moss’s terrific performance as her desperate eyes showcase the complete helplessness she feels in this scenario.

5)            Edna sheds her skin in RELIC

Rarely do the words “horror” and “heartbreaking” go together, but that describes the ending to this underrated gem.

Kay (Emily Mortimer) returns to her family home to care for her mother Edna (Robyn Nevin), who seems to be suffering from dementia. Now she and her daughter Sam (Bella Heathcote) find themselves trapped in the crawlspace while fleeing a warped Edna, who has been warped by a supernatural force. With contorted joints and decaying flesh, she has become monstrous. At first it seems they have defeated Edna and are heading out the door.

Then Kay looks back to see her mother lying on the ground, struggling to breath. This brings the film into a unexpected turn as Kay carries the creature that used to be her mother to bed. When Kay peels the skin off Edna’s body to reveal a charcoal skinned, dying creature, the film goes from creepy to heartbreaing. Anyone who ever lost a loved one to dementia will recognize to devastating feeling of watching them fade away right in front of your eyes.

4)             The one-take action scene in EXTRACTION

Well, we can’t have a best movie moments of 2020 list without mentioning the 10 minute action sequence from Extraction.

As black market mercenary Tyler Rake (Chris Hemsworth) shields the kidnapped son of a drug lord from other mercenaries, his race across a Bangladesh village delivers all you want from an action movie. Fast paced car chase? Check. Semi-automatic gun battles? Check. Hand to hand combat? Check. Parkour across rooftops? You bet. Sometimes you’ll even get people get hit by cars during hand to hand combat. All of this happens while cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel makes it look like one take.

Sure, sophisticated viewers will recognize there the cuts are hidden. But when director Sam Hargrave is willing to ride on the hood of a car as it races across dirt roads for the sake of a shot, you can’t help but be impressed

3)            Opening Bike Ride from THE CLIMB

The film begins with what sees like a regular bike ride. American Mike (Director and Co-Writer Michael Angelo Covino) and Kyle (Co-Writer Kyle Marvin) are racing across the road of a French mountain before Kyle’s wedding. But then Mike reveals he’s slept with Kyle’s fiancé, resulting in the furious Kyle to chase Mike. Unfortunately, they’re both too exhausted to commit to a long chase.

The whole opening sequence could be its own short film. Covino and cinematographer Zach Kuperstein) shoot it all in one unbroken take, allowing the awkward exchange to flow more naturally. It leads to a hilarious moment when Kyle tries to chase Mike, but neither have the energy to keep going. Plus, it summarizes the reoccuring cycle of the film with Mike becoming increasingly self-destructive and a terrible friend and Kyle being nice until pushed too far.

2)            The Ending from UNCUT GEMS

After spending two hours in a state of panic, it looks like the audience will finally breath a sigh of relief. After locking his pissed off brother in law Arlo (Eric Bogosian) and his goons Phil (Keith William Richards) and Nico (Tommy Kominik) in the Jewelry store with him, smooth talking jeweler and gambling addict Howard Ratner (Adam Sandler) makes the biggest win of his life via pinpoint accurate predictions of a basketball game. Now he has millions of dollars; way more than enough to pay off his debt. Everything’s coming up Howard. That is until the furious Phil puts a bullet in Howard’s head and proceeds to rob his store.

With all his reckless behaviour (including putting his girlfriend at risk) and overconfidence, you knew at somehow Howard was going to be punished. But when the flilm cuts to scenes of Howard’s family celebrating the game and his girlfriend leaves with the money, you can’t help but know how bad they’re going to feel when they find Howard dead.

Then the camera zooms into Howard’s bullet wound to reveal the same colourful kaliedescope imagery as shown within the title uncut gems. With Daniel Lopatin’s enchanting new wave score playing, this moment gives the audience a moment to finally relax before closing with Gigi D’Agostino’s L’amour Toujours.

In spite of (or because of) his flaws; Howard is himself an uncut gem.

1)            The little things inspire Joe from SOUL

Everyone recognizes “The Pixar Moment”; that scene that elevates a Pixar film from great to extraordinary. No one can truly define it, but it’s the one scene from the film everyone talks about. It’s the ten-minute prologue from Up. It’s Anton Ego’s reaction after trying Remy’s dish in Ratatouille. Even a lesser Pixar film can have this moment; a perfect example is when Lighting McQueen allows Ramirez to race in his place in Cars 3. Now we can add another film to the list thanks to Pixar’s latest masterpiece Soul.

After a day of escaping the afterlife and being trapped in the body of a therapy cat, Joe Gardner’s (Jamie Foxx) has finally achieved his dream of being in a Jazz band. And he feels…nothing. So, he heads back to his piano to ponder his direction in life. Then he finds the items 22 (Tina Fey) collected while in his body. What results is a moment fans will be coming back to in their moment of need.

As Joe rests 22’s items in front of his piano and starts playing, he comes to realize how a pizza crust and a seed truly meant to her. In the process, he comes realize the moments that seemed meaningless at first had some magic in them. The joy of playing for his father. The feel of the ocean waves flowing on his feet. The taste of a café’s pie.

In a time when many people can’t do any major activities, this moment serves as a reminder of to appreciate the little things in life. I imagine many audiences will return to this scene in their lowest moments.

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Fifteen

Peter steps up to the door of the apartment, trying to juggle an arm load of jacket and briefcase, and he’s met with the smell of sweets just on the other side of the door. It’s the warm smell of something sugary, fresh from the oven, wafting in the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. 

He shifts his briefcase to his other hand, wrestling his keys free from the pocket of his trousers. Just inside the door, there’s a small table with a bowl on it. The bowl was a wobbly, knobby thing made by one of Owen’s nieces in her pottery class. It has ‘I love you Uncle Owen’ painted around the width of it in a child’s uneven print. Keys and cell phone go in there, and his briefcase is placed underneath the bowl on the shelf designated for it beneath. 

There was a place for everything, and everything needed to be put in its place. That was Owen’s doing. (Peter hadn’t exactly been a slob before they moved in together, but his home had never been this tidy. He’d been prone to throwing his jacket over the couch, his wallet and keys wherever they landed.)

The flat was smaller than Peter would like, just a single bedroom, a living space, a kitchen and a bathroom. But it was on a good street, and they could open their windows and listen to the sounds of the ocean nearby. It also was far more expensive than any flat Peter ever kept back in Edinburgh, and nearly half the size.

Owen deserved better, but it was a starting point. You had to get your foot in the door somewhere. The only way you could climb the ladder was by putting your feet on the ground and just getting to it.

Because Peter had a plan. He had a plan that included increasing his salary and his usefulness by at least five percent every year for Mr. Wingrave and his office. Executive Assistant paid better than most of the grunts down on the main floor, but it still wasn’t enough. There was a corner office just waiting for him, all Peter had to do was reach out and take it. 

But none of this would be done overnight. Eight months into his plan and everything was on track, but it was hard not to feel frustrated that things weren’t going faster. Peter wanted to be able to buy the both of them the things they deserved. Rolex watches and bespoke suits and a Porsche or two. 

Owen would look like a bloody dream behind the wheel of a Porsche. And Peter would give up an obscene amount of money to be able to fuck Owen in the backseat of a Porsche.

Peter slips his overcoat and his suit coat from his shoulders, shaking them out before hanging them on the back of the hook near the front door. He steps into the living room, and even from there, beyond the decent couch and the second hand coffee table, he can see the mess of mixing bowls stacked haphazardly at the edge of their counter space, a leaning mountain of metal and glass and whatever mixture he’d made in them spilled up against the sides. 

(The kitchen was why Peter settled for this shoebox of an apartment. Because Owen hadn’t had a strong opinion about any of the places they’d looked at, he’d just shrugged and said he liked them, until he saw this one with its double oven and it’s kitchen island with a marble countertop. Then, he’d stopped and looked around and really taken the place in. So this one it was.)

It looked like Peter wasn’t the only one feeling the frustration today. “Tough day at the office?” He calls out coyly, stepping into the kitchen proper with a finger crooked into the knot of his tie to start working it loose from his throat.

Owen looks up from where he is hunched over a metal mixing bowl, the whisk in his hand still working furiously on the white cream beginning to stiffen in the bowl. Hand made whipped cream. Not a sad day, then. An angry one. Owen wasn’t one who got angry often, and he always took it out on food. 

Over the last several months, Peter has learned to read Owen’s moods through the food. Things that were breaded or fried meant that he was looking for comfort. Baking meant he was anxious, and trying to do something with his hands. Sweets meant that he was pissed off. (Peter learned that the hard way, through his own fuck ups. And he learned to hate the taste of strawberry bon bons because of it.) Decadent things, French things, they meant that he was feeling amorous. 

Peter fucking loved the days he came home to the likes of duck a l'orange or coq au vin. Those were the days he got to take his sweet lover into the bedroom and fuck him until he was hoarse and shaking with need, until he could peel away all those layers of goodness and kindness with blunt fingertips and sharp nails. Until all that was left was single minded, selfish need. 

Owen was gorgeous at any time. There was something effortlessly handsome to him, where Peter felt like he couldn’t catch any eye without a nice suit and plenty of pomade. Owen was handsome in his natural state. And confident about it. There was none of that bullshit false modesty with him, and Peter loved him all the fucking more for it. 

“Long day.” Owen huffs out a laugh, self aware enough to know what he looks like with his sweater sleeves pushed up over his elbows and his apron splattered with whipping cream. “That’s all.”

Peter is in a good enough mood that he’s not going to immediately call bullshit on that. So he steps forward instead, and he can see by the widening of Owen’s eyes that he knows what’s coming. “Oh, no. Don’t--come on.” That’s two fingers dipped right into the soft, fluffy whipping cream. “You’ll deflate my cream.”

Those two fingers are lifted to his mouth, and Peter makes a show of closing his lips around the knuckles, sucking them all the way into his mouth until they brush the back of his throat. Owen knew how far he could take things, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. It’s only when both digits are sucked clean, damn fresh whipped cream was lovely, that he speaks. “I’ll do more than that to your cream if you let me.”

Owen laughs, but there’s no denying how dark those already dark eyes are. “You’re a terrible influence, Peter Quint.” No truer words had ever been spoken about him. Peter has been the bad apple out of the bunch since he was in nursery school. After that many years, it did no good to try and run from these things. The truth was the truth. 

“I don’t want to be ungrateful.” Owen puts the bowl down, wiping his palms clean on the front of his apron. It never took much pushing to get him to speak his mind. Especially in the privacy of his own kitchen. “I love my job. I love the people I work with, and Tony essentially gives me free reign, outside of his signature dishes.”

“But.” Peter supplies helpfully, already tugging on the long strand of Owen’s apron strings. The knot gives easily to his pressure and slips loose, leaving the blue and white striped fabric to hang loosely around his neck. When Owen doesn’t pick up the dropped line of conversation, Peter pulls the apron up and over his head. And as much as he wants to toss it on the floor, he hangs it on the hook. 

A place for everything, and everything in its place. He knows, Owen. 

“But it’s not the same. Being an employee with freedom isn’t the same as being your own boss.” Peter knew that chafing very well. Henry Wingrave was a good man. He was a kind man. But a good and kind man holding your leash was still someone with power over you. The dream, the real, honest to God dream, was to have no one holding his leash. 

The dream, if Peter was feeling soft enough to put it into words, was to have that corner office. And to use the money from being his own boss to buy Owen his own restaurant. A place where he answered to no one, and the menu reflected whatever mood Owen wanted it to. 

Owen nods, guilt written across the weight on his brow. Now, Peter can’t have that. So he does what any man in his position would do. He dips his finger right back into the whipping cream, and then smears a long path of white along Owen’s bottom lip.

“Oh no. Would you look at that. You’ve got a little…” Owen laughs, but it’s high and a little bit nervous, and Peter doesn’t know what he’ll do if he ever stops making Owen nervous. “You’ve been working so hard today. Let me take care of that for you.”

Kissing Owen is always sweet. But that creamy hint of sweetness as he parts the seam of Owen’s lips with his tongue runs right through Peter, giving him an idea. The kiss is slow, and deep, and Owen ends up pinned between Peter and the counter, and that’s right where Peter wants him. 

“You look like a man who needs his mind taken off of his work, Mr. Sharma.” Peter’s fingers catch on the metal tab of Owen’s trouser zipper, and the sound of it being pulled down is loud in the quiet between them, punctuated by the breathy jesus that slips from Owen’s lips. “I’ll be more than happy to take care of that for you.”

Peter has no qualms playing Executive Assistant like this. He’d choke on his own tongue before he got on his knees for Henry Wingrave, but it’s as easy as breathing to sink down onto his knees on the tile floor of their kitchen, and watch Owen’s rapidly rising and falling chest through the smudged veil of his lashes. 

“Peter-” His name always has weight, on Owen’s tongue. Sometimes it’s exasperated, sometimes it’s irritated. Often, it’s full of fondness. And sometimes, like this, it’s full of breathless wonder. And Peter would set his mother on fire to keep that shaky reverence in Owen’s voice. 

“Hand me that bowl, would you?” The button to Owen’s trousers slips neatly from its hold beneath his thumb, and Owen’s brown trousers fold open like the petals of a flower opening up to the sun. His boxers beneath are soft and white, and still smell faintly of the soap they using for washing. 

Owen hands the bowl down to him with shaking hands, and Peter stops him with the bowl still over his head. “Get a little.” It’s an order, no matter how quiet his voice is. Peter puts the bowl down on the floor next to his knees and takes hold of Owen’s wrist, feeling the wild thrumming of his pulse beneath his fingers. 

“I always liked a little salt with my sweet.” Owen’s breath catches before Peter ever parts his lips to take Owen’s cream slick finger into his mouth, and the sound that leaves him when Peter’s tongue curls against the digit is explosive, like he’s been punched right in the gut. 

Slowly, Peter licks every trace of sweetness away, until he’s left with the taste of Owen’s skin against the roof of his mouth. He suctions his cheeks in, keeping that pressure until Owen’s finger slips free from his lips with an obscene pop. 

Peter grins, smug as the cat in the cream, and makes a pointed look between the bowl and the oh so tempting vee of Owen’s open trousers. 

“Now...where else could I use this stuff on?”

[clansayeed]

Kamilah x MC Prompt Fill

The Chauffeur

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) 

⥼ Summary ⥽

Nadya has this silly dream of cuddling with Kamilah in the back of a car. Kamilah always has to be the one at the wheel. You see her problem here.

A prompt fill drabble for prompt/s: 'cuddling in the back of a car/for warmth' originally posted on @/jcckwrites

word count: 762 rating: general content warnings: none

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

One thing she learns about Kamilah early on in their the-word-is-relationship-but-they-haven’t-used-it-yet-and-anyway-maybe-her-centuries-old-girlfriend-doesn’t-like-labels?

The woman prefers driving herself. Driving them both, when the time comes, but the point still stands.

If there is a wheel, Kamilah prefers to be the one steering it. (A phrasing she can no longer use around Lily for obvious reasons.)

Unfortunately that leaves little room for negotiation, or say… cuddling. Because Adrian may be known for speeding up just a tad when it comes to making a yellow light but he’s a pretty standard safe driver. Like he’s gunning for the poster boy of Driver’s Ed. But to say Kamilah has a lead foot is a generous understatement. How can Nadya expect to cuddle her when she’s fearing for her life with every change of lane?

Just because she doesn’t remember making the mistake of confessing her secret fanfiction-trope car-cuddling fantasy to Lily doesn’t mean she didn’t do it. It just means Lily probably kept pouring the wine until she had other things on her mind.

Since she definitely had, of course, Lily had taken it upon herself to wrangle Adrian into another ‘Kadya Official Dating Squad’ scheme.

She really needs to get a hold of her roommate’s and her boss’ phones and delete the other’s contact info. This is getting ridiculous.

“It seems a terrible waste of everyone’s time and effort in thwarting your execution for you to court death in this way, Adrian.”

Nadya keeps huffing into her gloves like it’ll help. It won’t. Five minutes on the curb in front of the restaurant and she’s already accepted her fate as a popsicle for the rest of her days.

The car is right there but because she never thinks long-term her boss and her girlfriend are both immune to frigid temperatures ― so she’s kinda stuck waiting.

And dumb, stubborn Adrian just will not get out of the driver’s seat of Kamilah’s sleek black Bentley. Frankly her death is on their hands.

“Kamilah, please just get in the car.”

“How did you even get the keys?”

“I have my ways.”

“Adrian…”

“Fine; I swung by your loft.”

“Ah, so Gerard is complicit in your crime.”

“Kam―for Christ’s sakes, look at Nadya she’s freezing―please just get in the car.”

Normally Nadya would let them hash it out. ‘Normally’ constituting a sunny evening in, say, mid-August―not the depths of a November cold front. She’s full of fancy wine and fancy French cuisine and fancy dessert and they are ruining the moment, darn it!

“Kamilah!” She whines loud enough to grab both vampires’ attentions, feels the solid weight of the woman’s arm pulling her close on instinct. “It’s no big deal if he drives. He’s just being…” a third wheel, “nice.”

It’s two against one and Kamilah’s never really forgotten her roots as a tactician ― knows when she’s defeated and when to accept it with dignity.

“Very well, very well!” Though she eyes the front seat with a frown when Adrian leaves it unprotected to open the back cabin door for them. That’s when Nadya notices the lack of waistcoat and strange hat her boss is wearing.

Oh my god. He’s playing chauffeur.

She accepts the vampiress’ helping hand with a “thank you” through chattering teeth; practically has to tug her down to follow and not without muttered protest. Honestly she expects nothing less.

“One night won’t kill you,” she mumbles. Kamilah, however, disagrees.

“Adrian drives like an elderly matron.”

“As opposed to a Tokyo drag racer?”

Sharp eyes snap to her but Nadya refuses to take it back. The resulting stare down lasts just long enough for their driver to buckle himself in and merge into traffic. With a contented sigh Nadya accepts the gift―however unorthodox―that she’s been given. Peels off two pairs of gloves and laces her bare fingers with Kamilah’s.

Two blocks (and a frustrated “You could have made that light!”) pass, have Nadya just on the cusp of a dozing nap when she’s jerked back to awake by movement. She watches as Kamilah reaches forward and turns the heating dial all the way up. Lets her settle back in wordlessly especially when an arm snakes over her shoulders to pull her close.

“… Better?” Kamilah asks; a whisper.

But Nadya doesn’t respond right away. Waits until the temperature kicks in and her cold-blooded girlfriend starts to warm up with the rest of the car―and the heated seats(!)

“Much.”

[hahamedia]

French Restaurant - Key & Peele

[asexualarkhamknight]

God I’m watching Hannibal make his pretentious ass food and explain what it is to his guests but I can’t stop thinking about that Key and Peele “getting out Frenched at a French restaurant” skit

[ryik-the-writer]

Marinara on Main (9/?)

A03

There was a tradition on Saturdays among the bleary-eyed residents of Storybrooke, Maine. All businesses, including the ever-busy diner, would close around six, allowing the owners to have the rest of the weekend rejuvenate for the following business day.

For the men who worked at French Bread’s Pizza, Storybrooke’s sole pizza parlor, their early night would consist of doing inventory for the restaurant and bartering over any un-picked-up pizza.

This night, however, would be a bit more…intense.

Mr. Gold was rather surprised when he received a hastily made flyer for a ‘poker night’ at French Bread’s.

He glanced into the living room where Belle, his beloved sort-of girlfriend, was nodding off on the couch, wondering why she hadn’t mentioned such a plan after coming in from work.

“Don’t do it,” Bae warned absently from the kitchen table (where he was playing on his phone rather than work on his neglected homework). “It’s a trap.”

Gold came up behind him and plucked the phone from his hands. “And how would you know?”

Bae accepted the unspoken warning and picked up his pencil once more.

“An eerie piece of paper in the mail for a game night in the establishment Belle owns but has not been mentioned by her? Sounds pretty trappish to me,”

Gold arched an eyebrow in question. The boy had a point. This was a bit odd, and inconveniently last-minute.

Still, these were Belle’s co-workers and friends—practically family by the way she talked about them. It might benefit him to get to know them, even if it was just over a game of cards (which, while rusty now, he’d been quite good at in his hay day).

Thus, he left instructions for Bae to handle himself for dinner (and he better have a vegetable or so help him—) and not to wake Belle unless there was an absolute emergency (because damn it she worked hard and deserved to sleep as much of wanted) and set off for the pizza parlor, leaving the flyer by the key holder.

The restaurant was empty and locked up, the closed sign standing at attention. Gold frowned, cautiously walking to the back of the building.

The setting sun outlined the scorch marks where Belle’s delivery car had burst into flame over a month ago, triggering the start of their unconventional relationship. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory, even if he had been terrified to his core at the time. The whole night had been bizarre, yet somehow ended with them dating, even though thanks to their schedules and Belle’s accident, they had yet to be on an actual date.

Still, he was grateful to have her in his life. She made him laugh and explore, and he wanted so badly to keep her a part of his life, even if that meant engaging with her strange friends.

Wherever they were.

The back was as quiet and locked up as the front, and Mr. Gold was beginning to think this was all part of some joke.

He rolled his eyes and prepared to leave when the back door suddenly burst open. Before he could turn and address the occupants, someone grabbed him by the waist and pulled him inside the dark kitchen.

A great hustle ensured, with Mr. Gold being duct-taped to a chair, and a bright light being turned on overhead.

“What the…” Gold coughed as his eyes adjusted and his heart stopped pounding.

A moment later, his numbing fear turned into rage when he recognized Merlin, Will, and Jefferson leaning over him.

“What the everlasting hell is going on!” he hollered, struggling against the bonds of the tape, which was so cheap and hastily wrapped around the chair that it was already beginning to peel off the chair.

“We’ll ask the questions!” Jefferson exclaimed, slapping the side of Gold’s chair.

Will grabbed the back of Jefferson’s collar and pulled him back. “Save the third degree for later,” he warned, taking the slightly unhinged man’s place.

“What is this all about?” Gold growled. “Is it the rent? Your apartments?”

“Try our Belle, old man.” Will popped off.

“Old man?” Gold spat.

“Harsh, Will,” Jefferson muttered.

“What do you mean about Belle,” Gold asked, worrying about his kind of-girlfriend. Had she told them something? Was she unhappy? Why wouldn’t she tell him?

“You got her in a hell of a state,” Will accused. “And do you know what happens to people who upset our Belle? Jefferson, demonstrate!”

Gold glanced over to Jefferson as he unpacked a deck of cards and shuffled them, emphasizing the snapping of the cards with a sharp frown.

The pawnbroker looked back and forth between his two interrogators.

“I…I don’t understand…” Gold said, woefully confused.

“Okay, both of you, move back,” Merlin order, pulling his two co-workers behind him. He grabbed another chair and spun it to sit in front of Gold.

“Look, Belle’s worried that you two are moving too fast, after the accident and stuff,” Merlin explained calmly. “We just want to hear it from you so that we can help her.”

“I…no,” Gold said, panicked. “I adore her…I’m glad she’s with me…I-in my house, I mean…I…” he lowered his head, hating bearing his soul to these strangers.

“I want her to stay…the idea of her leaving just... tears me apart,” Gold admitted. “But…I want her to be with me because she wants to be. And if being with me…living with me…makers her uncomfortable, then maybe we need to stop.”

Merlin frowned. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Gold shook his head. “I really don’t.”

“Awww,” Jefferson sighed

Before anyone could respond, the back door flew open. The men hollered in alarm as Belle marched in, glaring at them with the flyer Gold left behind curled up in her hand. Bae peaked out behind her, looking both concerned and amused at the chaos his father had gotten into this time.

“Are you freaking kidding me!” Belle yelled as she marched in, grabbing hold of Gold and pulling him from the chair, the duct tape peeling off all at once.

“Did you get the cheap tape again?” Merlin hissed. Jefferson ducked in shame.

“Poker night! What the hell guys!” Belle cursed as she pulled Gold close to her. “You swore after Killian you would never do this again!”

“Desperate measures, Blue Belle!” Jefferson exclaimed.

“And you!” she yelled at Merlin, who went at least two shades paler. “I expect this kind of thing from these two, but you?!”

“I…” Merlin gulped, not being able to meet her eyes.

Belle groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Bae, take your dad to the car, please. I’ll handle these idiots!” she exclaimed the last word.

The teen sweated a bit as he led his father outside, wincing as Belle began yelling again.

“Dang,” he chuckled as he and his father slid into the car. “She is…not happy.”

“Indeed,” Gold sighed, picking sticky remains of duct tape from his suit.

The two Gold men sat in silence for a while, Bae returning to his phone now that his father was no longer in impending danger.

“Son,” Gold coughed, rolling his shoulders nervously. “Do you…like having Belle stay with us?”

Bae met his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror, cocking his brow in amusement.

“Sure,” he shrugged. “She’s fun, makes pizza all the time, and…she makes you happy, I guess.”

Gold smiled at his son’s secret heart. “Does she seem happy to you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bae scoffed. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” Gold growled. “I just want to be sure she’s fine.”

Belle exited the restaurant a moment later, looking more pink in the face from whatever she shouted at Gold’s kidnappers.

“Well,” she sighed as she got into the car, gripping the wheel tightly. “Are you, um, okay?”

“Yes,” Gold nodded with a light smile. “Though I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to play cards again.”

Belle scoffed at that and started the car. “I can’t believe them. Getting into our business like this.”

“They were only trying to help,” Gold insisted.

“Wow, Stockholm much?” Bae chuckled from the back.

“That’s enough out of you,” Gold chastised, quieting as the car until the pulled into the driveway.

“Son, go ahead inside,” he said to Bae. “I want to talk to Belle for a moment,”

Belle and Bae both tensed at his tone, but Bae willfully left the car, giving Belle a look of pity before he slinked into the house.

“Belle…” he began, only to be cut off by Belle’s pleas.

“Please don’t sue us!” Belle begged. “They’re idiots! They don’t know what they’re doing!”

“W…what?” Gold gasped. “No…Belle I would never…do you really think I would do something like that to you? Endanger your friends and business all over a stupid misunderstanding?”

Belle shrugged. Of course she knew he wouldn’t, but he had made such a threat whenever his son had an allergic reaction to their product last year. Of course, he never went through with it thanks to Belle’s intervention, but it still spooked her that he had that kind of power.

“I’m sorry,” Belle said. “I really don’t. I just don’t want to ruin what we have right now.”

Gold was honestly a bit insulted. Belle was his girlfriend! She lived in his home and made him feel more alive every day! How could she even think like that?

“Belle, are you happy with me?” He asked instead.

“What? Of course!” Belle gasped. How could even think that? She lived in his house and drove his car for God’s sake! She laughed with him over books and teased Bae at dinner.

Of course, she was happy…of course.

“Do you think we pushed this a bit fast?” he asked, his hands absently playing with his ring. “I mean…we haven’t even been on a first date yet.”

“That’s partially my fault,” Belle laughed.

Gold chuckled too, the bite of humor easing the tension in the car.

“Are you okay with me being here?” Belle said. “I’m better now and all, and if you really want me too I can start—”

“No!” Gold exclaimed, the idea of her leaving turning his blood to ice. “I…like having you hear Belle, I really do. I don’t want you to leave unless it’s what you want to do. But just know that Bae and I are glad you’re here.”

“I don’t want anyone to think I’m leeching off of you,” Belle said bluntly.

“You?” Gold scoffed. “Belle, you’re the most hardworking person I know. If anything Bae and I are leeching off of you with all the free pizza you keep making for us.”

Belle laughed. “Bae mostly. That boy can eat a whole fridge.

“Indeed,” Gold chuckled, his hand caressing hers. “Are we alright then?”

Belle nodded. “We’re okay,” she leaned over and kissed his cheek, unbuckling herself from the seatbelt.

“Maybe we can work on that official date soon?” he suggested.

Belle laughed. “I think that sounds great. You coming?”

“In a moment,” Gold said, waving her off inside where Bae was inconspicuously peeking out the window. He collapsed in his seat, more exhausted from his talk with Belle than the actual kidnapping.

Still, it was an insightful night, and he was thankful Belle had good friends that would fight for their happiness. It was better if he knew her fears if they were to continue their relationship. And he really wanted to.

In his breast pocket sat the weight of his want: an antique wedding band that he was certain would be perfect for Belle’s taste. He had been pondering how and when he would offer it to her, but now that her uncertainty of their living arrangements were brought to light, he decided it would go to the vault in his store for now.

[chemicalresearchupdates]

Potato Processing Market Strategic Investment Plans and Business Opportunities

The potato processing market refers to the industry involved in transforming raw potatoes into various processed potato products. This market includes a wide variety of goods, including potato starch, dried potato flakes, frozen french fries, and potato chips. There are various procedures involved in processing potatoes, including washing, peeling, slicing, cooking, and packing.

Here is some comprehensive information about the potato processing market:

Market Overview: The potato processing industry has experienced significant growth over the years due to the rising demand for convenience foods, changing dietary patterns, and the popularity of potato-based snacks. Processed potato products have gained popularity worldwide due to their convenience, longer shelf life, and wide availability.

Market Segmentation: The potato processing market can be segmented based on product type, application, and geography. Common product types include frozen potato products (french fries, wedges, hash browns), potato chips, dehydrated potatoes, potato flakes, and potato starch. The applications of these products range from foodservice (restaurants, fast-food chains) to retail (supermarkets, convenience stores).

Market Drivers: Several factors drive the growth of the potato processing market, including:

Increasing demand for convenience foods and ready-to-eat snacks.

Growing popularity of fast-food chains and quick-service restaurants.

Rising consumer awareness about the nutritional value of potatoes.

Technological advancements in processing equipment, improving efficiency and quality.

Expansion of retail distribution channels and the global food supply chain.

Market Challenges: Despite the market's growth potential, it faces certain challenges:

Fluctuating raw material prices and supply chain disruptions.

Intense competition among key market players.

Increasing health concerns regarding fried and processed foods.

Stringent government regulations and quality standards.

Environmental concerns related to waste disposal and water usage.

Key Players: The potato processing market is highly competitive and dominated by several major players. Some of the key companies in the industry include:

Lamb Weston Holdings, Inc.

McCain Foods Limited

J.R. Simplot Company

The Kraft Heinz Company

Aviko B.V.

Intersnack Group GmbH & Co. KG

Calbee, Inc.

Herr Foods Inc.

Burts Potato Chips Ltd.

Regional Analysis: The potato processing market is geographically diverse, with significant growth observed in various regions, including North America, Europe, Asia Pacific, and Latin America. Europe and North America have traditionally been the largest markets for processed potato products, driven by the high consumption of snacks and fast foods. However, the Asia Pacific region, particularly countries like China and India, is experiencing rapid growth due to changing consumer lifestyles and an increasing preference for convenience foods.

Future Outlook: The potato processing market is expected to continue growing in the coming years. Factors such as increasing urbanization, a busy lifestyle, and the introduction of innovative potato products are likely to drive market growth. Additionally, the demand for healthier and organic potato snacks is expected to present new opportunities for market players. However, manufacturers will also need to address sustainability concerns and adapt to changing consumer preferences for healthier alternatives.

It's important to note that this information is based on the knowledge available up to September 2021, and the current state of the market may have evolved since then.

[asianadjacent]

If you don’t like onions, this is not for you

Spoiler alert: this also contains meat so this is definitely not for all you vegetarians or vegans out there. (Sorry, not sorry)

But if you love Italian food, specifically tube shaped pasta, onions and meat, you’ll absolutely adore this dish. I’m talking about a sauce that has a lot of onions and braised meat, cooked for hours, eventually melting away to form this sweet, meaty, gooey sauce that’s paired perfectly with al dente pasta, garnished with fresh herbs and as much grated parmesan as you like.

The dish I’m talking about is Tortiglioni all Genovese, a pasta sauce from the region of Campania in Italy. According to some very half-assed internet research (Wikipedia), it was introduced to Naples from Genoa during the Renaissance. And since then, it has become very famous in the region but forgotten elsewhere mysteriously. 

I came across this gorgeous dish when in Naples, at a restaurant that specialises in ragu called Tandem. Of the many delicious and numerous pasta dishes we ordered that evening, when this dish hit the table and went into my face, I was immediately jealous that it was Kei who made the order (she’s always had the better judgement when it came to menu items) and proceeded to eat most of it. 

The dish was luscious and velvety, where you could taste the sweetness of the onions, married with a subtle hint of the sea (they used octopus instead of beef). That experience has lingered with me ever since.

And so in this time of social isolation, coupled with the fact that I’m stuck at home after an ACL reconstructive surgery on my left knee, meant that this was the perfect opportunity to try to recreate this Neapolitan classic. However, if you google “Pasta alla Genovese”, it’s all becomes very confusing because all you seem to get from Google are recipes for a pesto-based pasta with fine beans, which is not what this is all about. 

Amidst the confusion and hysteria, I turned to New York Times Cooking, where they had a delightfully clear and simple version of the recipe by Mark Bittman, food author. 

Sidenote: Mark (yes, we’re on a first name basis) has written a bunch of great cookbooks like the incredible “How to Cook Everything: 2,000 Simple Recipes for Great Food” which is one of the better books if you’re looking to start cooking. As a warning, it is a mammoth of a text as it literally has 2,000 recipes so have a sturdy bookshelf before ordering.

So after endless onion prep, cramp from standing on my one good leg and a cook that lasted over three hours, I instinctively knew that this recipe was going to be near and dear to me before it was even completed. And the final result was everything I had hoped for and sent me to carb heaven. 

Like my experience in Naples, what stood out to me the most was the amount of flavour and joy packed into every bite. You could taste the natural sweetness of the onions and the slight “oomph” from the chuck steak, enhanced and tempered with only time and heat.

Ultimately, this is an incredible expression of what I believe good food should be, simple ingredients cooked with patience and love. I hope you try the recipe and love it as much as I do. Enjoy.

Tortiglioni alla Genovese

Servings: 6 to 8 (or 3 to 4 if you’re me) Cooking time: 3 1/2 hours (strap in and open some wine)

Ingredients

2kg red onions, thinly sliced (wear your goggles or prepare to cry for awhile)

Extra-virgin olive oil (use that good shit)

2 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped

2 celery ribs, trimmed and roughly chopped

120g pancetta, chopped (I used 180g because that was the package it came in and I didn’t want to keep a random 60g of pancetta lying around, plus animal fat = flavour)

1kg beef chuck, cut into 2-inch cubes (or any alternative cheaper, leaner cuts used for braises or stews)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 bay leaves (I used four because I got mine from Chinatown that comes in a giant packet for cheap. Therefore I worry that the quality of the leaves aren’t as good as the ones you would get from a farmers market or fancy supermarket so I overcompensated)

Handful of oregano leaves (or you can tie a bunch of oregano together and fish out the stems later on. I like leaving the leaves in and I’m lazy to pick stems out)

Some dry white wine (to taste and drink while you cook)

500g dried pasta, like ziti, tortiglioni or rigatoni

Finely grated Parmesan cheese

Fresh parsley, finely chopped

Preparation

Use a large heavy pot over medium high-heat, season your beef chuck cubes and coat them with oil. When pot is hot, starting putting the beef cubes into the pot to brown the meat on all sides. Be sure not to crowd your pot or else it won’t brown properly. You may have to do this in batches but once done, set browned meat aside. Additional note: You may skip this step if you want as browning the meat is slightly unnecessary. I only did it because I wanted the beef to hold its shape for a bit more bite at the end. In fact, according to more half-assed internet research (i.e., one other internet link), most classic Italian recipes will call for a large cut of beef chuck steak, which would be set aside once cooked and served as a second dish. This is how I did it but it’s your kitchen, your choices.

Heat a healthy glug of extra virgin olive oil in the same pot over medium-high heat again; chuck in the carrots, celery and pancetta and cook until it’s browning or caramelised (DON’T FORGET TO SEASON AND ADD PEPPER AS YOU GO, TO TASTE)

Add your onions to the pot, seasoning again as the salt will draw out the water in the onions quicker, you may even add a splash of water at this point if you’re worried that the bottom will burn because you’ve never seen so much onion go into a single pot before unless you’re cooking a giant batch of French Onion soup.

When it looks safe and it doesn’t look like your bottom is burning, chuck in the browned beef cubes. (Pun fully intended)

Add in your bay leaves and oregano and give your pot a little stir.

Bring it all to a simmer, cover it and cook it low and slow for two hours (or more), you will be amazed at the amount of water that will come out of the onions. It will almost be as much as the tears you shed while prepping 2kgs of onions by hand.

Once the meat is squishy and tender, uncover and crank up the hit all the way to bring it to a boil. This is wear you will need to be a bit more active with the stirring, making sure nothing sticks and burns at the bottom. Fiddle around with your heat if you need to. Cook until the meat falls apart or you can stab at the pieces of meat as you’re stirring to help it along a bit. This will be roughly 45 minutes of stirring so you best be ready.

Once the meat is falling apart and the sauce is thick, gooey and beautiful, add half a glass of wine to it and bring your heat down to low. If you’re a drink while you cook type human, you should have just enough white wine left from when you first opened a bottle at the start of this cook. Or perhaps you need to open your second bottle. No judgements here, just solutions.

Stir until the sauce is glossy. When you can’t taste the alcohol in the sauce anymore, it’s good to go. Although if you’re on your second bottle, best get someone to taste just to be sure.

Cook your pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water. I won’t go into detail here because I’ve covered how I cook pasta in this recipe here. (Don’t @ me)

Garnish with parsley and parmesan.

Eat all of the pasta.

Food coma.