#like working at edible arrangements made me hate men more because I would see them buy one for their wife and side chick at the same time

[champagnemoon]

I feel like working different retail jobs gives you such intimate looks at different sectors of society

[bigfan-fanfic]

Darkside Bakes 7 (with Batdad Reader!)

Tagging @galaxis-pixi

Sorry for such a long wait in between chapters! This one is gonna be special, involving not just the Baker, but Batdad as well! *gasp* And check out the OC List if you need a refresher for who these people at Darkside Bakes are!

The Baker (written as Gender Neutral!Reader)

“Holy cow! You guys have to see this!” Nate shouts from the front, startling you nearly to death and making you drop the little chocolate monkey you were making for a jungle-themed cake for Gorilla Grodd (in Gotham aligning with Cheetah and Killer Croc for Animal-Kingdom-themed crime)

Thankfully, Alma dives for it and catches it before it hits the floor, nearly getting run over by Anji, who went speeding to find out what was happening.

“Amateurs. Go ahead. I’ll take care of the fillings. Each chocolate animal in this edible diorama is supposed to be filled with a vanilla bean cream mixture. 

You nod and head out front. At the storefront, there is a limo, and two well-dressed men are getting out.. Bruce Wayne and his husband.

Anji and Nate are starstruck as the two men enter Darkside Bakes.

“Hello there.” Bruce Wayne grins. “Our sons happen to have mentioned your bakery in passing.”

His husband smiles kindly at you. “And we were wondering if you would be available to cater a holiday event at Wayne Manor in the next few weeks.”

Anji looks at you with her now-familiar excited face, practically jumping up and down with joy. 

“Yes, of course. I’d... yes.”

“Wonderful. We’ll have our son Dick coordinate with you for the event, if you don’t mind.”

So over the next few days, you all work overtime. You, Marcia, Nate, and Ike focus on the Wayne function, while Alma, Priya, Ryan, and Anji work on the day-to-day, although you and Marcia often duck in to help them.

Dick Grayson shows up every day to talk with you and Ike about the ever-changing seating arrangements, decor themes, and flavor profiles needed for the gala and completely distracting most of your younger employees. Priya once barked at Anji and Ike because they had frozen to watch Dick walk around and eat a brownie, and you nearly had to drag Nate back to work.

Occasionally, Mr. Wayne also comes in, apologizing for the difficulty, as he isn’t planning the gala on his own. He assures you that there’ll be extra in the final bill as an apology.

Slowly it comes together. Each table has its own entremet tower covered in pastel-colored glazes as an edible centerpiece. There’s a banquet table dedicated to your desserts, with an oversized Swiss roll filled with strawberry jelly and made with a banana sponge (poor Ryan nearly passed out when he accidentally got some strawberry on him). There’s a little tea service made to look like white porcelain, but is really made out of tempered white chocolate. And there’s a beautiful tower of thin cinnamon tuiles and a gingerbread replica of Wayne Manor. 

 Though there’s been a different business hired for dinner, you get to serve the appetizers, a massive batch of cunapes that Ike made all on his own and is exceptionally proud of. Nate also made the little mini baguettes served at each table.

And serving as the dessert course is Alma’s piece de resistance: an option of either creme brulee or chocolate souffle, both made perfectly.

You’re so proud of the hard work you all put into it. Dick Grayson comes up to congratulate each one of you by name (which makes Anji and Nate swoon a little)

However, something feels off when you see little Damian Wayne and Bruce Wayne together.

Something about it just... clicks. This father and son pair...is just the same as another - Matches and Danny Malone. So your delivery boy is Damian Wayne, and that means that Bruce Wayne moonlights as a mobster?

And then the Penguin crashes the party, getting window glass all up in what’s left of the Swiss roll.

He comes to find you. “So, the big Baker, all high and mighty, working for the Waynes now, huh? And giving information to the Bat!”

Marcia stands in front of you, and the Penguin recoils. “Waddle off, Penguin. We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You should have known. Cobblepot gave you your big break, and he hates the Waynes. He probably came up with whatever other excuse he could to attack.

“Get away from them, Oswald.” Mr. Wayne says firmly, stepping forward.

But you notice that neither Bruce nor Damian are to be found. Neither are any of the Wayne sons, even though Dick had just pulled Ike out of the way of Cobblepot’s entrance.

 And then the Bat and his sidekicks show up. You and the others go to find Ike, because seeing the Bat tends to trigger him, and besides, you want to get out before you get attacked by Cobblepot again.

No.. Bruce Wayne doesn’t moonlight as a Gotham mobster, but a Gotham vigilante!

Bruce Wayne... is Batman!

Batdad (written as Male!Reader)

“We need to find out more about this Baker.” Bruce says firmly in the Batcave.

“Really? Are you sure? What can a baker do, really?” Dick says skeptically. He’s been in love with this Darkside Bakes ever since he ate one of their chocolate cakes. 

Damian growled. “Nearly every villain in Gotham went to rescue them. They receive messages from the villains. Whatever is happening, the Baker is in the thick of it.”

“Not necessarily.” Bruce says thoughtfully. “We might be able to use Darkside Bakes as a source of intel. But we’ll need to learn more about their operation.”

“I thought that was why you had the little demon working there.” Jason mutters.

“They’re secretive.” Tim points out. “And the cover story sucks. I wouldn’t want to let the kid of a Gotham mobster in on my business, would you?”

You look at them incredulously. “So why not just hire them?”

They’re momentarily stunned. “Yeah, hire them for a gala or something, and have either me or Dick go look at their operation on the inside - gala problems or whatever.”

“Why you two?” Jason asked.

“Because we have people skills, bud.”

“...fair point.”

So you send Dick, because he’ll be better at placing the hidden microphones while talking to the Baker.

The bakers don’t talk much about villainy, but occasionally you pick up a tidbit here and there, like Cheetah working with Grodd and Killer Croc, or that Calendar Man will probably come in on Daylight Savings Time. One time, Penguin comes in and you get tipped off to something he’s planning for the night before the gala. Bruce stops him, but Oswald gets away.

Penguin crashes the gala and seems to be about to attack the bakers when you step in, distracting the crowd so Bruce and the others can change.

Afterwards - the Baker and their crew have left, so you figure you’ll present a check in person tomorrow - you glare at Bruce. “What did you say to him?”

“What are you talking about, Y/N?”

“He must have figured that the Baker is working with Batman, not that we’ve been spying on them! What if they’re in terrible danger now?”

“We’ll save them. It’s clear that they aren’t a villain.”

“Now.” you say darkly.

Dick looks at you curiously. “What do you mean?”

Jason scoffs. “It’s possible that the villains might get suspicious. To protect themself and the others, the Baker might get pushed into doing something criminal.”

“But... every criminal in Gotham seems to go to Darkside Bakes. Even the non-crazy ones.” Tim shudders. “And if the Baker has the allegiance of every single villain in Gotham, then that would mean...”

Bruce finishes the thought. “If the Baker becomes a villain, they might just be able to become the most effective criminal Gotham City has ever seen.”

You sigh. “We messed up, didn’t we?”

Dick nods. “We overwhipped the meringue, and now all the air is out of it. Now it’s just curdled...what? I’ve been in a bakery for two weeks, I’ve got it on the brain!”

[bewareofchris]

Public Relations 22/??

R atm | Alec Hardy/Dr. Bill Masters | Broadchurch, Masters of Sex | Strong language, eventual sexual situations

“The fact that Alec Hardy was not currently, had not ever, and did not want to date the American sex research did not seem very important at all to the town of Broadchurch.  They did what they had always done with a little bit of juicy gossip: they made a spectacle of it.”

<< prev | Part 1 | AO3 Link

Indecision had brought him to his wife’s front door but cowardice had made sure it was only after the children were at school.  Bill had braced himself for a fight, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the way Libby answered the front door like he was hardly worth the effort it took to turn a lock.

Libby leaned against the door with her body blocking the way.  She frowned at him without saying a word; looking furious and beautiful all at the same time.  

“I’d like to come in.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Libby said, but she moved back to give him space to come in.  Her voice was a cut in the quiet of the entryway.  “But, it would be insanity to think that Bill Masters was capable of caring about what I wanted.  After all, we’ve been married long enough.”

“Have I done something to make you angry?”  It wasn’t the question that was the wrong thing to say.  It was that he waited until there were no witnesses.  He closed the door to anyone that might have wandered past, he stood inside the house that Libby had worked so tirelessly to make a home.

She laughed like heartbreak.  

“Recently?”

Libby paused at the bar.  (She hadn’t, in her rage, cleared out his bar as thoroughly as she’d cleared out his closet.)  She tipped over two cups and filled them generously.  When she was done, she drank from one and pressed her palm over the open mouth of the other like trying to smash it flat into the bar top.  “I told you all I wanted was the kids, Bill.  You never even wanted them.”

“Now, wait just a--”

But there was no kindness left in his wife.  That’s what he’d done to her.  He’d taken the sweetest woman he’d ever met and he used her up with his selfishness.  He’d made her as miserable as he was, spitting angry with a pink laugh at the edge of her mouth.  She said, “don’t waste your time, Bill.  I had to beg you to even try to have a baby.  I had to go behind your back to have Johnny.  The only reason we have Jenny or Howie was because you were already fucking Virginia.”  She took another gulp of liquor and slapped the empty cup on the counter.  Her fingers curved around the second glass like claws.

“That’s not true,” Bill said.

“And you lied to me!” Libby shouted. “For years, you lied to me.  You said it was my fault we couldn’t have a baby!  You comforted me while I cried.  Every month you rubbed my back and you promised that you still loved me and I thought what a nice man you were!  I thought, how lucky I am!  You fucking bastard.”  

The glass shattered across the floor where Libby threw it.  The liquor sloshed out in a puddle of glass shards.  

Bill looked at his hands because he couldn’t bear to look at his wife.  “Regardless of my mistakes,” he said (very softly), “they’re my children.  I don’t know--maybe it is too late.  Maybe they hate me.  Or maybe I’m just not meant to be a father.  But I am their father and I’m not ready to give them up without at least trying, Libby.  I didn’t come here to fight.”

Libby laughed at that.

“I came to try to find some solution, some compromise that allowed me to see my children.  Something that didn’t have to be argued out in a courtroom, something that you could agree with.”

“I think you’re expecting too much from me, Bill.”  Libby flipped over another glass and filled it the same as the first.  She turned it in circles again and again.  

“Libby,” Bill said, “I’m sorry.”

She lifted the glass to her mouth and took a sip and then dropped it again.  “Well, I’m sorry too, Bill.”  

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.  It was me, I--  I-- ”

Libby scoffed as she turned to look at him again.  Her face was spotted pink and red; she was shaking her head at him.  “I fucked at least four other men while we were married, Bill.  You never noticed.  How could you?  You were never home long enough to wonder where I was.  You never looked at my body long enough to wonder where the marks came from.  You never fucked me with any passion, to wonder when I got so loud, or where I learned to move my body like that.”

Bill’s fingers were curled into fists.  There was no fairness in all the world or he would have stood there absorbing every single word without protest.  He would have let her detail her every sexual encounter, he would have apologized for driving her to anger so bright and painful.  “I never fucked you with passion?” he shouted back, “you never wanted passion!  Right from the start, all you wanted was a baby!  All you wanted was to look good for the other families, to dress nice and smile.  You never looked at me with any passion.”

Libby smacked him and Bill grabbed her wrist to pull it away before she could do it again.  Libby’s teeth were bared, her breath a furious wet hiss and her body an aggressive press against his arm trying to hold her back.  “I bet you fucked Virginia like you meant it.”

If Bill were a better man he wouldn’t have moved forward; if Libby were a better woman she wouldn’t have wrapped her hands around his face and dragged him up against her body.

But they were only suited for one another in that way, neither of them capable of happiness where the other was concerned.

--

Alec Hardy had a murder to solve.  He’d gone through all the trouble of a day trip to ask his former partner to come and help him.  He’d managed to be charming enough (probably not) or pathetic enough (more likely) to convince her to come and at least look at the files.

He’d gathered everything he had on Sandbrook.  He’d arranged it on the table and written out some of his key thoughts and top questions regarding the case.

Hardy, who had no culinary leanings, had gone through the trouble of making certain there was edible food in his house.  He’d purchased and baked muffins so he’d have something fresh and nice to eat.  

 All this he’d done; and none of it mattered.  He was sitting on his front porch when Miller arrived, looking wind-chapped and tired, pushing Fred in his stroller over all the little rocks along the path.  She stopped a few feet away just so he could see her struggling attempt at a smile fade from her face.  “That’s some thanks I get, coming all this way to see you.  I had to bring Fred, you know.  Because Tom’s moved out!  How can an eleven year old boy just move himself out of home?  I don’t know how it happened.  But it did, and I dragged myself all the way down here to see you scowling at me.”

“Miller,” Hardy said before she could really get into it.  He pulled himself up to standing and went down to help her lift the stroller up the stairs.

“Are you sure you’re allowed to be lifting?” Miller asked half way through.

Inside, at least, it was warm.  Fred was set loose in the very little room that passed as a living room.  Miller pulled her scarf out of her zipped up jacket as she took note of the smell of fresh muffins.  

“Oh,” she said to herself.  “Well, it’s nice that you’ve some effort in.  If you didn’t go around greeting people with a sour face all the time, maybe more people would like you.”

“I don’t need people to like me,” Hardy snapped.  In fact, he wasn’t even interested in people liking him.  Putting too much time into being likable never worked out for anyone.

He’d been likable enough to get a wife but not likable enough to keep her.  He was likable enough to have a daughter that loved him but just not quite enough to have his daughter return his phone calls with any regularity.

(Likable enough to have a transatlantic friendship with a sex doctor from America but not likable enough to keep the bastard from fucking his future ex-wife and then telling Hardy about it.)

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt,” Miller said.  She pulled out the chair in front of the table where he’d set up all the files.  He hadn’t even so much as put his hand on the chair that he meant to pull out to sit next to her, when she jerked her head to look at him with outrage.  “You’re not sitting here with me.  No.  No, sir.  You go over there--back there with Fred.  I’ll look over everything and we can talk then but not before.  Go on.”

Fred, a round faced toddler, was sitting on Hardy’s floor with a sack of blocks and his thumb in his mouth.  He had the distinct dumb-struck look one got when they were sudden put into a situation they had no idea how to handle.  He tipped his head back to look at Hardy, and the pair of them simply stared at one another.

“Fine,” Hardy said.  He sat on the floor with the toddler and his blocks.  “Your Mum’s not very nice.”

“I can hear you,” Miller said.

Fred pulled a block out of his sack to hand it to Hardy.  He set it on the floor between them and so it went, Fred handing him blocks and Hardy setting them down again until they’d made a little square tower.  As soon as it was built up, Fred knocked it over with violently glee.

Then they started again.

(There was a metaphor in there, surely, about the nature of life and the pointlessness of it all.)

Still, Fred was thrilled.

Hardy’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he frowned at the stack of tower as he moved his hand away from fitting in the last block.  Fred shrieked in joy as he punched the tower and sent the blocks flying in all directions.  While he rounded them up again, Alec pulled his phone out of his pocket.

It was Bill.  Bill was saying: Is everything alright?  I didn’t mean to upset you.  If I shared too much, I’m sorry.

Was everything all right?  Yes, everything was fine because Bill was nothing more than a way to pass the time and Hardy had no rights to his time or his body or his loyalty.  It didn’t matter that fucking your future ex-wife up against a home bar was a stupid idea for more reasons than Hardy could count.  It didn’t matter that sort of thing was the exact reason divorces were ugly and messy.  It didn’t even matter that Bill was hurt by the stupidity of his own impulses, that he was lost, that he was looking for reassurance and comfort.

It didn’t matter at all.

Hardy had listened, and he’d told him these sorts of things did happen.

And Hardy wasn’t upset about it.  It didn’t matter to him where Bill went off and put his cock.  When he was finished with his future ex-wife, he could go find his ex-lover and fuck her too and Hardy still wouldn’t care.

(It would be stupid; the very same way fucking Libby had been stupid.  But that was just who Bill was.  A stupid man.)

Fred nudged the block against Hardy’s hand once he’d rounded them all up.  Hardy sighed at the little boy, and the blocks, and the quiet, and life, and stupid American sex doctors.  He set the block on the floor.

Fred handed him another one.

“You could help build this,” he said to the boy.  (Fred, who seemed very bright, obviously knew that he could help.  But he didn’t want to help.  He wanted Hardy to do the work so that Fred could destroy it.)

When they came to a pausing point (meaning, when Fred had to find all the blocks he kicked around Hardy’s living room), Hardy stared at his phone a moment longer before, impulsively, childishly, rudely replying:

Why would I care who you sleep with?

And something twisted up in his gut with devilish happiness.  Some half-thought thing wriggled and squirmed as he leaned back into the chair, watching a toddler collect blocks, and thinking about a grown man an ocean away waiting for some reply on his phone.

Hardy thought of Bill, alone, in his half-furnished little apartment, staring at the phone.  And he thought, how his hopeful face might sadden just a little when he read the words.  And just for that moment, the thought that it mattered at all to Bill Masters made Alec Hardy happy.

The reply came through so quickly that Bill must have been staring at the phone waiting.  

It said: Of course.  I’m sorry for assuming.

@it-is-ineffable, @marvelmisha, @e3105eb, @may-darling, @bigleosis, @stardust-andwine, @echelongaga, @imnotokaywiththerunning, @heirofsarcasm

if you were traumatized by this chapter, so was I. 

[novembersrain]

Her. – Roger Taylor Fanfic – (I)

Pairings: Roger Taylor x OC

Summary: We begin in the year 1975. The rock band, Queen, has just returned from their trip to Japan, and make a trip to The Big Apple, New York City. Roger Taylor meets Juilliard student Natalie Manning. I suppose you could even go as far to say that it’s love at first sight.

Warnings: Swearing.

Word Count: 1.6K

A/N: Hey everyone! I’ve had this idea in my head for Roger and Original Character for the longest time now, and I’m so excited to finally write it all down instead of keeping it all inside my head. I hope you enjoy it... And am as excited for this as I am.

...

1975 wasn’t a bad year for Natalie Manning. She was a junior at The Juilliard School, majoring in Performing Arts. She had a promising life ahead of her. It’s what she liked to tell herself, anyway.

Roger Taylor, on the other hand, he knew. He knew, that his life was going to be promising – that he was going to make something of himself. Hell, he had just gotten back from Japan, he felt untouchable.

“You made this promise to me months ago, Roger!” Yelled Brian, to his friend that sat a few feet away from him.

“I just don’t understand why in the hell you failed to mention that we would only be helping to set up that damn recording booth. I was under the impression that I would actually be playing my own instrument when I agreed to this brilliant idea of yours!” Retaliated Roger.

Brian sighed at this. The man had a point, he did keep some details of their day to himself, but what else was he supposed to do? Risk having to go and work on this himself?

“I’m quite aware of what I told you, Roger, but Freddie and John already backed out. We were all supposed to be participating, remember?’

A grumble could have been heard from Roger at this, knowing he wasn’t in much of a position to argue back. They were already in the taxi ride there, so despite how much he wanted to open the door and take a dive out of the moving car, he figured he would just simply save the dramatics for later.

Several minutes of silence passed, and Roger was infatuated as he looked out the taxi window. He had never quite seen a place as beautiful as New York before, nevertheless been around so many beautiful women simultaneously. The whole place was a much different vibe than what he was use to. Growing up in such a place that he did, with a population of only 42,000, compared to New York’s, over seven million; it was a bit of a culture shock, to say the least.

“Where the hell are we off to, anyway?” Asked Roger, nearly startling Brian at the sudden voice that interrupted his blissful thoughts.

“Some musical college. The name has slipped away from me at the moment.”

“Musical college? What are they going to do? Perform Fiddler on the Roof for us when we pull up?” Roger’s own comment had him softly laughing to himself. He hadn’t meant to come off as such an asshole, but it’s not as if anyone other than Brian would be there to hear him.

Wrong.

During that short period of time that Roger had taken it upon himself to bash the unnamed school, their taxi had stopped, and a beautiful brunette was stood at Roger’s side of the car, her hand resting comfortably against the door.

“Well, we didn’t plan to, but I’m sure we could arrange something if you feel very passionately about it.”

The voice was unfamiliar to Roger. It caused him to turn his head to the right so quickly, that he considered himself lucky he didn’t get whiplash.

“Holy shit.” He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

The brown-haired woman only smiled, taking a step to the side in order to let the two in the car out safely onto the sidewalk.

“I’m Natalie. Natalie Manning. Steve told me – one of you know Steve, right? – to come and get you guys…”

She continued on, but Roger had stopped listening almost immediately to hearing her name. He was almost positive that he had never seen someone so beautiful in his entire lifetime. Which, well, was saying a lot. And she was American.

“…Sound okay with you guys?” Her voice flooded its way back into Roger’s earshot, and he was sure he had never been more excited about something in his life. He heard Brian say something back to her, but he didn’t bother caring enough to make it out.

“Roger?”

Dammit. What could he possibly want now, thought the brunette, who had attempted to straighten out his fur coat as a response.

“I’m sorry, what?” Was what eventually made way through his lips. He felt a strange feeling of disappointment in himself at that moment, because, what if she gets annoyed that I wasn’t listening to her? Certainly, that can’t be the best first impression.

His thoughts were drawn to a halt when a sweet sounding laugh intertwined itself with the surroundings of hundreds of other people talking around them. He wondered how on Earth his heart didn’t stop beating right then and there.

“I just promised the both of you that I would make sure to get you some kind of edible food within the next few hours, I know you must be hungry. Steve is just quite the persistent man, and if I brought the two of you into his recording studio late, or with food nonetheless, well, let’s hope that we don’t have to find out what happens then.” Natalie re-explained which earned a smile from Roger.

“Oh? So does that mean I can look forward to having you accompany me all day?” Roger asked.

Brian rolled his eyes, “You didn’t even want to come today. If I had not lied to you, you wouldn’t be here right now. You are so ridiculous. You see one beautiful woman and now our whole day is going to be put to waste because all you’ll be doing is gawking at her. And another thing!...” Continued Brian, but Roger stopped listening several moments beforehand.

He was hot on Natalie’s heels as she walked away from the bickering men and into the building, noticing how she would occasionally advert her gaze in several different directions as several people stopped to greet her a good morning.

The walk to this studio wasn’t as long as he hoped it would be. He was aware that they had gotten into a packed elevator, which allowed himself to get close enough to Natalie to note that she smelled like sunflowers. He decided that sunflowers were now his favorite flower. And smell.

Upon leaving the elevator, they began their walks down the long corridors where Roger insisted on walking alongside Natalie, while Brian trailed several feet behind. Brian got ahead of him once as they walked, and Roger could swear that he had never wanted to shove someone more in his life.

There was one thing that Roger knew for certain. He could not figure out for the life of him why he was so nervous around Natalie. He had done this countless times – found a pretty girl and wooed himself into her life for a few hours – but this was different. He didn’t want to be in Natalie’s life for only a few hours. In fact, he already dreaded the time that he knew was coming when he would have to leave. It wasn’t like she was just going to school around the corner from him; she was going to school a whole ocean away from him.

This is absolute bullshit, he thought.

Roger followed Natalie around wherever he could; sparking up random conversations regarding whatever topic came to mind. He even went as far as asking her if she liked red or green apples more. Apples. He was talking about fucking apples. And now he thinks he hates himself.

Brian enjoyed taking the piss out of him. Watching Roger “Sex on legs” Taylor stutter over every other word as he tried to formulate a sentence, to try and have a decent conversation with Natalie, was something he never imagined that he would ever see in his life. He thought that it was, for lack of better words, fucking hilarious. And he made sure to tease Roger about it every chance that he got.

“Mate, why don’t you just go ask her to take you to the school cafeteria. Maybe you can get a sandwich and talk about what kind of apples she likes the best.” Said Brian, followed by a low chuckle.

“Piss right off, Brian. I’d like to see you give it a try!”

Brian laughed at this; nodding his head as a response to the challenge he was just given. “You want to see if I can do any better?”

“Yeah, hot shot! Go ahead and ask her!”

The curly haired brunette started to lift himself up from the sofa he sat on several minutes earlier, but Roger gripped his arm, to pull him back down onto the cushions.

“That wasn’t my okay to do it, you wanker! This is so like you. It is just SO Brian…” This continued for another twenty minutes. Seriously.

Imagine there’s no heaven

It’s easy if you try

No hell below us

Above us only sky

Imagine all the people

Living for today

Roger stopped with the bickering that went on at the sound of this. He lifted himself up to his feet and looked through the window that led into the recording studio, his eyes practically turning into lightbulbs at the sight that was before him.

Imagine there’s no countries

It isn’t hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion, too

…

That’s fucking John Lennon. I love John Lennon, thought Roger.

It wasn’t uncommon for people to sing John Lennon songs, not at all. This was different. She was different. Her voice… He had never heard something more beautiful in his life. She must have been testing the microphone.

He tuned out the rest of the song with his own thoughts, and this was when he decided. He was going to shoot his shot. He found himself walking into the sound booth before he even realized what he was doing.

“Natalie,” he began. “You think you could take me down to the cafeteria? Maybe we could get a sandwich and talk about your favorite kinds of apples?”

...

Chapter Two Chapter Three

[ebthecelebrity]

#BlackMenInTherapy

#BlackMenDontCheat

#BlackMenArePowerful

#BlackKings

#SexyBlackMen

#BlackMenwithBeards

#AlphaBlackMale

#BlackMenMatter

#BlackFathersMatter

#BlackExcellence

#BlackMenAreBeautiful

If you are on social media and you’re a black man or a lover of a black man, you have had to stumble across one of these hashtags.  They are some of the most popular hashtags to search a black man.  Now while I believe all of these are very true, there’s still that big ass elephant in the room that many black people don’t seem to want to address…….

#BlackMenInTherapy

As a black woman, I haven’t ever talked to a psychologist, EVER. Sad.  Here I am, a 36 year old black woman who has survived multiple schools in one year due to the US Army moving our family around; struggled to make friends, toxic friendships, self esteem issues, a divorce, post partum depression, single parenting, a child with behavioral problems, continuously being underpaid at work, many failed relationships, anxiety, being qualified for a job but not able to pass though HR because my name is “Ebony”, etc etc. ETC!  Seriously racial discrimination, sexual discrimination, and having to work twice as harder as my white male counterparts has been a struggle throughout my adult life so much. I hardly talk about it because it just feels normal now.  The list goes on and on for my black ass, but, can you believe I have never sat and talked to someone?!  I sit back and I truly can’t believe it either. One session of therapy could have seriously helped me.

Another reason I never went to therapy is because I was never introduced to it as a child.  I love my parents to death and I have no complaints about my childhood whatsoever.  They made sure me and my brother never wanted for anything.  I had a passport a few months after of my birth by being born overseas and traveled and lived many places. I am very cultured!  The sad news is, I believe they never thought I needed counseling and maybe I did.  Growing up as a military brat had its perks but it also had its stressors.   This surely cultivated into me ignoring my issues and pushing through without talking to anyone about them.  Not even my really close friends. I swept that shit under the rug and kept going.   I think this is an issue with many black households. Lets face it, counseling is not cheap, but it can be affordable. I witness too many black parents raise their children with the nicest shoes, name brand clothing, and extravagant birthday parties. No one ever invests in counseling though.  Some of these kids are a product of abuse, neglect, and just witnessing their parents at their worst.  Jordans on their feet, but pain in their heart.   What about over 400 years of oppression? Doesn’t that account for anything? Is the crab in the barrel mentality and cold blooded killings of our fellow brothers and sisters account for this?  Possibly.  SMH The cycle continues….

I met a handsome man at CIAA last year. He was swaggy. NY Hat, Polo on his body, Yves Saint Laurent on his neck and a bottle of champagne in his hand.  He was polite but with just the right amount of aggressiveness that made me want to converse with him.  Instead of the routine, “May I buy you a drink?”, he insisted with “What are you drinking on?”  Upon answering his question, he demanded for the bartender to get me right.  I was impressed.  His New York accent was also a turn on.  A city boy.  He was different.

The entire night he made sure my drink was never empty, but he kept his distance. Ladies, you know how men in the club stalk you after they buy you a drink? LOL I WON’T HAVING THAT! He never did but he kept his eye on me though. After a couple glasses of champagne and dancing to rapper, Fabulous, all night, I was coherent enough to give him my phone number.  Days after our initial meeting, I just thought it would turn out like the rest of them. You know, the first date out to eat with some chicken wings and maybe I’d continue getting to know him and have sex with him if he kept my attention.  Hookup Hell.  I didn’t really think nothing much about it.  He was pleasant. He was charming.  He definitely wasn’t cheap. It took about 6 weeks of me playing cat and mouse, but it finally happened….I agreed to meet him for our first date.

Sitting down to meet him at TGIFs, he complimented me and it was different.  It was really genuine.  He even had an edible arrangement for me. I was impressed. I hadn’t had a first date like this in so long….I couldn’t remember the last time a man was so attentive. After the first drink, he let everything out the bag.  From being shot twice, being a young father, and serving Fed Time….he laid it out on the table for me.  It was refreshing.  From that moment on, I was never judgmental and I opened up to him too. Hell, I was far from perfect.  I continued to see him and learn more and more about the strength he had everyday. He was dealing with many things and he kept me in the loop. One day on the phone I mentioned that I wanted to see him and to my surprise he responded, “I’ll call you after my therapy session.” Therapy? I had no idea.  This man was in therapy!  

He discussed how he would meet his therapist once a week.  He would talk to her about any and everything. Nothing was off limits.  You see the scars of his past; he was now determined to not let them hinder his present. I had never dated a man who was currently in therapy.  The shit was very foreign to me. Sometimes you just assume that the strength of a black man is just getting through that trauma and making it over to the other side of the storm, towards that rainbow.  What we don’t understand is that even Noah needed to build an ark to get through the greatest storm in history.  Therapy = Building.  Building that safe haven to get through the storm is necessary!  It is said that it took Noah 120 years to build that ark, this is contingent to a Black Man needing therapy for a lifetime.

Black Men, put down the extravagant lifestyle until you get your mental in the right.  The strippers, the Gucci, the fancy homes, the flashy cars…..put it all down.  You can’t take that shit to the grave with you.  So many Black Men dealing with abuse: mental and physical.  Many have been abused by men. Many are confused on their sexuality and touched inappropriately in church.  So many Black Transgender Men being brutally killed and too many over sexualized Black Men using sex for healing. Too many Black Men hating their skin, claiming they are too dark or even too light for society. Self hatred and insecurities flood the Black Man’s mental everyday as he wakes up each morning to look in the mirror and feel he’s not enough.  Too many Black Men scarred by their mamas who they witness have multiple kids by many men and who have said “You’re just like your no good daddy.” Too many Black Men without fathers and have no idea what he looks like or where he resides.  Too many Black Men mentally abused by Black Women who feel the need to continuously use them for their money, their dick and to call them a “bitch nigga” every 5 minutes.  So many Black Men dealing with the loss of a friend or family member who has been gunned down senselessly by another Black Man going through these same issues.  Too many Black Kings forgetting their Kings.

Therapy.

My Brooklyn born and raised Man called me one day and bragged about how his therapy session that day consisted of me.  To think of a man to discuss me in therapy was probably the highlight of my dating life. I didn’t ask for details.  I just knew that from that moment on, I never wanted to leave his side.  All the things in the past I insisted I wanted in a man:  a gorgeous smile, a cut up body, and gorgeous eyes were now all a distant memory.  A Black Man in therapy was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.  

[lighthouseofthewanderess]

Food

(Noun): any nutrition the living being needs in order to sustain and grow.

Part 1: Hunger.

I’ve realized that food is just a vast concept to grasp. There’s the ingredients, the actual cooking, the tasting. More complicated words like Gastronomy can be thrown in with food as well. So many methods to cook the same thing, so many recipes floating around or rotting away with the grandmas of the world. I will never be able to fully understand it; only grasp it here and there. That’s why I’ve decided to take you on my culinary journey through life, starting with food that wasn’t even there. A privilege.

The first thing I consciously remember having was Cerelac. Blessed be milk powder, really. But I had stolen this bowl. It was meant for an infant in the house, the ‘big house’ that I was dragged into for my staged birthday picture. Heart beating out my little rib cage, I sat under the bed and made sure I was extra safe before indulging in the first spoonful. It melted away in my mouth, and my knotted stomach opened up to welcome it. Its textures comforted my taste buds, this was possibly the best thing in the world. How very different from the kanji that I get in the servant quarters. And that pickle that came along with it? So acidic that it burned sometimes. Though I was found out and given a good beating, I told myself it was all worth it. Even on nights that I went hungry, all I had to do was remember that sweet moment and my stomach would be easily tricked into satisfaction.

Malnutritioned and unkempt, I could easily pass off as a kid on the street. And for twisted reasons that are beyond me, my father and his family liked to see me this way. I was made to stay with the servants and one of them would walk me to school and back. The big house was out of the question. I sometimes even felt like a court jester, brought to show face to the visitors, to recite my alphabets, or write from 1 to 100. Fruit would be passed around, but I wasn’t allowed to touch it. Were apples juicy? I wouldn’t know. What’s inside a grape? I wouldn’t know. Every time I set foot into the house I hoped I would stay the night, I sometimes dozed off even; always finding myself wake up in the quarters. A year or two flew this way, food always staying within my sight but out of reach. I yearned to eat it all, taking my own sweet time. Have patience. Someone rang my mom up and told her,

“Something’s wrong with your daughter. I … I think it’s better you ask your husband about it.” My mom was confused. Why? She was speaking with me over phone, she saw pictures too.

“Priya isn’t just malnutritioned, she’s lost. She doesn't talk when you talk to her. She doesn’t even smile. Just trust me, have her with you in the US.” Fast forward through the haircut, the reunion at the airport, and the house with wooden walls. We are now at the exact moment I had a real meal. Rasam, rice, beans poriyal, and yoghurt.

My mom sat kneeling opposite me while the neatly arranged plate of food sat waiting for me to devor. But I just couldn’t. I didn’t know how to eat it all. Funnily, my mom thought I didn’t like her food. I waited till she served herself, and then watching her, I slowly curved my fingers around the warm, soft, fluffy rice and had the first bite. After that, I just couldn’t stop. I pulled out all the vegetables, the curry leaves, the tempering and gobbled up all the rice.

“That’s bad manners” my mom say=id. “You have to eat everything.” Oh wait, these were eatable? (Edible was a word I learnt maybe years later.) With mom I tasted so much more, that it made me feel like I was truly living life.

When we went grocery shopping,  my mom would tsk at the prices of coriander leaves, pudina, and the little things had go into the authentic flavor of our food.

“The vegetables here are tasteless. You’ve felt it too, yes?” my mom asked as we picked out the groceries. I nodded like I knew how vegetables even tasted like. The cool mist from the invisible pipes in these grocery sections fascinated me. I removed my gloves, put one hand in and pulled it out. Like another world. I glanced at all the items in the open cooler; so many boxes, so many colors of things that people just ate? How did that even work. When I looked around my mom had piled up veggies onto the cart and at the exact moment my stomach gave a huge growl. I guess this is how, the stomach just asks for it.

Shopping was one of the fun things I liked to do. I’d find a cart, give a little push and hoist myself up on the cart as I zoomed past the aisles reading out the list. At the end of an aisle I’ll wait for mom to pick out the items I called out. If I got lucky, there would be free treats at the corner aisles, people handing out funny tasting samples. And this is how I met the two staples of my then life: Texas Garlic Bread and Frozen Mini Pizzas. Why was this hidden from me for so long! The Garlic Bread would sizzle with all that butter as it did pirouettes inside the microwave. Garlic always tickled my nose and sent a secret message to my stomach that would make it flip in anticipation. The Mini Pizzas on the other hand, had pork and I never even knew. I believed it to be chicken and hogged my way through it all. This is also how I chanced upon the world of cereals and pop tarts: sugary things that just hit the spot, you know? Cheerios. Lucky Charms. String Cheese. Sliced Ham. Pitted Black Olives. There was no knowing when food was going to hit me with it’s next best thing.

I wanted to eat a little bit of everything, and I didn’t care if I couldn’t finish it. I just had to taste it. My mom found it all too overwhelming, how her kid turned out to be a greedy little pig. She controlled what I ate without knowing that life was just Kanji and Lemon Pickle for me until I came here. She would never buy the frozen dinners that you just heat up and eat, and never the yellow luncheon boxes that almost every kid in school brought. “But why...” I wailed. “I like the little compartments, and that Cheddar Cheese, the Crackers, and the…” my mom cut me off short.

“Because that is not real food. You have a family, and you get good food that is cooked with love. These boxes don’t mean a thing, they’re an excuse for mothers who can’t cook for their own children. You are blessed enough to be healthy.” Woah. Some volcano just erupted and the only thing I knew after that was to stick to the sambar the kootu and occasionally treat myself to the Chicken Buffalo Wings (how could I forget) in the freezer when mom came home late from work. I wasn’t averse to Banana. I was averse to the idea of eating it every day. I was caught up in the world of food, and a nation that had 90% of its population on the brink of obesity. So when my mom placed a banana alongside the too-big bowl of cereal, I’d frown at it. I started talking to Mr. Banana when mom wasn’t looking, saything stuff like “Not today” , “Na na, Banana”  -- the only thing this one-sided conversation resulted in, was rejection. For Mr. Banana ended up at the bottom of the garbage bin every day. Somedays, I even dug out a little trash to place him safely, deep inside, so that mom won’t ever find out. But mothers always do. Uh-oh.

“Do you know what a banana even costs?” my mom was upset, but trying to keep her calm.

“Do you how privileged you are to have three meals a day?” Of, course. I hardly had a meal earlier.

“Some people live on bread, do you know that?” Sounds better than kanji.

“In fact kuttima, all I used to get at your father’s house was a milk bun. Every day, that’s all I had when you were just born.” Wait what? I looked at my mom when she said that, and I could tell she was wishing she could press pause on motherhood so she can just let somethings out. I could sense these things and so I held her hand and said “What mom? Just a bun?”

That broke her dam and she spoke of how even when she was a lactating mother, she had just a bun rationed out to her. When I started eating, she would break off a quarter for me from that same bun and survive on the rest. I was a kid, I don’t have a big stomach. But for someone who is used to proper meals to go hungry; what a shame. She didn’t have to repeat anything about the banana after that. Or wasting any food for that matter. We’re so used to reaching out and having something to munch on. Opening the refrigerator and fixing a sandwich. Unlocking the phone and ordering an evening snack. What happens when that option is not even there. It is a scary thought. And what of stress eating, mindless eating, eating because it is there in front of you, eating because someone passes it to you. A privilege. That’s when I made up my own meaning for the word. Years after I was no longer malnutritioned, the aisles of baby food would put me right back in my place. Hunger: A state of mind. And lucky are those who never feel the kind that almost kills them.  

Part 2 - Taste

Me hating men is an established fact. Don’t worry, I don’t hate them now. But the only thing that I hate about hating men is that they are amazing cooks. I used to try and limit my interactions with my mom’s friends and my relatives too. Then came the day when I realized I have to forgive all men for something that can be pinned only on my father. Someone who cooks so well, cannot be a bad person. I know what you’re thinking, save it; my mind is a weird place.

Aparna aunty lived somewhere in the wilderness. 13 hairpin bends later, you would find her house nestled into the side of a mountain. Three floors of sprawling space, just for her and her husband. And almost every room overlooked the woods. When we visited them, we usually stayed over. Her husband was the cook of the family… and he always checked with my mom what I liked so that there would be no typical 8-year old dinner fuss. I remember the first time I tasted his food. It was just a Curry of Lima Beans, Coconut and some Spices. He sat at the head of the table, and I on the other end. Food was served and I tucked in, eating my way through the morsels, feeling the way the beans mashed up easy and the hint of coriander spice through it all. I was so lost in enjoying my food that I almost muted out one sentence. The sentence.

“Rajeev is an excellent cook. Can you blame me for not learning?” Aparna aunty giggled and looked at her husband as she took her next bite. While she chewed, I slowly stopped chewing. This was made by a guy? Oh no. The paradoxes of life.

“Priya ma, do you like what I’ve cooked?” That sentence was directed at me now. My mom looked at me with guarding eyes, suspecting that something was coming. She wouldn’t have been prepared for what I did next. I shook my head to signify a no, got up and left the rest of my plate untouched.

“I hate you, and I hate your food.” I looked at him dead in the eye and shouted the words. And I can still feel the hurt behind the still, calm eyes. My mom immediately moved in to whisper and correct what I had said, but Rajeev uncle stopped her. “It’s ok. Taste is subjective. In food and in people.” Later on that night, I thought long and hard. That lima bean was on my mind. It did taste so good, I told myself. What if I made an exception. Just this one guy? It didn’t seem harmless at all. Later on Pradeesh Uncle would be the second person on this list of exceptions and then slowly some more. I made up with Rajeev uncle, and in return I was treated to a feast every time we went there. It got me thinking, if it wasn’t for that food I would’ve never known what an amazing person he is. Then I realized that some of my lighthouse moments in life were with food. What a surprise. Food helped me mark some important memories.

Like the time we went to IHOP and I discovered a Garden Omelette. My mom was talking about an expiring Visa to Pradeesh Uncle at that time. Or the Halloween Spider Cookies at my Scout teacher’s house. She was telling my mom about how marrying someone and living off on alimony isn’t such a bad option. Or the HashBrowns hat Pradesh Uncle made in his university room. He was lying on the phone to his parents about mom and me not being there. Some good memories, some neutral, and some just bad. When I first had Vadagam, a fry-yum sort of thing, I almost broke down. It was a repressed memory surfacing, and this harmless vadagam was the trigger. It reminded me of how when I was in Chennai, I was sent up to the terrace to make sure the crows didn’t come pecking at the vadagams. Most families made it at home, and left it to dry out under the blistering sun. They check up on it now and then, but I was there the whole time, starving, looking at the thing and wondering how it tasted. I knew if I did try to take one, I would be reprimanded badly. The sun was blistering hot, and it was getting all too bright. I tried my luck and walked down the steps to where my father was shaving his beard.

“It’s too hot to stay on top. Can I check later?” He glanced at me and didn’t say a word. I repeated the question, this time a little louder. Still no answer. But at that high pitched voice, my grandma came running out and slapped me hard.

“Go back and stay up there till I call you down. If you don’t I’ll skin you and leave you also up there with the vadagams.” Well, it was worth a try. I climbed up sulking and sat there tasting my spit and blood and wondering if these vadagams were any better. I guess that’s why when I really tasted one, I cried out of happiness that it was so much better than my expectation. So much.

From then on, when I want to relive a certain moment, I would try and remember what I ate. Get my hands on it and relish every bite, travelling back in time blissfully. Papa John’s takes me back to the watery Garlic Dip I would pour over every pizza, sitting in front of the TV. Chicken Pot Pies take me back to my ballet classes, when I would eat one right after school and before class. Krispy Kreme doughnuts take me back to the 4th of July when there were special red-white-blue sprinkles. The second I taste it, the moment rushes through me like colors after a happy pill. Food was so pivotal. What was I doing just eating it?  Taste: A mastery that needed to be learnt to recreate a moment. To make someone feel something with every bite.

Part 3 - Flavor

“Don’t stab the vegetables! Cook with love otherwise no one will digest what you cook.” my mom yelled as she passed by the kitchen. This is a theory, and I hate to agree that it sometimes makes sense. Food tastes better with the secret ingredient of love - not for the person eating it, but for the process itself.  “Fine!”I yelled back, carefully turning the Arbi and letting it roast evenly. I have told my mom time and again, not to comment on how I should be cooking, not to even enter the kitchen when I’m making a meal. She does it anyway; secretly I know that she wants to know what tricks I use.

I started cooking when I was in 2nd grade. Mackenzie and I made Noodles. We took an hour to chop up the vegetables finely, and then dropped them into boiling hot water. My mom took a picture of us cooking the entire thing and eating it too. After that I started helping mom out in the kitchen. She wouldn’t let me cook anything just yet, but I could cut the vegetables, rinse the spinach.

“No mom. I want to do the actually cooking; near the stove kinda cooking.” I was complaining away again.

“Help is help. You don’t get to pick. And listen - cooking is everything. From the cutting to the cleaning up afterwards.” came my mom’s curt answer. I stuck around and watched what she did, making up a mental recipe for each dish. One day, when she was late to come home, I made Rasam. I made it with rice and surprised her. She just smiled from ear to ear and asked to be taken through the process. I had messed up the tempering, but it was definitely a start. Eggs, toast and the simpler stuff came later. I just  plunged into the family basics. Chicken Curry. Pumpkin Pulli Kozhambu. Tomato Rice. Potato Fry. I was surprised how if I followed the exact proportions, the exact order, and the exact time limit for each step - I could remake most dishes in the exact flavor. And when grandma came over we, it turned into a riot. Jalebis. Cheeniurundai. Samosas. Cooker Cake. The air would turn sweet and I would imagine sticky webs against the walls of the kitchen. Mom came home to a different delicacy each day and cursed god for the free time we both had to casually spend it on cooking. We would grin at each other sheepishly and serve her more of the day’s special.

If had more time on my hands, I would first look up a recipe online and try making it at home. Try and introduce it into our daily lives. Sometimes the experiment backfired, or went undercooked. Sometimes I gave myself a challenge to make a feast out of with the limited items at the end of the week. Whichever way I looked at it, cooking wasn’t a task. It was almost therapeutic. And it just cannot be rushed. Flavor was a secret; it lied in the hands that touch each ingredient the careful measure of masalas, and the patience that hung around the plate waiting to be served upon. And flavor was shy yet demanding; if you talk over the phone when cooking or skip a step you might as well turn the dish into something else. Cooking for just mom and me, I got used to the 2-person proportion for most dishes. When I had guests over, I got anxious doing the math. I would stress over it so much that I could feel the dish’s identity crisis. But if I went about it with some music in the background, improvised as I went along, it always turned out great. There’s another thing I learnt about cooking. Sometimes you make it others and not yourself. Those times, it’s bound to get a little tricky. While it is true to cook something to one’s taste, the method to the madness has to be yours. The more of you in it, the better it gets.  

“Love it, and it will love you back.” my grandma used to say. She didn’t realize I took words too literally. Flavor: The secret ingredient that often comes from within you and makes all the difference.