#make sourdough

[streettalk4thesoul]

Making sourdough starter from scratch in cooler weather #sourdough #sour...

[toovaeloe]

no, nothing

just Takuma and you on your wedding day and he’s wearing Nanami’s watch, thumb passing restlessly over the crystal window every second the watchhands ticked leading up to the ceremony. And then clutching his banded wrist in his folded hands as he watches you walk down the aisle with dewy eyes and a bittersweet smile.

you pass by a framed photo of Nanami in the first row, stood thoughtfully against a seat that was garnished with floral arrangements. The blond’s face on the glass shielded parchment is as stoic and hardened as ever; he never did smile for pictures.

But Takuma remembers his smile, even if it wasn’t immortalized in a photo. He bet if Nanami was really here now he’d be smiling. Standing to the right Ino, pinching away tears from his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. Takuma’s best man.

He’d be happy for him. Happy that Takuma has someone like you. And he’d be proud, too, if he was here. Right?

Tell him that Nanami would’ve been proud of him.

[lustingfood]

Roasted pepper and tomato soup w/ roasted pepper butter grilled cheese (x)

[tuba-david]

(shouting into the void) DOES ANYONE HAVE A GOOD SOURDOUGH RYE BREAD RECIPE? MY MOM IS WATCHING HER GLYCEMIC INDEX

[stealingyourbones]

For your culinary crimes: I just saw a video where they used fresh juniper berries as part of a sourdough yeast starter cause their chalky outer shell is basically pure wild yeast. What other plants can you use for wild sourdoughs? (Weird doughs?)

Oh I have a fun story for you my dude!! So i forget the science by now but if I remember correctly; human skin contains small amounts of yeast so my older sibling and I managed to make a skin sourdough. We didn’t do anything with it but we just wanted to prove we could :)

[chiropteracupola]

just a casual bay area miku

[thepringlesofblood]

ok so like. murderbot is famously anti-food right? but consider. we know secunits have a sense of smell. it mentions liking/not liking plenty of smells across the series (the 'dirty sock' human smell, ART's showers smelling good.)

where i'm going with this is that good food smells good. and i don't think mb has ever been around any good food. like think. academic surveys, mining installations, close-quarters space travel, these are not places or occasions known for their cuisine. its experience of food in an olfactory sense is probably limited to ration packs & corporate cafeteria lunch settings. until relatively recently, it had never even been through the 'human' parts of stations before, where it may have smelled some sort of actual food in passing. it's probably seen plenty of other types of food on media, but never smelled any of it.

so imagine. come with me on a mind journey. mb stopping in on Mensah's actual house for some reason during the day, and one of her spouses or something is baking gingerbread (very much the kind of cookie that fills up the whole house with good smells). like. would it even recognize it as being food necessarily? gingerbread is very much one of those smells that everyone tries to recreate and no one quite can. I imagine it's not thrilled with the concept of ovens in general (humans please stop putting your hands in/near hot things), but imagine it frantically trying to place the smell and mensah being like hey you good? and it being like theres. a smell. something must be wrong somewhere. and mensah being like oh no that's just gingerbread, tano's baking cookies. and it's like that's FOOD???

[auspicioustidings]

Graves who sends a package to the 141, an apology all wrapped in a bow. It would have been better if it was a fucking bomb because when they find a girl inside the box they aren't equipped to deal with it.

She's well trained, all gussied up with a collar and pretty, lacy underwear that hides absolutely nothing. So eager to please, blinking awake, smiling and immediately in a pretty stress position with her ass on her ankles and her knees splayed wide.

And they can't take advantage. They shouldn't. They're the good guys, they don't use girls who have been fucking broken into little sex dolls. It's sick that they're getting hard from the sight. Price hurriedly covers her up with his jacket, tells her it's ok now and that she'll be looked after. She just smiles because of course they'll look after her. She has absolute blind trust in her new masters as she has been taught to. If they hurt her, then it's only to help her in a way her little mind can't understand.

It's torture of the worst kind. She wants to please, wants to warm Gaz's cock while he is sitting playing video games as his dolly, wants to rim Soap out in the showers to help him while he's stroking out some tension as his obedient toy, wants to cook a full roast dinner dressed for Price and offer herself up to give him babies as his perfect little wife, wants to give Ghost a place to put all that anger and violence he's itching to unleash as his stupid fucking slut. And every time they have to gently stop her, have to look into those big doe eyes as she apologises for not being good enough, not being worthy enough.

She screams and cries bloody murder anytime they try to get her off of base, get her into a place that can try and undo all of that conditioning. It's bad enough that the doctors say they can't take her, not without keeping her drugged into unconsciousness the whole time. They need to try and help her, need to keep attempting to get through to the human underneath the doll. Once they do that then there's a chance she could recover and handle being away from them.

They're good men, but it's just such a stressful job. They're good men, but it's really quite cruel to not let her earn the praise she wants so desperately. They're good men, but it's rude to not accept a gift. They're good men, right up until they aren't.

[sleepsucks]

[housecow]

i have this smoked tomato truffle jam i haven’t opened yet.. what do y’all think that’d go well with?

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’ve been so depressed this week. I got home and my betrothed had food ready for me. When I get too in my feelings I can’t handle flavors or complexity so after a few bites I was trying not to retch. They suggested an apple instead and I slowly worked my way through that.

Then I watched them go back into the kitchen and grab a bowl. My brain belatedly registered that the flour and their little scale was out. My spirits started lifting. “Are you making bread?”

“I thought you’d notice me feeding the starter yesterday.”

“Are you making bread because I’m sad?”

They smiled at me.

Things might be hard, but soon there will be bread, and I have someone I love to share it with.

[abirddogmoment]

Happy new year ☀️ Looking forward to a 2024 filled with comfort, adventure, birds, and bird dog moments!

[why-the-heck-not]

2nd batch of sourdough! Lots better than the first, actually got some crumb structure this time (bc the starter is finally ready for bread)

[greencheekconure27]

Ok, as a person who cooks and really loves her spices:

Can we please stop doing this thing on Tumblr where everyone goes "the only way food can be flavourful is if you put 58 whole spices in it" #white people food sucks"

Like seriously.

There are more ways of obtaining good complex flavours under the sun.

[subwaylesbians]

homecoming

The train pulls into Union Square, and she can almost hear it - a thud, a shudder as the driver pumps the brakes. Bile rises in her throat. Across the aisle, a couple lean into each other lazily. Schoolgirls in crisp blue uniforms stifle laughter. The platform, lit in flickering fluorescents, looks the same as it ever has. She wonders who buried Fox, and under what name, and the thrumming in her ears grows louder.

1.3k. in which ajax gets out of jail, goes looking for swan, and finds someone else instead.

The city welcomes her back with horizontal sleet, piles of brown snow-mush lining the sidewalk. The clothes she is wearing were chosen for a September night, but she hardly minds the way the January chill rips through her - it is worth it for the familiar weight of the vest across her shoulders.

They would have come to collect her - of course they would have. But Ajax has seen Cleon's sympathetic manner when members get out. If anyone tries to be sympathetic in her direction, today of all days, she has resolute plans to throw a punch. And so she walks, from the bus stop to Queensboro Plaza, stares at rusting metal as she shivers and waits for the N.

The thing about guilt, she knows, is that you need something louder to drown it out. The cold almost works, for a while, pinpricks of pain against her face and arms. So far from Coney, with colours on, she holds onto the half-hope that someone will call her out for it - but they rattle through Queens, and then Manhattan, and no one challenges her. She wonders if Cleon has really managed to work that miracle Cyrus set in motion. Cleon had seemed different, on the one visit she and Rembrandt had made to Riker's - exhausted, but so determined. She had found that thing that sang louder than guilt, and it was hope. Ajax drums her fingers against the window, cursing the stupid treaty that had dragged them to the wrong side of the city. Hope doesn't do it for her. When you lose enough, it starts to feel a lot like stupidity.

The train pulls into Union Square, and she can almost hear it - a thud, a shudder as the driver pumps the brakes. Bile rises in her throat. Across the aisle, a couple lean into each other lazily. Schoolgirls in crisp blue uniforms stifle laughter. The platform, lit in flickering fluorescents, looks the same as it ever has. She wonders who buried Fox, and under what name, and the thrumming in her ears grows louder.

By the time the line ends it has become something frenetic, a pulsing behind her eyes. It lends a strange slant to the streets she's walked a thousand times, every colour slightly off and every sound setting her teeth on edge. Back on Warriors turf, without the need for vigilance to distract her, she feels the shame like a living thing at her back. She strides down Brighton 7th as though she could outrun it, but it clings on, joining the pain in a stifling chorus of should-have-been-there-should-have-been-there-you-should-have-been-there.

She passes a familiar brown-brick facade, and knows she should turn - there are people here who have been waiting on her for months. Rembrandt would look at her with that furrow in her brows that came out when she couldn't decide whether to throw her arms around Ajax or throw a punch. She would end up going for the former, she always did. She always forgave her. And the other bedroom, walls papered with posters Fox lifted from the cinema, would be empty. Right now, Ajax doesn't feel like being forgiven.

She doesn't remember consenting to the movement, but in a moment she is striding across the street. They all should have made it home, and if she hadn't been there, she needs answers from someone who was. The momentum of the thought carries her up three flights, and before she can question herself, she jams her spare key - for emergencies, on a technicality - into the lock. A figure in the kitchen glances up in surprise, coffee pot in hand and hair still messy from sleep. Not Swan, not Cleon, not Cochise. A new wave of anger flares in her stomach, and she welcomes it. They'd lost one of their own, but of course the stray they picked up in the gutter had made it home safe.

"Where's Swan?"

Mercy's eyes trail her up and down, taking in the tension in her jaw, the ball of her fists. "... Out. Does Cleon know you’re back? Does Rembrandt? ” When Ajax makes no attempt to either leave or answer the question, she sighs. "Do you want coffee? You look like shit."

“And you’re looking right at home.” She makes no attempt to hide the disdain in her voice.

“Because I live here. Do you have a problem?”

She almost laughs. "Your girlfriend promised she'd get us all home. That's my problem."

"She did her best."

"If her best ends up with a kid on the fucking tracks-"

"Don't call her a kid," Mercy snaps, and Ajax is surprised by the heat in her voice. "You didn't see her holding her own against the cop."

I didn't know there was a cop, she doesn't say. In the visitor's room at Riker's, with guards hovering close enough to catch every word, Cleon and Rembrandt had been careful. An accident, they had called it. Another gang, Ajax's mind had filled in. And she'd been right, in a way.

Something stings at the edge of her eyes. She plows on. "Where the fuck was Swan when they needed a fighter?"

"Where the fuck were you? Has it occurred to you that if you hadn't been so desperate to prove something, we would have had an extra person?"

It has. Every single day for the past four months, the knowledge has slid through her like a knife. But she is hardly about to admit that in front of the Orphan girl. "Stop saying we. Have you even been fucking initiated?"

Colour rises in Mercy’s cheeks. "I am just as much a part of this gang as you are."

Ajax sneers. "I'll take that as a no. So we're just letting anyone fuck their way in now?"

For a brief, hopeful moment she is certain the woman is going to hit her. Then a door creaks open down the corridor, and a voice, hoarse with sleep but unmistakably Swan's, says "You makin' coffee?"

Mercy's voice is light as she calls out, "I'll bring you one," but her eyes don't leave Ajax's. She takes a step to the side, planting herself conspicuously between Ajax and the hallway.

Ajax has seen plenty of fights in the past four months, thrown fists in a good few. The moment before a scrap always reminds her of stray cats in an alley - a drawn-out pause, an assessment. It had seemed natural amid the harsh lighting and ever-present commotion of Riker’s. It is much, much stranger to get that sense in her friends' kitchen, across from a woman in boxer shorts and a baseball shirt she is certain belongs to Swan.

Then Mercy glances back towards the hallway, and sighs. "His name is Victor Kelly, you know. Police captain. Just in case you wanted to direct all this" - she waves a hand at Ajax's entire being - "towards the cop who pushed her onto the fucking tracks. For God's sake, I'd help you. But leave Swan out of it. Everyone's spent three months picking up the pieces, and you don't get to come back and fuck that up."

Victor Kelly. She turns the name over in her mind. It is something to latch onto - a future where he has to watch his fucking back is a future worth seeing. But it also leaves her stranded, no one except the spectre of a police captain to train her anger on. She deflates, and Mercy must see it, because she shoves a mug of coffee in her direction. "Go home. They missed you."

Ajax knows what's waiting for her across the street - Rembrandt's disappointment, and an empty room that feels like an accusation. And yet all the fight has bled from her limbs, and she aches to be there anyway. Unwilling to lose whatever this stand-off is, she swipes the mug from the bench and turns towards the door. She hears it shatter, hears Mercy’s stream of curse words and Swan’s rushed footsteps, but she is already halfway down the stairs. She will make Kelly pay tomorrow. Today, she is going home.

(inspired by tags @emilywaters left on my post about ajax and guilt! nyc locals please don’t look too hard at the geography, mta trip planner and I gave it our best shot)