#no crust no cheese no soul no joy

[idon-twannabeperceived]

Palermo pizza is like the ny style pizza of Argentina. As in it sucks and doesn't have nearly enough cheese in it.

[smitheliana89]

Why Rising Crust Pepperoni Pizza is the Perfect Comfort Food?

Rising-crust pepperoni pizza has earned its place as the quintessential comfort food for many reasons. Its combination of flavors, textures, and the sheer joy of indulging in something so universally loved makes it a go-to choice when craving warmth, satisfaction, and familiarity. Here’s why this pizza variety continues to reign as the perfect comfort food.

The Crust: A Satisfying Foundation

One of the key reasons rising crust pepperoni pizza is so comforting is the crust itself. Unlike traditional thin crusts, the dough of a rising crust pizza puffs up as it bakes, resulting in a thicker, softer, and more pillowy base. This substantial texture is incredibly satisfying. It balances crispy edges and a chewy interior, providing a hearty bite with every slice. The crust can absorb the richness of the sauce and cheese, creating a delightful fusion of flavors and textures that make each mouthful a comfort to the soul.

Melty Cheese for Ultimate Comfort

The cheese on a rising crust pepperoni pizza adds to its status as comfort food. As it melts and stretches over the dough, it becomes golden and bubbly, locking in flavors and delivering that signature gooeyness with every bite. The warmth and richness of the cheese provide a satisfying contrast to the robust texture of the crust, adding a creamy, comforting layer that wraps up each ingredient perfectly. Cheese, particularly when baked to perfection, has a universally appealing quality that adds to the pizza's feel-good factor.

Bold and Savory Pepperoni

Pepperoni is another crucial ingredient that amplifies the comfort factor of this pizza. Its savory, slightly spicy flavor brings an extra punch to the meal. As the pepperoni slices bake in the oven, they crisp up around the edges while releasing oils that seep into the cheese and crust, infusing the entire pizza with their bold flavor. Combining the chewy crust, melty cheese, and the crisp, spicy bite of pepperoni creates a symphony of taste that feels both nostalgic and exciting. This balance of flavors—salty, tangy, and mildly spicy—satisfies cravings and provides a hearty, comforting meal.

The Experience: A Slice of Warmth

Comfort food is about more than just the ingredients; it's about the experience. A rising crust pepperoni pizza fresh out of the oven fills the room with a rich, mouthwatering aroma that promises satisfaction. The steam rising from a slice when it’s first cut, the warmth that radiates from the cheesy top layer, and the satisfying first bite that brings together dough, cheese, and pepperoni is an experience that evokes relaxation and joy. This indulgent experience of flavor, warmth, and satisfaction is what makes rising crust pepperoni pizza a perfect choice when seeking comfort.

Versatility and Convenience

Another reason why rising crust pepperoni pizza is such a popular comfort food is its versatility and convenience. It can be enjoyed alone on a cozy night in, shared with friends during a casual gathering, or served as part of a fun family dinner. Its ease of preparation means that anyone can have a delicious and comforting meal without the hassle of complex cooking. Whether it's baked in the oven or pulled from a freezer, rising crust pepperoni pizza is a quick solution to cravings that guarantees fulfillment.

[pizzeriaitaliana]

Discover Authentic Italian Pizza in South Wentworthville

If you're on the hunt for authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville, you're in for a treat. This vibrant suburb in Western Sydney may be known for its diverse culinary offerings, but it’s the local pizzerias that truly stand out, capturing the heart and soul of traditional Italian cooking. For lovers of authentic Italian pizza, South Wentworthville is a hidden gem, offering a taste of Italy that’s both genuine and delicious.

What Makes Italian Pizza Authentic?

Authentic Italian pizza is all about simplicity, fresh ingredients, and a meticulous preparation process that has been perfected over centuries. Unlike some modern adaptations, which often focus on heavy toppings and thick crusts, traditional Italian pizza emphasizes a delicate balance of flavors and textures. Here’s what you can expect when indulging in authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville.

The Crust: A Foundation of Perfection

The crust is the cornerstone of any great pizza, and Italian pizza is no exception. Authentic Italian pizza dough is made using just a few basic ingredients—flour, water, yeast, and salt. The magic happens in the preparation and cooking. The dough is allowed to rise slowly, sometimes for up to 24 hours, which creates a light, airy base with just the right amount of chewiness. Once stretched by hand, the dough is baked in a wood-fired oven at a high temperature, resulting in a thin, crispy crust that serves as the perfect foundation for the toppings.

The Sauce: Simple Yet Flavorful

A key element of authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville is the sauce, which is typically made from San Marzano tomatoes. These tomatoes are prized for their rich, sweet flavor, and when combined with a touch of olive oil, garlic, and fresh herbs, they create a sauce that’s both vibrant and balanced. Unlike many pizzas that are drowned in sauce, authentic Italian pizza uses just enough to complement the other ingredients without overpowering them.

The Toppings: Quality Over Quantity

Italian pizza toppings are all about quality, not quantity. In South Wentworthville, you’ll find pizzerias that stay true to this philosophy, offering a selection of fresh, high-quality toppings that enhance the natural flavors of the pizza. Whether it’s the creamy mozzarella on a classic Margherita, the peppery arugula paired with prosciutto, or the earthy mushrooms on a Funghi pizza, each topping is carefully chosen and thoughtfully placed to create a harmonious dish. The result is a pizza that’s flavorful yet light, allowing you to savor every bite.

The Experience: More Than Just a Meal

Dining on authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville is more than just a meal—it’s an experience. The pizzerias in this area often recreate the warm, welcoming atmosphere that you’d find in an Italian trattoria. The aroma of freshly baked pizza fills the air, the decor is cozy and inviting, and the staff are passionate about sharing the joy of Italian cuisine with their guests. Whether you’re dining in with friends and family or grabbing a takeaway to enjoy at home, the experience is always memorable.

Must-Try Pizzas in South Wentworthville

If you’re new to authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville, here are a few must-try options:

Margherita: The epitome of simplicity, this pizza features tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, and basil. It’s a celebration of basic ingredients coming together in perfect harmony.

Marinara: A minimalist pizza that showcases the flavors of tomato, garlic, oregano, and olive oil. Despite its simplicity, it’s packed with flavor.

Quattro Formaggi: For cheese lovers, this pizza combines four different cheeses—mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, and Fontina—creating a rich and creamy delight.

Prosciutto e Rucola: Topped with fresh arugula and thin slices of prosciutto, this pizza is a perfect balance of salty and peppery flavors.

Conclusion

When it comes to finding authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville, you won’t be disappointed. The local pizzerias take pride in delivering pizzas that honor traditional Italian methods, ensuring that every bite is a true taste of Italy. From the perfect crust to the fresh toppings, these pizzas are crafted with care and passion, offering an authentic dining experience that’s hard to beat.

So, the next time you’re in South Wentworthville and craving a slice of Italy, make sure to visit one of the local pizzerias. Whether you’re a fan of classic Margherita or looking to try something new, you’ll find that authentic Italian pizza in South Wentworthville is a culinary experience that’s worth savoring.

[theubracipizza]

The Braci Pizza Concept to Crust: The Evolution of our taste Signature Dishes

In the bustling world of culinary arts, pizza has maintained a unique position, transcending cultures and generations. It’s not just food; it’s an experience, a communal joy that brings people together. At Braci, we’ve taken the universal love for pizza and transformed it into a culinary art form, evolving our taste signature dishes with passion, creativity, and an unwavering commitment to quality. This article explores the journey of Braci Pizza from concept to crust, highlighting the evolution of our signature dishes.

The Genesis of Braci Pizza

The Braci Pizza was born out of a love for traditional Italian cuisine and a desire to innovate. Our founders, seasoned chefs with a deep appreciation for authentic flavors, embarked on a mission to create a pizza experience that would captivate the senses. The name "Braci," meaning "embers" in Italian, symbolizes the heart and soul of our cooking method—wood-fired ovens that impart a distinctive, smoky flavor to our pizzas.

Crafting the Perfect Dough

The journey from concept to crust begins with the dough, the foundation of any great pizza. At Braci, we believe in the power of simplicity. Our dough recipe, perfected over years of experimentation, consists of just four ingredients: high-quality flour, water, salt, and yeast. However, it’s the technique and time that elevate it to excellence.

Our dough undergoes a slow fermentation process, typically lasting 48 to 72 hours. This extended fermentation allows the yeast to work its magic, breaking down the gluten and creating a dough that’s light, airy, and easy to digest. The result is a crust that’s crispy on the outside, yet soft and chewy on the inside—a perfect canvas for our toppings.

The Art of Sauce Making

No pizza is complete without a delicious sauce, and at Braci, we take our sauce seriously. Our signature tomato sauce is made from San Marzano tomatoes, known for their rich flavor and low acidity. These tomatoes are hand-crushed and combined with a blend of fresh basil, garlic, and a touch of sea salt. The sauce is cooked slowly to allow the flavors to meld together, resulting in a vibrant and aromatic base that complements our crust perfectly.

For those seeking a different experience, we also offer a variety of alternative sauces. Our white sauce, made from a blend of ricotta, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheese, is creamy and indulgent, while our pesto sauce, made from fresh basil, pine nuts, garlic, and olive oil, offers a burst of herbal freshness. Each sauce is crafted with care, ensuring that every bite of Braci pizza is a harmonious balance of flavors.

Signature Toppings: A Symphony of Flavors

The toppings are where the true artistry of Braci Pizza shines. Our chefs draw inspiration from both traditional Italian ingredients and innovative culinary trends to create signature dishes that are as visually stunning as they are delicious.

One of our most beloved creations is the Margherita Pizza, a timeless classic that showcases the beauty of simplicity. Featuring our signature tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, and basil leaves, this pizza is a tribute to the colors of the Italian flag and a celebration of pure, unadulterated flavors.

For those who crave something more adventurous, the Truffle Mushroom Pizza is a must-try. This decadent pizza is topped with a medley of wild mushrooms, truffle oil, and a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese. The earthy richness of the mushrooms and the luxurious aroma of truffle oil create a sensory experience that’s truly unforgettable.

Our Prosciutto and Arugula Pizza is another favorite, combining the salty, savory goodness of thinly sliced prosciutto with the peppery bite of fresh arugula. A drizzle of balsamic glaze adds a touch of sweetness, balancing the flavors beautifully.

Seasonal and Locally Sourced Ingredients

At Braci, we believe in the importance of seasonality and sustainability. Our chefs work closely with local farmers and suppliers to source the freshest, highest-quality ingredients available. This commitment to using seasonal produce not only ensures that our pizzas are bursting with flavor, but also supports local agriculture and reduces our environmental footprint.

Our menu changes with the seasons, allowing us to showcase the best of what each time of year has to offer. In the spring, you might find pizzas topped with tender asparagus and fresh peas, while summer brings an abundance of ripe tomatoes and sweet corn. Fall is the perfect time for hearty toppings like butternut squash and caramelized onions, and winter calls for comforting combinations like roasted root vegetables and creamy cheeses.

Innovation Meets Tradition

While tradition is at the heart of Braci Pizza, we’re not afraid to push the boundaries and explore new culinary horizons. Our chefs are constantly experimenting with new ingredients and techniques, drawing inspiration from global cuisines to create pizzas that are both familiar and excitingly different.

One of our innovative creations is the Thai Chicken Pizza, which features a fusion of Italian and Thai flavors. The pizza is topped with marinated chicken, spicy peanut sauce, mozzarella, and a medley of fresh vegetables like bell peppers, carrots, and cilantro. The result is a harmonious blend of sweet, spicy, and savory notes that dance on the palate.

Another unique offering is our Vegan Delight Pizza, catering to the growing demand for plant-based options. This pizza is topped with a vibrant mix of seasonal vegetables, vegan cheese, and a drizzle of our house-made cashew cream. It’s a satisfying and flavorful option that proves you don’t need animal products to create a delicious pizza.

The Braci Experience

At Braci, we believe that enjoying pizza is more than just eating—it’s an experience. From the moment you walk through our doors, you’re greeted with the warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked pizza and the sight of our skilled chefs at work in the open kitchen. Our wood-fired ovens, the heart of our kitchen, crackle and glow, creating an ambiance that’s both rustic and cozy.

Our commitment to hospitality extends beyond the food. Our staff is passionate about providing exceptional service, ensuring that every visit to Braci is memorable. Whether you’re dining in with family and friends, celebrating a special occasion, or simply grabbing a quick bite, we strive to make every moment special.

Community and Collaboration

At Braci, we view ourselves as part of a larger community, and we’re dedicated to giving back. We regularly collaborate with local organizations and charities, hosting events and fundraisers to support causes that are important to us and our customers. Our commitment to community extends to our sourcing practices as well, as we prioritize working with local farmers and suppliers who share our values of sustainability and quality.

We also love to engage with our customers and involve them in the creative process. Our monthly “Create Your Own Pizza” contest invites customers to submit their own pizza creations, with the winning entry being featured on our menu for a month. This not only fosters a sense of community but also inspires us with fresh, new ideas.

Looking Ahead: The Future of Braci Pizza

As we look to the future, Braci Pizza remains committed to innovation, quality, and community. We’re constantly exploring new ways to enhance our menu and elevate the pizza experience for our customers. From expanding our range of vegan and gluten-free options to incorporating cutting-edge cooking techniques and global flavors, the possibilities are endless.

Our vision for the future also includes expanding our footprint, bringing the Braci experience to new communities and cities. As we grow, we’ll continue to prioritize sustainability, quality, and our connection to the communities we serve.

Conclusion

The journey from concept to crust at Braci Pizza is one of passion, creativity, and an unwavering commitment to quality. From our meticulously crafted dough and sauces to our innovative toppings and seasonal ingredients, every element of our pizzas is designed to create a memorable and delicious experience. As we continue to evolve and innovate, we remain dedicated to the core values that have made Braci Pizza a beloved culinary destination. Whether you’re a longtime fan or a first-time visitor, we invite you to join us on this delicious journey and experience the evolution of our taste signature dishes.

[margariandmikespizza]

Slice of Heaven: Exploring the Delicious Offerings at Mike's Pizza and Catering

When it comes to satisfying cravings and delighting taste buds, few things compare to the comfort and joy of a delicious slice of pizza. And if you're lucky enough to find yourself in the vicinity of Mike's Pizza and Catering, you're in for a real treat. Nestled in the heart of town, Mike's is more than just a pizza joint—it's a culinary destination where every bite is a journey to flavor paradise.

A Brief Introduction to Mike's Pizza and Catering

Established over a decade ago, Mike's Pizza and Catering has become a beloved fixture in the community, known for its commitment to quality, freshness, and above all, flavor. What started as a humble pizzeria has since evolved into a full-fledged catering service, offering a diverse range of culinary delights for events of all sizes and occasions.

The Pizza Experience: Where It All Begins

At the heart of Mike's culinary empire lies its iconic pizzas—handcrafted masterpieces that have earned a reputation for excellence far and wide. From classic Margheritas to innovative specialty pies, each pizza is a labor of love, prepared with the finest ingredients and baked to perfection in a traditional brick oven.

The Classics:

For purists and traditionalists, Mike's offers an array of classic pizzas that never fail to satisfy. The Margherita, with its simple yet sublime combination of fresh mozzarella, tangy tomato sauce, and fragrant basil, is a perennial favorite. Then there's the Meat Lover's, a carnivore's delight piled high with pepperoni, sausage, bacon, and ham—guaranteed to satisfy even the heartiest appetites.

The Specialties:

For those craving a culinary adventure, Mike's specialty pizzas are sure to impress. The BBQ Chicken Deluxe, with its tantalizing blend of tender chicken, tangy BBQ sauce, and caramelized onions, is a symphony of flavors that dance on the palate. And let's not forget the Spicy Hawaiian, a fiery twist on a tropical classic, featuring jalapeños, pineapple, and ham for a flavor explosion that's sure to leave you wanting more.

Build Your Own:

Of course, for the adventurous souls and creative minds, Mike's offers a build-your-own option, allowing customers to customize their pizzas to their heart's content. Choose from a variety of crusts, sauces, cheeses, meats, and veggies to create a culinary masterpiece that's uniquely yours.

Beyond Pizza: Exploring the Catering Experience

While pizza may be the star of the show at Mike's, the culinary offerings don't end there. With its comprehensive catering services, Mike's has become the go-to choice for events of all kinds, from intimate family gatherings to large corporate functions.

The Menu:

From delectable appetizers and mouthwatering entrees to irresistible desserts and refreshing beverages, Mike's catering menu is a testament to culinary creativity and versatility. Whether you're planning a casual backyard barbecue or an elegant wedding reception, you'll find a wide range of options to suit your tastes and preferences.

The Service:

But it's not just the food that sets Mike's catering apart—it's the service. From initial consultation to final cleanup, the team at Mike's goes above and beyond to ensure that every aspect of your event is handled with care and attention to detail. With a focus on professionalism, reliability, and customer satisfaction, they strive to make your event not just a success, but a memorable experience for all involved.

The Feedback:

And the feedback speaks for itself. Countless satisfied customers have praised Mike's catering for its exceptional food, impeccable service, and unparalleled attention to detail. Whether it's a wedding, a corporate event, or a birthday party, Mike's has earned a reputation for excellence that is second to none.

Conclusion: A Culinary Adventure Awaits

In conclusion, if you're in search of culinary excellence, look no further than Mike's Pizza and Catering. With its mouthwatering pizzas, diverse catering options, and unwavering commitment to customer satisfaction, Mike's is more than just a restaurant—it's a destination for food lovers everywhere. So why wait? Come on down to Mike's and experience a slice of heaven for yourself.

[forest-hashira]

FALLONNNN I must know

What are your opinions on pineapple pizza?

What is your favorite outfit that makes you feel the best?

What do you like to do outside of work and tumblr?

hi leigh!!!

ok so there was a very brief period in my life where my go-to pizza order was a thin crust with pineapple & extra cheese, no other toppings LMAO. i wouldn't ever do that again now, but i don't mind pineapple on pizza (my far more controversial pizza topping opinion is that broccoli is not actually a horrible topping, i had it in NYC a few years back and i loved it AHAHA)

there's this grey sweater i got during study abroad in the fall of 2019 (spent the semester in oxford!) that somehow still fits and i LOVE that thing. i think it looks especially good on me under this kind of sage-y green jumpsuit i have. and even apart from that sweater, i love every pair of pants i own from earthbound, they're so comfy and i love how i feel when i wear them!

i really like to write & read! i lost sight of those things being enjoyable while i was at uni (being an english major will do that to you fr) but i've been getting back into both of those things lately and it's been really nice. watching movies & tv shows is also a genuine hobby of mine but i never really lost those during school lol so i'm glad to be able to rediscover things that brought me so much joy before college sucked out my soul

ask me anything you want!

[cultofthecorvus]

A Day In the Life of a Crow 

Chpt 12-  

By Vincent Kinkade 

Today, I have been fortunate to do the most important work there is in the cult, I have listened to others, and as appropriate, I have spoken. For conversation is how many of us bond, however there may be other ways.... Once I even shared a kinship with a human! Can you believe it!? 

As i was looking for the odd small insect and bread crust, this human with no warning or apparent gesture, threw at me part of its meal! We shared bread, meat, salad and cheese. We ate together silently in a shared meal. There was a bond there as sure as the branches we stand on now! 

So a bond can be silent, or full of sound. It can be raucous or still. What matters most is the experience of commonalities, and bonding between souls. While our beaks chatter and our throats chortle the tethers of our lives are tied together, for long enough for our souls dance in a silent joy. 

The truest form of communication is to bond! When i chattered with my fellows today, i listened closely, so i could understand who they were, and the meaning of the stories they spoke. I spoke questions to finesse answers that severed much the same purpose. I hope that some of my chatter shared a wisdom, or an insight on how to live a happier life. But alas we cannot change one another, even after hours of conversation...  

With practice, we can find a true kinship and bonding of souls. Once our souls have found such kinship, what more does chatter, and chortle mean? Then the greater part of the work has been done. What remains is Fellowship with the All Corvus, and that, is another conversation... 

[tucanbakery]

Indulge Your Palate with Delight: Capricciosa Pizza Delivery

In the realm of gastronomy, few dishes evoke the same universally beloved response as pizza. Among the myriad pizza varieties, the Capricciosa stands out as a timeless classic, characterized by a delightful combination of flavors. Now, imagine the joy of savoring a freshly baked Capricciosa without leaving the comfort of your home – enter the world of capricciosa pizza delivery. In this article, we embark on a journey celebrating the art of pizza-making and the convenience of having this culinary masterpiece delivered to your doorstep.

The Artistry of Capricciosa:

The Capricciosa pizza is a culinary work of art, combining a harmonious blend of ingredients to create a symphony of flavors. Traditionally adorned with tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, ham, mushrooms, artichokes, and olives, each bite offers a delightful medley of savory, salty, and slightly tangy notes. The beauty lies in the balance, making Capricciosa a go-to choice for pizza enthusiasts.

Convenience at Your Doorstep:

The evolution of food delivery services has transformed the dining experience, bringing the world's flavors to your doorstep. Capricciosa pizza delivery takes this convenience a step further, ensuring that the flavors of Italy are delivered piping hot and ready to be enjoyed in the cozy ambiance of your home. Whether you're hosting a gathering or simply craving a delicious meal, the convenience of Capricciosa pizza delivery is a game-changer.

Freshness Guaranteed:

One might wonder, does the magic of Capricciosa get lost in transit? Fear not, for reputable pizza delivery services prioritize freshness. From the oven to your table, the Capricciosa arrives in all its glory, with the crust retaining its crispness and the ingredients maintaining their vibrant flavors. The commitment to quality ensures that every bite is a culinary delight.

Variety in the Comfort of Home:

Capricciosa pizza delivery doesn't just offer the classic version – it opens the door to a world of pizza varieties. Explore thin-crust or thick-crust options, choose between different types of cheeses, or opt for a gluten-free crust. The convenience of home delivery allows you to customize your Capricciosa experience according to your preferences.

Perfect for Every Occasion:

Capricciosa pizza is versatile, making it an ideal choice for various occasions. Whether it's a casual weeknight dinner, a family movie night, a celebration with friends, or even a solo indulgence, the Capricciosa's universal appeal ensures it's a hit for any event.

Embracing Technology:

The integration of technology has further streamlined the pizza delivery experience. Ordering your favorite Capricciosa is just a few clicks away through mobile apps or online platforms. Real-time tracking allows you to monitor the journey of your pizza, heightening the anticipation as it inches closer to your doorstep.

Community Connection:

Beyond the joy of savoring a delectable Capricciosa, pizza delivery fosters a sense of community. Supporting local pizzerias not only ensures the continuation of culinary craftsmanship but also strengthens the bond between local businesses and residents. It's a symbiotic relationship where everyone gets to enjoy a slice of the good life.

Conclusion:

Capricciosa pizza delivery transcends the notion of a mere meal – it's an experience that brings the soul-satisfying flavors of Italy to the heart of your home. As we celebrate the convenience, variety, and community connection that pizza delivery offers, it's clear that the Capricciosa, with its timeless charm, is a culinary journey worth savoring, one delightful slice at a time.

For more details, visit us :

pizza marbella

greek pizza delivery

pizza marbella

Best Pizzas in Marbella

[some-dr-writings]

Teruteru, Ryoma and Gundham cooking with their S/O

Teruteru Hanamura:

·       Ah, Teruteru, without a doubt the most famous chef in Japan, who hadn’t heard of him? His face was practically plastered on the front of every cooking magazine. And his cooking was incomparable, anyone would pay top dollar, hell even sell most of their belonging for even a chance to taste his delectable creations!

·       And you, his partner, wanted to cook for him. Sure, he had taught you some things, but oftentimes those lessons would dissolve into Teru pampering you and slipping you into a hot bubble bath while he cooked for you.

·       Not this time though! You see, Teru was out working so there was no way for him to take over the cooking! For all the times he had cooked and pampered you, you wanted to return the favor! Just at least once.

·       Teru always took such great joy in treating you like royalty, like you were the center of the universe! As nice as it was, a part of you felt some guilt, you wanted to show him just how much you love him too, not just the other way around. So, you were determined to have a nice hot meal ready for Teru when he arrived back home!

·       You had thought of this for a long time so, the moment Teru had left for work, you already knew what you would make, a chicken, broccoli and rice casserole!

·       Knowing it only took about an hour to make, you simply set up the ingredients so they’d be ready to go when it was closer to the time Teru would return.

·       As the time had arrived and you were whisking a handful of cheddar cheese into the simmering sauce, you heard the last thing you wanted too in that crucial moment. “Oh, Honey Dumplin’~ Guess who’s home early today!”

·       “Oh? What’s this now?” A sly smile crept on those lips as he mischievously eyed your frozen form surrounded by the ingredients. “Uhhh, this is not what it looks like?” In the moment it was the best excuse your mind could sputter out. “Not what it looks like, now is it?” “Y-yes. I’m… uh… making a witch’s brew! That’ll curse you to become a frog if you dare come into the kitchen, so shoo!” Your mind didn’t even have enough stability in the moment to even comprehend exactly the jumble of words you spit out as you raced to block Teru from the kitchen. “Hmm? A witch’s brew? Well, I must say the ingredients for this ‘witch’s brew’ look almost as ravishing as you, so much so, I don’t know if I can keep myself away!”

·       With his smaller stature Teru managed to slip past you and already took a quick taste of the sauce. “Ah~ Absolutely scrumptious!” “Really?” “Of course! I can taste the passion you’ve poured into this!” With a smile you quickly began to explain the techniques you were using.

·       Very soon Teru stood beside you acting as your assistant. At times he started to take over, but you suddenly came up with a plan. Taking several hairbands, you cuffed one of your hands to Teru’s making sure he couldn’t wander off and start cooking on his own.

·       When the meal was finished, standing side by side, you and Teru ate the casserole on a kitchen counter too excited to try it to bother taking it to the kitchen table. Both of you hummed an awed at every bite.

·       “Sweet pie, we should make this a tradition.” “Cooking together?” Teru lightly shook his head, then held up your still clasped hands that held one another. “No, cooking like this.” Suddenly jerking his hand back, you were suddenly pulled closer. “Cooking like this is so enticingly intimate, don’t you think?”

  Ryoma Hoshi:

·       Cooking had always been your go to thing when you were stressed. Something about the smells, and the delightful crunching sounds when chopping, and in the end having something to share with others had this way of placing your heart at ease like no other… The type of ease you wished you could give Ryoma.

·       You and Ryoma had been best friends for years before becoming a couple. Honestly becoming a couple just… sort of happened? It was just so natural over time neither of you noticed ‘till one day you both realized that you had both referred to the other as your partner for years. In that time, you got to learn about each other too the point at times it seemed you knew Ryoma better than he did himself or Ryoma knew you better than you did yourself.

·       So when Ryoma was having an especially bad day, the kind of day where everything that could go wrong did go wrong - the kind of day where his past seemed all consuming, clinging to his every thought with a death grip, sinking him deeper and deeper into that bleak madness - he didn’t question you when you asked him to cook with you.

·       You wanted to help him, but in your time together you knew that when Ryoma got like this there wasn’t much you could do other than tell him you were there for him. But maybe this time could be different? You cooked for him before, but never with him. Maybe at the very least this could distract him, even just a little.

·       “Say, Ryry, want to make… Oh, how about a meat pie! We can use up the left-over meat from the tacos last night!” “… sure.” From that hollow tone alone you could tell he wasn’t with you, he was back in that awful time.

·       “Ryry, here. Use this to mash the potatoes, would you?” “Yeah.” You made sure to not have Ryoma do any chopping in his zombie like state, fearing he’d accidently cut himself and not even realize it.

·       “Ryry, see the spices I placed on that counter?” “Yeah.” “Would you measure 1/8 teaspoon of each?” “Alright.” As Ryoma was measuring out the spices you found yourself getting lost in the sizzling sound of the ground beef and pork in the saucepan. The crisp pops and the gentle scrape of the spoon against the pan bottom was just so incredibly lovely.

·       “S/O?” Yes?” “Where do you want the spice to go?” “Right in this pan here.” “… Just toss it in?” “Just toss it right in!” Each time Ryoma tossed a spice into the pan you noticed how he’d linger longer and longer by your side. “Ryoma?” “… It smells good.” “I know, right!? Oh, hey! Why don’t you mix this with the mash potatoes while I set up the pie crust!” Your heart melted seeing a smile twitch onto his lips as he just looked at you for a moment. “Sounds good to me.”

·       It was plain to see the sheer joy radiating from you. You actually got him to engage in this! Even if it wasn’t much, it was SOMETHING! You actually helped him even on one of his worst days!

·       When the pie was done you ate, happily humming to yourself. “Hey, S/O.” “Yeah Ryry?” “Thank you… Mind having me as an assistant when you cook next?” “… Ryoma!” You launched at him, tackling the man into a hug almost knocking both of you onto the ground in the process.

·       From that day forward you always made sure to cook with Ryoma at least once a week. Quickly Ryoma even tried cooking on his own, and presented each of his dishes to you, asking for critique or advice on techniques. And each time you gave him advice or cooked with him, Ryoma always thanked you, for everything you had done for him.

  Gundham Tanaka:

·       “My Dark Emperor, I should have expected that one of your mighty caliber had the required unholy abilities to concoct the nourishment the Twelve Zodiac Generals so crave! My Emperor, I must make a humbling request as your soul’s mate, unlock the sleeping spells within myself to achieve such a feat!” A light laughter bubbled up from you seeing how Gundham was so excitedly feeding his generals the treats you had baked for them. This wasn’t the first time you had done a little cooking for Gundham’s beasts let alone for the Dark Devas and their offspring, but you seemed to finally get just the right combination of ingredients the hamsters just couldn’t get enough of.

·       Truthful you hadn’t been cooking for too long. You actually took it up because you had a crush on your now boyfriend and wanted to get his attention by making treats for his beloved companions. Eventually you began to cook food for yourself and for him. But now you finally achieved your goal of making something the Zodiac Generals loved! And seeing that sparkle in Gundham’s eye as he asked to cook with you made the moment even sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

·       After gathering the ingredients, you and Gundham practically raced to your kitchen. “Okay, first let’s wash our hands, that’s the first step to cooking anything!” As you took your own advice you noticed Gundham kind of just… stayed back? It was then from the corner of your eye, you saw he was unwrapping the bandage around his hand and arm. For a moment you froze. This was the first time you’d see him without it wrapped around his arm and hand. It wasn’t that big of a deal really, but… as odd as it may sound, it was strange realizing it wasn’t just a part of him. It was just always there…

·       Then seeing what was underneath. Absolutely riddled with scars new and old, each one seemed to be from a different creature. Except for the hamster bites, those were the only ones that seemed to repeat. “Taken interest in my battle scars I see.” “Oh, I was staring, wasn’t I? Sorry!” “There is no need to apologize, it’s… it’s only natural for one to examine their partner’s past injuries, they tell many a tale only the bearer would know.”

·       As you did some set up for the next step you asked Gundham to do some mixing. “Uh, Gundham, you need to fold over, here, just let me show you.” Momentarily taking the bowl and spoon you showed your Dark Lord the proper technique. Then you passed the bowl and spoon back. “… You’re still doing it wrong.” Just as you were reaching your hand out to take his own to help him through the motions you stopped yourself. Even after you had gotten together you only ever held Gundham’s bandaged hand… which was now not bandaged. Maybe an oven mitt would do? “… Perhaps… despite us being trapped within in the confines of these mortal coils, just as I am poisonous to the touch, as my eternal partner you… resist it… even without the protective cloth with it’s magical properties… you won’t get hurt.” Your heart pounded in your chest hearing those words and seeing that florescent blush burst on his cheeks. All you could do was nod. “… Are you sure? I can get a mitt if you’d be more comfortable.” “I’m sure, and should your body have an adverse reaction, the Twelve Zodiac Generals shall counteract the poison long enough for me to prepare a cure.” As gently as you could, you placed your hand atop his, and showed him how to properly fold over the mixture. Though both of you were distracted by the thudding of your own hearts, wondering if with how close you were, if the other could feel that racing beat.

·       When you had finally finished the Generals ran up to you and they tried getting to the small bag of treats. It was so fun seeing them race around in excitement and feel them rip the treat from your fingers. As you reached in to get another treat something flinched inside. Gundham had reached in his still unbandaged hand at the same time as you. “My Emperor, I-” “Hey, it’s okay. You took a big step today, and I’m proud of you. We don’t need to push you farther than you are comfortable with.” You then leaned your head onto his shoulder. “… I thank you for always being so understanding.”

·       It became a regular thing to bake treats for the Zodiac Generals and the other creatures under Gundham’s care. Once a week Gundham would visit you at your place to make more treats, much to the Devas’ and their children’s protest if it wasn’t for them. And each time, it seemed Gundham would mess up on something and need your hands-on assistance to get it right. And each time without fail you always found your heart racing in time with his.

[chironomy]

rat patootie (bless my soul)

Yes, like in the movie Ratatouille, the recipe so good it makes the evil food critic cry tears of joy. 

I swear this stuff has magical properties but ANYWAY. I’m not about to be that person with the 8 paragraph personal essay before the recipe so here it is

4-6 cloves garlic 1 onion olive oil 1 28oz can crushed or petite diced tomatoes fresh basil and parsley. Like 1/3 of a cup each? 1 eggplant 1-2 zucchini 1-2 yellow squash 5-6 roma tomatoes salt and pepper

1. Get food. Tricky part: make sure the eggplant, zucchini, squash and tomatoes are all roughly the same thiccness.

I finally figured it out: for a 10″ cast iron pan, you want 8-10″ apiece of each kind of tube veggie.

2. chop veggies. This is a fun recipe to make if you like to stab things a lot. Slice the tube veggies as thinly as you can. I can reliably do about 1/8th inch.

3. Preheat oven to 350 and put your pan over medium heat. If you have dried herbes de provence, throw 1-2 tablespoons in the pan and let them toast until you can smell them. If not don’t worry about it.

I put in extra lavender just ‘cause I could.

4. Add 1-2 tablespoons olive oil and plenty of garlic. Never let some catfish tell you how much garlic is too much. Feel it in your heart.

Anyway let that saute for about 2 minutes.

5. Add onions and saute until translucent, about 8 minutes. 

6. Add the crushed tomatoes, half the parsley and basil, 1-2 tsp black pepper and a pinch of salt. Let that simmer for, I don’t know, 5-10 minutes?

7. While that’s happening, mix like 1/4 cup of olive oil with another teaspoon of garlic, black pepper, salt, and the rest of the parsley and basil. Set that aside.

8. Turn off the stove burner and start putting the veggies in the pan. Don’t know if it matters but I usually alternate soft with hard, so I do eggplant-zucchini-tomato-yellow squash. 

Keep doing that

I usually do a ring of veggies around the outside of the pan and then fill in the center however works. Most versions of this recipe lay the veggies down on top of the sauce. I’ve always stuck them straight up and down in the pan. Is this better? Who knows, man.

Ratatouille ready to go in the oven

9. Bake for about an hour and 15 minutes. It’s done when the zucchini and squash in the center are fork tender.

10. Spoon the olive oil/herb/garlic sauce over the top while it’s bubbling hot

Ways to stretch it out: Ratatouille is awesome on top of pasta. I usually get 4 meals out of one pan like this. Also, you will have leftover tube veg. I buy frozen pizza crusts and throw the veggies on top with some pizza sauce or olive oil, seasonings, and some goat cheese crumbles or mozzarella.

Anyway, that’s my current “happy place” recipe. It’s never cost me more than $10 in raw materials to make (including fresh herbs and bourgie canned tomatoes!) and is always a crowd-pleaser.

Nom on that

[certifiedskywalker]

Academic Misgivings (Part Two) - Peter Parker

You and Peter Parker aren’t friends, but you’re not entirely enemies either. You don’t like him but he always tries to be nice to you. He has everything you’ve ever wanted and you’ll do anything to show him that you can make it on your own. But can you? 

Read PART ONE HERE 

The bus rolled up to the hotel around six at night, giving you little time to unpack before a rushed pizza dinner that Mr. Harrington had planned. Yellow lights shine down harshly, illuminating the tired eyes of your peers as they filed out of the bus before you. Peter, being the disgustingly kind boy he was, was letting everyone else file out first; thus keeping you in the bus longer than you felt necessary. Your feet and legs ached to be used, so when Peter finally started to walk down the aisle, you breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Pins and needles rattled up your limbs painfully with each step. With a clenched jaw, you limped off of the bus where the rest of the academic decathlon team stood idle. When the feeling returned to your extremities, you made your way to behind the bus and found your overnight bag. Ned struggled with his bag until, effortlessly, Peter plucked the bag from his grasp and put it next to his own. Just as your eyes met his, an ever chipper Ms. Lauren cut through the travel-fog.

“C’mon kids! Come inside to the lobby! Mr. Harrington is getting the room keys now,” she crooned. You shook yourself from distraction and quickly maybe your way inside the hotel.

The lobby was painted mustard, the kind of darker yellow that should only be found on a sandwich. The color’s rather unnatural nature was only amplified by the surrounding, gaudy furniture you swore you one had seen used in an 80s sitcom. You plopped yourself down in a stiff-cushioned armchair, bouncing slightly on impact. A snicker sounded nearby and you looked up to see MJ and Peter watching you. You watched them both, eyes meeting with Peter’s for a second too long and a blush rose to your cheeks. 

A few hours ago, you were asleep, tucked snugly against Peter’s shoulder. Residual embarrassment flooded your body with a sweltering heat and you tore your eyes from Peter’s. You didn’t want him to think that you were thinking about it, how comfy and warm he was, even if it was all that occupied your thoughts. It was more embarrassing to yourself that you wouldn’t mind falling asleep against him again. As soon as that thought entered your head, you pushed it down.

“Alright, thank you so much,” Mr. Harrington said to the receptionist before turning to the team. “I already have you all sorted into roommates and rooms.” A few groans met Mr. Harrington’s ears but the man seemed much too tired to care. “Y/N, you’re in room 133 with….”

You reached down to grab your bags as you stood from the wildly uncomfortable chair. Mr. Harrington extended his hand, a keycard dangling from his fingers. You plucked it from his grip and waited for the name of your partner. Your coach’s brown eyes scoured the list he had before him, searching for the name that would set you loose to your room.

“Y/N, you’re rooming with Michelle,” Mr. Harrington said finally and you turned your head to find her. You noticed Peter first, wide eyes full of fear as MJ, smirking, strode up to you. 

“Hey roomie,” she commented smugly. You couldn’t find the strength within yourself to offer her a fake smile and, instead, spun on your heels to find your room.

“And they were roommates,” you heard someone chortle behind you. Ignoring the comment, you made your way down the hallway with your eyes scanning over room numbers. MJ followed you in an eerie silence, the kind that sends shivers down the spine. When room 133 comes into sight, you spare a glance at MJ who is waiting. You unlock the door, pushing it open to reveal a room as terribly decorated as the lobby.

With a mind much too muddied from the long drive to truly care, you walked into the room without hesitation. When you threw your bag on top of the far bed, it bounced, landing on the floor beside it in a ‘thump’. Sighing heavily, you flop on your chosen bed and let out a groan. You closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the little comfort the bed supplied.

“So,” MJ began, causing you to open your eyes and look at her. Her arms were crossed, as if she knew a secret about you that your own heart was no privy to. “You like Peter?”

“Um, what?” You sat up on the edge of your bed, eyes never leaving MJ’s. 

“You know what I said,” she said, smiling at your prolonged pause, “and it seems I said the truth, huh?” You swallow hard, shaking your head vehemently.

“No, no, I don’t like Peter. He’s too,” you try to think of a word, a lie, “too arrogant. He’s just-”

“We’re talking about Peter Parker, right? The quiet nerd that stutters when he tries to talk to you? You think he’s arrogant?” 

You fall silent, studying your nails with immense intensity. MJ sighs and you look up to see her with a strangely sympathetic glint in her eyes.

“I can’t like him,” you admit, your voice low and quiet. 

“Are you gay?” MJ asks and, when compared to the question prior, it is less shocking.

“I don’t know,” you reply, biting at the inside of your cheek, “I just know I can’t like him.” MJ seems to have a readied reply but a knocking at the door cuts off her speech. You shoot up from the bed quickly and dart to the door, desperate to evade the current topic of conversation. Sadly, it seemed that Fate had other plans for you.

“Yes?” The question slips from your lips as an instinct. You only wish to take it back when your eyes meet a familiar pair of brown ones.

“Mr. Harrington said we’re go-going to dinner,” Peter said in a rush, as if you were about to snap and envelope him in fiery breath. Instead of biting back at him, you slammed the door in his face, something you saw as a happy medium. With a huff, you turn and walk back into the depths of the room. MJ is staring at you, lips turned up in a very amused smile.

“See,” you said indignantly, “I don’t like him.” 

Everyone was gathered around, standing hungrily in the lobby as you and MJ came into view. Peter was shifting his weight on his feet as Ned chatted with Betty joyously. Even with the distance between you two, you could easily read that Peter was uncomfortable. He looked up suddenly and upon seeing you and MJ, he started to walk over. Only, Flash beat him to it.

“Hey Y/N, did you know the place we’re going to eat is like the most Instagrammable pizza place in Chicago? We should totally-”

“Alright, kiddos, let’s eat!” Ms. Lauren’s voice shouted over Flash’s rambling and you eagerly headed towards the door. MJ follows suit and, much to your disappointment, so did Flash. As the team trails down the sidewalk, Flash happily talks your ears off. MJ silently falls into step beside you and you give her a look that reads ‘help me’.

“I’m just happy I’m not rooming with Pissbag Parker,” Flash drawls, “ that would have ruined this entire trip with his talk about his precious internship. A nerd, right? Not like the cool kind but the kind that sits in his room alone talking in a headset for hours on end.” Peter and Ned, who had been walking behind the three of you gasped slightly. Peter looked hurt, brows furrowed making his widened eyes squint as Flash continued to degrade him. 

“Shut up, Flash,” you sneer, adding a sharp glare. The boy at your side is shocked and MJ lets out a pleased chuckle. Luckily, the sign for Vito and Maria’s Pizza comes into view, providing you with an escape. You pushed forward, only then realizing just how hungry you were.

You had heard tales of the deliciously fabled, Chicago-style deep dish pizza. The smell alone was everything you had ever dreamed of. Scent of perfectly spiced marinara sauce and melting cheese filled your nostrils, filling you with a sense of unparalleled contentment. Whatever Vito and Maria were doing with their pizza, you trusted that they were doing it right.

The aromas that danced in the air around you only served to intensify your hunger, which made the ten minute wait for a table large enough for the whole team feel like an hour. When an Italian waiter, complete with a skinny black mustache, led the group of you to your seats, you were about to jump for joy. A pair of stick-thin waiters had been the poor souls that had to push, what looked like, three square tables together. Despite their tired eyes, the two men smiled at you all as you sat down.

You were so eager to try a slice of pizza that you could have cared less that Peter Parker was sat across from you. The growling of your stomach stirred you into a frenzy as your eyes scanned over the options. Varieties of crust, gluten-free or cheese-stuffed, and vegan toppings you would normally find at an upscale place in New York littered the menu. 

When the orders were placed, the table erupted into chatter. You sat listening while some bickered about the team you would be up against tomorrow and others talked about the last time they had vegan-cheese pizza. Ned happily brings up the upcoming Winter Waltz, much to Betty’s bright excitement. She clapped her hands together, making you jump and swing your legs under the table. Your foot made soft impact with Peter’s and you spared a glance his way to find his brown eyes on you. Blushing, you turned your eyes away and back to Betty.

“I heard the theme is Winter Wonderland,” the blonde girl gushed, “all blue and crystals everywhere!”

“Oh wow, how original,” MJ grumbled sarcastically and you nodded at her in agreement. The comment didn’t seem to affect Betty as she continued to chatter on. MJ looked between you and Peter, tired brown eyes attempted to read the room. “So the day after the decathlon, what tacky tourist sights do you want to see?”

“The Willis Tower.” Your voice melded with Peter’s perfectly as you both spoke. Wide eyes met and you were too caught off guard to glare. You don’t miss the pleased glance MJ gave the two of you as Peter began to stumble over his words.

“Ya know, actually, the Bean seems, like, pretty cool,” he gushed, not daring to make eye contact with you. You sagged in your seat, mind racing to find something to say, anything to diffuse the tension. Luckily, the pizza arrived and the awkward encounter seemed to be forgotten entirely.

As quickly as it came, the food disappeared down the gullets of hungry teens. In record time, the entire team had eaten and entered food-driven, comatose states. Ned’s eyes had long since closed and even MJ was smiling contentedly. Sadly the respite was disturbed by Mr. Harrington, who must have been a picky eater as a child for he ordered a bland, unfulfilling salad.

“Okay, team,” Mr. Harrington addressed you all, pulling the heavy gazes of tired teens his way. “I know everyone is exhausted and we have the meet tomorrow, but I wanted to say a few words.”

Ms. Lauren, who had also ordered a salad, clapped encouragingly.  

“Ravenwoods High is a good school,” Mr Harrington began, “they’ve been one of our biggest competitors since we started this thing. However, while they have the numbers and the test scores, they don’t have the same sort of support we do. We all care for each other on this team, support each other and I think that...no matter what happens tomorrow, we have each other's backs.”

Silence. You watched as Mr. Harrington shifted on his feet while all eyes remained trained on him. Taking the moment as an advantage, you snuck a glance at Peter, wondering if you did care for him. All the years leading up to this, you swore to yourself he was your opposition. Better, faster, stronger, and maybe smarter, Peter Parker was too perfect. You hated that, but, like Mr. Harrington had said, you were on the same team. You swallowed as the team began to clap for your coach and turned your gaze away from Peter. 

“Thank you, team. Let’s, uh, get going. Shall we?” After paying, the group of you makes the trek back to the hotel. Nervous energies had been sedated by Mr. Harrington’s speech, but you feared sleep would still not come easy for you. It could have been the way that, as you walked, Peter’s hand would brush against yours gently and you would repeat the ‘too tired’ excuse to rationalize your lack of reaction. It didn’t help that MJ’s question of your affections still rang loudly in your ears.  

The dim lights of the hotel gave you little comfort as MJ, who clutched the room key in her hand, lead the charge back to the room. Ms. Lauren had been very clear about the lights-out policy at ten o’clock. Glancing over your shoulder you saw Peter and Ned trailing behind you. Of course they were your room neighbors. MJ fiddled with the lock, pulling out the keycard until it, finally, turned the light green. She pried open the heavy day and darted inside. 

“Goodnight,” a voice said, so lightly it was barely above a whisper. If your attention had wavered, you would have missed the sound; but you had heard it. Just as your hand lifted to stop the door from closing, you turned to place a face with the voice. Peter’s brown eyes held your gaze as Ned filed inside their shared room.

“Night,” you said back, your tone softer than you had ever heard it before. Peter seemed to sense that unique pitch because he gave you an equally as gentle smile as you walked into your hotel room and closed the door. You pressed your back against the surface behind you and sighed. The tiding had to be meant for MJ,  you surmised, but when you eyes met hers, you found mischief glinting in them rather than anger.

“You sure you don’t like Parker?” You ignored her, striding over to your bed and bag. “Oh you so do. That’s adorable.”

Clothes in arm, you walked to the bathroom and shut the thin wooden door. Setting your sleepwear on the counter. As you pushed back the shower curtain, you turned the handle until the water ran hot. Steam filtered up in the air, filling the restroom and fogging up the mirror. Despite the fact the glass was now clouded, you hoped that the shower would clear your head.

Hands gripped at the counter top as the shower’s mist warmed the air. You lifted your eyes from the sink to the spot before you on the mirror. Your eyes met your reflection and you were shocked by the slight bags under your eyes. As you continued to stare, you sharpened your focus on your own features and pushed the thoughts of Peter’s away.

“No,” you murmur to yourself, “I'm not sure.”

A loud wake up call at seven in the morning pushed you and MJ out of your beds and into a calm frenzy. The girl’s mass of curls seemed to only grow more intense in the night because when your eyes fully opened, MJ’s hair stuck out from all sides of her head. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight before you earned a glare from her.

“Don’t tell a soul,” she warned, “I know where you sleep.” She strode into the bathroom, balancing her uniform in her arms. You sighed, laying back on your bed with a thump. MJ didn’t take long in the bathroom, seeing as she gave up with her hair, putting it in a rather sloppy bun at the back of her head. “It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing to the bathroom, “remember, your uniform is what everyone will see! It reflects on the school!”

“Okay, Ms. Lauren,” you fired back, smiling at MJ’s mocking tone of your Literature teacher. She snickered as you closed the door to the restroom to get ready for the big day. 

As you joined the last few buttons, a knocking at the hotel room door reached your ears. Before you could leave the bathroom, you heard MJ answer the door. Muffled voices carried under the door and into your ears. Something about ‘ early breakfast’ and ‘saved spot’. The door shut suddenly and you peeked out of the bathroom. MJ’s eye met yours.

“You ready?”

“More than I’ll ever be,” you quipped and MJ nodded.

“Good, coz’ breakfast is being served and I want a bagel.” MJ’s curtness doesn’t shock you or how quickly she opened the room door. The walk to the hotel’s dining hall is one completed in silence with you too nervous to speak and MJ too hungry.

The quiet was only broken by a gasp from MJ when you when you made it to the larger room past the hotel’s cramped looking kitchen. To call the room a ‘dining hall’ seemed like a disservice. There were more chairs than tables, with a few lined in front of a small TV which was tuned to a news channel. Counters were lined with coffee machines, a poor selection of fruit, bread, and untouched yogurt. Part of you was grateful, as your churning stomach probably couldn’t handle much in the way of food; the lack of options would make not eating understandable.

“Peter and Ned saved us some spots if you want to sit by them,” MJ grumbled, still disgruntled by the noted lack of bagels. She walked off towards the counter away, grabbed a plate and eyed the sorry excuse of a breakfast buffet. You scanned over the tables, searched for the familiar faces of your life’s greatest annoyance and his friend. Before you laid eyes on them, you noticed Flash waving madly at you as he gestured for you to join him. One thing was for certain, Peter’s aura of throat-closing perfection was far more bearable than Flash’s ramblings.

“Hey, Y/N!” Ned’s cheery greeting reached your ears the moment you started towards the table. You gave him a soft smile, one that Peter caught when he looked up in your direction.

“Hi,” you replied as you pulled out a chair for yourself. It was then you noticed the crooked nature of Peter’s decathlon jacket. Your fingers itched to fix it, but you refrained.

“You’re not going to dine at this fine establishment?” Ned’s sarcastic tone pulled your attention away from Peter’s appearance. 

“No, I’m not hungry,” you explained, “that and...I dunno...”

“Nervous?” You turned at Peter’s question, met his brown eyes which were trained on you already. You bit the inside of your cheek, hoped that it would quell the sudden breathlessness you felt. 

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered before you blinked your eyes away.

“You shouldn’t be,” Peter added, his voice enough to have coaxed your eyes back on him. “You’ll do amazing, as always. You should eat.”

He passed you his uneaten apple, set it before you like an offering. In the moment, you believed him and the rest of the world melted away. You didn’t want to believe him; you wanted to mock him, tell him that he’s deadweight on the A team despite knowing all too well that he carries the rest of you. So, you compromised and swallowed your pride as Mr. Harrington’s words from the night before rang in your ears. No matter what happens tomorrow, we have each other's backs.

“Thanks,” you replied after a pause, “you will too.” Before Peter could have responded, MJ set her plate down on the table in a huff. She began to rant about the importance of customer service, especially in the economic climate of today, and you busied yourself with the apple Peter had given you. With each bite, you told yourself that whatever you were feeling would pass and soon, you and Peter would be silent enemies again.

Tensions were high as the team ran into the final match. Your team, the B team, had been cycled, leading the team as a whole into the tied score. Needless to say, you were bitter. You were the brightest and quickest on B team, dragged down only by the rest. Now, you had been pushed back to the shadows while A team tried to pull ahead.

Peter, Ned, MJ, and two other of your peers sat, facing the opposing team from Ravenwoods High School. Your leg jiggled as you shook nervously. The clock had neared the final seconds, paused as the moderator readied the last question. Even Flash, who sat beside you, was dead quiet. You could see, under the table atop the stage where A team was sitting that Peter was nervous too. His foot tapped against the ground but grew still when the moderator spoke up once more.

The team hunched over their buzzers, hands at the ready. The Ravenwoods team mirrored the stance, the hunger to win rolling over everyone on the stage. Your eyes trailed over your team, held on Peter as he licked his lips. 

“For our final question,” the woman began, “in which part of the body are the ossicles found?” 

Almost immediately, a buzzer sounded off. Your breath caught in your throat as the strain between the two teams mounted. The light, signalling the team that pledged to answer, trailed up to the right and connected to Peter’s bright-red buzzer.

“Midtown?”

“What is the ear.” Peter’s voice was steadied and collected when he answered. He held in his chest the type of confidence you had strived for your entire life; the type of certainty that led others to either hate you or love you. It was the very conflict that you faced now.

“Correct!”

Time seemed to slow as the word rang through the air. Then all of the sudden there was an eruption of applause. All of B team stood and stormed the stage to hug their fellow teammates. As they cheered and whooped, you followed suit. Your arms wrapped around MJ who, despite her smile, was calm. It was the most emotive you had ever seen the girl before when it came to a joyous occasion. 

When you pulled away from MJ, you noticed Ned and Betty as they hugged awkwardly. As swiftly as they had embraced, they parted. The sight brought a smile to your lips and distracted you when Peter came up behind you. You turned and nearly fell back, scared to bump into him. With the fastest reflexes you had ever seen, Peter caught your arm and pulled you to him.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Y-You did it!” You said, your voice too fast for your own good. With the way your heart raced, you were shocked that he couldn’t feel it. You were stood so close together you could feel just how warm he was. At the feeling, your mind traveled back to the bus, how you had fallen asleep so comfortable against his shoulder.

“It was a, a team effort,” Peter said shyly. You rolled your eyes, unable to filter your actions. Of course he was going to be humble. Why couldn’t he just embrace it?

“Sure,” you tease and, after he heard the shift in your tone, Peter let go of your hand. The second his fingers unraveled from your own, you longed to have them back. “You uh, better go and uh….”

“Y-Yeah,” Peter agreed, even though you had said nothing worth agreeing to. He wandered off, directed towards Mr. Harrington who was holding a large trophy. You watched as Peter trailed away until you felt someone grab your arm.

“Y/N,” Flash said, a smile spread along his features, “my offer still stands. Ya know, the one about Parker. That spot could have been yours.”

“I know, Flash,” you snapped back before you turned your head to follow Peter. He chatted lively with Mr. Harrington who clapped him on the back. “I know.”

“Team picture everybody!” Ms. Lauren’s light voice ripped through the air and like a gaggle of baby geese, the Midtown team lined up for her. Your shoulder brushed against Peter’s as you were pushed around and into position. “Alright, looks good! Say cheese!”

The picture is taken but you’re sure that you didn’t smile. You bit the inside of your cheek as some malform idea of punishment. Peter’s hand brushes against yours as he’s pulled away by Ned for another photo. You suppressed the butterflies that had been fluttering since you had congratulated Peter, forced them down until their wings ceased to be. There was no room for infatuation, not when your competitive streak took up half of you. Even if Peter gave you all his smiles and gifted you with every kindness he knew, he was still your competitor. Minuscule butterflies could never change that. 

At least, that’s what you hoped.

[des8pudels8kern]

Ooh marriage of convenience and royalty au?

You failed to give me any characters to go with this, so I decided to pick some myself. I hope you enjoy your Aubreyad marriage of convenience royalty AU!

------------

The two high-set windows, each the size of both his hands put together, allowed a limited view of the sky, and with that provided Jack’s main source of diversion during his involuntary utilization of French hospitality. They allowed him to follow the passage of light and day and, by these same, tell the time, albeit not with the same accuracy as if he’d stood on the deck of a ship, able to gauge the exact position of the sun. He also tried his hand at predicting the turns of the weather, through observation of sky colour, cloud formation, humidity and air pressure, though, again, his accuracy was limited by his current unfortunate circumstances.

Steps disrupted his assessment of the cirrostratus clouds drifting slowly past.

It was not yet the time for lunch, and the tablet on which his breakfast had been delivered would not be retrieved until then. This meant a visit, either to one of his neighbors, or to him. And, while he did not know what other poor souls had been unfortunate to be caught out in the middle of France of all places when war was declared and ended up detained, he hadn’t noticed any door other than his own being opened outside of mealtime. Not for the first time he was grateful for his travel companion’s particular background; as much as Stephen’s occasional disdainful remarks on the monarchy and lack of patriotism cut at times, were he a fellow Englishman, he undoubtedly would have been locked up same as Jack, and they would not have seen each other since.

But he was not, and indeed the steps came to a halt outside of Jack’s door, followed by the clink of keys, and shortly after Stephen’s dear, familiar face peeked in through the door, quickly followed by the rest of him.

The guard stood watching as Stephen crossed through the room in quick steps to stand in front of Jack, grasping his hands between his own.

“Jack,” he said, “acushla, how have you been? You look pale. How is your appetite?”

Stephen himself looked drawn, his face pallid and dark circles beneath his eyes, and moved with a frantic, feverish energy. Still, the room seemed brighter for having him in it, and Jack smiled down at his friend with a tenderness that was not merely for the guard’s sake.

“I am well, my plum. Worry not for my sake.”

Stephen searched his face, and then, satisfied for the moment, continued in their script.

“Come, sit, sit. You, monsieur,” he addressed the guard still standing at the door, all the while herding Jack over to the narrow bed, the only piece of furniture in the room and thus the only thing capable of serving as a seat, “Privacy, please. You have escorted me in, and you may escort me out again in an hour, but you have no claim to the time I spend here.”

The guard watched them sink down onto the bed next to each other, thighs touching and shoulders brushing, scandalously close for a supposedly affianced couple, but understandably so for one with one of the betrothed imprisoned as a prisoner of war. Jack, despite the impotence of his current circumstances, glared at the man, insulted by his leering at their joined hands and close position, and finally the door closed and the steps moved from their room.

They listened for a moment to assure themselves of their privacy, and then turned towards each other.

Audience gone, there was no further need for such proximity, yet Jack could not bring himself to shift away. Stephen, for reasons that were his own, did not either. Instead he reached into his coat and pulled out the by now familiar cloth, wrapped into which were a crust of bread, sausage, and some cheese. He topped this off with a small apple retrieved from his breeches, and pushed the lot of it onto Jack’s lap.

“Here, eat, Jack. Eat, and tell me, how are you really?”

Hungry enough to be grateful for these additions to his meagre rations, which would be hard-pressed to sate a man of Stephen’s stature, and feeling damned useless, but there was nothing to be done about that, not when Stephen’s shoulders had bent with worry months ago when they had gotten news of the impending war and not straightened once since. “I am well, truly, my dear. Do not concern yourself on my account,” he said, reaching out to pat Stephen’s bony leg, and then going for the sausage.

“Your account is all I concern myself with.” A long breath, and Stephen retrieved a letter from his breast pocket. “You remember that I had written to the Spanish ambassador on our behalf?”

“Of course. That was the entire reason why you suggested we become engaged, was it not? The hope that, my betrothment to one of King Charles’ subjects would outweigh my rank in His Majesty’s navy and I’d be allowed to accompany you to Spain.” It had at least granted him the privilege of these daily visits from his friend, which were even more invaluable to his morale than for his stomach.

“Yes, indeed.” Stephen licked his lips, and he unfolded the papers, straightening them and worrying the fold cutting them in half.

Jack glanced at the pages, but made no effort to decipher the scribblings on them. He stood no chance to understand the words, but the meaning he could guess, had guessed from the beginning of this enterprise.

“It was only ever a fleeting chance, brother. Oh, a clever idea, and damned quick thinking, to have come up with it there on the spot,” he assured, “but this was to be expected.”

Stephen set to say something, but Jack barreled on.

“Stephen, I wish to express my gratitude, for your trying. And your visits, and this,” he gestured to the napkin in his lap, “Your presence has been a blessing, truly. I couldn’t have wished for a better companion to be arrested with. But it was only ever a chance, now there is nothing else to do, and I would understand, that is, I would think it the most sensible course of action if you were to depart for Spain alone. Who knows how this war will turn, and I would not have you locked up in one of the rooms beside me, merely because you did not leave when you had the chance.” The bread crumbled in his fingers, but he could not have swallowed the smallest bite past the lump in his throat.

“Oh, Jack, Jack, no!” Stephen’s hands stilled his own, then one rose up and cupped his cheek. “Acushla, no, none of that! Look at me now, dear: it worked!”

Jack’s head snapped up in disbelief, dislodging Stephen’s hand.

“It worked?”

“We must marry first, of course. The priest will be here within the hour – not a word! I do not give a fig what you believe or not, but you will act the happy convert to Catholicism when he arrives, let me explain that you’ve seen the error of your ways and just not along, and not breathe one word that could endanger this marriage until we’ve crossed the border, you hear?”

“I, yes, yes, of course! I wouldn’t dream of it!” His heart soared. He did not care to think himself such a coward that he would deny his faith to regain his freedom when his countrymen stayed behind, but the mere thought of having to remain here, alone, without the balm of Stephen’s presence, had left him desolate already, and it had taken all his self-control to put forward the suggestion.

Stephen, though, still worried at the pages of the letter.

“Where is your joy, brother? Your gamble has paid off; we will be free to go within the hour, will we not?” He lifted a hand to Stephen’s face, mirroring his earlier gesture, and peered into his eyes. “Come now, Stephen, what is the matter? Is it the war? Bad news from home?”

“No, dear, no, fret not. All is well.” Stephen smiled at him, wanly. “Merely that you were right. The ambassador would not have been likely to interfere on the behalf of just any of Carlos’ subjects, nor would the French have seen reason to give in to the demand.”

He wet his lips, gaze darting around the room before settling back on Jack.

“I have talked to you of the circumstances of my birth, Jack. That my father was serving in the Spanish army when he met my mother, and of my illegitimate birth. But now you must know, my dear, that it was my mother’s family who did not approve of the connection, not my father’s.”

Stephen had talked of this, yes; always in moments of weakness, and in short words. The topic was sensitive, Jack understood, and he tried to convey as much by nodding at his friend and humming supportively.

“You see,” Stephen’s lips stretched in that same feeble smile again, “we have never met, but Carlos IV is my cousin. Third cousin, once removed. But the connection exists.”

Jack blinked. He felt utterly flabbergasted, but refused to show it.

“Is that how you came to be in possession of a castle?”

That horrid smile on Stephen’s face stretched into something more real, and a croaking laugh escaped him.

“Yes, my dear. That is how I came to be in possession of a castle.”

Jack smiled back at him, and noted with satisfaction that the weight on Stephen’s shoulders seemed to finally have lifted.

------------

Day 10 of my 500 words challenge! 1597 words today. And a return to an old, old fandom. I haven’t read any Aubreyad, canon or fanfic, in, oh, surely a decade at least, so my fannish sea legs and familiarity with POB’s writing are long gone. Also, I am operating in an AU where same-sex marriages were apparently a thing during the Napoleonic era, so I think we have already reached an area where we are operating with suspended disbelief.

[sidpah]

The Bull

The Bull, the Bull, Shiva and his Bull… Pashupati and his mount ground up in vat with careless Mexican arm – Nandi carving his own stomach into neat sirloin steaks, presenting them with a smile of servitude and an unmistakable look of hunger – Marduk hanging upside down on meat hook, skinless and hornless and soulless – Shot with steel bolt thud two three times missing its mark, stampeding to be shot through head until there’re no more walls… Climbing over his own back to be ground into slow poison – Apis’ black skin fouled in a tank of his own deific blood and shit, sloshing and coagulating on Wellington boots – Sharp knives spilling arteries of the sacrificial calf on kill room floor.

I ask into the crowding light, “Nandi, sacred bull of the ages, where is your divinity? 100,000 Nandis dead each day in this country alone beneath the weight of greed and stainless steel. How many reborn as deities? How many Indras currently raining war, ruling every one of Brahma’s dreams? How many reborn as ants? How many reborn as cannibal souls thirsting for revenge? How do you reconcile Govinda’s gentle herd smoked in hickory, mesquite chips smoldering for complacent judges smacking lips, nibbling flesh from rib and throwing the rest to the dogs? The sickening spoils of a distorted, sacrificial tauroctony where the murderers sacrifice nothing, least of all their unburdened consciences… Bull Nandi, does one of your stroked, pampered bodies really taste better than another beaten and drugged? Sacred Bull of history’s voluminous names, how they disgrace you, using your own image to sell your death with a wink and a halo and always that sycophantic smile... There is joy in giving of yourself. But what has anyone given you? Who dares lay his own neck beneath your temperate cloven hoof? And where is your joy, once noble one? Where is your joy sold in cellophane?… Burnt on steam press griddle? Smashed on soggy sesame seed bun by pus-zitted sixteen year old palms, crusted semen beneath their nails? Your joy in boiled heads and cheese made of ligament and brain?… Soaked into oily fried potatoes… Suspending suggestively jiggling fruit cocktail organs like incandescent x-rayed cnidarians in a lurid cherry mold?… Thick, honest tongue torn out, shaved, garnished with dijon, rye and a kosher pickle… Skewered on roasting spit, or pronged tree limb singeing mouths in fiery black marshmallow retribution… Injected into intestinal casing and thrust between teeth to fulfill man’s latent phallic lust… To what safe shore has your divinity retreated? Where do you seclude your holy remains to keep them pure beneath the fountains of death raining your blood into the mouths of children taught the right to consume?”

I receive no answer because I’m not yet worthy of one… for too many years this sick ego protected a single drop of its blood from feeding a mother mosquito and her young. Rather flatten her guts against its massive leg – a statue buzzing too...

[grandbakeuae]

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[toddlazarski]

Last Suppers Vol. 3

Shepherd Express

“I see that the world is upside down,

seems that my pockets were filled up with gold.”

— Tom Waits

My grandmother never allowed pizza delivery. Pizza—yes, most definitely, frequently, likely for a medically inadvisable percentage of grandma-house meals, but only if you took her keys, locked the door behind you, drove the Malibu—tape deck stacked with “Electric Ladyland,” for just such necessary excursions—across town and schlepped the steaming box back yourself, again locking the door behind you. I’m not sure if it was an abject fear of delivery personnel, something nefarious laying in an unknown driver lurking, even if said lurking was only out of pepperoni remittance and tip hope. Maybe it was the tip itself, an avoidance of sorts. Or it could have been the disclosing of her address. Maybe she was in trouble with the law. Maybe all, or a combination, or something else, all rolled together into one of those nebulous anxiety yarn balls one comes to know and generally acknowledge and accept when hungry and negotiating with a late-80’s grandmother. So I’d never really ask, would shrug with mild annoyance, take the keys, and let her pay with a crisp twenty-dollar-bill, because in hindsight, I’m not nearly as thoughtful as I’d like to believe. 

Similarly, this is probably how I don’t know much, anything really, about the Great Depression. Grandma was born in 1925, which, according to Wikipedia, means she spent much of her childhood in said epoch of forlorn-toned black-and-white photos of destitute pea pickers in California. She would have been a good source, I suppose, for all the wonder I’ve put on, of late, the d-word, in both proper noun form and the more loose, casual way it’s been thrown about. “I think he’s depressed” has become a standard line. Friends talking about other friends, co-workers talking about spouses, somebody talking about me, maybe. But over the past eight weeks I’ve heard it at least a handful of times, accepted it, took it with brow-furrowed, middling resiliency, as if it were part of a bad but expected forecast. As if, yes, “might have to shovel tomorrow.” Or like a thing meant for small-talk chewing and grumbling, as in, “I’m not sure about that first round pick.” When Kai Ryssdal comes floating in on the kitchen radio I switch the channel before the capital form of the word comes up. I usually have to hurry.    

I should have asked her, I suppose, in hindsight, it being one of those many things we all only now realize we should have always asked, said, paid attention to, thought about, considered. Before the world turned sideways, began coughing, lost sense of taste and smell, and we all woke up with our furniture seemingly turned to face the wall. Before she died. It might have been especially helpful since of late I’ve found the same pizza delivery paranoia creeping in. Though of all the faults I blame on genetics, this is hardly one—it can’t be Adult Onset Delivery Dread, it came far too fast. And I still don’t understand it fully: do I fear the boxes, or the bringer? Or do I fear the bringer's perception of me, sitting in my ivory tower, looking down on the help, or not looking at all, just expecting them to, yes, drop the sustenance on my luxuriant, sanitary doorstep? And then be gone, faceless servant. Or is it maybe that I don’t want to infect them? Did he or she think of that? Should I go out and tell them? Or maybe just put up a sign on the closed door: It’s Not You, It’s Me. Should I try at some levity, one of these days, maybe attempt a recreation of the “keep the change you filthy animal” scene from “Home Alone”? But, of course, nobody takes cash anymore, so it wouldn’t work.   

Whatever the approach, the newfound anxiety has been robbing a righteous, innocent joy of late. The sweet echo of a doorbell, startling, even as you sit with perked ear and open Ring app, leaning a bit with anticipation. It might be right now, this second, or in 35 minutes. Or, what if they never show? You make the call and are transported to Dr. Seuss’ Waiting Place. Patience and perspective needing to be fought for amidst the mad sea of slack-jawed seekers. A 90’s Civic with bad brakes and problematic bumper stickers, a goateed driver with questionable politics often the only thing to bring you back to the moment, offering deliverance, unveiling the places you will go, the tastes you will have, the boom bands you will hear and the balloon-high heights you will see. “Should you turn left or right, or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?” At this point of rescue, like no other in life, it matters only that you know how to find your way to the door, can manage not to trip carrying a box back to the coffee table. 

Whether or not grandma was right, or had a reason, or had an outstanding warrant, and whether or not we’ll all get over our cardboard fear and food conveyance dread and Clorox addiction and the balance of common sense versus Medium articles versus FDA guidelines versus something somebody in the office Slack channel said, it still has to be done. And at the very least she was right, like all grandmas seem right, about the most important thing being the bringing of comfort. Or the going and getting of comfort. So, my car or there’s, these are the best current bets for said pizza procuring solace. 

5. Ned’s

Through the years, through my decade-and-a-half of Milwaukee life, through an adulthood of being judge and jury and general jerk about pizza, I’ve never really cared much for Ned’s, or the “Milwaukee-style” pie it so well seems to epitomize. I’ve always found the crust too thin, crackly, unfilling, the special’s seem over-topped, the entire thing often feels a bit under-cooked, the cheese a tad too slidey, the sauce slightly over sweet. Quarantine week two though was weekend-ed with my wife and her friends sharing Ned’s, collectively, each with their own pie, over a happy hour Zoom meeting. It was such an innovative act of community, togetherness, pizzaing, that I was softened toward epiphany. And then later, as I greedily, guiltily, drunkenly mawed microwaved leftover squares after she had gone to bed, I finally disabused myself of all lofty notions as if I were a Dickens character. Ned’s is old-school, since ‘69, simple comfort of hometown iconicism. The pizza itself too has an undeniable tang, a distinct crumbly soul, a sausage-y quotidian satisfaction level akin to a High Life bottle and the Brewers on a daytime bar corner TV. At a time the Brewers are good. Most importantly: it is the pizza of my wife’s youth. There are few things tastier than nostalgia, and nothing more comforting. And so Ned’s always has a place in the heart, in our home, in our refrigerator, especially when she orders too much and goes to bed too early.   

4. Rosati’s

The five years I spent in suburban Chicago, coming of age and hitting my pizza peak, happened to coincide with adolescence and the accompanying boundless, obscene appetites. A standard chicken or egg scenario. This is maybe why I keep coming to defend Rosati’s, our locally-owned franchise location’s sometime inconsistency, and why I keep going back, here, and to all Chicago-bred ilk. There is the personal sway of the one that got away, the one that taught me to be a man, of the person you’d go out of town to a 10-year-reunion just to get a glimpse of and awkward drink with. But there is also no objective argument to the fact Rosati’s aspires to, and often achieves, the ideal of Chicago tavern-style: rolled dough, thin, square cut wedges of well-cooked crunch, trademarked by a cornmeal dust bottom and oregano and fennel-y finish. The cheese often looks like the color of approaching-autumn, the crust like it was two minutes from being burnt. Equally crispy and chewy, the toppings are half-buried under a winter blanket of mozz like endless hidden prizes. But maybe it’s just personal. And really a takeout here is akin to reliving high school’s zenith. If I really want to go down that Springsteen route, like the part in the song where he sees his ol’ baseball playing bud, and they go back in and have a few drinks, I get a pie and an Italian beef. Glory Days.    

3. Transfer

Of the 30 or so times I’ve eaten at Transfer, I’d say 29 of them I’ve eschewed all normal pies, disregarded all pasta or apps, ignored the menu or anything the waiter was saying or what anyone else at the table might want, really, in tunnel-vision favor of the simply named, boldly furnished Garlic Lovers. It is a special of aromatic, crushed bulb bombardment, almost stunt-like in essence, that somehow holds together. Sturdy enough to steer with one hand, the pleasantly dusty and charred bottom still has a doughy, Southern Italian-leaning chewiness. The decadent top is garlic sauce svelty, with pepperoni and sausage and cheese chunkily clattering together, as delightful black air bubbles adorn the edges, indicating artisanal-ness, craft pizza lineage, a really hot oven. But you don’t need to read too deep, or too far past the pizza’s name—overall this is an oily, pungent affront to subtlety and fresh breath. But garlic, they say—-and what are we but the collection of what they’s we believe?—is a natural antimicrobial agent. And we’re all six feet apart anyways. Actually, after four slices, I’m wondering if Fauci and the lot of health-advising acronyms are really right: is six enough?  

2. Tenuta’s

A recent takeout phone call to Tenuta’s, where I ordered my usual—Diavola, no pineapple—was met with this:

“You can’t do that, the pineapple makes the diavola.” 

“Oh. I, uh, disagree.”

“You know what, let’s not do this right now.”

Tenuta’s is that kind of place. The shaded Clement Ave brick corner spot of pasta and pizza and cozy classiness and classy coziness is the type of place Tony might take a goomah one night and Carmela the next. Tenuta’s To Go continues the tradition from a Howard Avenue counter-only outpost, more conducive to our house-car-back-to-bottle-of-sanitizer cycle of now. But from either there is a standard gamut of specials and absurd glut of crust offerings: thin, virgin, deep, stuffed, some house pies come in triangles, some in imperfect squares. It’s like one of those Strengths Finder personality tests of endless combinations new employers make you take to find out precisely which type of pot-stirrer you will become. I always default to a pepperoni and giardiniera and cream cheese thin, a square-cut beaut, indicating the recessive gassy guy-from-Chicago trait. Balanced, zesty, spicy, creamy, it is everything I hope for on the precious, too few pizza nights of existence. But there are similar satisfaction points up and down the board: the basil-y freshness of a margherita, an olive oil sauce holding ham and pepperoni and garlic on the house special, a mis-order even found me enjoying the pleasant carb overload of a “virgin” crust, redolent of pan pizza or something from Detroit. You’d think they might specialize, defer somehow to the simpler ways of the old country. It’s almost too much, like life—the options, the anxieties, the distractions, the food narcotics necessary for real world-dimming, dulling. But you settle in, eventually, you know your order, come to know yourself and the shape of your DIY haircut-framed mug in the mirror, the spirit within said order. And, soon, with time and gut-work, then you know the voice on the other end of the line, and, even in quarantine, the gravy of a Sunday gathering can be part and parcel and pepperoni with a little good natured jabbing, some convivial ball-busting that hides, that hints at, care and love.    

1. Fixture

Even if you believe, rightly, that there are no guilty pleasures in life, there can still often be times of feeling like you are cheating a bit, calorically. Like, say, when enjoying Taco Bell sober, or scarfing Totino’s pizza rolls well into your 30’s, or driving through a Wendy’s and eating in your car, by yourself, removed from any identifiable meal time, just doing it because dammit and because you can. Sometimes you might know that notion, back behind the base lizard brain, of just feeling bad about existing as a stereotypical fat American. Ordering cream cheese—so rich, so creamy—atop a well made pizza feels this way, and yet, the “Great Lakes Distillery”—extra sauce, pepperoni, cream cheese wedges—keeps calling me back. Or at least keeps picking up when I call. 

And there they are: creamy black-speckled corpuscles of gooey cheese comfort, squishing softly, almost a bit curdy, marshmallow-y, stretching, existing in that perfect cheese nirvana state of half-melt. They are model contrasts to the salty oven char on the liberal toss of near-burnt pepperoni. Beneath a vibrant, herbaceous marinara mixes with well-ratioed mozz, the kind of top where you can’t fully tell if the sauce or cheese were put on first, as they gel together, taking turns, like pass-first teammates that make deep championship runs, that reign supreme on a top-five pizza list. The crust seemingly has an application of anti-flop finish, good hold that is toothy and strong without getting in the way. So it’s a bit Chicago, afterall, and also a bit that they just seem to use higher quality ingredients than so many old school joints, the places phoning it in, doing it the way it’s always been done, forgetting what we all too prominently remember now: that tomorrow is no guarantee. But they are also big on the homemade hot honey siding offer, a move straight out of Greenpoint, or whatever is the new Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Honey should have no place on pizza. Or so I think, for ⅞’s of every first piece. But, actually, wait another bite—sure it does. Let’s all not think about it right now. It is honey, it has creeping zing finish, and that different flavor profile quality that makes life and another endless day of dread, a day no different than yesterday, worth it. So, for now, anyways, let’s dip our crusts bits endlessly until we’re beyond stuffed. 

When they throw open the French takeout windows, even despite the masks, despite the fact my paranoia makes me insist on paying ahead of time over the phone to limit contact, despite the fact that this makes me need to call back and get their Venmo so I can send more money to fix my non-existent tip, Fixture’s pickup window really has been a lifeline of sorts since mid-March. Whether it’s the pizza or the wings or the chicken parm sandwich, it’s a satisfying reminder that there is some delicious humanity still pulsing on quiet 2nd Street. On all of our graveyard-quiet streets. And next week, maybe, for sure, pizza delivery, like normal, can return to our house. “Be brave,” all the books I read to my daughter seem to teach, implicitly or otherwise, they echo back at me in the sound of my own voice. And one day we will. Or else, we won’t. And maybe, years from now, when she’s old enough to grown-up talk and have thoughts and observations and real life queries, when she’s old enough for these loathsome days to be the old days, she’ll ask why we always have to go pick up the pizza. And I’ll just gaze distantly out the window like grandma might have, had I wondered, or like a character in a Tom Waits or John Prine song. Or, better, she won’t ask, will just chalk it up to the personality scars of an old, damaged man, and then we’ll be able to focus only on the pizza.

[frangipanidownunder]

Wherever You Take Me

FrangipaniMuse has let me down recently. So I made myself dig this story out. It was a 60 minute word vomit inspired by a chat on @lepus-arcticus blog about what music Mulder and Scully might have listened to when they were younger. 

This is set in Glastonbury in 1984. It’s total AU nonsense. But it took me back to my youth and to my country of birth. Tagging @today-in-fic and @fictober

She sunk down behind the tee-pee and scraped the crust off the bottom of her sandals. Joan Baez was singing Diamonds and Rust and she knew Missy would be swaying along.

              “I don’t know about you, but I’m waiting for Billy Bragg.”

              She turned towards him. “I saw two shooting stars last night, I wished on them but they were only satellites.”

              He sat in front of her, long feet sticking out from under his ripped denim hems. He chewed on a blade of grass. “I don’t want to change the world, I’m not looking for a new England.”

              The first drops of rain fell from the brooding sky. “What are you looking for?” She felt the breath hitch in her chest, a symptom of her startling boldness. Missy would be grinning so hard if she could see her little sister exchanging song lyrics and bad pick-up lines with a dark and moody fellow American.

              “Someone to wash the mud out of my clothes and work out what the hell I was thinking when I agreed to come to a field in the middle of Somerset to camp and eat out of cans. They don’t even do S’mores. It’s practically prehistoric here.”

              “I’ve got Graham crackers in my tent and there’s plenty of chocolate,” she said. “If you can find some marshmallows, perhaps we can have a real American campfire.”

              “Don’t you have plans…I don’t know your name.”

              She lifted her arm towards the stage behind her. “My sister’s fallen in love for the third time in two days. She won’t remember that she promised to cook dinner tonight. I’m Dana.”

               He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Mulder.” Energy fizzed through her veins. His smile was a memory-maker. His fringe flopped into his eyes and dark stubble defined his strong jaw. Those lips, the unreadable eyes, she felt herself blushing as he held her gaze. “My on-again, off-again girlfriend is off-again, on-again with her other boyfriend. So, I would be honoured to share my tin of Heinz baked beans with you. I even have cheese – real West Country cheddar to melt on the top. If you like that kind of thing.”

              She thought she might.

“Do you like the Smiths, Dana?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard anything they’ve sung.”

“If you want something to do after baked beans, they’re on. We can go wherever we please and everything depends on how near you stand to me.” His voice was golden-gravel.

“Sorry?” she whispered.

“And if the people stare, then the people stare, Oh, I really don’t know and I really don’t care. Lyrics from hand in glove. Johnny Marr and Morrissey are poets. Their words really resonate with me, you know?” He bumped his fist against his heart and looked away to the rolling clouds. “England is a paradox, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“Polite and clever, proud but humble, clever but contained, pretty in a way like no other, she’s the ideal woman; but she’s surrounded by a bitter sea and constantly battling the demons of tradition. She is both a queen and a princess. She’s history and charm and hope and hell.”

“Are you talking about your girlfriend or this country?”

He twisted the blade of grass in his fingers and laughed. “Sometimes, I’m not sure but I am certain that you’ll love the Smiths so I’d be honoured if you’d join me. Your sister might fall out of love and be in need of some poetic metaphor to mourn to tonight.”

She put her sandals back on and stood up, feeling small in his presence. “My sister won’t spend too much time mourning. She bounces back pretty quickly.”

“Resilience is a great quality.” He put a hand on the small of her back. “What do you do, Dana?”

“I’m at medical school, what about you?”

“I’m at Oxford, psychology.”

“And yet you don’t know why you’re here?”

His face softened. “I think I’m escaping.”

A couple wandered past, entwined and giggling. They stumbled into a tent a few spots down. The canvas shuddered. Then they scrambled out, laughing even louder. “I think that’s what most people here are doing. The aroma is always…somewhat…escapist.”

He laughed again. “I think there is a natural tendency for dreaming and fantasising about a way of life that is totally different to our own, don’t you think? I mean, when I look at the stars I wonder what’s out there. Who’s out there.”

“I think about energy requirements and asteroids and black holes.”

His mouth curved. “You don’t believe?”

“In what?”

“Life outside of earth?”

She shook her head. “Life on this planet is hard enough to cope with, don’t you think?”

Turning, he crawled into his tent and from the darkened inside, beckoned to her. “I’d like to show you something.”

Missy would have cackled at that one, but his face seemed so genuine, his eyes held such intelligence, that she got up and walked after him. He was rifling through a bag and she looked around the tent, luggage spilling out clothes, books piled high. He turned around and showed her a photo. In it, a boy and girl were smiling to the camera.

“Me and my sister. She was taken, when she was eight and I was twelve.”

“Taken?” Her heart pounded and she ran a finger over the image. A grainy shot of a girl who was no longer in his life. A child, disappeared. But here, in this photo, always smiling. Always reminding him of her existence. Kept in perfect innocence by a chain-reaction of chemicals on paper.

“You asked me earlier why I was here, why I’m escaping? She’s why.”

He offered her a beer and she took it. They listened to the muffled music as he cooked her beans with West Country cheddar. He chatted about his sister, the fateful night, the emotional fall-out, his parents’ relationship. She talked about her sister and brothers, wanting to make her father proud, her hopes and dreams.

The beer was warm but making her ears tingle and her skin buzz. He lit up a joint and they shared it. “Marriage and babies and a white picket fences? That surprises me, Dana.”

“Why?”

“You seem cut out of a different cloth. I don’t know,” he rubbed his face and inhaled. “This is going to sound all wrong, but I think you are here to do something extraordinary in the world.”

She let out a surprised giggle. “Like what?”

He leant in and she could smell his cologne, the weed, his maleness. Turning, their lips caught and he tasted the same, of musk and possibilities. When he pulled back he had a strange smile on his face. “Like you’re going to mean something to someone, like you’re going to be the one soul that will help this person to truly live, like you’re going to be powerful in an unexpected way.”

Their lips joined again and he pulled her hard towards him. The music was lifting outside and voices rumbled by, singing, laughing, shouting. He pulled her to the sleeping mat, covered in a blue sleeping bag.

She bit her lip. “What about your girlfriend?”

“Who?”

“What about the Smiths?”

“I predict that 1984 is just the start of their journey. We’ll see more of them.”

His hands were already tugging at her top and she sighed out, giving in to the pure joy of her heightened state.

“Where are you going, Mulder? On your journey?”

His hands grazed her nipples and his teeth brushed her neck. She didn’t really want to hear his answer. She wanted to experience it. After a while, he pulled back and grinned.

“Wherever you take me, Dana.”