#one jar is pickled cucumbers

[rainbowbarnacle]

I'M BACK ON MY PICKLE NONSENSE AGAIN :D

[farcillesbian]

btw bean sprouts and zucchini both pickle sooooo nicely I need to make more!!!!!

[pears-trinkets]

I really dont get people who dont like mushrooms... I just bit into one I sautéed and literally moaned really loud

[missmielyhoran]

Oreos and Pickles

in which you spent 2 years with Harry and a grocery store trip makes you realize it was all secondary...

[Warning- Just angst, fluff if you like close your eyes ig, pregnancy cravings, complicated feelings and a very awful grocery store trip]

A/N- Don't even ask me where these sad things even come from

Masterlist

*****

"Why do they have Oreos so far back?!" You whined as you walked down the lines and lines of grocery racks. Harry laughed beside you and slid one of his arms around your waist while other held onto the trolley.

"Why don't you stay here and choose which pickle you want, and I will be back with your oreos, okay?" Harry said, and you nodded quickly, ready to go home as quickly as you could. Harry gave you a kiss on the forehead and walked forward while you chose from the plathora of pickles.

This pregnancy has made you weird. You used to be one of those people who would make faces while seeing pregnant people eat weird things like cucumber and ice cream and now you're one of those people and your weird craving of the month has been oreos and pickles.

You sighed and took out two jars of lemon pickles and decided to just walk towards your boyfriend since he was taking ages to get a packet of oreos.

As Harry came into your view, so did someone else.

"So how have you been?" You heard them ask to your boyfriend who was picking on loose threads of his sweater, which was one of his nervous ticks.

You quickly moved towards him, thinking he might need comforting. Harry wasn't very talkative person even ordering his coffee gave him so much anxiety that he brought an overpriced coffee machine. So, you didn't think much of it.

"Hey babe, you found oreos?" you asked as you came to stand beside him. The person's eyes went from him to you, and it's then you realized that they both were wearing the same shocked nervous expression.

"Yeah- um here" He took the jars from your hands and put them in the trolley with oreos.

"Who's this?" You whisper asked, not wanting to be rude if this was someone you already knew. It was hard for you to remember people, especially their names. That's why you and Harry fit so perfectly, he would remember people for you while you talked wherever he couldn't.

A perfect team as he called it.

"Hi I'm Allison" She put forward her hand to shake and you took it shaking it happily.

"She" He cleared his throat, "She's my ex wife" He said the last part almost in whisper. You eyes widened but you quickly got your shit together.

"Oh it's so nice to meet you, I'm Y/N" You introduced yourself. Harry never talked about his ex wife, you knew he was divorced and very much depressed considering you two met at the same therapist office when the receptionist accidentally appointed both of you at the same time.

Anytime you would ask, a certain sadness would cloud over his eyes, and his face would morph into a frown, so you stopped asking. If he wanted, he would tell you at his own pace.

The two of them kept staring at each other, not saying a word, and you felt a bit uncomfortable. It might have been your pregnancy hormones you didn't know, but an unknown deep pit sat in your heart.

"I will get some more things over there" You said quickly walking over to the other side still in earshot before Harry could say anything.

You winced as your sore feet ached more from walking.

You just wanted to go home.

"How have things been?" Allison asked but your back was turned so you couldn't see Harry's reaction.

"Good ya really good" He replied and you felt a relief. Why? You didn't know. You trusted Harry he would never break your trust.

"That's good to hear Harry" She replied and from her tone you guessed she was smiling maybe not really but a smile indeed.

"What about you? When did you move here?" He asked and that's when you turned not fully but enough you could look at him sideways.

They were still in their own bubble, eyes locked but neither of them were in present you saw the longing in them, maybe in both of them but you could only speak of Harry's.

You had never felt so out of place near your own boyfriend. For a second, it felt like you didn't belong here like you had separated two lovers, but you did neither of those things. You weren't some other woman who stole someone else's man, but why did it feel like you were?

"I'm just here for a work meeting. It went well so" You heard her speak signaling to the wine in her trolley.

"That's great. Congratulations" Harry said, you picked out more things from the racks you didn't need but you would rather walk home than go in between that awkward conversation.

But you had to cause now your hands were full. You sighed and started walking back, Harry gave you the gentle smile he always give when you wince while the woman's eyes followed your every move.

You stood beside Harry again and saw her eyes flick down to your grocery trolley when Harry put down the stuff you brought over.

"Pickles and Oreos? You hate both of those things" she said with a small chuckle.

"It's for her not me" Harry just gave her a small smile while you shifted your weight on your feet.

You wanted to go home.

It might have been your dramatic brain but you saw the moment realization hit her. When her brain put the two and two together, her eyes flicked towards you and then towards Harry.

"Oh, Congratulations!" She said with choked words but you knew she was forcing it. You gave her a smile and looked at Harry who opened his mouth and then closed it as if he was about to speak.

Like he had an explanation. An excuse.

"I will go to counter for billing" You said a little bit snappy which you didn't mean but he hurt. The pregnancy wasn't planned but what was he about to say? Why he looked like he wanted to explain it to her?

Harry hesitate a bit, you saw it how his legs froze for a second and now they looked like they both wanted to stay there but you didn't.

You had no hard feelings towards her, but you did feel it was wrong. Like this whole meeting of the grocery store was wrong, a glitch in matrix that wasn't supposed to happen.

But no matter what was wrong and what was right, you knew one thing loud and clear.

Harry will never love you like he loved her.

*****

Harry's Pov

it was in my drafts, so I posted it cause I haven't posted in very long.

I've almost settled in my room, but still, it's new, and I have so many classes. I hope you guys understand that I can't update very much. I will update the stages of grief, and I'm so so sorry it's delaying sm.

I love you hope you understand<3

Taglist- @tenaciousperfectionunknown @that-daydream-look @harryspirate @tiaamberxx @lomlhstyles @vmpellie @sunshinemoonsposts @jayde515 @yeehawbrothers @sleutherclaw @ikea2-0 @thechaoticjoy @astridcommings @grapejuicebluesrry @gxbiqs

Please Like, Comment and Reblog.

And tell me how this was here♡

[petermorwood]

Wow-Wow Sauce

For @redwineand12gaugeshells... :->

In fact that bottled sauce (and nervousnigels) no longer exists, and in any case its principal ingredients of (squints) horseradish and mustard are way off base.

Wow Wow sauce was meant to go with boiled beef, and since a major ingredient was the meat's broth *, it was more like a pan gravy made at the end of cooking, than something intended to go into / come out of a jar in the preserves cupboard.

* 1817 was well before stock / bouillon cubes, however "portable soup" was a Known Thing and could be a possible alternative. The recipe is specific about using fresh broth, but here's how to make portable soup, because You Never Know.

Real Wow Wow sauce had no hyphen, no sulphur, no saltpetre and definitely no grated wahoonie, though some "real" ingredients of the Discworld version - mangoes, figs, asafoetida, anchovy - suggest Terry was taking inspiration from labels in his own kitchen, such as those on HP Sauce, Worcestershire Sauce and Yorkshire Relish.

*****

Dr Kitchiner's "The Cook's Oracle" is available online from Gutenberg (the 1833 American adaptation) as well as a PDF of the 1822 UK Third edition from Internet Archive.

Here's his recipe - whose title, for extra interest, includes the original name for what became "Bully Beef":

The good doctor's "pickled cucumbers" would have been vinegared like cornichons or gherkins, not brined like dill pickles. In addition, pickled walnuts are easier to find than they used to be; even the Tesco supermarket chain carries them...

...as well as mushroom ketchup.

You'd probably still need to make the other herb vinegars and the shallot wine (based on dry sherry), but those are easy, just a matter of steeping the herbs in the liquid for a week or so then straining off and bottling the flavoured fluid.

Another useful ingredient for period cooking is anchovy sauce, which is less, er, emphatic than full-on anchovy essence. You could always scale up if you like the taste.

This also has the advantage of being a pleasant - if you like fishiness - sauce in its own right; try a teaspoonful in a tablespoonful of EV olive oil then tossed with hot pasta. Yum...!

This one's from the same company as the mushroom ketchup and the packing clearly emphasises their "period-ness" (is that a word?) The anchovy sauce is a bit harder to find, but well worth tracking down.

*****

Finally, here's a Youtube short of Wow Wow sauce being made and sampled. It looks entirely acceptable, like a cross between a thin chutney and a thick sauce, and would be, to use Dr Kitchiner's own word, "piquante".

As a side-note, that by-play with tinned corned beef was a bit pointless, since its texture and flavour are both utterly unlike beef that's been slowly, gently boiled (simmered, TBH) with halved onions, carrots, root veggies etc.

Use shin or silverside; the magic tenderiser for those cheap cuts is Time (or a pressure cooker) - though you can also add a sprig or two of Thyme if you want...

[calp0sa]

hhello i have no idea how to start this SO i just wanted to say your art is actually so awesome and cool and like inspiring and weirdly nostalgic to me?? like ive genuinely never felt so much appreciation and calming feelings from any other art like the way you draw is so intriguing and its like nothing else ever!:!!/!:? im not good at explaining things but your stuff is just beautiful and cool and maybe im biased because im an airy fictionkin but you’re my favorite artist ever i think ANWAYS IGMORE MY RAMBLING my favorite art by you is uhhh tthe one whwre airy is sitting and there is a whale in the background yay ^_^

too nervous to not use anon option soryydfenfj

holy cucumber garden, you have delivered a pickle jar of friendliness. well i find it interesting how often my art gets described as “nostalgic”, i don’t really understand why but i think it’s very sweet nonetheless…

although nothing is truly lost to time, it just sort of becomes friends with time, and then goes for a walk with it. and you can visit that thing as much as you’d like. it’s still there. if it happened, it will always be there. time is your friend as well, we’re all going for a walk with it. maybe that’s why people think my art is nostalgic; i visited something far away, said hi to it, then started having frequent conversations and pleasant afternoons with it. so when someone says “your art is very nostalgic for me” i think “oh, my art would like to go for a walk with this person. that’s nice” anyway sorry for the nonsense tangent i’m just really fascinated with how art affects people on both sides.

(i should also add that you’re perfectly fine at explaining things. you did a good job saying what you needed to say)

and i think what’s also interesting is that i’m an airy fictionkin as well!!!! your “bias” is resonance; you resonate with the things i make because the things i make come from aspects of myself you’re able to resonate with and i know i’m speaking in tonguetwisters at this point but it’s one of the million billion miraculous things about art and i love when it happens and i love hearing about it happening and I am getting ahead of myself but anyway you’re great don’t be nervous i’m basically airy uncle grandpa

[polish-art-tournament]

photography round 1 poll 2

Untitled by Marcin Nagraba, 2017:

submitted description: the artist's mother in one of Agnieszka Osipa's costumes (ig link)

propaganda: The photographer is Marcin Nagraba. The model is his mom (he never posts her name, as far as I can tell, maybe she likes the privacy?). The costume designer is Agnieszka Osipa. Osipa and Nagraba both have igs with tons of really imaginative pagan Slavic inspired work like this.

submitted by @slaviclore

Jar by Maria Kniaginin-Ciszewska (2024?):

submitted description: color photo showing a leg stepping on two red pickled cucumber jars. the high heel is white, and the tights are blue, lace like with flower pattern

propaganda: fashion photos are a weird genre for me. but the konservēti gurķi! I love them, probably make me feel at home more than any other object, they should be more prominently featured in photography

[mariacallous]

If there’s one generalization that can stand the test of time, it’s that Jews love pickles. They’re a briny bit of respite from a heavy meal, the snack that solidifies the romantic connection between the protagonists of “Crossing Delancey,” and the hook that keeps people coming back to Sweet Pickle Books — a one-of-a-kind used bookstore at 47 Orchard St. on the Lower East Side that also sells its own line of pickles. 

If you’re questioning just how, exactly, one comes up with the concept of a pickle book store —  let alone one that’s become an au courant hangout spot downtown — you’re not alone. Founder and owner Leigh Altshuler, a 30-year-old book- and pickle-lover, came up with the idea at the beginning of the pandemic. 

“I knew [the store] was going to be books and something and it didn’t have a name, and I knew I wanted it to be after family and being Jewish…and I was  just thinking about the lowest common denominator between the two and it was just like..pickles. And that’s where it all began.” Altshuler said. 

The idea of opening a used bookstore first hit Altshuler at the beginning of the pandemic. “I really became a big ol’ mushy weirdo about books,” Altshuler said. “I went into Mercer Books which was closing that day in March at 3pm, and I remember a cop came in at, like 2:53, and asked the owner why he wasn’t closed yet. And I was just like, ‘he has time!’”

“I walked home and I just thought it was such a shame that these stores are closing and who knows what’s going to happen,” she said.

A former communications director for New York’s legendary used bookstore, The Strand, Altshuler saw the myriad of empty storefronts across the Lower East Side as an opportunity to set up a shop of her own. After losing her marketing job at the McKittrick Hotel and getting over a breakup in her shoebox apartment, Altshuler opened Sweet Pickle Books in October 2020. It was both a financial gamble and an attempt to honor her personal affinity for the used book industry — a community that felt especially precarious during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.

As for the pickles, Altshuler and her boyfriend originally experimented with dozens of recipes from during the lockdown by testing out different salt and cucumber varieties until they batched out the first 360 jars — which barely lasted a month. Now, she sources the pickles from a Texas-based farm, and regular customers can swap their book donations for a free jar of branded pickles or buy them separately in store or online, coming in flavors bread and butter, spicy, and dill for $9.50-$12.95. 

Which, for operating in a neighborhood that used to be known as the Jewish “pickle alley” in the late 19th and early 20th century, feels perfectly kismet. Altshuler lives about four blocks away in the Lower East Side, and while taking walks during the pandemic saw the empty storefronts and remembered how growing up, relatives told her about the influx of Jewish immigrants that were able to sell and make pickles for cheap in barrels and pushcarts. On the cross street that Sweet Pickle Books is nestled between, over eighty Jewish pickle vendors used to make their living, which is history that Altshuler is very grateful she gets to inform people about for the first time and inadvertently continue the legacy. 

“When I first opened, everyone said I was crazy,” she said. “My dad kept on saying to me, ‘Oh, if you do it,’ and I was like, there’s no more ‘if’ here, it’s happening!”

“I don’t even know why I had such a belief it would work,” she added, “but I think it was just a feeling.”

Now, two years out, Sweet Pickle Books is a quirky literary destination for locals and tourists alike — and browsing through the store, it’s easy to see why. The railroad-style aisles are lined with love-worn paperbacks that tend to hover below the $10 mark, a disco ball swings in the corner, and the smooth stylings of the Vince Guardali Trio softly murmur from speakers throughout the store. There’s a pickle costume that young customers frequently take photos in, and big names like Harry Styles and Fran Leibowitz, said Altshuler, have popped in.  

To the untrained eye, it may seem like a miracle that a first-time business owner successfully opened a brick and mortar store during a pandemic — let alone one selling actual books amidst a digital culture that mostly obtains information online. Some people think it’s odd that people would even be interested in books anymore, let alone used ones. But Altshuler knows better than that. 

“Everyone always asks me, ‘Do people read anymore?’ But book people literally show up and haul books across town because they love it and care about these things,” Altschuler said. “[Sweet Pickle Books] just became the lowest common denominator where people could go for a low price tag and have a real conversation about something.”

Growing up in a heavily Jewish suburb in South Florida where she regularly cruised around the JCC, Altshuler always considered both her culture and religion an innate part of who she is and how she moves about the world. “I basically had no idea that people weren’t Jewish because that’s just where I was from,” she said. “My boyfriend is from Australia and he had no idea that you get a bowl of pickles with your meal at a diner, and I thought every restaurant in the world had that.”

Altshuler still proudly self identifies as Jewish, and running a business in the ancestral heart of Jewish history has only made her connection to her heritage even stronger.  “I think [Sweet Pickle Books has] connected me to faith in ways I didn’t really expect,” she said. “I’m understanding the themes in different ways,  and seeing the importance of passing tradition on. And so much of that is centered around food, but also stories — and storytelling is exactly what a bookstore is. I feel like it just makes sense.” 

In this way, Sweet Pickle Books became a conduit for tradition that feels authentic to Jewish customers and accessible for those who would like to learn more. “A customer of mine found out that she was Jewish and came to me on New Years Eve with a babka and a Zabars mug and told me that she wanted to thank me for teaching her so much about Judaism,” she said,  “and she was so happy to have a friend to talk to about being Jewish.”

“I just didn’t expect to be that person for someone,” she added. “That’s a really wonderful thing that I feel like my Jewish mother would be doing cartwheels over.”

Incidentally bridging the gap between communities isn’t something limited to Judaism, though, as Sweet Pickle Books is known to attract customers of all creeds — from the older, New York born-and-bred book hagglers that Altshuler lovingly refers to as her “curmudgeons,” to the droves of TikTok tweens in handkerchief tops, hoping to go viral by posting about a crazy new pickle shop. By harnessing the virtues of old school tradition and trendy innovation,  “I really do want to be the bridge between the two,” she said.

“Sometimes I just look at the store and I want to cry because it’s so sentimental to me — like, it’s so real and important in New York history,” she added. “So many people don’t know this was a pickling district, and every day, I’m like, how else would these conversations happen? It makes me look up stuff, and I feel very special that I get to tell people.”

[mamawasatesttube]

an excerpt of the kon & cass genderisms fic im very excited about but still nowhere near done with:

The idea of Kon looking like a girl is kind of absurd, when Cass first thinks of the word. It brings to mind Steph, first and foremost. Brenda, too, though. And others.

But some of Brenda’s friends were tall, or broad-shouldered. Some of them dressed like Kon. The thought brings with it a pang, as always; Cass wishes she’d gotten to know them better, before…

Before.

But anyway. Not the point. The point is, Cass has seen Barbara call people without skirts or breasts girls or women, sometimes, too. So maybe Kon looking like a girl isn’t as weird as he seems to think it is.

She hums, cocking her head to the side. “What is a girl?”

“Huh?”

Next to her, Kon blinks. He frowns up at the stars, then rolls over and props himself up on one arm, and reaches over to playfully poke her nose.

“Well, I dunno exactly. You were Bat-girl, weren’t you? Shouldn’t you know?”

But that isn’t because of any… kinship with the word. No… what’s the word? Affinity. No particular affinity. Or is it connection? Something like that. Regardless, Cass shakes her head. “Barbara’s name. I just kept it.”

“Oh.” Kon frowns slightly. “I dunno, either, honestly. I mean, TV will tell you a girl is someone who likes girly stuff, but that’s stupid, ‘cuz plenty of girls don’t like girly stuff, and I mean, I do like so-called girly stuff, I guess, like knitting or baking, and I’m not a girl. So…” He shrugs, rolling back over onto his back. A moment later, though, he picks his head up and peers at her. “Are you—is this—I mean, are you trying to tell me you’re not a girl?”

The way he holds himself makes it seem like that’s some kind of a big deal. Cass just shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Oh,” Kon says, again, more softly this time. “Hey, I mean—nothing wrong with that either. It’s cool.”

Cass shrugs again. “It’s just a word. To me, anyway.” It’s her turn to frown in thought. “What makes a boy a boy?” She lightly nudges his side. He’s warm against the slight night chill, and she scoots in a little closer with a hum. “You were Super-boy. Tell me.”

Kon blows out a breath. “Hoo, man. Now ain’t that just a fine pickle and a half?”

Cass wrinkles her nose. “What do pickles have to do with it?” She likes pickles. Ma Kent has a jar of crisp ones in the pantry, homemade from cucumbers grown in the garden out back. Cass likes the way they crunch between her teeth and splatter vinegar-juice on her tongue.

“Nothing. It’s… actually, I have no idea why that’s something people say.” Kon lets out a wry snort. “I came pre-programmed with slang and idioms, y’know.”

“I know,” Cass says, and pats his arm. “Pregnable.”

Kon lets out a bark of bright laughter. It reminds her of the stars. He seems so very at home here, under the night sky. The starlight matches the gentle glow of his eyes. When he isn’t wearing his glasses, it’s easy to see the inhuman blue.

“Aw, man,” Kon says, still grinning. “You remember that? I forgot I said that way back then.”

“It was…” Cass tilts her head. “New to me. Memorable, for that reason.” She grins mischievously. “A pregnable boy.”

Kon laughs again. Cass snuggles up to his side and throws her arm across his ribs. She likes to feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

[snailqueenforever]

Bill Cipher VS a Dill Pickle

Bill Cipher drifted through the boundless void between dimensions, his singular eye scanning the vast multiverse with a weary disinterest. The thrill of warping reality and twisting minds had begun to dull after countless eons. The chaos that once fueled his existence now seemed monotonous. He craved something new, something so mundane that he could delight in turning it into something bizarre. That’s when he saw it: a small, unassuming deli nestled in the heart of a quiet little town, in a dimension that had somehow evaded his notice until now. The place was quaint, almost laughably ordinary, with a red and white striped awning. "Bob’s Deli" was painted in neat, cheerful letters on the window. The sheer normalcy of it sparked a wicked idea in Bill’s twisted mind.

“This is perfect,” Bill cackled, his voice reverberating through the void like a sinister echo. “Let’s see what happens when chaos comes to lunchtime!”. In a flash of yellow light, Bill zipped through the dimensional rift, materializing in the center of the deli. The bell above the door jingled as if announcing his arrival, though no one seemed to notice the sudden appearance of a floating triangle with an all-seeing eye.

The deli was cozy, with wooden shelves lined with jars of pickles, fresh loaves of bread, and various condiments. The counters displayed platters of meats and cheeses, meticulously arranged by Bob, the middle-aged owner with a kind smile and an apron that bore the marks of years of service. Bill floated lazily over the shelves, his eye zeroing in on the rows of pickle jars. Each one was filled to the brim with crisp, tangy pickles. Their briny liquid catched the overhead lights and gave the display an almost magical sheen. The pickles varied in size and shape. Some tall and slender, others short and stout…but all were carefully labeled, as if they were precious treasures to Bob, rather than mere snacks. As Bill inspected the jars, his eye was drawn to one pickle in particular…a plump, green gherkin that seemed to occupy nearly the entire jar. Its surface was glossy, and it looked as if it were glowing with some inner vitality.

Bill clapped his skinny black hands together. “At last!” he thought to himself. “I’ve found a pickle worthy of my time!”. He hovered closer, his voice dripping with mischief. “Hey there, green guy! You’re looking… fresh. Hows about we have a little chat, you and me?”. The pickle, shiny and briny, remained still in its jar. Its bumpy surface reflected the light of the quant deli, but it offered no response. No sudden burst of life, no sprouting of arms or legs, no squeaky voice acknowledging Bill’s presence. Bill’s eye twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m Bill Cipher! Dream demon, master of chaos, all that jazz. You’ve probably heard of me, right?”.

But the pickle stayed silent, its green form utterly unresponsive. It was just… a pickle.

Bill floated even closer, scrutinizing the pickle with suspicion. “Okay, maybe you’re one of those strong, silent types. That’s cool. But you’ve got to have something to say. What’s it like being a pickle? Any deep thoughts on life in brine?”. Still, the pickle offered nothing in return. It sat there, looking like every other pickle that had ever existed. It was completely indifferent to the fact that it was being addressed by a reality-bending entity. Bill’s patience, such as it was, began to fray. He circled the jar, tapping it with a spectral finger. “You know, I only come around every one hundred years,” Bill began to lie. “I only ever appear when one of the greatest minds of a generation needs a muse. And YOU, dear former cucumber, are that greatest mind! So, what do ya say? Want me to be your muse?”

But the pickle didn’t so much as twitch.

“Look, you gherkin,” Bill snapped, his frustration boiling over his lie. “I can give you anything! Freedom from the jar, endless adventures, maybe even a spot on a gourmet platter! But you gotta do something in return for me”. The deli carried on with its normal routine, customers coming and going, oblivious to the cosmic drama unfolding in their midst. Bill, however, was fixated on the silent pickle, refusing to let it win whatever strange game this was. He tried everything, such as snapping his fingers to animate it, making exaggerated gestures…he even offered bribes of fame and fortune. But the pickle remained stubbornly non-verbal.

Finally, Bill sighed, floating back in reluctant defeat. “Alright, fine. Be that way. You might just be the most stubborn pickle I’ve ever met.” He paused, then added with a grudging hint of respect, “That’s kind of impressive”. With that, Bill turned away, leaving the pickle to its jar. As he floated off to find some other form of amusement, he couldn’t resist glancing back one last time, half-expecting the pickle to spring to life. But it didn’t.

Bill looked down at the deli’s linoleum floor, defeated. “It’s moments like these where I miss Sixer most of all” he sighed to himself. And with a final, echoing snap of the fingers, Bill zipped off into the chaos, leaving behind a simple, unassuming cucumber preserved in brine…completely impervious to the madness that was Bill Cipher.

[adore-laur]

FOXTAIL

— two lovers being blissfully domestic while living in the countryside of france 🪴

——

LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

The melodic humming of his wife faintly echoes throughout the greenhouse kitchen, her voice hidden under the more pronounced noises of glass jars clinking together and the faucet running.

As Harry hunches over the granite countertop and gingerly trims the miniature bonsai tree he proudly helped grow, his ears tune into Nadine's movements. He's acutely aware of the soft padding of her slippers against the tiles and the slight graze of her robe against his sweater vest whenever she passes by. It's as if she's some soundless angel who doesn't like to make her presence known yet can't help but enthrall everyone with her heavenly poise.

He will often glance up while snipping away with his garden shears and follow her figure as she gracefully floats around the kitchen and pickles various vegetables that will eventually be donated to the orphanage on the outskirts of town. The cucumber she's currently slicing is from one of his many gardens on the property. They are Harry's pride and joy. He plants abundant seeds every season, then tends to the soil and sprouts until he can harvest them. Their primary use is to be thrown into either jars or on dinner plates, resulting in whatever his wife wishes to cleverly concoct.

"Nadi, can you please fill this up for me?" Harry asks, fidgeting with the fragile pump of the plant mister in his hand.

In a second, she's by his side, carefully taking the empty glass bottle from his grasp. "Hot or cold water?"

He smiles dotingly at her lack of knowledge about succulent maintenance. She has more expertise relating to culinary uses for fruits, vegetables, herbs, and spices, while he takes care of the botanical aspect.

"Lukewarm since we've had sunny weather lately," he replies as he checks how dry the compacted soil in the pot is. "Thank you."

She nods and heads to the sink, turning the handle to the left. Harry pauses what he's doing and admires how her smooth, bronzed skin and silky black hair glimmer in the natural light pouring through the greenhouse panels. He often finds himself wanting to splay his hands on every part of her warm body and let his ceaseless love seep into her, sweet and absorbent like caramel drizzle on a dessert. Whenever she innately reacts to his touch, it melts him into a puddle of molasses the same color as the deep pools of her irises. And when the sun hits her brown eyes just right, he becomes entranced. She's his saccharine daydream.

Once Harry is satisfied with the trimming of his beloved bonsai, he moves on to the second task he planned to finish this morning. A woven basket sits beside him on the floor, holding a bundle of eucalyptus and myrtle leaves he broke off from the trees in the front yard. He had already cut a piece of gold wire to form the brittle blades around it, but he didn't know where to go from there. He wants to make a leaf crown for Nadine. However, he's never attempted a crown with leaves before, only with the lily of the valley and jasmine flowers he grows by the windowsill in their bedroom. The two white blossoms represent femininity and sensuality, a perfect blend of his wife's soul.

"You are standing so still, lover," Nadine says, setting down the filled plant mister. "What are you doing? What are those leaves for?"

"You ask too many questions," he teases with a prolonged kiss on her forehead.

She frowns halfheartedly. "Laisse-moi entrer dans ton jardin de secrets."

Harry's neck flushes from the way she effortlessly switched languages. "Seulement si tu me laisses entrer dans ton pot de secrets," he murmurs against her temple, jerking his chin toward her glass jars, all neatly arranged in a row.

"I'm making pickled cucumber and carrot salad for lunch since I have leftover scraps," she says enthusiastically.

Running his fingertips through her hair, he twirls the short strands and says, "I'm making a leaf crown for you."

"Why?"

"Why not? Are you worried it won't be as good as the ones the kids make you at the orphanage?"

Nadine doesn't answer and just stands on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to pull him down for a slow kiss. Harry exhales blissfully and relaxes in her hold, placing his hands on her waist and moving his mouth against hers. He could kiss her lychee-colored lips for eternity if possible.

When she separates her lips from his with a wet pop, Harry begins swaying her to the mellifluous lullaby from the summer birds and wind chimes outside the greenhouse. He grabs her left hand and interlocks his fingers with hers, his other hand tenderly cupping her cheek. A sunrise dance happens frequently, whether it's in the kitchen, bedroom, or garden. Most of the time, they don't even involve music or the ambiance of nature; just their hushed voices and synchronized heartbeats fill the space.

"Are you planting anything new today?" Nadine asks quietly.

Harry smears another kiss on her lips. "Just some arugula and parsley."

What she doesn't know is that yesterday, while she took a trip down to the valley by herself, he planted her a bed of foxtail lilies in a concealed flower bed behind the tall grape trellises. He precisely calculated when they would bloom into tapered pink and yellow spikes so they could be her birthday surprise when late spring rolled around.

Nadine tilts her head to the side and smiles dreamily. "Can I watch you do it?"

"I'll let you if you smoke with me in the bath later."

She raises her thick eyebrows. "You want to get high before noon?"

"My body will be aching from crouching, and I want to relax before your family visits tomorrow."

"Of course, mon chéri."

Harry hums contently and strokes the pad of his thumb across her plump bottom lip. "Let me finish your crown, and then you can ogle at me in the garden, oui?"

——

"Sacré bleu, Nadi!" Harry shouts dramatically when she walks through the patio door, completely nude.

Her curves and soft skin look ravishing under the European sky, and the sunbeams gloriously cast upon every stretch mark and blemish. He notices she's wearing his misshapen leaf crown from where he sits naked in the outdoor bathtub, reading yesterday's newspaper with a lit joint perched between his fingertips. Thankfully, no neighbors can see them in their vulnerable state since the backyard is closed off with a high wooden fence shaded by clustering chestnut and poplar trees.

Nadine gasps and kneels next to the tub, stealing the joint from him and taking a quick hit. She beautifully exhales two rings of smoke before saying, "You started without me."

"Pardonne-moi, ma reine," Harry says lowly as he flings the newspaper onto the grass and grabs her wrist to help her into the warm water. He plucked some red petals off the nearby rose bush to let them float on the surface, and he also brought out some bars of natural soap that Nadine had handmade with excess fruit peels and herbs. She's craftier than him, but he thinks they make a good pair. He grows the plants, and she makes use of them.

Nadine's back meets his bare chest, and every muscle in his body instantly eases with the pure and healing touch of her skin. He spent hours in the sunlit garden planting autumn seeds and sneakily tending to the foxtail lilies, so the tendons in his shoulder blades feel inflamed and his hands are decorated with new calluses. The dirt under his fingernails had been scrubbed clean while he waited for Nadine, yet there were still scrapes and aching muscles he wanted her to take care of. He's not embarrassed to admit that he likes to be babied by her.

"I brought your razor and shaving cream," Nadine tells him, setting the two objects on the edge of the tub.

Harry's lips downturn with confusion. "For you or for me?"

She turns in his arms to face him, bending her legs crisscross applesauce style. "You, miteux."

"Translation, please."

"Scruffy," she whispers, like it's confidential.

A whiny laugh escapes his mouth. "I thought you liked it," he drawls, stroking circles onto her hips.

"It's too itchy when you kiss me." She takes another hit before passing the joint over to him.

"Like this?" he asks before leaning forward to rub his cheek against hers and puckering multiple kisses against her skin, making a high-pitched laugh bless his ears.

"Oui, like that!" she expresses through giggles and a wide smile.

He lightly nips her jaw and murmurs, "What do I get in return for letting you shave my face?"

Nadine chews on the inside of her cheek, her dark eyes dancing over his entire body. "I think," she says while placing a wet rose petal on his collarbone, "you know exactly what I'll give you."

Harry swallows, his eyes fluttering shut. "Is that right, my darling?"

"That's right. You need to behave right now, though, or I might nick you."

"What a shame that would be, hmm?" His hands flex on her hips. "Can't go ruining my pretty face."

She cups water in her palms and pours it over the petal on his skin until it delicately falls off. "Your reflection in the bathwater is turning you into Narcissus."

"That's funny, considering your crown makes you look like Echo," he says, tucking a loose eucalyptus leaf under the wire. Are you going to start repeating everything I say?"

"No, but I'm obsessed with you like she was.

Who knew mythology could be so erotic? Harry feels his cock throb and harden as he softly kisses her neck and mumbles, "Such a sweet girl."

Nadine has an amount of self-control beyond comprehension because she suddenly scoots back and picks up the razor and container of shaving cream without another word. She begins applying a layer of the foamy cream to his scruff, spreading it on his neck and Adam's apple.

After inhaling from the joint, Harry blows the smoke toward the afternoon sky and casually rests his arms on the tub's edge as his wife shaves the stubble above his lips. She looks adorable with a concentrated furrow to her eyebrows and her tongue poking out slightly. Her body leans close to him, the curve of her breasts touching his chest and the tip of her nose grazing his own every so often. Her unoccupied hand tilts his chin to the side so she can work on his cheek. The soothing nature of her movements and the warm water engulfing his sore body feel more delightful than the weed that permeates his lungs and senses.

"Don't fall asleep on me, moonflower."

Harry's eyes blink open and blearily focus on her. He didn't realize he nodded off. A lazy smile makes its way onto his face when he sees her eyes rimmed with red from the joint she apparently took for herself while he wasn't paying attention.

"Tu me rends le bon genre de somnolent," he replies with a slur of impeding tiredness.

Nadine washes off the remnants of shaving cream on the right side of his freshly smoothed cheek. "You ramble such nonsense when you're high," she says, quickly finishing shaving the rest of his face. "Excusez moi. I'm not high… yet."

"You are. Know how I can tell?"

Harry settles his hands on her thighs. "Humor me, sunflower."

"I know because you are hard, and I haven't even done anything yet," Nadine whispers in his ear.

She's not Echo; she's the goddess of love. His Aphrodite, ironically surrounded by rose petals and wearing a crown adorned with myrtle leaves, sets the razor in a safe place under the tub and then straddles his thighs. She knows exactly how to make him putty in her hands.

Extinguishing the lit end of the joint in the water, Harry flips his palms up in invitation and says, "Do your worst, dove."

——

The euphoric high reaches Harry's fingertips as he touches the blades of grass he lies on. To the touch, they feel as soft as a cloud. To the eye, they are feathery and verdant.

The blue and white striped shirt he put on after the bath warps due to his spinning mind, the lines bending and blurring until they make his eyes cross. He and Nadine went through three joints each. Maybe four. Either way, the aftermath of sex while high and then proceeding to get higher has Harry feeling like he's levitating outside of his body. Although he can't complain when Nadine lies beside him, laughing infectiously over something he doesn't remember saying mere seconds ago.

"What did I do?" he asks, his speech slower and more drawled from the weed that passed his tongue.

"You were going on about"—she pauses for a moment to regain her breath—"your dream that you had last night."

"Oh." He rubs his eyes and begins giggling over whatever is making her so happy. "Where did I… what part did I leave off at?"

"The part where, apparently, our thirty nonexistent children were blooming in the garden, and they were all wailing so much, but the only way to get them to stop was to water them."

"Shit, that's right. What a bizarre dream."

Nadine reaches over and pinches his stomach. "Could you imagine having to take care of thirty children? Oh, mon dieu!"

"We could do it," he says with faux confidence. "Babies are sort of like plants, right?"

She snorts and replies, "I would rethink that statement."

He's thinking ahead and can't stop the thought from crawling across the crevices of his brain like scandent stems. "One day, we'll have little snap peas running around the garden," he muses, the words sounding far away when he speaks them.

"Snap peas, like bébés?" Nadine asks for clarity.

Harry looks over at her, his heart melting like candle wax at the innocence that laces her question. "Oui. Tant de bébés."

"Where is my say in this?" she asks with a prod to his sock-covered foot.

He smirks, rubbing his eyes again. "You have all the say in the world, dove. Just tell me when, and I'll drop everything for you."

"When what?"

"When you're ready for bébés."

He sees it. He wants it. He needs it. He feels a deep yearning for the possibility of them having Nadine's eyes of maple syrup and heart of sweet honey. If they'll laugh in three caught breaths like her and have her lustrous hair, or if they'll cackle obnoxiously like him and inherit his wild curls. He'd like either outcome. A lot.

"I think I will be ready in the spring," Nadine says. "I do not want to be pregnant in the winter."

"How come?" Harry murmurs, dizzily rolling over and nuzzling his face into the velvety skin of her stomach, which is exposed below her cropped tank top.

"I don't thrive in the cold, so it would be a living nightmare for me," she says, tilting his face upwards. "And I wouldn't be able to show off my baby bump if it was cold all the time."

"Nadi baby," he says while letting her poke his dimples, "do you realize that if you get pregnant in the spring, you'll be ready to pop during wintertime?"

"I can't do math when I'm high. Too many months." She uses her strength to switch positions and lay on top of him, squishing his cheeks—her favorite thing to do. "But you have to promise me a bébé in the spring."

He hooks his right pinky with hers and says, "The foxtail lilies should be in full bloom by then. They'll be our good luck charm."

He didn't mean to say that out loud, and now he just utterly ruined the surprise. Damn those three or four joints.

"Hmm? Foxtail?" Nadine bemuses, tracing the slope of his nose with her pointer finger.

Sighing to himself, he knows there's no faultless way to dig himself out of the hole he created. "For you," Harry says shyly. "I planted a bed of foxtail lilies for you that will hopefully bloom in time for your birthday."

She goes silent, spreading her hand on his cheek and parting her lips. Harry wishes he could have kept the details of his romantic gesture locked away in his conscious mind, but the way she's looking at him right now makes the mistake worth it.

"My heart," she whispers sweetly, pressing a long and tender kiss to his lips. "My love. You did that for me?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise," he says with cheeks the color of the peonies by the patio.

"Hey, listen. Don't fret about it, all right?"

"Okay. Oui."

Nadine rests her head on his chest. "Oui."

"Oui, oui, oui," he repeats with a ticklish breath in her ear during each staccato syllable.

"T'es chiant," she grumbles, pushing his face away.

Harry cradles the back of her head, resting his chin on top of it and soaking in her presence, which she graciously allows him to cherish. What a wonder to be able to hold a daydream in his arms.

Idyllic paintings could be inspired by her ethereal face and figure, especially when accented by her smile in the sunshine. She could be sculpted and hidden at the back of the most grandiose museum, yet Harry would always find her under the spotlight. She bears fruits of devotion that are seductive and sweet between his teeth, seeds from pomegranates and nectarines coated in aphrodisiacs.

His goddess of love will soon be surrounded by a bountiful bed of foxtails, and if the spring season is kind to him, little snap peas will grow alongside it.

——

[ask-harvey]

*flirting with you* I have three different jars set up to make my own pickles, in a variety of different types of vegtable and and brine, ranging from a traditional chinese pickling setup with hot peppers, radishes, and carrots to a more modern one using cane vinegar and mini cucumbers.

you sure know how to pique my interest.

i'm impressed with your dedication to the art of pickling... three jars, you say? i always enjoy a homemade pickle myself. i didn't know there were so many variations! all of those sound delicious.

[angelmush]

been a while since i made one of these and ppl seemed to enjoy them, but here are my cooking endeavors this week:

- made a couple of easy weekday pasta dishes w pesto (finding it tough to go back to the jarred stuff after a streak of making my own). i made 2 different ones w varying things, crumbles of goat cheese or bacon or broccoli or slivers of asparagus or buttered oyster mushrooms or lemon, generally whatever green-ish thing that was looking sad in the fridge

- had a couple of sort of tasty but mostly sad fried fish sandwiches from frozen cod filets i had purchased on accident. used my favorite pickle chips and kewpie mayo and soft white burger buns, pretty much every other element was better than the fish itself which made for a not very delicious dinner but one that got the job done lol

- a plush vanilla layer cake w blackberries swirled into the batter and topped w a vibrant homemade lemon curd and clouds of whipped cream mascarpone frosting and deep purple sugared smashed blackberries and their juices. stained my fingers but was sticky and delicious and summery, would have been great for a tea party if i’d had one to go to

- i made 2 discs of pie dough, one i popped in the freezer for a future cherry pie (my gf’s request) and one for a gruyère, spinach, sausage quiche im making for dinner tonight bc i have an abundance of eggs and a deep love of breakfast food

- i prepped a chicken for roasting tomorrow, it’s now resting uncovered and spatchcocked in my fridge, coated thickly w a rotisserie inspired blend of spices to dry brine. i boiled some waxy yellow potatoes to make it easier to roast them w the chicken tomorrow when i get home from work . simple + easy for my future tired self

- will also be making a cucumber salad to go with the potatoes and chicken bc we have 8 cucumbers (not an exaggeration) to work through and i need a cold crunchy vegetable to eat every day in the warm months or else i shrivel up and die

- planning to use my leftover roast chicken to make either a caesar salad or a caesar salad wrap or something for dinner the day after tomorrow, something easy to make after a long day at work and tbh very little brings me more joy than homemade caesar dressing and cold romaine

- busted out the ice cream maker !! have plans to make both a pineapple sorbet and a toasted coconut vanilla ice cream (sweetened w condensed milk maybe? for the nuttiness?) so then i can swirl the two flavors together in my little bowl :)

[witchhazelevesque]

Some scenes for that marvel au where Leo gets abducted by aliens like in guardians of the galaxy:

I think it'd be funny if Leo doesn't show up until the absolute last second, like the beginning of Mark of Athena and his crash landing is basically what kicks starts the war.

He'd have to have some contact with the rest of the seven for this to work, and Octavian probably spins it as the quest group harboring an enemy of the state or something.

Also this means that Annabeth would have taken his spot on the Lost Hero quest, which is kind of funny, because she'd be stuck with a emotionally and logically confused Piper and Jason, and we'd actually get some conflict stemming from the differences in Roman and Greek leadership.

They're all angry- Piper because her dad is in trouble, Annabeth because Percy's still missing and Jason because he can't remember a goddamn thing- and easily irritated and about one second away from exploding and eventually they all do.

-

The Greeks probably make some generic ship for them to travel on, and maybe Leo upgrades it with alien stuff.

It's like. Glaringly obvious that Leo does not know anything about the mythical world.

He's actually been raised on stories of the Norse gods, so his knowledge base is inaccurate and misplaced, because like, the Norse gods on Earth are not the same as the Norse gods that he's heard about. But since none of the others know that there are terrestrial Norse gods, that doesn't come up.

So, they're trying to explain that no, the gods he's heard about aren't a thing, and Leo's like… squinting and fiddling with his fork before gesturing back and forth between the Romans and Greeks. "Okay, but y'all thought the Greeks didn't exist and the Roman's didn't exist until now so…"

No one wants to think about this on top of everything else, so they just let Leo believe what he believes. (He's right, sort of, anyway. Annabeth is not going to want to admit as much when she learns about what Magnus is up to lol)

-

When they're discussing rescuing Nico from the jar, Leo looks side to side and asks, "Are they trying to pickle him or something?"

Hazel's about ready to kill him, but Frank is just like. very confused. "Like cucumbers?"

Leo shrugs. He's had a childhood of threatening to be eaten, so it isn't the largest jump in logic for him.

Anyway, since he's got no opinion about either camp, he isn't opposed to going after Nico, though he does pull out a holographic battle map and starts suggesting some strategies.

Annabeth and Frank are very reluctantly fascinated.

-

Hazel and Leo are always commiserating or fighting over the bathrooms because Hazel's always sea sick and Leo's always throwing up from food poisoning because he's not used to earth germs.

He doesn't realize this is the issue and there's an unfortunate mishap where he tried to bond with Frank by offering him some of his snacks from space and... yeah, that was a bit of a setback on the making nice thing.

-

Percy took one look at Leo's leather outfit and went "Ares."

He tries to let go of this prejudice.

-

All the monsters they have to deal with are like, nothing compared to what's out there in the rest of the universe and Leo is deeply unimpressed by the creatures attacking them.

He doesn't have a bronze or gold weapons (and at least here that oversight makes sense).

At some point, they're fending off some beast and Leo just glances between it and the way the other demigods are fighting it with knives and swords and pulls a gun from his jacket.

It probably shouldn't work, but it's not bullets as ammo, instead some kind of energy beam doodad and the monster careens over a cliff side. Leo just leans forward to watch it fall and then goes "…cool." and walks off.

-

Festus has still been running wild at camp this whole time and now he's like, sensing his future buddy and waylays the quest group before they leave the States. Maybe it happens when the Romans catch up with them and Festus unintentionally saves them/ buys them time to escape.

THIS GUY, Leo is impressed with.

-

They don't realize what the storm or fire line means for the LONGEST just because Leo just never thinks about his fire. Like, he didn't tell any of them about it, he kind of came to think he had some kind of alien ancestry over the years and so it doesn't have anything to do with this mythic stuff in his mind yet.

Anyway, that means that Jason and Frank think it's about them (ayyy frason ) and that's just a whole big thing when Leo realizes what's going on. It would have been pretty interesting if the final outcome of the prophecy had come down to a decision made by both a Greek and Roman actually. Hm.

Anyway, with all of this in play, it might actually come down to Frank dying to stop Gaea instead of Leo, simply because the expectations were different, and that Leo doesn't have as strong of connection to this world or the rest of the seven. Which is an interesting take/explanation for Nemesis's warning to him about never finding a place with his brethren. Hm...

Anyway, either Leo dies, or Frank dies and Leo has to like. Actually, face reality because he's lost someone again and he blames himself for that death and he can't keep running, but it's not so simple because he doesn't know where or what home is.

He'd probably end up going back to space, but eventually he'd have to come back for his own peace of mind.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A fried 'chicken' cutlet topped with tartar sauce and served with rice and a green salad; bowls of tartar sauce and miso soup are in the background. End ID]

チキン南蛮 / Chicken nanban (Japanese fried chicken with sweet-savory sauce)

Chicken “nanban” (南蛮; "barbarian" or "foreign") is a classic example of 洋食 (yoshoku)—Western-style food adapted to a Japanese palette. Chicken breast is breaded, deep-fried, and coated in a mixture of soy sauce, sugar, and vinegar to create a crispy, tangy, savoury-sweet dish.

The method of breading and deep-frying used in making chicken nanban, tempura, and other Japanese dishes was introduced by the Portuguese during the Muromachi period (16th century). Chicken nanban itself, however, is far more recent: Nao-chan diner in the Miyazaki Prefecture of Kyushu is credited with having invented it in the 1950s. Nao-chan's version of the dish does not include tartar sauce, but it is often added to provide a sharp, creamy complement to the savoury chicken.

Chicken nanban works well as a main dish served with sides of rice, soup, or salad. If you're using pre-made chicken breasts, it comes together in around half an hour.

Recipe under the cut!

Patreon | Tip jar

Serves 4.

Ingredients:

For the chicken:

4 Gardein chicken breasts, or other chicken breast substitute, thawed

1/4 cup (30g) all-purpose flour

2 Tbsp potato starch or cornstarch (optional)

2 Tbsp egg replacer (I used Bob's Red Mill)

Water

Pinch kosher salt

A few cracks of black pepper

Oil to deep fry

For the nanbanzu / 南蛮酢 (nanban sauce):

3 Tbsp Japanese soy sauce, such as Kikkoman's

3 Tbsp rice vinegar

3 Tbsp granulated vegetarian sugar

1 1/2 Tbsp mirin (for a low-alcohol version, use aji-mirin; for an alcohol-free version, replace with 1/2 Tbsp rice vinegar and 1 Tbsp sugar)

For the tartar sauce:

1/2 cup vegan mayonnaise

1/2 tsp mild Dijon mustard

2 tsp rice vinegar

1 tsp dried ground shiitake mushroom, or kombu dashi powder

1 tsp vegetarian sugar

A few small sweet pickles or 1 Japanese or Persian cucumber, diced

1/2 small yellow onion, minced

Pinch kosher salt

Pinch of MSG

Minced dill or parsley (optional)

If you eat eggs, you can replace the first five ingredients with 1/2 cup Kewpie mayo (キューピーマヨ).

Instructions:

For the nanbanzu / 南蛮酢 (nanban sauce):

1. Heat sugar and soy sauce in a small pot over medium-low heat until simmering, stirring to dissolve.

2. Add vinegar and mirin and heat for another 30 seconds. Remove from heat.

For the tartar sauce:

1. Mince the onion. If you prefer, you can submerge the minced onion in cool water for 10 minutes or so and then drain to remove some of its sharpness. Seed and mince the cucumber.

2. Whisk mayonnaise, mustard, sugar, salt, black pepper, MSG, rice vinegar, and mushroom powder together to combine. Add onion and cucumber and stir. Top with herbs. Refrigerate while preparing the chicken.

For the chicken:

1. Mix flour, starch, salt, and black pepper together on a plate or cutting board. In a small bowl, combine egg replacer with water according to package directions and allow to thicken.

2. Fill a deep fryer or medium-sized pot with several inches of a neutral oil and heat it to 340 °F (171 °C). A chopstick placed in the oil should slowly form small bubbles around its tip.

3. Coat chicken breasts with egg replacer; if it is too thick, you may need to whisk in an additional 1-2 Tbsp water.

4. First deep fry. Carefully lower one chicken breast into the oil and fry without disturbing for about 2 minutes, until the egg coating on the bottom side is cooked through and lightly golden brown. Flip over and continue to fry for another 2 minutes. Use chopsticks or a slotted spatula to remove the chicken breast onto a wire cooling rack or paper-towel-lined plate.

5. Use a slotted spoon to remove any bits of batter from the oil and re-check the temperature. Repeat with each chicken breast.

6. Second deep fry. Increase the heat slightly to raise the temperature of the oil to 355 °F (179 °C). Re-fry each chicken breast for about a minute, flipping once halfway through. Set aside.

7. Coat with nanban sauce. Place the fried chicken breasts in a shallow rimmed baking dish or tray and spoon most of the nanban sauce over them, turning over several times to coat. Reserve the rest of the sauce for serving.

8. Slice each chicken breast widthwise and transfer to an individual serving plate. Serve with additional nanban sauce, tartar sauce, rice, a green salad, or soup.

[nickism]

pickle jar

bigt x gn!reader warnings: domestic fluff, implied that reader lives in the group house, extremely stupid plot, use of cringe pet names (sorry), mostly gn but tanner says 'damsel in distress' once at the end, pickles word count: 681 a/n: this is the dumbest thing i have ever and will ever write. enjoy.

You didn't even like pickles that much. There was no sane reason as to why you found yourself standing in your kitchen, staring at the stubborn jar that refused to open. You couldn't help but wonder why such a simple task had become such a challenge. It wasn't like you were a weak person, but the jar was testing your limits like nothing else before. The glorified cucumbers wouldn’t even be worth the effort you’d have to expend to reach them.

At first, you thought it was just about the pickles. Although, as you stood there, your determination grew into something more. You weren't going to let some glass jar beat you — not this time. No, now it was about something different. It was about pride.

You twisted and turned the lid, feeling the muscles in your arms and shoulders begin to strain. You tried gripping it tighter, hoping that would do the trick, but it only made your hands hurt. You took a deep breath and focused all your attention on the jar, determined to open it no matter what.

You started to bend over while gripping the jar, trying to get more leverage, but it still wouldn't budge. You placed it back on the counter, taking a step back and glaring at it as if it might suddenly open that way. You couldn't believe that a simple jar of pickles had become such an obstacle in your day.

You had always been able to conquer any challenge, but now this jar was defying you. You refused to let it win. You knew that you had what it took to get it open, and you were going to do whatever you had to for it to happen.

“If looks could kill…” You looked up, seeing Tanner leaning nonchalantly against the doorway. He looked amused.

“I don’t need help.” You dismissed him before he could start.

“Oh, no, don’t mind me, babe.” He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence before crossing them over his chest. “Just enjoying the view.”

“You’re hilarious.” You said sarcastically, trying to keep a straight face. He had a way of making you smile even when you didn’t want to.

At once, your attention returned to the pickles. You picked them up and attempted again to get the lid to budge, obviously struggling but trying to play it off.

Tanner sauntered over from the doorway, his smirk growing wider. “Sure you don’t want any help?” he asked, his tone dripping with smugness.

You shot him a look, but inwardly you knew you weren’t getting anywhere anytime soon on your own. You handed over the pickle jar, feeling a twinge of annoyance as he took it. He twisted the lid and it easily came off with a satisfying pop.

“I loosened it.” you muttered, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“Love you too.” he said, pressing a peck to the top of your head while still smirking.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help but feel a sense of begrudging gratitude towards him. He stuck his fingers in the jar and pulled out a pickle, taking a bite. You made a disgusted face.

“What?” He teased, mouth full. “After all my effort, I don’t get to have one of your precious pickles?”

“Use a fork.” You said simply, sliding one across the counter to him. “I don’t need you infecting my jar with whatever illness is always going around this house.”

He laughs, slinging an arm around you. “If I’m sick, you’re screwed, dollface.” He leans down to press a kiss against your temple. You turn in his arms to face him, and kiss him lightly on the lips. “Awe, is that my reward for helping the damsel in distress?”

You chuckle. “To the victor goes the spoils, as they say.”

“Who says that?” He asks, sticking his fork in the pickle jar.

At the last moment, you pull his pickle off his fork and pop it into your mouth, shrugging. “Pilgrims, I guess.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “You’re so stupid.”

“Love you too.”