#pane fresco

[radiosciampli-blog]

[pier-carlo-universe]

Alessandria: Panetteria e Pasticceria Sandroni Luisa, un’eccellenza in Corso Virginia Marini 73

A pochi passi dal cuore di Alessandria, in Corso Virginia Marini 73, si trova una delle mete preferite dai buongustai della città: la Panetteria e Pasticceria Sandroni Luisa.

Un tempio del gusto per focacce, dolci e pane artigianale. A pochi passi dal cuore di Alessandria, in Corso Virginia Marini 73, si trova una delle mete preferite dai buongustai della città: la Panetteria e Pasticceria Sandroni Luisa. Un luogo dove tradizione e creatività si incontrano per offrire una vasta gamma di prelibatezze artigianali che conquistano il palato di chiunque varchi la…

[luckymilkshakerebel]

Unfair

Genre: comfort , hurt

Cast : felix ( mention other members)

Inspired by Felix - unfair

---

The night was impossibly quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. Moonlight spilled through the tall, arched windows of the mansion like liquid silver, illuminating a solitary figure. Felix stood in the middle of the grand hall, his broad shoulders hunched as though the weight of the silence pressed down on him. The air felt heavy, stagnant, as if the house itself mirrored the emotions that churned within him.

He was trapped here—by more than just the physical confines of the sprawling estate. His own mind felt like a labyrinth, a shadowed maze with no exit. His heart beat heavy and hollow, a rhythmic reminder of how alone he truly was. It wasn’t that he didn’t have people around him; there were always voices, always noise. But it all felt shallow, meaningless, like listening to a distant conversation through a thick pane of glass.

Unfair. The word reverberated in his mind, a bitter echo of a truth he couldn’t escape.

Felix leaned against the banister of the grand staircase, his fingers trailing absentmindedly along the cool wood. The mansion was beautiful—ornate carvings in the walls, ceilings painted with intricate frescoes, chandeliers that glittered like frozen constellations. But it was a gilded cage. His life had become a cycle of rehearsals, performances, and smiling for cameras, each moment choreographed to perfection. Yet behind every laugh, every casual interaction, he felt the gnawing ache of disconnection.

He was loved by so many—millions, in fact. Yet not a single one of those voices reached him.

The world saw him as confident, energetic, someone who could light up a room with his presence. That was Felix, the persona they adored. But it wasn’t all of him. There was a side of him no one ever seemed to notice, one that craved more than applause and admiration. He wanted to be seen. Not as the charismatic performer, not as a member of Stray Kids, but as himself—a person with insecurities, flaws, and a desperate longing to connect.

He sighed, his breath fogging the glass of the window he now leaned against. Outside, the garden stretched endlessly, its beauty untouched by his presence. He couldn’t help but feel like the Beast in a story he had loved as a child. A creature misunderstood, feared, and alone. Trapped in a castle of his own making, waiting for someone brave enough to look beyond the surface.

Would anyone ever see him for who he truly was?

The piano sat in the corner of the room, an old, glossy grand that had been in the house longer than he had. Felix approached it hesitantly, his fingers brushing over the keys. Music had always been his escape, his sanctuary. It was the one thing that made him feel alive, even when everything else seemed to drain him.

He sat down and played a few tentative chords, the sound reverberating through the empty space. His voice followed, low and rich, carrying the weight of the emotions he could never seem to express aloud.

“My life is so unfair

Everyone sees me as if I’m the beast out there

My dreams become nightmares

Please give me a break right now

I wanna just be myself

No one can truly see

The human inside me"

The lyrics spilled out of him, raw and unpolished, but honest. He sang of longing, of vulnerability, of feeling like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit anywhere. His voice cracked on the higher notes, but he didn’t care. In that moment, it wasn’t about being perfect; it was about being real.

As the last note faded into the stillness, Felix sat there, staring at the keys. His reflection in the glossy black surface stared back at him, the same familiar face but with eyes that seemed older, more tired than they should have been.

“It’s unfair,” he whispered to no one.

Days blurred together in the mansion, one rehearsal leading into the next. Felix threw himself into his work, hoping the rhythm of it all would drown out the feelings he couldn’t shake. But every time he looked into the mirror, he saw the cracks in his facade.

The others noticed, of course. Chan, ever the leader, had asked if he was okay. Hyunjin had thrown an arm around him, joking about how he needed to loosen up. Even Seungmin had quietly handed him a cup of coffee one morning, his way of saying he was there if Felix needed him.

Felix appreciated their gestures, truly. But he couldn’t bring himself to open up, not fully. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them; he just didn’t know how to put his feelings into words. How could he explain the emptiness he felt, the yearning for something he couldn’t even define?

That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he felt the familiar ache in his chest. It was a kind of pain he had grown used to, a dull, persistent reminder of the void inside him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but his mind refused to quiet.

The dream came to him like a memory he didn’t recognize.

He was in the garden, the moonlight casting everything in a soft, ethereal glow. The air was warm, filled with the scent of blooming flowers. And there, among the roses, stood someone. He couldn’t see their face, but their presence was undeniable, magnetic.

They looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, Felix felt exposed. He wanted to turn away, to hide the parts of himself he usually kept buried. But something in their gaze held him in place.

“You’re not a beast,” they said, their voice soft but firm.

Felix opened his mouth to argue, to explain all the reasons why they were wrong. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he felt tears welling up, spilling over before he could stop them.

The figure stepped closer, their hand reaching out to touch his face. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like everything he had ever wanted.

“You deserve to be loved,” they whispered.

And just like that, Felix woke up, his chest heaving as though he had been running. The room was dark, the only sound his ragged breathing. He sat up, his hand pressing against his chest as if to steady the storm within him.

The dream had felt so real, so vivid, that it left him shaken. But it also left him with a glimmer of something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

Felix began to pour his emotions into his music, writing late into the night when the rest of the house was silent. The lyrics were raw and vulnerable, a reflection of everything he had been holding inside.

“Yeah my life is unfair

The one and only woman I love, left me unprepared

I’m staring down at my own petals falling one by one

And piece by piece

I can’t feel any peace in my heart”

As the song took shape, Felix felt a weight lifting. It wasn’t a solution, not by any means, but it was a step. A way to express what he couldn’t say aloud.

When he finally shared the song with the others, their reactions were quiet but powerful. Chan gave him a long, understanding look, his hand resting on Felix’s shoulder in silent support. Hyunjin wiped at his eyes, pretending he wasn’t crying, while the others simply nodded, their expressions a mix of pride and empathy.

Felix realized then that he wasn’t as alone as he had thought.

The song, aptly titled Unfair, became a piece he cherished, a reminder of the journey he had taken to confront his own feelings. When it was finally performed, the response was overwhelming. Fans flooded social media with messages, sharing how deeply the song had resonated with them.

For the first time, Felix felt truly seen. Not as the charismatic performer or the deep-voiced idol, but as himself—a young man who longed for connection, who struggled with his own vulnerabilities, and who had found a way to turn his pain into something beautiful.

The mansion didn’t feel so suffocating anymore. It wasn’t a prison, but a place where he could create, grow, and heal. Felix still had his moments of doubt, of longing, but he no longer felt trapped by them.

The Beast had found his voice, and with it, a sense of freedom he hadn’t thought possible.

And maybe, just maybe, someone would come along one day who would see him for all that he was—flaws and all.

Until then, Felix would keep singing, his voice carrying the hope that had been sparked within him.

Tale as old as time

Song as old as rhyme

And yet, it was still beautiful.

I made the song based on their solo song in album HOP

let me know if there any mistakes or else

Want to read more you can go to my MASTERLIST

[ilcercatoredicolori]

[ se mi dici dove abiti

vengo a portarti una poesia

ogni mattina

come pane fresco, te la lascio all'ingresso ]

[falcemartello]

produttori di sè stessi.

In un’inchiesta dedicata a questo fenomeno, Lidl, secondo il settimanale tedesco Die Zeit, è diventata uno dei maggiori produttori di generi alimentari in Germania, forse addirittura il + grande.

La produzione è affidata a un’apposita divisione della Lidl, la Schwarz Produktion, che fornisce ai negozi di oltre 30 Paesi nel mondo acqua minerale, bevande, prodotti da forno, cioccolato, frutta secca, gelati, caffè e pasta.”

Alcuni degli impressionanti numeri dell’azienda tedesca:

- un milione di gelati/giorno;

- 13mila pagnotte/ora;

- 50mila tonnellate di caffè/anno

- 47.mila tonnellate di noci e frutta secca/anno.

“A questo punto c’è qualche preoccupazione fra le aziende di prodotti alimentari.

“Se la Lidl si mette a fare concorrenza ai suoi fornitori producendo essa stessa, quali prodotti sarà + probabile trovare sugli scaffali del supermercato?”

Ecco, questa è una bella domanda.

Legarsi a doppio filo allo strapotere della gdo rischia di nn essere stata una buona strategia x molti produttori dell'agroalimentare.

Fonte: (Discount, fare la spesa conviene. E ora Lidl diventa produttore (ilfattoalimentare.it))

"Per quanto ne so da consumatore la Lidl molti prodotti di propria produzione se li può pure tenere, come il "pane fresco" che in realtà è pane decongelato proveniente dalla Polonia Finché la gente non capisce che oggi la GDO si sostiene strozzando i produttori e poi rivendendo a caro prezzo prodotti di scarsa qualità non se ne esce".

Amen

[bardandbear]

The Dread Wolf Follows

Something interesting I've noticed is that much of the artwork depicting Solas/Fen'harel not only has the two as distinct entities, but usually the dark wolf appears as a threatening, looming over Solas or even in opposition to him. Obviously we have The Tower as his non-romanced tarot entry, but much of the Trespasser and pre-release content follows this pattern too.

The only time the wolf is depicted without Solas in the image is his own unfinished fresco in Skyhold. The wolf-like creature here matches the Solas/Fen'harel fresco we got in Trespasser with the same belly markings, so I think it is safe to assume they are the same creature. Interestingly, it isn't actually shown killing the dragon (Mythal), but almost mourning her.

While the simple and popular explanation for the wolf is that it's Solas's elvhen god animal form, I do wonder if the separation is actually more deliberate, especially after reading The Callback in Tevinter Nights. Spoilers for Tevinter Nights and DA4 story details released in the promotional material below the cut:

But here, unfinished, was the outline of a beast that stood over both dragon and sword. This was not the battle, or the victory. This was after. And the beast was not a dragon. The outline alone might have allowed that assumption, but now, filling with black and red, it was something other. The creature was reptilian, but also canine. The snout was blunted and toothy, but edges came to a point in houndlike ears. As the mass of plaster filled the shape, it began to rise, revealing scales and tail, and paws with talons. It looked like two figures painted on either side of a pane of glass, then viewed together, their forms confused. A wolf that had absorbed a dragon, and now stood crooked over all. [...] The limb folded into the creature’s layers, each movement adding to the rasping sound. It rose to its full height, as high as the panels would’ve allowed, and bellowed its name so loud that dust fell from the walls. “I am Regret!”

The regret that has spawned from Solas's room in Skyhold takes the form of a wolf/dragon demon of regret, and later sees a 'glimmer' when it is slain that it pursues. We also know from various DA4 story spoilers that regret is a major theme of the DA4, and that Solas's regret in particular will be a focus to the point where we will actively fight them (presumably in similar spirit/demon form).

For a long time, Solas has been running from regret, barely outpacing it with new plans to fix things that inevitably feed the emotion. Literally, figuratively, metaphysically it has been following him for millennia. It takes the form of the wolf because Solas hates what he has had to do in the dread wolf's name, he hates that his legacy has been further corrupted by it, he is haunted by the dread wolf. The dread wolf is regret, always one step behind him, the tower that threatens to crush him, the reminder of what he's done and what he must do. While it remains, he can never just be Solas. I really hope the 'good' ending is finally freeing him from its shadow.

[lunamagicablu]

Filastrocca di capodanno: fammi gli auguri per tutto l’anno: voglio un gennaio col sole d’aprile, un luglio fresco, un marzo gentile; voglio un giorno senza sera, voglio un mare senza bufera; voglio un pane sempre fresco, sul cipresso il fiore del pesco; che siano amici il gatto e il cane, che diano latte le fontane. Se voglio troppo, non darmi niente, dammi una faccia allegra solamente. Gianni Rodari ************************* New Year's rhyme: wish me all the best for the whole year: I want a January with the April sun, a fresh July, a gentle March; I want a day without evening, I want a sea without storms; I want bread that is always fresh, on the cypress the peach blossom; that the cat and the dog be friends, that the fountains give milk. If I want too much, don't give me anything, just give me a happy face. Gianni Rodari 

[angelap3]

❤️ 𝑼𝒏𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒆̀ 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒆:

“Vieni a pranzo che ti ho preso il pane buono.” Non il pane fresco. Non il pane caldo. No. Il pane buono.

Una mamma è quella che:

- Amore tieni. Prendi i soldi che mi hai prestato l’altro giorno.

- Ma erano venti euro mamma, questi sono cinquanta.

- Non fa niente. Mettili via che ti fanno comodo.

E intanto te li spinge giù nella tasca.

Una mamma è quella che:

“Allora? Raccontami qualcosa!” E mentre tu racconti del più e del meno, lei ti guarda gli occhi come se guardasse l’infinito da uno spioncino.

E mentre stai ancora parlando, ti interrompe e ti fa: come stai amore? Stai bene?

Una mamma è quella che:

- Amore senti che dolci questi pachino!

- Mamma adesso non mi v..

Troppo tardi. Col dito è già arrivata in fondo alla trachea.

Una mamma è quella che:

- Come stai tesoro?

- Eh insomma mamma. Un po’ di raffreddore.

- Hai preso un colpo d’aria?

- Ma non lo so mamma. Magari un po’ di freddo.

- Copriti bene che vai sempre in giro con “ I RENI “ scoperti.

E mentre te lo dice, ti spinge la maglietta giù nei pantaloni.

Una mamma è quella che:

tu potrai anche fare 180 corsi di cucina... Utilizzare solo prodotti biologici.... Prendere tre stelle Michelin... ma i suoi pomodori al riso saranno sempre mille volte più buoni dei tuoi. E comunque sia alla fine ti dirà: “Mah. L’ultima volta mi sono venuti meglio.”

Una mamma è quella che:

“L’altro giorno ho visto un film bellissimo SUL SECONDO“ “Com’era il titolo mamma?“ “Boh, non me lo ricordo “ “ Vabbè ma di che parlava “ “ Non mi ricordo niente. Ma è stato proprio bellissimo “

Una mamma è quella che:

- Non fare troppo tardi che poi domani dormi fino a mezzogiorno!

- Veramente sono già a letto mamma.

(cambio immediato di tonalità che diventa calma, tiepida, felice. Quasi le avessero appena comunicato una splendida notizia)

- Ecco. Copriti bene! “

Una mamma è quella che:

“Amore al telegiornale hanno detto che si fregano i numeri delle carte di credito.” “Ma da dove mamma?” “Non ho capito, ma tu stai attento.”

Una mamma è quella che:

“Amore vai piano!”

“Mamma vado in treno”

“Vai piano lo stesso!”

Una mamma è quella che:

Lei 50, tu 20.

- Tesoro mi accompagni a fare un po’ di spesa?

- Dai che palle mamma! Prossima volta. Giuro!

Lei 70, tu 40.

- Mamma andiamo a fare un po’ di spesa, ti accompagno?

- Ho un gran dolore alle ossa tesoro. Vai tu. Prendi un po’ di carne e di verdura. Poi ti ridò i soldi.

Una mamma è quella che:

- Buona notte amore.

- Buona notte mamma.

E tu dormi. E invece lei, soltanto un po’.

~A. Faber~

[of-tatooine]

DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER IX - CALM

love, which quickly arrests the gentle heart.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

It had all been a blur.

The marble under your hands as the hot water dripped down your skin, cleansing you from your troubles momentarily, turned into a browsing through wool and cashmere for the outfit of choice. Hunger slowly led itself into a shot of espresso and a light pastry warming your insides. Large tires gliding seamlessly against asphalt became heels gently sinking into the private jet’s carpet, the inviting leather seat your new bed for the upcoming travel.

Fingers managed to type a text to John before takeoff, letting him know that there was trouble back home and you had to reschedule the debrief.

He had said he was sorry to hear that.

Blunt corners, concrete mazes of blinking neon light and gray skies of New York City dissipated into endless eternal blue above, tall pine trees lined around unpaved roads, inescapable sunlight through the tinted windows. Sleek, modern edges a mere couple of years old formed themselves into the countryside mansion withstanding centuries, subdued peach pink and beige exteriors lined up with grand windows, a welcoming grand pathway into the courtyard, freckles of snow laid bare on the expansive lawn in the early colds of November.

It was not just this building, no, the estate had been a great compound composed of multiple buildings, each serving different purpose with their stone exteriors, wooden window panes and balconies adorned with ornate ironwork, chairs and outdoor loungers scattered around the gardens, potted plants that would otherwise be blooming in the summertime.

Yet there had been no fences in sight.

There was no need. An intruder would not dare come close.

The whole town knew who lived there.

“Dov'è lui?”

Finding him was the first priority as the SUVs door shut close, stepping down onto the pavement, hugging closer into your black wool coat to keep you warm. The wind up on the hills hit your cheeks in strong blows, waving the hair off of your face as men in suits escorted you towards the main mansion, even more men in suits scattered around the grounds, coming in an out of line of sight as they did their duty.

“In his chambers, signora.”

“E Gianna?”

“On the way, signora.”

“Bene. I will take it from here.”

The double wooden doors opened with their usual grandeur, leading you into the grand foyer of double-colored marble diamond tiles, a circular staircase traversing the towering beige walls adorned with the finest art, collected over decades. An elegant arrangement of teardrop crystals forming the beautiful chandelier hanging in the middle, emanating brightness at any hour of the day. Arches formed pathways leading into the various other rooms of the main building, opening up to the living room to your right - a short look to confirm his presence, or in this case, the lack thereof.

He had quite liked enjoying an afternoon coffee on the velvet couches in there, with you - natural light flowing in to enlighten the ornate carved ceilings with frescoes above, figures wrapped up in gold foil smiling down at you.

“All this art - and yet you shine brighter, amore,” he would utter lovingly at you, through his sips, green eyes getting the best of you.

You had wondered when would be the next time you could continue the tradition in the family estate.

The vivid memories flashing through your eyes, a quick blink would do the trick as you approached the marble spiraling staircase with intricate iron banisters, pieces of early Renaissance art adorning the accompanying wall, each step upwards taking you closer to him - your feet making the effects of constant travel known as sore as they were.

A mere two stories up, the doctors had been pardoned from their constant monitoring for a short amount of time as per Santino’s request to spend alone time with his father in his chambers. Leftover rays of the approaching sunset cast a sparkle into the vast suite through the slightly parted velvet curtains, one of the tall windows left ajar to let the brisk early winter air in. Tasteful furniture scattered around the room along with a lounge area, and a king bed fit for an emperor where his father laid.

Many times he had stepped into this room, sometimes as a troublemaker running around to cause all sorts of havoc, and sometimes as a grown man and a boss asking for sound advice from the man who had seen and done it all.

That day, he was neither. He was only a son, a concerned one, sitting at the edge of the bed close to where his knees rested under the silk blankets.

“Padre,” Santino’s voice trembled against his will, “- che è questo?”

He would ask the inevitable, the obvious, even though he had known exactly what it was. Even though he had glimpsed into his very near future for a split second, the moment his father began slipping the object out of his pocket with his frail hands.

The bronze hues of the marker could have never been bearer of good news.

“For her protection under Camorra.”

The glint of the ever so familiar bronze almost winked at him, his father holding it in his open palm in an undeniable invitation. Santino reached with his hand in an almost ceremonious fashion, hesitant yet accepting of what was to come.

“The High Table would void the marker when, when…”

The father let out a soft chuckle, waving his son off before he finished his sentence, which turned into a mild cough that passed thereafter. Increasing the worry in Santino’s watchful gaze for a moment.

Santino had taken his father’s eyes, he would always tell himself, the sage green mixed in with gray the same shade as his clouded ones. Even in this state of sickness, his father managed to pull off his usual charisma. The man who had been a sound voice of the High Table, ruthless when needed, and gentle when he had to be - dressed in a cashmere sweater, his face clean shaven, hints of pine aftershave in the air. Impressions mattered, no matter where you had been in life - something he had taught Santino repeatedly, and something he took to heart.

He had always thought they would have more time - more time to learn, more time to watch, more time to understand.

The much older d’Antonio had a stern yet worried gaze in his eyes, as if he had been merely stating the obvious. He could not blame his son for not knowing what he had done all these years ago, no. That had been his decision, to help a father in need, pleading to protect his daughter from harm’s way the best way a father had seen fit at the time.

He could not blame him either. Had the roles been reversed, father d’Antonio knew he would go through hell on earth to protect his own, the blood of his blood. He would do it over, and over again, until there was no breath left in his body.

“That is correct.”

It was something completely unheard of. In the world where an eye for an eye was the unspoken mantra across all minds, a marker voided before the beneficiary could pay the favor back would be a miracle come true, something that usually did not happen often. Every favor had a payback, and as far as Santino was concerned, nothing came for free. Even from the ones closest to the heart and soul.

“Perché?”

For a man like his father, who had been at the height of his power with the High Table and millions of Camorra men under his fingertips - unclaimed favors had not been something to wallow over, as there would always be yet another path for a man of his resources.

Then, why did this one seem to matter so much that Santino himself had to ensure redemption?

“Non è sangue della Camorra.”

Blood. The old tradition and the old ways that, for some reason, every single aspect of their lives had boiled down into. The unspoken rules, whispered amongst made men, unscripted guidance that every bound soul had to follow, one way or another. There was no denying the superiority of descent to obtain a rightful place in Camorra.

Camorra ran by blood. Whether it was taking blood or giving, the ruling lineage was sacred - it was the very lifeline that held the family together. A predestination that kept them ruling for decades, and many more to follow.

If not for the bloodline, what would Camorra be?

The old law aside, Santino knew one thing - what started in blood, always ended in blood.

Slowly yet surely, his fingers would find the clasp that held the medallion together, the lights of the crystal chandelier above reflecting on the bronze as it opened to reveal the dried, ages old blood stain on only one side. Santino’s gaze did not leave the sight for seconds, as if trying to make himself believe of the responsibility he then would hold, gauging if it had really been happening.

With every thought, he had to remind himself that there was no hurdle he could not jump over, no task he could not overcome as long as he had you by his side, as he twirled the marker in his hand. That was the way it had always been - yet, it was only a matter of time until he could not hide the truth from you any longer.

He was moving slowly through a tunnel of darkness to reach an everlasting fire far, far away - knowing he would get scorched at the end of it.

Yet, he had to keep walking.

The familiar rhythm of heels against marble could be heard even through the thick mahogany double doors sealing them into the suite, power echoing through the vaulted ceilings of the hallways as your presence could be felt. A kind, yet rushed Italian spoken to one of the guards passing through the hallways, voice resonating through the walls in a gentle echo, then proceeding on with your way onwards.

His father must have heard the same thing as well, knowing exactly who had been approaching them. In his haste, very quick for an old man who had been bedridden for some time, his hands grabbed onto Santino’s forearm to instruct him wordlessly to hide the marker in his pocket, his son nimbly slipping the object of interest out of sight, not out of mind just yet.

“Non deve sapere,” he would add in a hushed whisper, knowing their time was limited.

She must not know. She cannot know.

Not yet.

With a newfound understanding, Santino’s eyes found his father’s - almost an identical copy, staring deep into his soul, emanating knowledge, experience, and on the slightest tint of his gaze, adoration. His shoulders under the black tweed ever so slightly slumping given the pressure of the daunting future where he had to redeem the marker - yet he knew he would do it for you.

He would walk through the ends of the earth with you.

“Take it to him, figlio mio. When the time comes.”

All Santino could do at that very moment, was to give a gentle, reassuring squeeze to his father’s hands and nod in his promise, sealing in your fate moments before you stepped into the room.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x fCadash

Chapter Rating: T

AO3

PROLOGUE

1: ARLATHAN

The evening is still and the sparkling blue lights of the city synchronize with the stars in the sky. Solas gazes out of the high paned circular window, drifting for a time, imagining being up there and not where he is. Here, he is Solas, elected official of Arlathan, and a man with hands full of all these responsibilities that make him ache inwardly for something different. Ache outwardly for what he used to have. Used to be. If only he had wings to stretch and to soar. But wanting and wishing were for those who weren’t—well—him. When had he become such a serious sort? When had he let his wings be clipped, only to settle for the dog whistle of his betters claiming to be equals? The answers are all but lost in the sigh of his withdrawal from the window. After all, it is a night of celebration.

“Why—aren’t you a sight?” Mythal says as she stands before him, smoothing her hand along his shoulder and brushing off some invisible dust. Silk and leather in the darkest blue embroidered with silver and gold. When the moonlight hits the silver just so, it is like a moon reflected on still water. He is proud of his design and he appreciates that she noticed. “You always clean up so nicely.”

“Not quite as nicely as you,” Solas says with charm. A smile.

Mythal beams at him and spins once, the white stitches on the black and purple marbled fabric shimmering as she twirls. She is her own pocketful of stars as the constellations he could map out slowly shift out of sight like they do in the changing seasons. Her dress glimmers and sparkles, swirls in an endless expansive space while simultaneously clinging to every curve of her body. She stops and laughs with a hand over her mouth, fingers gilded with glittering gems inlaid in obsidian.

“I do look rather lovely tonight.”

Indeed. Together, they pair perfectly. Just as she wants.

“Elgar’nan is sure to be pleased when he sees you,” Solas says.

“I do hope so. He has been rather—hmm,” she taps a finger to her chin twice, “distant, as of late.”

“You miss his affections.”

She smirks. “More his undivided attention.

“Ah, I see.” Solas says.

Mythal trails her fingers down her bodice, tapping them against the fabric as she goes. “No, Solas, I can’t imagine you can see.” She rolls her shoulders and straightens her back, smile gone. “Have you yet to feel the way love can consume you whole? Make you into an utter fool?”

The question is a rhetorical one of course.

He has not.

Not like she means.

He’d spent his youth on fights and passions. Adrenaline rushes, once his lifeblood, pumped through his veins and ignited every impulse. He recalls a fling with Ghilan’nain in his late twenties but it came and went like a caterpillar to chrysalis, never morphing into a butterfly. They were both just young and needed to fly. Eventually, he’d turned his attention to the love of music and the thrill of creation, painting frescoes and composing magical ensembles and making friends with the most delightful and interesting spirits. Nothing quite moved him the way imagining did. So he hadn’t made room for the love of another in a romantic sense. Not then. Not now. Perhaps, not ever. His loyal duty to Mythal makes sure of that.

And love? Well love is something to be given, not just taken and what he gives, it’s offered to her. Mythal knows this. Down to the last detail. It is why he’d been chosen to be her closest advisor and confidante. He chose duty over romantic love. Continues to choose it.

“No, Mythal,” he answers. “I have not.”

“Consider yourself fortunate.” The tiniest of smirks. “Love is a complicated little thing. You know like a little hummingbird. Fast, fast, fast it steals the sweetness from you and flits away, leaving you left feeling utterly empty and drained.”

“That is a—fascinating perspective you have,” he replies.

Bites back his opinion on her cynicism. It will only earn him that lecture he’s heard ten times over about living eons and a little cynicism in life is like salt on your meat. Not too much, not too little. Just enough to bring out the flavor.

She wasn’t always like this. Isn’t always like this. But it’s more lately than there was before and even though she confides her marital squabbles in him, he’s noticed the blank look in her gaze and the excess flirting. It isn’t unusual. Elgar’nan and Mythal are moons and tides. He just hopes he and the people will not be dragged into the deepest depths of their discourse.

She sighs and throws herself over the crushed velvet settee with her hand on her forehead. “Oh, I would never wish love on my worst enemy.”

The bell tolls on the clock next to her fireplace, an immaculate gift given recently from the dwarven nobles of House Cadash. A clock made of stone and lyrium, washing the room in a subtle but beautiful blue hue every hour.

Once—

Twice—

A final time—

Solas towers over Mythal and offers his hand. “Come. The others will be expecting you. We can ponder over your musings after.”

Without another word, she places her hand in his and he hauls her to her feet, guiding her from the room, her arm linked with his. They gracefully traverse the high vaulted, curved corridor, covered in moving murals, moonlight shining eerily through stained glass. The clack of heels echoes all around them. Painted figures smile and wave at them as they pass by, twirling inside the scenery. Mythal waves back.

“Ah I do so enjoy these murals. So lovely. Almost as lovely as the spirits who reside in them.” She blows a kiss at the murals before they round the corner.

He opts for silence, though her small chuckle signifies she does not need his words to know his disapproval. A subject he’d broached once before and now knows is not up for debate.

Solas opens the great, heavy stained glass doors before them. Music, light, a mixture of scents, and laughter spill out, an instant overstimulation of the senses. The spiraling spired ceiling is decorated much like the corridors. Elaborate paintings and pearlescent filigree provide an enchanting scene above the party guest’s heads. Magical banners drape across the expanse of the ballroom in coordinated color palettes that reflect the night’s sky, dotted with lights that spark from one end to the other like shooting stars.

“Fashionably late,” Solas says, “just as you prefer.”

She pats his hand and says, “you know me far too well, old friend.” Releases him and wanders off to garner attention from someone else for the evening.

Solas ambles amongst the shadows of the dance floor, sipping at a glass of gooseberry wine he’d accepted along the way until he spots the perfect perch in a comfortable corner to lounge in. Mingling would be of greater value once the guests had at least one more drink in their veins. So he waits.

Solas focuses on the closest pair of elves twirling to the crescendoed notes. Spies the glittering jeweled cuffs on their ears. Dwarven make. It must be becoming popular now and he wonders who might have influenced such a bold fashion statement. He would place coin on Sylaise if he had to take a guess.

“I heard Elgar’nan is only signing the treaty to conquer the dwarves and take their lyrium.”

“You always think the worst of him. Did Andruil plant the idea in your head?

“No. Why would you think that?”

“You have been spending a great deal of time in her chambers as of late. Is her bed as big as the rumors claim?”

“You are changing the subject. And I wouldn’t know. She wants maps from me. Nothing else. If that answer satisfies you, can we get back to the subject matter I presented?”

A sigh and the elves dance just a smidge closer to Solas. Though they whisper, their words are clear and crisp in his ears. “Why do you concern yourself with such things? Can you not just enjoy this moment?”

“It is not so easy for me to turn a blind eye to unwarranted war. We were promised peace.”

The shorter elf scoffs. “What war? There will be no war.”

“Mark my words,” the other says before they dance further out onto the dance floor, their words getting lost among all the other voices.

A few more songs played and a second glass of wine downed, Solas weaves in and around the ballroom. He dances with Ghil. She is far too pretty in an emerald green dress lined with a colorful array of blooming night florals, moths flitting about on her shoulders, to be wasting away as a wallflower. Her dress whirls upon the floor like wind in tall grass, nearly stealing his lead all on its own.

“You look lovely, Solas,” she tells him with a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. She keeps peering past his shoulder to scan the room.

“Thank you. And you look as stunning as ever.”

She doesn’t acknowledge his compliment, eyes still searching for something or someone else. “Might I help you with your search?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “I’m not searching for anyone.” She misses her cue and steps on his foot. “Apologies. Excuse me.” She bunches up her dress and skitters off the dance floor and Solas takes up an offer to dance from a new partner.

A few more dances with the party attendees and then he sees her—Lady Cadash. The woman of the night, ambassador of the dwarven people, with a trail of endless rumors circulating the halls for weeks and yet he’d discovered nothing of her for himself. Nothing true anyway. She stands out, even amidst all the elves. Or perhaps, despite all the elves.

A clamp on his shoulder and his eyes are averted.

“Striking, is she not?”

To Solas’ tower, Elgar’nan is a mountainous refuge. A massive bulk of a man that almost doubles him in height. Shoulders twice as broad. His deep purple robes flecked with gold swish about his feet and appear to swirl in hungering blackness. Like some great expanse of the universe that could swallow all of them whole. His billowing sleeves are lined in glowing white light and his long black hair is pulled back into a single braid, brightened by the glow of his lyrium infused circlet. All of him awe and beauty.

“Indeed. For a dwarf.”

Elgar’nan’s burst of laughter rumbles in an echo around the room.

“Speaking of striking,” Solas says, ”I believe Mythal was looking for you.”

Elgar’nan inhales sharply, forming not a single reply about Mythal. He makes no attempt at searching her out either.

“Perhaps you should offer our new friend a dance?” Elgar’nan’s sunburst painted nails dig deep into his shoulder.

“Introduce us?” Solas suggests, unfazed by his grip.

“It would be my absolute pleasure.”

Solas follows Elgar’nan’s lead. Hands clasped behind his back, and head held high, he catches wind of some of the whispers around him. If Elgar’nan does not gain some control over the rumors, his negotiations could actually spill into war before he gets what he wants.

“Pay no mind to what they say,” Elgar’nan says, as if knowing Solas’ thoughts.

“These rumors—”

“Will be taken care of.” Elgar’nan’s voice pitches lower, like a rumble in the belly of a volcano. A warning. A threat.

“How?” His question remains unanswered as they approach Lady Cadash. A sinking feeling warns him that he knows exactly how such rumors will be eliminated. He just hopes he will not be the one elected for the job.

“Good evening, my lady,” Elgar’nan says. His demeanor shifts as he greets her with a smile like morning’s sun filtered through the window. Happy and bright.

“Good evening,” Lady Cadash allows a courteous smile as she bows her head.

“I thought I would introduce you to my oldest and most beloved friend—Solas.”

Oldest and most beloved is certainly news to him. He holds out his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Lady Cadash simply bows her head.

“Solas was mentioning to me how he would love to share a dance with you,” Elgar’nan says. “Give you a delightful and enchanting welcome.”

“Yes, indeed. May I have this dance?” He offers his hand again.

She wordlessly takes it. The top of her head just barely reaches his shoulder (tall for a dwarf), but she bears herself much the same as Elgar’nan. It’s obvious she could command all the attention of room if she wanted to. A small part of him feels intimidated but only for a moment. After all, he’s earned his place here the same as everyone else.

“Do try to keep up,” she says as the music changes to a tune he does not recognize.

Though the lilt is unknown, his love of music makes it easily familiar as he leads her across the floor. She keeps in step, performing perfectly.

“You are positively radiant,” he comments as he twirls her once and she places her hand back on his shoulder.

“For a dwarf that is.”

It has been quite some time since anyone has made him flush. “Ah, you overheard.”

“You elves think you are the only ones with decent hearing. So lofty in comparison to my people. What is so often mistaken as pride, is your unchecked arrogance.” There is no disdain in her voice but a matter-of-factness that makes the comment sting more sharply.

“An astute, if not harsh observation. I meant no offense.”

“Of course not. And your intention supersedes any impact it might have. For it would be uncouth if I were to experience a negative feeling on the subject matter. I must remain composed and unbothered, lest I commit a social faux pas against the delicate and fragile nature of the rules governing your high society over mine. One negative feeling and the tension between dwarves and elves might blow their diplomatic house of cards down, and I would shoulder the blame for any and all paper cuts obtained from the debris. So, no offense taken.”

“Clearly. I see you prefer to take defensive measures.”

She laughs at that, hearty and full. It brings a smile to his face. “Clever and charming. I see why your charge paired you up with me. You do not trip so easily over your ego.”

“My charge?” He twirls her once and dips her low.

“Is my assumption wrong?”

“A great deal of your assumptions have been wrong. As have mine.” He continues to lead her across the dance floor, avoiding the others' bodies brushing up close to him in the expansive room. “I have no charge. The most powerful mages naturally lead and take on roles but the power is shared. Much like you children of the stone.”

“Oh, no. Whatever you’ve heard of that is a bit more complicated. There are many who move pieces in the shadows, coveting a checkmate.”

“I imagine that must be difficult.”

“Not at all.”

“Are you not in danger? And what of your father? Doesn’t that worry you?”

“My father will either be alive tomorrow or dead. Same as you or I—well perhaps not you if the rumors about the Elvhen are true. But at the end of the day, are we all not pieces on the world’s board, being moved toward some unforeseen but predestined end? Worrying and fretting over my father will save him from neither fate. But partaking in the pleasantries of this evening will guarantee my happiness in this present moment.”

He supposes her approach is rather optimistic, even if he can’t quite grasp it himself. “And are you?” He continues, “happy, that is?”

The song comes to an end and Lady Cadash takes a step back and curtsies. She meets his gaze, expression unreadable. “It remains to be seen,” she replies.

She slips away into the crowd before he can question her further. His eyes trail after her until she disappears amongst the twirling figures, almost tempted to follow after her. It has been some time since anyone has piqued his interest as she has.

[canesenzafissadimora]

Come mai si ritorna estranei dopo aver condiviso viaggi, vacanze, un letto, sogni, briciole di pane, vino in bicchieri intrecciati? Dopo essersi succhiati tutti, fino al midollo resta l'osso bucato di un imbarazzo da buttare. È così severa la vita, a volte.

Conoscendo l'amore che ci siamo dati non ti sembra uno spreco?

Ci aspettiamo qualcosa che non si dissolve ma che tuttavia non ristagni, che resti sempre fresco. Qualcosa da cui sporgersi e riuscire a vedere il cielo...

Massimo Bisotti

[sottileincanto]

Stamattina, pane fresco. Perché ogni tanto qualcosa di bello e di buono ci vuole.

[poesiablog60]

Oh, non sono mai stato speciale, ho amato le cose che amano tutti: il silenzio mattutino, le lenzuola fresche di bucato…

Ho amato di innamorarmi. Ho amato di essere amato. Ho amato di trattenere il pianto e anche di piangere. Mai stato speciale, no.

Ho amato il pane fresco e la perfezione di certe forme.

Ho amato d’amare.

E odiare, qualche volta, certo: non sono speciale. Neanche adesso che è notte fonda

Marcello Fois

[anonpeggioredelmondo]

La ricetta del pane

@finestradifronte ha chiesto che condividessi la ricetta del pane, e io sono in imbarazzo, perché in realtà è una cosa disarmantemente semplice.

Tipo: prendi mezzo kg di farina, un citto in più di un quarto di litro di acqua, un cucchiaino di sale e un paio di cucchiai di olio.

Prima di impastare sciogli nell'acqua un po' di lievito fresco, tipo sei grammi (un quarto del panetto standard), ma ne puoi mettere anche molto meno, quando faccio la pizza uso un quarto di panetto su 2 kg di farina.

Mescoli il tutto e impasti con le mani finché non senti che la massa è perfettamente liscia e amalgamata, servono una decina di minuti, poi lasci lievitare anche tutta la notte, anche se dovesse "sgonfiarsi" per eccesso di lievitazione non è un problema.

Rimpasti e dai la forma, in questo caso ho fatto una baguette cicciotta, e rimetti a lievitare per due - tre ore.

Trascorso questo tempo, pratichi una incisione profonda un paio di cm per tutta la lunghezza della forma e metti in forno già caldo a 230 - 240 gradi per una quarantina di minuti.

L'unica accortezza è fare lievitare l'impasto in un contenitore chiuso, a riparo dall'aria, in modo che non si secchi la superficie.

C'è di bello che il pane può non venire esattamente come pensavi venisse, ma è sempre pane ed è sempre buono, il resto lo fa l'esperienza.

[harshugs]

se avete sentito delle urla ero i che godevo

pane riscaldato in padella, stracchino bello morbido, prosciutto cotto fresco e un pizzico di maionese🤤🤤🤤

[undiariocheparladime]

Quando avrò una casa mia, mi piacerebbe un sacco prendere l'abitudine di comprare il pane fresco al forno e passare dal fioraio per dei fiori da mettere al centro del tavolo