#pilfered blackberries

[mumblelard]

thinly veiled or all sit and no ramble makes mumblelard a very twitchy bhoy

my wonky foot is healing happily hopping barefoot around the house but too much shoe time is hurty

[randomoranges]

me: imma repost all the old fics in order!  me, upon rereading some of said old fics: oh my god no. this can never be reposted again lamao

IAMP

Time Off

 “Jeaaaaaan…. Save me…. I’m sooooo bored.” Oliver bemoaned on the phone. Jean was surprised by the call and even more, by what Oliver told him. He sounded the part, that was sure, but Jean couldn’t figure out why Oliver would be bored.

 “Don’t you have work to do?”

 “I do, but I was sent home and told to take some time off.”

 Jean was intrigued. That certainly was unusual.

 “How come?” He asked.

 Oliver was silent.

 “How. Come?” Jean insisted, partially worried. They wouldn’t send Oliver home for no good reason and a myriad different kind of them ran through his head.

 “It was nothing. I swear.” Oliver was quick to reassure, even though it did nothing for Jean. “I was in a meeting and I fell asleep. Anyone would have fallen asleep. Some of the other MPs were falling asleep, but did they send them home? Noooo. They sent me home, though! They even took my laptop and my Blackberry. Do they even realise how much work I’ll have when I get back? Do they even care?! They’re not helping me by giving me this break!” He snapped. Jean could even imagine him gesticulating as if that would help him get his point across.

 There was a pause on the other line, until Oliver heard a long sigh.

 “You have to stop doing this to yourself, Oliver. You need to sleep like everyone else.” He said softly, even though he could tell Oliver was irritated and very close to snapping at him.

 “For your information, and everyone else’s, I took a four hour nap when I got home and now I’m bored. There’s nothing on TV and I finished all my books. Entertain me, or so help me, I’m going to the store and buying a new computer.”

 Jean actually had the decency to laugh. “Alright, alright, give me an hour, and I’ll be there. I’ll bring movies.”

 “As long as you don’t bring Maurice Richard’s Greatest Exploits again, we’re good.”

 “Yes, Oliver.” Jean placated.

 Oliver put his phone down and sighed. It was a little chilly in the living room and he hadn’t changed out of his work clothes. He made his way to his bedroom, Fred following him curiously. He fished one of Jean’s pilfered sweatshirts and slipped into it, enjoying the warmth and comfort it provided him. He threw on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed as many blankets as he could find and returned to his living room, Fred at his heels.

 Oliver made himself a nest with the blankets and tried to get comfortable. He was so used to Jean snuggling up to him that it felt as though something was missing. He sighed again and grumbled. Fred jumped on his lap and tried to make herself comfortable instead. Oliver watched her and scratched her behind the ears, glad for the distraction.

 The following hour went by slowly and Oliver was about ready to stop for the day, when he heard the doorbell, followed by the door being opened. He grinned, despite himself, and called Jean over.

 “I’m in the living room.”

 “I brought ammunition.” He called back.

 Fred jumped on the arm of the couch and then bolted to the door to greet him. Jean appeared a few moments later, carrying a bag full of DVDs and a very exciting Fred in his arms.

 “You look absolutely bored.” Jean told him as a form of greeting.

 Oliver glared at him, making Jean laugh, as he dumped Fred on Oliver’s nest of blankets.

 “Don’t give me that face. Look in the bag; I brought something for you.”

 Intrigued, Oliver reached for it and rummaged in it, before he pulled out a handful of chocolate bars – all his favourites, naturally. The gesture touched him and he couldn’t help the soft smile that spread on his face.

 “You’re the best.” Oliver didn’t see the faint blush on Jean’s cheeks and Jean was glad for it.

 “Of course I’m the best. I put up with you.” He deflected instead. Oliver chucked a pillow at him, which flew by his shoulder.

 “Then I must be a saint for tolerating you for so long.”

 Jean huffed and put in the first DVD, before making himself some room on the couch. Oliver moved over and Jean settled behind him, wrapping his arms around his midriff and kissed the top of his head in greeting. Oliver cuddled into his side and rested his head on Jean’s shoulder, opening the first chocolate bar. Jean started the movie, rubbing Oliver’s side. They fell in a comfortable silence, watching the screen. Oliver munched on his chocolate, content, and Fred curled herself on Jean’s lap.

 “You have to stop doing this to yourself.” Jean murmured to him, a while later. He felt Oliver tense in his arms.

 “For the last time, it’s not as if I tried to make myself fall asleep.”

 “You’ve lost weight again.” Jean cut him off, a note of worry in his voice.

 Oliver pushed away from him, the lights of the television bouncing off his glasses. “Don’t you start lecturing me about food again, Jean.” He told him angrily.

 “I’m worried, Christ! This isn’t the first time they send you home from exhaustion and they wouldn’t have to do it, if you ate normally and kept a normal sleep schedule.”

 “I do sleep and I do eat. Nobody understands how much work I have to do. Do you honestly think I willingly stay up for shits and giggles? I try to get my work done quickly, but it never ends and I’m not going to hand in incomplete work.”

 “You still need to take care of yourself. Even if you have lunch at your desk, you can’t let yourself get like before. Please, that’s all I ask.” Jean told him firmly.

 Oliver looked away from him and took another piece of chocolate. He was quiet as he ate and for a moment, Jean believed this was the end of their conversation. Once more, it seemed they were butting heads and for once, he knew that it was best to drop it, before this turned into a real argument.

 “Do you at least believe me when I say that I don’t do this on purpose and that I try?” Oliver murmured.

 Jean pulled him to his chest and leaned back on the couch. He hugged him close and kissed the side of his face. “I do believe you, but I still worry.” He answered with a sigh. It seemed to have been a good answer, for Oliver settled back against him. “How long did they send you home for?”

 “Five days.” Oliver said miserably.

 Jean chuckled. “Good. That gives me plenty of time to cook and take care of you.”

 “You sure you can handle me for that long?”

 “Well, we’ll soon find out. I think I still have some spare clothes here, for starters.” Jean pulled slightly on the sweater Oliver was wearing to prove his point.

 “Hmm, you might.” Oliver furrowed his face in Jean’s neck and placed a kiss there.

 “I guess you’re stuck with me then.”

 “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 FIN

 Started writing: December 10th 2013, 7:28pm

Finished writing: December 10th 2013, 8:57pm

Started typing: December 23rd 2013, 9:40pm

Finished typing: December 23rd 2013, 10:05pm

[i-want-cancer-for-xmas]

girl what is wrong with me, i want to steal a pound of saffron for them

i want to bring them armfuls of pilfered sage and blackberries. i want to soak red onions in spiced brine and bring them jars of bright purple rings. sneaking into orchards to fill paper bags with red-speckled pears

i love you. i want you to eat well

[nikethestatue]

I love the idea of Elain baking all these things which she noticed over the years that Az likes. For example, there are apple tarts, strawberry tarts, blackberry, and lemon. And he always goes for blackberry. So she experiments with making blackberry tarts.

He hates quiche, but loves sausage rolls.

Can polish 2 cinnamon buns (with extra icing), and then pilfer another, when he thinks no one is watching. Yet, he attempts to actually scrape the cinnamon off. Elain realized that he likes the bun and the icing, without the cinnamon, so she makes just that, and watches those hazel eyes light up with realization of what she did and absolute delight.

Once Nesta confronts Elain about her feelings towards Az, Elain asks to 'borrow' the services of the House. There, in the kitchen, she can bake up a storm, and the House delivers any ingredient she needs or wants, and tweaks the recipes for her as well. That way she can experiment as much as she wants, without Rhys's ever-watchful eyes.

Cassian is loving the baking sessions, though he is a little perplexed as to why Elain is always hanging out in his kitchen, and not where she lives. But he doesn't question it, because one does not question the Archeron sisters.

He likes the bakes, but it's beginning to reflect on his waistline and he is forced to do extra laps upstairs and add another 30 minutes to his training, to offset the carb assault. Inevitably, he tells Azriel about all the baking, as well as about Elain being at HoW so frequently.

Azriel doesn't want Elain to know that he knows. Doesn't want her to get embarrassed and then stop coming over. So sometimes, he hides in the shadows and watches her go about her business in the kitchen. He especially likes hearing her talk and argue with the House.

He doesn't know that she knows that that lump of shadow in the corner is him.

[salvador-daley]

Tag 10 People You Want to Know Better

Was tagged by: @cherryyy-soda (waves at you)

Relationship status: Married

Favorite color: Black

Favorite food: Sushi

Song stuck in your head: My husband’s morning alarm sounds a bit like Camptown Races and he refuses to change it because he says I’m imagining it. He’s also a chronic snoozer, so every morning I hear it about a dozen times before he eventually gets up. This means that Camptown Races is permanently stuck in my brain and I can’t do anything to get it out. It’s the most annoying tune in the world and I don’t even know the lyrics. Please help.

Last thing you Googled: “Who sings Camptown Races?”

Time: 10.39am

Dream trip: Tokyo. Or Hawaii. Or New Orleans. Or Croatia. I just love travelling. The list is long.

Last book you read: Disappearing Act by Robert Sheehan (which I’m still reading. Actually, I’ve given up on the act of reading and I’ve started listening to the audiobook on my commute)

Last book you enjoyed reading: F*** You Very Much by Danny Wallace. It’s about the psychology of rudeness and what we can do as a society to become more empathetic. He wrote it after a lady was mean to him at a hotdog stand.

Last book you hated reading: I don’t tend to read things I don’t like. I have enough trouble reading the things I actually *want* to read. But I remember having to read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad for my English Lit degree and hating every word. I’d rather have dental surgery performed by Gary Busey than read that shit again.

Favorite food to cook/bake: I love cooking, when I can be arsed. I make a pretty special cottage pie and my lasagne is not bad either. My maple mustard roast beef is passable. I also make this lemon and blackberry bread pudding thing sometimes that would knock your socks off. Damn… I’m hungry now.

Favorite craft to do in your free time: No crafts. Just writing. And I like wrapping presents. I have a big box filled with bows and ribbons and shit. You should see my cat’s face when the big box of Forbidden Cat Toys comes out. Many a time I’ve had to chase her while she trails a pilfered ribbon all over the house.

Most niche dislike: Spitting. I can’t bear people spitting in the street. Go home and spit in your sink, you filthy camels!

Opinion on circuses: When I worked as a journalist, I had to report on circuses that kept animals like tigers and elephants in cages. They all looked pretty miserable. Plus clowns freak me the fuck out. Not a fan.

Do you have a sense of direction in life? Lol.

Tagging: @allisoooon @badsext @hucklebunny @super-unpredictable98 @seanfalco @seancekitsch @not-oscar-wilde @katplanet I don’t fucking know ten people 😖😩

[broodsys]

my pilfered blackberry vines

[vtforpedro]

👀

enjoy a bagginshield pastry chef/modern royalty au first meeting:Bilbo peeks down one hallway that’s relatively quiet, the hum of the party somewhere north of the hall, and blinks at a few men.They are all tall, all wearing black suits and earpieces. There are three of them and two are heading down the hall toward the party, while the third remains in the hall.“Wait!” the third man calls and hurries after the others. “Bring me one of those blackberry cream puffs!”Bilbo uses the opportunity to slip into the hall. There is a door to his left, one to his right, and finally, one straight ahead of him. The one straight ahead is too close to the man so Bilbo chooses the right door just as the man begins to turn around again.He slips inside and silently closes to the door. He holds his breath but the man doesn’t follow him in.Bilbo sighs in relief as he turns and leans back against the door, looking up at the ceiling.He’s very much in love with Erebor, but tonight… well, tonight he is going to hide in this random room and eat pastries and forget about everything for a while.Bombur will not likely forgive him anytime soon but Bilbo knows what he likes for dessert and thinks he can bribe his way to forgiveness tomorrow.Someone clears their throat.Bilbo gasps as he stands straight, clutching the bag in his hand, and looks wildly around the room.It’s a small receiving room with plush red carpet and sofas and armchairs, as well as coffee and end tables. There are vases with fresh flowers and colorful paintings around the room. It’s all very rich and splendid, but it’s relatively cozy.It’s a wonder he hadn’t seen the man in the corner.Because there is a very handsome stranger standing by the window. He’s got a wine bottle in front of him and is peering at Bilbo, a strange expression on his face.“You’re not Dwalin.”Bilbo gapes at him. “Oh, erm… no,” he says. “Sorry, I thought this room might have been… empty.”“Was there no one in the hall?” the man asks.He’s got a deep and frankly, to Bilbo’s hectic mind, sexy voice, and he nearly giggles, only just barely swallowing down the urge.“There were three men but I slipped by them.”The man observes Bilbo and Bilbo observes him.He’s nearly a head taller than Bilbo, with black hair slicked back, and a full beard. He’s dressed in a beautiful black tuxedo and looks… well, far too lovely for Bilbo’s mind to process at the moment.“I can go—” Bilbo starts to say, but the man waves dismissively.“You work in the kitchens?”“Oh, erm, yes,” Bilbo says and holds up the bag. “I pilfered some treats for myself before they’re all gone. Bombur says nothing goes to waste here.”There is some sort of dawning realization on the man’s face. “You’re the new pastry chef from London.”Bilbo gapes in return at him. He’s clearly Ereborean, but he must work in the palace to know of Bilbo.“Yes, I am,” Bilbo says faintly. “Bilbo Baggins… at your service.”The man laughs charmingly and steps away from the window. He approaches Bilbo and holds out his hand. “Thorin Durin, at yours.”Bilbo shakes his very warm hand and tries not to get lost in his incredibly blue eyes. There’s even a touch of grey around his temples and in his beard and…Oh.Oh.Bilbo gasps a little and takes a step back.He may be new to the country and woefully ignorant about its ways, but he’s googled its king before. And Erebor’s king currently stands right in front of him.“Y-Your Majesty,” Bilbo stammers. “I’m sorry, please, let me give you your privacy.”“Please don’t,” the king says and looks mildly disappointed. “You didn’t know.”“Well now the bodyguards make sense,” Bilbo says as he continues to gawk at the king.He expected he might meet him some day, but not like this.“Dwalin will be happy to know someone slipped by him,” Thorin says. He pauses, then smiles. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell him, for his own health.”Bilbo can’t help but giggle a tad hysterically. “Were you waiting to meet someone?”“No,” Thorin says. “I wanted a moment of peace, if you can believe it.”“Certainly,” Bilbo says. “You’re a king, you need moments of peace more than any of us.” He coughs a little. “Would you like a dessert?”Thorin doesn’t say anything right away. He merely watches Bilbo for a time, who feels as if his very soul is being judged, before he smiles.“Do you have any of those blackberry basil pastries?”He really does love blackberries, Bilbo thinks faintly, as he digs around in his bag.

[mumblelard]

the morning haint or hakuna moshi auntie

[fuckyeahfightlock]

2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge 2 - Wish

High summer, the air too still to allow them much motion, a moon-dark night and a sky riotous with stars. John lay on his back on top of a checkered picnic rug he’d pilfered from the linen press, assuming (probably rightly) that Molly would forgive him adding to the laundry chores once he’d brought her a bouquet and shuffled apologies. Sherlock had started out seated on the wrought iron bench John had installed at the edge of the burial plot, but eventually had been persuaded down onto the blanket, but refused to recline and so sat upright with the bench-edge bisecting his spine. John’s head rested on his thigh, and they spoke in hushed voices. The lantern he’d carried to light their way sat dark and cold beside them.

“Look at them fly,” John marveled, as the two watched the silent pyrotechnics of a meteor shower, stars dashing across the sky, trailing glitter in their wakes. “Chasing each other.”

Sherlock raked three fingers through the fringe across John’s forehead and hummed.

“Do you suppose they’re lovers, too?” John mused. “In a hurry to be together.”

“What a fanciful notion,” Sherlock replied, moved as ever by John’s tendency toward romantic poetry in even the most mundane of circumstances. Not that the dozens, perhaps hundreds of hectic stars were a mundanity, of course; Sherlock appreciated the spectacle as much as the weight of John’s head resting in his lap.

John asked, “What will you wish for?” and Sherlock let go a small huff of laughter. He had long since put away childish notions of magic or miracles, knew better than to long for anything beyond the four walls of Stonefield Hall, where he was bound to live and work and eventually die--likely to be buried just there, between the blackberry hedge and his mother’s grave--with nothing more or less to dream of, or expect. Wishes were not something with which he had any contemporary acquaintance, and found he could not even call up a memory of any he’d had in the past. It seemed to him that to open oneself the that sort of frivolous hope was to invite in heartache and dissatisfaction. When life was a set course of predictable routine from morning until forever, why torment oneself with a wish for more, or different?

He said none of these things, instead trailed his fingertip down the length of John’s nose. John leaned up and caught it with a brushing kiss, and a smile Sherlock felt more than saw in the blue-velvet dim. Sherlock asked him, “What is your wish, John?”

In a tone Sherlock by then had come to know well--of contentment and a little disbelief, warm with adoration--John’s easy response was, “Now I’ve got you, my own one, I’ve nothing left to hope for. I’ve no need to make a wish.”

Sherlock tipped up his face toward the stars and murmured, “Nor have I.”

[welcome-home-official]

Even though I know that my childhood with my parents was far from ideal, I was at least happy. The only thing I worried about were the spiders and snakes, and the creatures in the corn-field that I believed came out at night, and the ones that lived in the woods behind our neighbor's pasture; little childhood fears that were easily soothed with a bottle of monster-spray.

I miss playing outside with the stray cats. I missed naming them, picking them up and hugging them, feeding them, teaching them tricks. I miss the neighbors' horses, petting their soft velvet noses and feeding them peppermints I pilfered from the kitchen.  I miss my parents, before things all went downhill the summer before I turned ten.

Springtime was sweet, chasing the chickens and being chased right back, little bloody marks on my legs from where I had been viciously pecked, and Mom chiding me as she cleaned my wounds, and not a moment later be scolding Dad for doing the exact same thing I had been. Spring was also the season that Mom would start to cheer up quite a lot, going outside and tending to her rosebushes-the red, the white, the pink and the yellow;  she was magic with gardening, and it was one of the many things she loved.

Summer days were spent in the tiny plastic pool in the backyard, with rubber duckies and plastic horses, and splashing the water over the side to make mud-castles with-pitiful mounds of wet dirt and twigs that I thought were masterpieces.  At night, Dad and I would gaze up at the sky for so long our necks would ache, him pointing out every constellation he could find, and one summer we were blessed to have seen the Milky Way ourselves, staying out as late as we could.   We'd catch fireflies and put them in jars, and let them go free, and I'd sleep with my window open just a crack; I was too scared of the coywolves that had invaded our little area of Alabama that summer, their haunting vocals keeping me awake and fearful all night, but I had soon grown to appreciate and fall asleep to the music they made.

Summer was the season that Mom was the happiest. When the rosebushes were in full bloom, she'd take her paints and sit outside underneath the oak tree in our yard, and paint not only the rosebushes, but everything else her imagination filled in-between. Mom was magical with the paintbrush, creating worlds that I wished so desperately to visit with her.

I knew summer was coming to a draw when the chestnuts would fall. The transition of the seasons came with me learning to get used to shoes again, as much as I hated them, it was better than getting a spiky chestnut through the foot.

The walks with Mom through the late summer and autumn were the best; stopping by the blackberry bush to pick some for dessert, watching as the leaves changed brilliant colors and floated away on cool breezes, answering the call of autumn, toadstools marking the pathway of which we walked.  When we'd get home, she'd make hot chocolate and we'd sit on the porch with the cats.

Autumn was the season that Mom was also happy, though not as cheerful as with summer. Autumn gave her a different emotion; it made her feel peaceful, and I had learned to appreciate a season I used to find annoying, because autumn meant school.  Autumn had many joys, one of them even Dad could agree on- no more bugs!

The world would go deathly silent during the winter. We never got snow, only a thin layer of frost that would be just enough for one snowball, a snowball you had to use wisely.  It would get bitterly cold, and I'd spend most of my time indoors, reading and drawing, or making up stories with my toys to act out.

Winter was when my Mom was the saddest. I never understood why it made her so sad, and neither did she, then.  Still, even though she wasn't herself during the colder months, she tried to make the most of it, and so did I. We'd bundle up and go help the neighbor with his horses and we'd make sure the stray cats were well fed and warm, with Mom sewing together old rags and useless shirts and pants that were too torn up or too small to be warm, and stuffed them where the cats would hide.

No matter how bleak things seemed to get during the winter, springtime kept Mom hopeful. It will always be spring.

Growing up, I had found that my happiest month was different from my Mom's; for me, it was autumn. Autumn was where I had held my most precious memories, when I grew to love school and when I felt the most inspired.

When things started going bad, autumn was all I had left.

Sometimes I think this might all be a bad dream. every now and then, when the world is quiet enough, when the yellow light hits the ceiling just right, I feel like a child again. Sometimes I wish I could find the spot where time is the weakest, touch it, tear it apart, and wake up on the sofa, and everything would be exactly the way it had been.

I will never be able to relive that part of my childhood again, but I can still create just as good memories now. Even when things are getting very hard for me and I feel like giving up, all I have to do is push forward through the hottest days. I think of the cool crisp air, the changing of the leaves, the world going through its changes.

It will soon be autumn. It will always be autumn.

[nerddface]

Can’t Even Keep a Bakery Running (1/?)

Characters: Haytham Kenway, female!reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1100

Notes: I'm jealous of your bakery. Part 1 of something. (You're here, Part 2, more parts TBD).

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Oh, she was going to kill him next time she got her hands on him. Y/N was going to fire him, and then she was going to make him remake everything, and then she was going to kill him. That no-good, incompetent, two-faced bastard of a boy had gone and mucked up another delivery by eating everything. God, if only his attitude matched the beautiful face she’d hired him for. How was she supposed to keep a bakery running if her delivery boy couldn’t make it across town with intact cartons? Not to mention the fact there was a war happening, now, and it had sliced off more than a quarter of her customers, and her supplies, and her profits! And the crown had threatened to shut her down more than once!

“What ever has the ground done to you to deserve such a look, madam?”

She wasn’t glaring that hard. Snorting, she clenched her dust cloth in her fist and began complaining before she even knew who she was talking to.

“Well, the ground is apparently not interesting enough for my godforsaken errand boy Michael to keep his damn eyes on long enough to—“

Her words died in her throat as she looked up at the poor victim of her complaints.

The first thing she noticed was how he seemed to tower over her even at her full height, his broad shoulders and sturdy neck giving him an imposing appearance. His face didn’t quite match—it was almost delicately featured, high cheeks, a thin nose, soft grey eyes that seemed ageless, a strong, clean-shaven jaw. His dark hair was pulled back and pressed beneath a navy blue tricorn that matched the rest of his expensive-looking entourage. By the looks of him, he had no more than five years on her, just at the peak of his handsomeness. The blood-red tie around his neck gave an almost ominous contrast to his crisp white jerkin and linen shirt.

His sculpted lips split into a smile at her no doubt dumbfounded face.

“Long enough to what?” he asked, his now very noticeable English accent coating her ears like honey.

Y/N reined herself in and continued. “Long enough to get to a customer without eating most of the delivery.”

“I would think that is a testament to your skill,” he responded, as if they’d known each other for thirty years rather than thirty seconds. “Surely no one would pilfer your cartons if they were sod-awful, yes?”

She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, and pretended to shade her eyes to (hopefully) hide it. Something in his eyes told her he caught it anyway. “I-I suppose.”

He took in a sharp inhale, looking up at the sign above her door.

“I take it this is your establishment, then?”

Y/N nodded. “The Vanilla Bea; she’s mine, alright.”

His head cocked slightly. “An interesting name. Might I inquire?”

She drew a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. “My sister’s name was Beatrice. She was the inspiration for opening a shop in the first place.”

He nodded, keeping whatever thoughts he may have had to himself.

“I was actually looking for a bite to eat myself,” he commented. “I must admit I’m quite curious to know the baking that makes delivery boys unable to control themselves.”

The comment brought a smile to her lips, and she started towards her shop. “I’d be happy to help you.”

The gentle tingle of the doorbell helped soothe her nerves, and the smell of the muffins baking in the back room grounded her flighty head.

Just as the attractive man stepped onto the paneled floor, the timer on the counter that signaled her current batch’s time ran dry.

“Feel free to take a look around,” she told him, slipping behind the counter. “I’ve got to go switch batches right quick.”

The man, who was tucking his tricorn under his arm, nodded.

It didn’t take long to pull fresh blackberry muffins from her oven, and she smiled proudly at them. Fresh fruits like these were something of an anomaly nowadays, what with the rising taxes, but the Natives that visited the outskirts of the city to trade in the market were kind enough, and one very sweet old lady appreciated her odd stitchery projects in exchange for a small basket of fresh berries.

She shuffled the ashes around a moment to maintain even heat, and slid in the couple pans of cake that had been setting while her muffins baked. Setting the piping muffins into a presentation basket and covering it with a cloth to keep the heat in, she returned to the front of her shop. Tricorn had clasped his hands behind his back, under the navy cape that covered one shoulder, gazing out the window, and she noticed the bright red ribbon keeping his short hair back.

“See anything that catches your fancy?”

He turned back to her. “Indeed. But you’ve made it much harder to choose, bringing this wonderfully-scented basket out.”

“These are blackberry muffins,” she said, setting them down on the counter and kneeling behind the counter to swap out the appropriate hourglass. “Not too sweet, with a touch of cinnamon. Tuppence, if you’re interested.”

It took a moment to get the right one- it was towards the back of the cupboard under her counter. When she rose to her feet, Tricorn had offered his hand, two shiny pennies pinched between his fingers.

“I’d love one.”

His hands were rough, but gentle, and she tried to quell the blush that rose on her cheeks again.

She noticed his ring as she deposited the coins into her cash box beneath the counter and pick up a sheet of thin paper to package the man’s purchase, and almost paused.

If he noticed the slight change in her demeanor, he didn’t mention it. She chose a red ribbon from her scraps to match his red ribbon, and neatly wrapped the warm bread with trained fingers.

“Do enjoy,” she told him, searching his face one more time. His mouth turned up into an amicable smile, revealing nothing of his mind.

“I believe I shall indeed. If you are--”

There was a sudden clashing outside, cutting him off, and he turned his head to the window.

“Ah, I am afraid that is my cue. I do hope you get your delivery boy under control.”

And with that, he was gone, with a swish of his navy and crimson cape.

~

A couple days later, she had the door propped open- it was early fall, and the cooler weather had yet to roll in. She could afford to squeeze in a couple more days of letting the smell of her baking lead customers to her.

Today, she was pinning some light garlands on her window frames. Every year, she dried the last flowers of summer and hung them in early fall to bring a little bit of warm cheer to her shop. Her regulars liked it well enough, and the children that trailed after their parents would occasionally pick one to bring home when they thought she wasn’t looking.

She had her strings of flowers gathered in a basket beside on a chair by the door, and stretched up onto her toes to drape a string over the corner of the far window, by the counter.

She paused a moment and propped her hands up on her hips, listening to the shuffling of people outside, the slight hiss of the sand running in her hourglass, and the laughter of the dogs and children that scampered through the alleys. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath of sweet-smelling air.

After a moment, she turned back to her basket to get the last strand that would span the front of her counter, she noticed something else among the flowers.

Striding to the basket, she picked up the slim envelope of fine paper, peering out of her front door to see who might have left it. It had no indication of who it might be, either, but the handwriting addressing her business was smooth and curling. Seeing no one but the common rabble, she stepped back inside, and gently tore it open.

Inside was a five pound note, and a slip of paper with the same fine handwriting.

Your baking is indeed phenomenal. I should like to know you will remain in business, so that I may visit again in the future.

-H

She blinked at the note, and its message, and her brow clouded. There was only one person who matched the circumstances, and, oddly enough, the script. Who was the man with the blue cape?

~ to be continued...

[privatemessage]

‘Irrevocably’ (III)

Greg woke to silence. For a while he simply lay still, tangled in the silk sheets, trying not to think about the day before.

Shots… actual shots. He quashed away the image of Mycroft lying dead of a gunshot wound to the head - worse, being tortured. Oh, God.

Greg’s gut twisted. He had to swallow down the bile that filled his mouth. Taking deep breaths, he concentrated on those words that were now written on the inside of his heart.

“This will change things... irrevocably.”

Mycroft had whispered to him when they were fucking - adored him - made love to him with his fingers, his mouth. For all his austere exterior, Mycroft was so very sensitive. Looking at Greg from under those beautiful lashes - almost shy, almost grateful. He was two men - the great and the glorious, and the shy and sensitive - wrapped up in one perfect package.

There was a knock on the door. James popped his head round. “Coffee?”

Greg showered, changed into casual clothes pilfered from Mycroft’s wardrobe, then joined James and Anthea to try and figure out every piece of information he could.

By the end of the morning, he still didn’t know what country Mycroft was in, who he'd been meeting, or how things had gone wrong. He did however learn that, far from being the tiresome pen-pusher that Sherlock described his brother was, Mycroft was in fact a highly-trained soldier, marksman and negotiator. Greg also learned that he wasn’t alone at this time - but travelling as part of a team of some of the most dangerous men in the world.

Anthea had looked nervous, pained at times when she thought that Greg wasn’t looking. He saw her share glances with James - telling, awful glances, full of tension and worry. She kept her head down, texting rapidly on her blackberry, occasionally snapping orders at someone on the phone, pulling up document after document on her laptop. James seemed to stay on the periphery - always in earshot, ready to assist. Greg didn’t know if he was reassured, but at least he wasn't on his own.

At last, Anthea made a discovery. 

Recent satellite images had been picked up - they showed the group moving north toward civilisation. They just had to keep their heads down and keep moving toward their rendezvous with safety.

They just had to hope that Mycroft was amongst them.

For the next three days he paced Mycroft's rooms, looking at every inch of the man's home and yet seeing nothing. Every step was a silent mantra: "... please come home, please come home, please come home…"

[dawnlizjones]

Scissors, please

Sharing #truth is more important than being #seekerfriendly when a choice is necessary

A gruesome site greeted me when tending the garden after being gone for a week of family vacation.  Sure, there were the typical weeds and such, no big deal, just hands and knees stuff.  But what gave me a drop-shoulder-roll-eyes kind of pause was the leftover feathered carcass of a bird that had obviously been trying to pilfer my blackberries, but had gotten entangled in the netting.

Not a…

[oxmarble28-blog]

Mixed Berry Shortcakes

It was definitely mercury in retrograde recently when I got a phone call at 8:20pm, while we were having dinner at home, from a restaurant I’d reserved a table at, asking if we were showing up for our 8pm reservation. I was sure I had reserved for the following night, but – nope – I erred and our reservation was for that evening. (Fortunately, the restaurant has a steady walk-in crowd so the table didn’t sit empty. Still, I felt terrible.) We did go the next night, but that same day, I was typing this recipe up and my blogging platform asked me to log in again, which I dutifully did, and then it proceeded to erase the entire post, including the recipe.

With my head on the verge of imploding, I decided to go for a walk, then head back a little later and get back to rewriting everything up from scratch. A few people told me mercury was in retrograde, so, of course, the moment I returned, they started doing construction upstairs, so was subjected to the sounds of jackhammering while trying to fill in all the ingredients in the recipe plug-in I use, so the recipes are printable, and to make sure I got all the ingredients and so forth in the right place, and the conversions.

By the time evening rolled around, some other neighbors decided to have a party and their voices were so loud, they could be heard all the way down the block. (So much for les américains having the loudest voices in town anymore.) What made up for it were these Mixed Berry Shortcakes, which we had for dessert that night.

On the upside to the unpleasantries that day, I scored several baskets of strawberries at the market that morning, that were very ripe, to the point of where they wouldn’t have lasted another day. That’s often when fruit tastes the best, and with a use-it-or-lose-it mentality that haunts me whenever I have good fruit in my kitchen, I decided to make a batch of Mixed Berry Shortcakes. I also had some artisanal butter on hand that had a slight funk to it, that I wasn’t sure what to do with. I normally don’t mind that kind of thing – animal products that aren’t industrial sometimes have that flavor, which wasn’t so terrific tasting first thing in the morning on my toast. So I used it to make the shortbread biscuits.

What makes these shortcakes extra special is the strawberry coulis, an uncooked almost-purée of berries that gets juicier and more flavorful the longer it sits. It ensures lots of delicious sauce, which’ll moisten everything and assure that the biscuit below the fruit won’t be dry, as can happen if you only use sliced berries for shortcakes. With this shortcake recipe, you can use any mix of berries that you want, but I had all these strawberries and got them macerating as soon as I could, which I did, then rolled out my biscuits, and baked them. They didn’t rise as high as normal, possibly because of the farm butter, or I could blame that mercury retrograde-thing (in my post on Peach Shortcakes, you can see how they normally look), but with the crunchy topping, there were zero complaints, including from me, who pilfered one as I was rebuilding and rewriting this post. And not to worry; the flavor of that off-kilter butter got lost in the mix.

Kirsch, a clear distillation of cherries, magically augments the flavor of berries and summer fruits. However a reader nicely wrote to me that they didn’t detect much cherry flavor in the pricey bottle. (And she used a good one.) So don’t expect a full-on cherry flavor, but like the unseen powers (or planets) that remove blog posts and delete recipes, and make reservations on the wrong night, it works in mysterious ways, so I stand by it.

After putting a cap on the day, and the dessert, hopefully the planets will align in the future for you to make these truly wonderful shortcakes, a jumble of fresh berries, softly whipped cream, topped with a flaky, crunchy biscuit. I can’t say it’ll improve everything in your life, but if the stars align (or not), I’m confident this will be a hit with everyone who spoons it up.

Mix Berry Shortcakes

Print Recipe

Feel free to mix and match whatever kind of berries you'd like. Blackberries, cherries, red currants can all be part of the mix, or feel free to go "classic" and use all strawberries. You're also welcome to tweak the sugar amount used to sweeten the berries, which can vary depending on how naturally sweet they are. The kirsch is optional; a little improves the flavor of the berries. But if you don't want to use it, a splash of crème de cassis or lemon juice can also heighten their flavor.You'll likely get a few extra biscuits from the dough if you reroll the scraps. They can be enjoyed for breakfast the next morning, with some butter and jam, or they frozen for up to two months and used to make more shortcakes in the future.

For the shortcakes (biscuits)

2 1/2 cups (350g) flour

1 1/2 tablespoons sugar, plus additional sugar for sprinkling over the shortcakes before baking

1 teaspoon salt

10 tablespoons (5 ounces, 140g) unsalted butter, cubed and chilled

3/4 cup (180ml) heavy cream or buttermilk

1 egg yolk, mixed with 1 teaspoon cream or milk, for the glaze

For the berries

6 cups (1 pound, 4 ounces/750g) strawberries, hulled

1 1/2 cups (6 ounces, 160g) raspberries

1 cup (4 ounces, 130g) blueberries

3 tablespoons sugar (total)

1 -2 teaspoons kirsch (optional)

For the whipped cream

1 1/2 cups (375ml) heavy cream

3 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. To make the biscuits, preheat the oven to 400ºF (200ºC). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.

2. Mix the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. (It can also be made in a large bowl using a pastry blender.) Add the butter and mix on low speed until the pieces of butter are the size of large kernels of corn. Add the cream or buttermilk and mix until the dough just comes together

3. On a lightly floured counter, roll the dough until it’s 3/4-inch (2cm) thick and with a 2 1/2-inch (8cm) biscuit cutter, cut out six individual biscuits, dipping the cutter in flour between cutting each biscuit. You can gather the scraps and re-roll to cut out a few more biscuits. Put the biscuits on the baking sheet evenly spaced apart. Brush just the tops of the biscuits with the glaze, sprinkle generously with extra sugar, and bake until the tops and sides are browned, about 15 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool.

4. Put half the strawberries in a medium bowl with 1 1/2 tablespoons of sugar and 1 teaspoon kirsch, if using. Use your hands to mash everything together until the berries are juicy. Set aside for at least 30 minutes. You can stir the berries a few times as they sit, which will encourage them to release more of their juices.

5. Slice or quarter the remaining strawberries and mix in another bowl with the raspberries, blueberries, and remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons of sugar, and 1 teaspoon of kirsch, if using.

6. Whip the cream in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whip attachment, or by hand with a whisk until it begins to get stiff, then whip in the sugar and vanilla extract and continue to whip until the cream holds its shape.

7. To assemble the shortcakes, cut each biscuit in half crosswise and place the bottoms on six plates. Spoon a generous amount of the mashed berries and their juice over each bottom piece. Put a dollop of whipped cream on top of each biscuit bottom then divide the mixed berries over each serving. Finish by replacing the tops of the biscuits over the shortcakes.

Source: https://www.davidlebovitz.com/mixed-berry-shortcakes-strawberry-shortcake-recipe/

[erynnar]

Kai stopped in front of Cailan’s sunny yellow tent, sunny like the man himself. Kai did a mental head shake. Maric was good humored but with a constant underlying sadness about him. Cailan was the opposite, always blithe and bright. Kai sighed to herself. Cailan looked so much like his father, that she was reminded of Maric, and that she admitted to herself, hurt still.  

Shaking off her melancholy, which would only lead to thinking of all her beloveds, dead now; and that would lead her to worry over Fergus, she stepped forward to stand in front of his guard. The man smiled at her, “Greetings, King Cailan is not in his tent right now.”

Kai returned the smile, even though she was disappointed Cailan wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen Cailan since they had met in the garden when she was ten and spent the day pilfering strawberries and blackberries, and getting into mischief. Their meeting at the gate had been brief and not at all private. At Maric’s funeral, they had spoken only briefly before Anora had interrupted and interspersed herself between them on the guise of being introduced. At the royal wedding, she had not spoken to him at all, Anora’s doing no doubt. Kai hoped that he would be in his tent so she might actually have a deeper conversation than they had managed so far.  

She desperately wanted to let him know of Howe’s man visiting with Loghain in private with no other witnesses. And she realized that she really had not been able to keep up with her king, and the son of her childhood friend. She needed more information. Something was not right if Loghain and Cailan were yelling at one another.  

[adelha-mathilde]

Aqua gladly thanks Theo for the milk with a mew of noise. Soon sticking her nose into the milk to then lick it off. Which has Adelha chuckle as she speaks. “In actuality, I was not expecting to have to play such a game of hide and seek. But Iskander keeps sneaking into my greenhouse to pilfer handfuls of blackberries or raspberries to then try and make off with them. So I’ve been having to harvest the berries in the greenhouse first thing in the morning.”

Adelha has a drink of her milk to then smile a bit. “I caught him trying to enter the greenhouse for him to declare that was laying siege to my greenhouse to conquer all the food inside. But when he opened the door to the greenhouse, all the berry plants were missing. He spent hours roaming through Chaldea trying to find where I had moved them. Declaring defeat after six hours.”

The lady looks quite amused to look to Theo with a grin. “He still hasn’t found where it is I hid them. So far the game is still on.”

Adelha presents a special surprise on her birthday. A little strawberry shortcake for Adelha to set it on the table in front of Theo. “Surprise~ This is to celebrate your birthday. A little bird told me it was today.”

Theo’s gaze was almost teary as she looked at the small cake. It wasn’t big nor grand but it looked like it was fun to make and even more so when the older woman smiled at her. To theo it was perfect. It was a gift and she couldn’t help but be touched. 

“ m-miss adelha !“ 

Theo throw her arms around the older woman as she held her. After a few minutes theo smiled and clasped her hands together ” let’s get a glass of milk and share this !“