#rolled in cornmeal

[hauntinghope]

SPELT AND CORNMEAL ROLLS

[bi-writes]

thinking about mob baking simon a cake for his birthday (without his prior knowledge) mm good soup

mail-order bride

"you think he likes chocolate, baby?" you ask the cats. they sit side-by-side at the breakfast counter, being good girls as they sit on their chairs and watch you mix batter. "he totally likes chocolate. big boys like daddy love chocolate, don't they, girls?"

you grease two circular pans, pouring the chocolate cake batter into them. you set them in the oven before getting to work on your chocolate buttercream. you're using the new mixer simon bought you--it's beautiful, stainless steel, heavy. when you saw in the store a few weeks ago, you gushed at it, telling simon you saw someone make cinnamon rolls, bread, cakes, all in this mixer, but when your eyes skimmed over the price, you said nothing more, just smiled up at simon and let him lead you over to where the cast iron pans were (you wanted a real one).

a few weeks later, you noticed it on the kitchen counter. sparkling silver, right there, with the whisk attachment on it just waiting for you. and in the cupboard, ingredients--bread flour, powdered sugar, cornmeal, corn starch, dutch process, baking chocolate, whole wheat flour--all for you to play with. and when you baked him the most decadent triple chocolate coffee cake he had ever had, he bent you over the same table his empty plate sat and ate your cunt out with your apron still on. when you kissed him afterwards, he still tasted like chocolate.

you turn off the mixer, reaching in with a spoon to lick the buttercream off of it. you hum with delight, setting it aside, and when the oven timer dings, you pull the cakes out to let them cool.

you wrap simon's present as everything settles. special order, a favor you called into johnny. it's in a nice wooden box, and you tie a big red bow on it, and when you go back into the kitchen, you level and stack the two pieces of cake between buttercream and use a spoon to make a fancy decoration over the top of it.

the front door sounds as you're putting the finishing touches on the cake. you can hear him coming closer, and you gasp.

"no, no, no, don't come in the kitchen yet!"

"wot?"

"just--wait a little bit in the living room, okay?"

"for wot?"

"simon--" you groan. "please? for me?"

you don't hear anything after that except for the tv turning on. when you finish putting the last candles on the cake, you light them, picking up the plate and coming into the living room.

simon looks surprised. he was concentrating hard on the tv, watching the game, but his face relaxes when he sees you holding the cake. the cats perk up from where they're laid down beside him, and their ears flit as you start to sing happy birthday.

his whole face twitches. he stiffens, his palms flat on his thighs as he grips them tight. you set down the cake on the coffee table in front of him, candles glowing as you take a seat next to him. he's still staring at the cake as you finish the song.

"happy birthday, dear simon...happy birthday to you."

you smile at him, wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it gently. you kiss his shoulder before motioning to the cake.

"you can blow them out now, simon," you say softly. "make a wish."

he doesn't move. he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixated on the flickering candles. you reach down and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and hugging his arm. you sit with him quietly, looking at the cake with him, and after a minute or so, you turn back at him.

"simon?" you whisper.

he's crying. you put a hand on the back of his head, scratching his short hair, and you cup his face gently as you wipe his tears. he's silent. the tears come, but he still doesn't move, still won't meet your eyes. you smile, going over to pick up the cake, and you hold it in front of him.

"here...make a wish, simon," you say softly. he picks up his sleeve and wipes his face, leaning over to blow out the candles. you put down the cake, standing up to go get his gift sitting on the kitchen table. when you sit down next to him again, he's still staring at the cake, still trying to pretend his face isn't wet with tears, but he stops wiping them when you place the box in his lap.

he unravels the bow. when he opens the case, he lets out a little chuckle, smoothing his hand over the foam inside.

there are an array of throwing knives laid before him. perfectly crafted, in different shapes and sizes, and when he picks one up and twirls it around between his fingers, the weight of them and the ease at which they move tells him you only picked out the finest quality. they're beautiful, and it's a thoughtful gift, and when he closes the lid on the box, he still can't meet your eyes.

"i'll cut us some cake," you say softly. you busy yourself getting plates and a cake knife from the kitchen, cutting generous slices before handing him one of the plates. he picks up the fork, and when you notice his hand shakes, you take the plate back from him gently and scoop a bite onto the fork for him. you don't say anything, just hold it up to his mouth, and once he takes a bite, you set the plate down and watch as he chews.

when he swallows, you sit again in silence. you reach over and take simon's hands in your own, squeezing them gently before bringing them up to your mouth to kiss softly. when he finally looks at you, all you do is smile.

he hadn't even remembered it was birthday. he never told you when it was, but he supposes you must have been curious enough to look for yourself. he can't remember the last time someone made him cake. he can't remember when he last received a gift, especially one like this. he doesn't know when he last thought himself happy enough to celebrate anything at all, but there is no other way he would've wanted today to go.

joy. you bring uninhibited, unfiltered, all-consuming joy. the way you're smiling at him--he can already see you in the kitchen in that apron, baking this cake, talking to no one but the cats as you carefully decorate it. the way you're looking at him--he knows you dreamed about this all week, scheduling the day so you could have the cake done as soon as he got home.

and chocolate. his favorite. decadent, sweet chocolate--it's still under his tongue, and he wants another bite already, he cannot wait to devour the slice that waits for him on the table.

"happy birthday, simon," you whisper, and when you lean in to hug him, he cradles the back of your head, tangling a hand into your hair as he presses you to his chest. "i love you."

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck--

"love you, too, baby."

"what did you wish for?" you mumble into his shoulder. simon snorts a little, shaking his head.

"if i tell ya, it won't come true."

"oh, yeah," you giggle. "keep your secrets then."

he doesn't want more; the only thing he wishes for is more time. more time with you. as much as he can get. to live long enough that he gets to see your face for as long as possible.

that whatever he sees for the last time will be you and you only.

[teamd85]

Recipe for Hot Water Cornmeal Bread If you like to bake in bulk, this recipe is for you. A small amount of cornmeal soaked in hot water turns to mush, which is incorporated with molasses and standard yeast bread ingredients to make several loaves of bread and quite a few dinner rolls.

[rebeccaofficial]

Corn Yeast Rolls This delicious dinner roll is prepared in your bread machine but rises and bakes as usual. It has the rustic flavor of cornmeal. 2 tablespoons vegetable oil, 1/2 cup cornmeal, 2 tablespoons white sugar, 3 cups all-purpose flour, 1 egg, 2 tablespoons margarine melted, 1 teaspoon salt, 2/3 cup milk, 1 tablespoon active dry yeast

[come-alongthen]

Hot Water Cornmeal Bread This recipe is for you if you like to bake in large quantities. In order to make several loaves of bread and a good number of dinner rolls, a small amount of cornmeal is soaked in hot water until it turns to mush. This mush is then combined with molasses and basic yeast bread ingredients.

[cisblog]

SPELT AND CORNMEAL ROLLS

[punnyartist]

Pizza dust art

I work part time at Dominos and during my weekend shifts, I sometimes have long periods where no one orders anything. Usually during these times if I’m not told to do something else, I get bored and start making pim or sometimes charlie out of the cornmeal dust we roll the dough in

I made these probably a month ago at this point. Pim turned out weirdly good here (he took probably around 20-30 ish minutes, charlie took 5 only bc an order finally came)

[luveline]

if you're still taking them I would love to make a request for Eddie and Roan! do you know how sometimes little kids will call their parents workplace just to talk about the most random things or just ask some totally super important question? I feel like roan would do that with the reader and Eddie

thank you for your request!! eddie and roan —roan learns how to use the phone, 1.3k

Eddie used to feel nervous when the phone rang for him at work. "Call for baby Munson!" shouted across the shop while Eddie was usually flat on his back under a truck or elbow deep in a scooter engine, he'd get this pit in his stomach thinking something was wrong. 

It was usually daycare. Roan's sick, Roan's wet herself and her spare clothes aren't here, is Roan allergic to veggie sticks? Because she's saying she is. 

But nowadays, a phone rings for him and it's almost always you with something nice to say. You miss him. You've been thinking about him. All manner of gooey soft confession that has him clutching the phone like a loser, desperate for your voice. 

He springs away from his lunch when he's called. Darwin gives Eddie a funny look as he passes the phone. 

Eddie shrugs it off. "Hello?" he asks. "Y/N?"

"It's me!" 

Eddie feels his eyebrows leap up. "Hi, me." Roan hadn't ever used the phone unassisted, to his memory. "Where's mom?" 

"She's trying to fix your hair dryer." 

Eddie hears it, then, the roaring blow in the background. "Why does it sound like that?" 

"She dropped it. I think she's sad." 

"Ro, I fixed it!" you shout, followed by an even louder howling of air, and a heavy silence. "Okay, I didn't." 

"Is that why you called me?" Eddie asks, bemused.

"No, I called you because I want to know how they make corndogs. How do they get the hot dog inside of the corn, dad?" 

Eddie puts his hand on the wall to steady himself as he laughs. "You wanna know how they make corndogs? Are you gonna make some?" 

"I could if I knew how!" she stresses. "I'd ask mom, but she's pre-oc-u-pied."

"That's a big word, babe, where'd you learn that one?" Eddie asks, impressed. 

"Dad, corndogs!" 

"Right, right. Okay, well. They put the hot dog on the stick first, and then the corn part is actually batter. They roll the hotdog around in the batter and cook them together in the fryer. So it isn't the hotdog going into the corn, it's actually corn going on the hotdog." 

"Batter like for cakes?"

"No," he laughs fondly. "And it's not sweet corn, babe, it's something called cornmeal. Maybe we can make some this week, wouldn't that be fun? Then you can see how they make them for real. I think that would be super fun."

His bubbly tone attracts the attention and subsequent laughter of his colleague. He throws them all the bird, totally content and more than happy with his life and his curious girl. 

"Yes," Roan cheers, dragging the 's' syllable until she's out of breath, "oh my god that would be so fun!" 

"Okay, then that's what we'll do. Are you being good for mom?" 

"I'm being awesome." There's a weird crunching noise. "Did you hear that? I think she put the screwdriver in the hairdryer again." 

"Again?" Eddie asks worriedly. 

Roan must put the phone down. Eddie genuinely can't hear a thing, until you pick up the receiver and say, "Hallo?" 

"You blowing up the house?" 

You make a pleased noise that has his heart doubling in size. "Hi, Eddie. I'm having a technological mishap, but rest assured, we are in no danger of explosion. Anymore. What did you call for? It's lunch, isn't it?" 

"Actually, Roan called me. She wanted to know how to make corndogs." 

"You do know everything," you say. "Go and eat your lunch, baby. We'll still be here when you get home, yeah? I love you. Roan, come and tell daddy you love him before we hang up." 

A small silence. "Dad?" Roan asks. 

"Yep, still here." 

"I love you, okie dokie? Please come home in an hour."

Eddie laughs warmly. It's more like four hours, but whatever she wants to think is what he'll tell her. "I love you. Tell Y/N I love her, too, will you? Thank you." 

"Yes!" Her voice comes quieter, "I love you," Roan says to you. 

"I love you, too. Let's make dinner." 

You must think he's said goodbye, because the phone gets a knock and the dial tone sounds. 

—

You're sitting at your desk shovelling pretzels into your mouth while you click around your emails when the phone rings. You slide it between your ear and shoulder, pausing your frankly messy chewing. "Hello and good afternoon, Y/N L/N speaking, how can I help?" 

"Y/N?" Roan says worriedly.

"Roan? What's the matter?" 

"Oh, it is you! It didn't sounded like you at first, that's weird." 

"Sorry, gorgeous, I was using my voice for fancy grown ups."

She giggles like this is the funniest thing you've ever said to her, "You're being funny," she praises. 

You're secretly incredibly pleased. Making your six year old laugh never gets old. "So nothing is wrong, then? You know, those numbers on the fridge are for emergencies." 

"This is an emergency." 

"Yeah, I bet. What's going on? Where's dad?" 

"He's making toffee cake for you. I was helping him do the buttercream but my arms got tired from whisking." 

"Is that why you're calling me?" 

"Yeah." 

You dig for a saltier pretzel and chew thoughtfully. "What's the tiredest part? Your shoulders?" 

"And my fingers." 

"Asked daddy to kiss 'em better?" 

"I would but he's trying to be perfect about the cake. It looks yummy." 

"Did you get to lick the bowl?" 

"Yeah, and dad let me eat a spoon of the melted chocolate. It was pretty great." 

You grin into the receiver. "I bet it was amazing. Maybe you can try and rest your poor arms. Make daddy pour you a big glass of cranberry juice with the heart shaped ice cubes and watch TV until I come home, okay? That's an order."

"Okay," she laughs. "When are you coming home?" 

"I can leave in about twenty minutes, and the drive home takes another twenty, so…" You check the time on your computer. "I think by five." 

"Ugh, that's forever away." 

"I know. Do what I said, okay? Sit down on the couch. I can have a little look at your arms when I come home, maybe we can have a pamper night tonight. We can use some of my fancy lotion and rub it in like a massage," you say. 

"That sounds nice," she hums. 

"Alright, sweetheart. Listen, can I talk to dad before I go back to work?" 

"Yep, yep." You know what's coming as soon as she inhales. "Daddy!" she bellows at the top of her lungs, "Y/N's on the phone!" 

It's flattering how swiftly he gets there. "Hey?" he asks. 

"Hi, do we need anything for me to grab on the way home? I know you ran out of deodorant, was there anything else?" 

"Nothing I can think of. You okay?" 

"I'm awesome. I told Ro you'd make her a big cup of juice for her sore arms." 

"She told you about those, huh?" He kisses her audibly. "She's the best mixer ever. I was thinking we'd change her name to kitchen aid." 

You choke on a pretzel. Coughing, you laugh through a chastisement. "You leave her name alone. Roan is a nice name all by itself." 

"If you insist," he says grandly. "See you in an hour? I've got a surprise for you." 

"I can't wait," you say. You'll pretend to be totally surprised at his cake, no problem. Anything to make him smile. "Love you both. See you soon." 

"Love you. Say love you," Eddie prompts. 

"I love you!" Roan yells. "I'll make dad put your blanket in the dryer!" 

You put down the phone with a small smile, wondering if you can weasel your way past your eagle-eyed coworkers for an early finish. 

[ginnysgraffiti]

fingering and cunt licking at the cinema/public place, 18+

&. TIMOTHÉE x yn.

you always kind of wondered what dirty things would cross your boyfriend's mind at times, but you never expected it to go that far.

the salt of the popcorn on his fingertips was fastly mixing with your warm juices and his wrist kept working his way between your legs, his fingers digging into your pussy, his hoarse voice whispering to keep quiet inside your ear.

you were glad it was an action movie and the volume was so loud that sometimes your moans would not be heard, but you couldn't count on it for another good half an hour.

timothée had been silent for most of the night, and your suspicions only increased when he told you you would have to sit on the last row.

why on heart should you sit on the last row when free seats were even in the middle one?

you didn't question it at first, but now you had your answer without asking.

you tried so hard to keep your eyes on the screen or anything better than his hand, but you could only handle so much before your head fell back against your seat, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

his bony hand was pushing your plush thighs open, exposing yourself even more to him. if you dared try to shut your thighs even a tad they’d be pushed right back open.

"a-ah!! tim-" your back suddenly arched off the seat as timothée wasted no time spitting on your clit before wrapping his lips around it now that he had kneeled in front of your open legs, between your seat and the one behind his back.

the position would have felt comfortable if you just weren't inside the cinema and you had to bite your lips to shut up. his tongue immediately caressed your sensitive nub, and it was extremely salty from the popcorn bucket that you found it surprisingly hot. salt, cornmeal and butter.

you noticed he couldn’t decide between roughly sucking on it or moving his tongue side to side so he settled on both. timothée hollowed his cheeks, holding your clit in place while his tongue continued moving with vigor.

at times, it was slowly moving up and down, like he was trying to savor the taste of your essence -not too hard or too fast- just sensual. then, his tongue would again settle on quick, harsh licks.

"keep quiet baby." timothée slurred into your pussy, now sloppily kissing his way down to your dripping hole.

you were pulling his curls so hard that you knew it hurt, but your boyfriend didn’t even bother complaining, his attention focused solely on your soaked center. his long fingers ran slowly up and down your petal soft slit, occasionally applying light pressure to your clit. without warning he plunged two fingers in with a lewd squelching sound following that you only could hear.

on the screen, even if your vision was pretty blurry and not recommendable at the moment, you could tell an action fight was going on.

the volume was at its loudest and you caught the occasion to let your desperate moans out, your chest rising up and down to catch breath and your hips moving against him.

it took a little time to get you used to the stretch of his fingers inside your tight little pussy, because you had never been so tense and nervous before in its process, and you knew it was because it was a damn public place.

"fuck- fuck..." your mouth dropped as he began to move his fingers at a semi-fast pace, digits bumping against that special spot that had your toes curling.

"feel so good, beautiful-" he moaned against your core, and you found yourself smiling a bit.

your hips felt so fucking desperate that you pulled his curls even tighter, not able to keep your hands still for half a second.

the volume was loud again and the cinema sits were basically shaking, and that didn't help at all as your groans and moans came out. they sounded like a plea, and you almost felt like crying.

you weren’t able to give him a verbal warning of the intense orgasm, the only signal being being the clear stream of cum shooting from your pussy each time timothée pulled his fingers out.

"you did so good baby..." he kissed your inner tights, even if the stream of cum had made a mess on both your legs and his fingers.

"you gotta admit that was better than the movie." a mischievous grin ran over his face and you just thanked god no person caught you two.

[petermorwood]

As mentioned more than once, @dduane's Middle Kingdoms don't have potatoes. A frequent alternative is parsnips, and the fried cakes in that photo are the result of an experiment done earlier this week to see if parsnips can substitute for potatoes in our always-reliable potato cake recipe.

Yes, they can!

*****

Here's @dduane's recipe.

First peel three regular-sized parsnips. then top and tail them.

Chop them into chunks and boil them in about 2 pints (1 litre) of water.

Drain them and return to the pan: let them steam dry. Then, while still hot, mash them well with a hand masher and allow to cool completely.

As mentioned further down, parsnips retain more water than potatoes even after steam-drying, so DON'T use a food processor or other power appliance for mashing or the result will be parsnip wallpaper paste. However, a processor is ideal for the rest of the recipe.

Put 2 cups (500g) all-purpose flour and ½ tsp salt into the processor bowl, blip the pulse switch to combine them then add 1½ tsp baking powder and blip again.

Now add 3 tablespoons butter and blip the pulse switch until the butter is completely worked in and the whole mixture has a cornmeal-y texture.

Now add the cooled mashed parsnips.

Process with the flour mixture, pulsing at first, then continuously, until the mixture comes together in a dough.

(If yours behaves the way our recipe did, no additional liquid should need to be added. The parsnips hold onto a surprising amount of water even after being steamed dry.)

Flour a work surface, roll the dough out about 1/3 inch (1 cm) thick, and use a sharp biscuit cutter to cut out into rounds. Then heat cooking oil in a frying pan to medium heat and put five or six of the cakes into the hot oil.

Fry until the cakes begin to rise a little (usually 4-5 minutes) and are going golden brown Turn and fry the cakes on their other sides for another 4-5 minutes. Test one for doneness: if necessary, turn the cakes once more and give them another 5 minutes or so.

Then cook the rest of the cakes in the same way. When they're done cooking, drain on paper towels until they're cool. Eat fresh or, to keep them, put them in a biscuit tin or other airtight container.

They'll keep for a few days. The parsnip flavor mellows somewhat the day after you bake them.

Like their potato-cake cousins, they're very good split, toasted, buttered and topped with a slice of cheese or (and) salami. They also shine as an accompaniment to bacon or sausages; give the parsnip cakes a brief re-fry in the fat left from frying these, then serve alongside the fried meats, dressed with a splash of Worcester or HP sauce and maybe a dotting of Tabasco or similar.

Our next experiment will be to make this recipe with the addition of some crumbled crispy bacon, grated cheese, grated onion or a combination of same.

The experiment after that will be to see if this can become parsnip bread in the same way as Irish potato farls. I think it will... :->

[doctordeathawaits]

Transromani tips please? :3

Trans Romani

Fun Fact , i recently figured out im trans-romani <3

I recomend this website , its very informative and you should definetly show some love to it !!

First things that are ESSENTIAL. - Learn about Porajmos (the Romani Holocaust) and the resilience of Romani communities. - Read books like Bury Me Standing by Isabel Fonseca (about Romani culture and history). - Follow Romani activists to support and learn from the modern community !

Language - this is a little harder since romani is very diverse based on which parts of the world one lives , but learning some vocab from Omniglot , the Romani Project , or having some youtubers speak their dialects can help !!! Here are some basics !! : Sastipe ! – Hello ! Sar san ? – How are you ? Nais tuke ! – Thank you !

Romani culture is deeply rooted in tradition , family, and spirituality ! Bringing these elements into your daily life can help !! Many Romani traditions are tied to nature , so walking in the woods , gathering flowers , or sitting around a fire ! Carry small protective charms , like a red thread , coins, or a small bell . Many Romani believe in warding off bad luck ( bibaxt ) ! Explore Romani folk beliefs — such as cleansing rituals , dream interpretations , and protective blessings ! ( learning marime , uzo , etc )

Food is a core part of Romani life , try making traditional Romani dishes like this !! Sarmale – Cabbage rolls stuffed with meat and rice. Mamaliga – Cornmeal porridge (similar to polenta). Gulyás – A hearty paprika-spiced stew. Puri – Fried bread, often eaten with stews. Bakhtale – A sweet dessert made with nuts and honey ! Try eating in a communally , sharing food with loved ones is deeply important in Romani culture !

Music is everything in Romani culture , it’s a deep expression of life, struggle, and joy ! Some things to listen to is : Traditional Roma folk songs (flamenco, violin-heavy ballads, or Balkan-style beats). Esma Redžepova – The "Queen of Romani Music" ! Taraf de Haïdouks – A famous Romani band with traditional instruments ! Balkan brass bands – Like Fanfare Ciocărlia !

Romani Good Luck Practices to follow everyday !! : Never put a hat on the bed — it brings bad luck ! Spitting over your shoulder wards off evil ! Always give something in return if someone gifts you money (even a small coin) ! Carry a small pouch with salt for protection ! If a cat sneezes near you , it’s good luck !

Stay safe, and remember : Baxt tuke !

[sterifels-blog]

Ornithomancy

part 2 of sheriff!john price x widowed!reader (fem)

🔗 masterlist

ornithomancy – the practice of interpreting the actions of birds to predict the future

────────────────────────────────────

The sound of hooves scrapes against the earth, slow and deliberate, an omen dressed in the patient cadence of a coming storm. The rhythm is dull, a percussive thud against the hollowed ribs of the land, each impingement like the second hand of some great and terrible clock ticking down. You don’t look up. Not yet.

Your hands are elbow-deep in the grain barrel, cold kernels rolling against your skin like loose teeth in an open mouth. The hens have gone still at the contravention. A moment ago, they were frantic, greedy things, scrabbling at the dirt with their sharp, scythe-claw toes, but now they linger near your skirts, eyes turned toward the road, bodies stiff with the scent of something unfamiliar.

They know before you do. The little ladies.

Your stomach knots, an ugly, instinctive thing, not quite fear—no, not yet. Just a premonition, a whisper in the quintessence, something pulling its nails down the length of your spine. A slow, measured unease curling like an asp beneath your ribs, waiting to sink its fangs in.

The air is thick. Fat with the scent of damp wood and the copper-tanged breath of dying leaves. The land is waiting, holding itself in the quiet suspension of something unspoken.

The wind shifts. And it is only then that you feel him. A presence. Not emphatic, not looming, but something heavier than flesh, something that takes up space without ever needing to move. A disturbance in the quiet, an oil-slick ripple against the surface of the world— stone, crashing into water only to beat on the bottom.

A shape against the low, grey sky, taller than the brush, dark against the bone-white horizon. The crows rise in a slow exodus behind him, great oil-feathered beasts, their bodies dragging the weight of the clouds with them, their black silhouettes written against the sky like crude scripture. The horse exhales a cloud of mist into the cold morning air, its bridle jingling with the movement, though it does not fidget.

The animal is still. The man atop it is still.

Stillness like a blade resting against the pulse of the world’s throat. And yet, you don’t move.

You wipe your hands against your apron, slow, deliberate, grinding the dust of cornmeal into the creases of your palms until your fingers look bleached, brittle, like sun-worn bone left too long in the field. Your breath is measured, pressed behind the cage of your ribs like a bird too stubborn to flee.

Only then do you turn.

He is carved from something older than time, something that has been left in the sun and the wind to be sculpted by the elements, shaped by the brunt of a world that does not grant softness to men like him. His horse stands as steady as he does, hooves buried in the cold earth, a statue of sinew and patience, exhaling mist from its nostrils in slow, rhythmic bursts. Sheriff.

The word does not fit him. It sits in your mind like a jagged rock in the belly of a beast, foreign, unnatural. There is nothing clean about him, nothing white-hat, nothing orderly. He does not wear the badge so much as suffer it, tolerate it, let it exist upon his chest like a bullet lodged too deep to dig out.

He does not reach for his reins, does not shift in the saddle. He watches you from beneath the brim of his hat, gaze unreadable, cast in the shadow of the early morning light. The hollows of his face are sharp in the cold, mouth set in something neither soft nor cruel, just patient. And you?

You meet his gaze without flinching.

You have seen men like John before. Men with patience worn into their bones like the grooves of a well-handled revolver. Men with iron in their spines and dust in their lungs. Men who do not ask questions because they already know the answers.

The silence stretches.

The wind has the good sense to hold its breath. His mouth parts slightly, a slow inhale, the kind that speaks to deliberation, to thought, to the weight of something that doesn’t want to be said- but must be.

And you already know what it is.

"I heard." — Heard what?

That your husband was buried in the summer earth with nothing but a whisper of a funeral, that your hands were clean of tears, that you have been surviving in the hollow carcass of your home with nothing but the animals and the wind for company? That you walk alone. That you do not speak. That you carry the absence of something that should have been grief, but instead feels like breath after nearly drowning.

That they are coming back. That they never left.

Your jaw tightens. Your fingers curl in the fabric at your waist, knuckles paling, breath still pressed firm behind your ribs.

“I don’t need help.”

Your voice is flint against stone, sparking dry in the cold. A thing too sharp, too brittle. It does not waver. It does not fold. It is a declaration carved into the bones of the land, spat out between clenched molars— pearly whites shading at the innards with the beginning of bitter plaque.

A long, slow exhale.

His head tilts. Not much. Just a fraction. Just enough that his hat shifts, just enough that the light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the dull weight of something knowing in his expression. Price is the kind of man who does not move unless he intends to. He carries himself like a landslide, slow and inevitable, a force that does not rush but always, always arrives. His presence is the kind that does not demand attention— it claims it, rests its hands on it, curls its fingers around it like a thing already owned.

His thumb grazes the saddle horn. Not a fidget. Just a movement. Just the slow shift of a man who is neither impatient nor hurried, who has all the time in the world. He does not look away from you.

“I know,” he says, voice low, unhurried. A word spoken with the weight of something that has already been decided.

And then, after a beat— “They don’t care.”

The words settle like a stone in a still pond, rippling out, pressing against the inside of your skull with explosive shrapnel behind your eyes. Your pulse stirs, something tight and slow in your throat. He does not press the silence. He does not speak again.

He only moves once—only enough to tip his hat back with the flat of his fingers, just enough to let you see the full weight of him, the shape of his gaze, the quiet patience in the set of his mouth, the lambchops that frame his face, and the sluggishly trimmed beard that was too scuffed to seem tamed, but was somehow cleaner than any man's you'd seen in years. Intentional, like the notches in his eyebrows. In his revolver.

And you wish he hadn’t. Because there is no pity in him. No sympathy. Just understanding.

Understanding in the way a man does not have to ask why a house stands empty, why a woman does not go to market anymore — why the edges of the world have been worn smooth around her like a sentinel eroded soft.

Because this is not the first time he has seen this.

Not the first time a woman has stood in the yard of a house gone to ruin, staring at the road like it might still offer her freedom.

Not the first time she has been wrong.

A long moment passes. The wind shifts. Somewhere, a crow caws. He exhales– a slow, steady roll of breath, low in his chest.

And then, finally, he speaks again, voice rough and familiar as storm-worn stone. “Gotta fix that fence,” he murmurs, gaze flicking toward the perimeter of your land. “Wind’s got it leanin'.”

You say nothing. Your fingers curl against your chalkboard palms. John doesn’t wait for permission. He nudges his horse forward, slow, that same unhurried grace, moving toward the house with the staunchness of a man who already knows.

And you stand there, pulse thrumming, a bitter taste thick on your tongue— Because you already know, too. He’s not leaving.

────────────────────────────────────

Price is a presence.

That’s the only way to describe him— less a man, more a thing that exists; weighty and unmoving, fixed in the framework of the world like a load-bearing beam. You don’t remember the hour he truly arrived, only that he's been here. His saddle is slung over the railing of the porch, his horse tied at the barn, and the cut of his shadow cast is long against the dirt.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t have to. You have already seen what happens when a man like him makes up his mind. And it’s not like you can stop him.

He starts with the fence.

It had leaned for years, slouched under the weight of time and weather, the posts sagging in their graves of soft, wet earth. You had meant to fix it—meant to learn how, meant to take a hammer in your own hands and make something of this place. But meaning doesn’t drive nails. Meaning doesn’t pull the splinters from your fingers when the boards crack under the weight of failure.

John doesn’t ask for tools.

Doesn’t ask where you keep the nails, where the woodpile is, where the rope is stored. He just finds them. Lifts them. Uses them. The work moves slow, not because he struggles, but because he doesn’t.

He is not hurried. He does not rush.

The muscle of him coils and flexes beneath the strain, arms bared to the elbow, sleeves pushed up with the lazy, absentminded ease of a man too used to labor to bother with ceremony. The grip of his hands is certain—calloused and solid, pressing wood to wood, twisting iron into place, driving steel deep into the stubborn earth— into the limbs of dismembered trees.

He fixes things the way a wolf might strip meat from the bone—patient, practiced, thorough.

The hens hate him.

They squawk and flap every time he gets near, their small, button eyes darting from his boots to his hands, quick, jittery, full of accusation. You’ve never seen them turn on a man before, never seen their distrust run so deep, so instinctive, as if they sense what he is. Not a predator, not quite— but something close.

Price is indifferent to their discontent. He moves around them, through them, not sparing them more than a glance or a chuckle, brushing the loose dust from his knuckles before taking another nail between his teeth. And you? You watch.

From the porch, from the window, from the steps, quiet as the breeze slipping through the brittle grass. You watch the way he is, the way he exists in the space you had carved out as your own, the way he seems to fold himself into it as if he had always belonged here.

There hasn’t been a man in your home for two years. Not since they put your husband in the dirt.

And yet now there is him—this man who does not belong to you, who does not belong to this place, yet moves through it as if it has been waiting for him. It unsettles something inside of you. Not fear. Not unease. Something deeper. Something you do not have a name for.

By the time the sun begins to die, the fence stands tall again. Straight. Solid. Secure.

It is finished; not just patched, not just held together the way you had done, binding it with twine and scraps and whispered prayers to things that had long since stopped listening.

You don’t thank him. Not because you aren’t grateful. Because you know he didn’t do it for you.

You make dinner. It’s not much.

Scraps of whatever harvest you managed to pull from the stubborn belly of the land, thick broth, the last of the bird you had killed days ago. You had gutted it yourself, split it open with careful hands, read its entrails in the cold light of morning, searching for signs of something you didn’t even know how to name.

Ornithomancy.

You had heard the word before. Had read it somewhere, once. The divination of birds. The reading of wings, of bones, of the way a creature moved against the sky.

It had been a cruel thing to do, perhaps. To kill and then to ask—to carve into its flesh and demand to know if this was your last winter, if the earth would take you too, if the winds would change.

You had found no answers in its hollow body. Only meat. And now, you put that meat into the pot, hands moving without thought, without effort, without care, because it is something to do. Because it is yours to do.

The sheriff does not ask what you are making. Does not ask if you are making it for him. He simply waits.

Leaning against the porch railing— arm slung over the wood, boots pressed solid into the dirt. John's hat is gone, tossed aside near his saddle, and for the first time, you see him clearly—his hair streaked with the first ghosts of silver, his mouth set in something firm but not unkind.

He is a hawk.

Not in the way men like to fashion themselves, not in the way your husband used to say, slurring over whiskey, laughing about how he 'could spot a liar from a mile away, darlin’, sharp as a blade, keen as a bird o’ prey—' No. Not like that.

Price is a hawk in the way they wait. The way they watch. The way they do not speak unless they must. The way they know.

His eyes flick toward the stew when you bring it out, nothing more than a glance, nothing more than a slight shift of his head. And for the second time since he set foot on your land, you speak first.

“It's not much,” you murmur, setting the bowls down between you. He doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t tell you it’s enough. But he eats. Slow. Deliberate. Silent. And you do, too. Careful bites, unwilling to feast on more than you can bear.

You can feel the bones. Sharp, jagged between your teeth. Tiny toothpicks of cartilage, featless against the press of your back teeth. They aren't there, but you can feel them. Ground meat.

It is a disturbing thought; and maybe it is punishment for your demand of the future as he sets the empty bowl aside. His gaze shifts to you, dark, steady, something unreadable buried deep beneath the surface. His fingers press lightly against the rim of the bowl, thoughtful, before he exhales through his nose, slow, almost amused.

“Should eat more yourself,” he mutters, not looking at you, but the words are heavy in the air between you.

You stiffen. It’s not a suggestion. It’s not a kindness. It’s an observation.

His hand settles against his knee, rough fingers flexing against the worn fabric. Then, low and absent, like it’s nothing at all— “Good stew, hen.” You blink.

The hens in their coop rustle, uneasy, as if the name itself has unsettled them. You can hear them shift, feathers flaring, claws scratching against the wood.

You stare at him. Price doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t explain himself. He just leans back against the railing again, boots scraping against the dirt, posture loose, comfortable, as if he has already decided— not just on the fence, not just on the work, but on you.

And suddenly, you understand something. The hens might not like him.

They might ruffle and scatter every time he moves too close, might watch him with their dark, skittish eyes, might flap their pathetically useless wings and make themselves look bigger than they are.

But they still move when he moves. They still hide when the hawk is in the sky.

[marykk1990]

My next post in support of Ukraine is:

Next site, due to a late start, is some more Ukrainian foods. 1, Banush (Бануш), a cornmeal porridge. 2, Deruny (Деруни), a potato pancake similar to latkes. 3, Holubtsi (Голубці), stuffed cabbage rolls. 4, Varenyky (Вареники), my fav Ukrainian food that I've had.

#StandWithUkraine

#СлаваУкраїні 🇺🇦🌻

[webanglikethat]

Thalassophile, do you remember our crestfallen hearts?

— prompt: cooking together & unrequited love.

📝: word count: 2500.

🎹: [and is this not treason? / my soul belongs far more to you than it does to me.]

or: Vyxaria's evening at Walter’s apartment begins with a cooking lesson, but it's their feelings that end up stirred.

Had Vyxaria been true to herself, she would have never agreed to this in the first place. 

Truly, what role did she have to play in Walter’s kitchen at 5pm? If he wanted to so desperately invite her out to eat, a fancy restaurant should’ve and would’ve been the obvious route to take. With tall buildings and luxurious cars being driven by sinful humans she could’ve gotten as desserts … truly, what a missed opportunity for a delicacy worthy of her presence. Instead, here she stood, in the dim xanthous light of the kitchen, watching as the merman’s shadows danced on the walls, portraying the stage of his life; and she, the avid watcher. his hands carefully took the ingredients out of the fridge and laid them on the counter like an army to direct. Had she known the nature of his plans beforehand, she would’ve rejected them outrightly and spent the evening scrolling on Lamazon, buried under those expensive sheets she’d bought using Elliot’s card, adding niche and frankly weird decorations for her house – truly, who needed a flag that spelled out ‘beware of sarcasm’? Lamazon apparently thought she did – and enticing lingerie to her shopping cart. But alas, there she was now, spending the first Friday night of the month in the presence of a man’s gastronomic epicurean fantasies and his wandering cat.

It was better than staying in her own place, she told herself. 

It filled the silence that slowly spread the perforation on her body from where her wound still spelled out the shape of her name.

It was better than thinking about Xantheia. Her Xantheia.

It was better than lowering her hand and still feeling the treacherous laceration burning, melting away her fingertips and creeping onto her lungs.

It was better than replaying the scene over and over, hitting repeat on her encephalon and watching herself stumble; first from joy and bewilderment, then from despair and moribund.

So she rolled up her sleeves, swept away her thoughts in a corner, and took a curious look at Walter’s phone, where a cooking tutorial for Cuscuz Paulista was playing. He had already started cooking before she entered his apartment; to give her an easier time, he had declared with a smile, as if cooking was a challenge to her (it was; why would one need to get their hands dirty when all she needed to do was touch a few buttons on her phone and have everything delivered to her? If she couldn’t own this city, she could still be treated like royalty!). 

Well, it wasn’t a private chef’s entourage, but she would have to accept it for tonight.

Walter stirred the cornmeal and vegetable broth together in a large bowl, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brows furrowed in concentration as if his being there and doing this was a task to present to royalty, and he couldn’t mess it up — as if stumbling over any step could lead to the demise of this evening. “It has to sit for a bit,” he murmured in reply to her silent stare, and then turned to the skillet, already pre-heating the olive oil. In this light, he looked ethereal, the blonde of his hair contrasting with the blue of his eyes; the sweetest querencia.

Her fingers drummed against the counter, watching as his smile didn’t falter even when confronted with her firm expression. “You could’ve just ordered takeout,” she said, sitting down on the counter, pulling the bowl closer to her, “could’ve saved you the mess of having to clean all of this up.”

He let out a soft laugh, chopping an onion with effortless precision. Was that a skill merfolk performed well in? “Maybe. But I thought you might enjoy this.”

She nearly scoffed. Enjoy? What was there to enjoy? Standing in a too-warm kitchen, his cat’s movements echoing in the apartment, dimmed lights flashing their shadows and watching Walter soften onions and garlic, as if it was all a movie premiere? Perhaps they had different definitions of enjoyment. Hers included flashy cards and expensive wines; and all Walter needed instead was the quiet of his same old walls and the familiarity of his surroundings. Bold of him to invite her then, she thought as she stole a slice of tomato off the counter to eat. If he was water, then she was fire; how long would it take for their encounter to dissipate? 

But she bit back the argument and simply hummed in response. Despite all of her elevated parapets, she could see it in his eyes — the silent question that had lingered, trapped in between his fidgeting hands and the tip of his tongue. She could sense the true meaning behind this evening, concealed behind the innocuous invitation. 

     Just a few nights ago she had finally told Walter about what had happened that fateful night, when Xantheia’s embrace had turned into a cage, and her joy had bleached into pain to exploit. Just thinking about it brought back all the emotions; at first, it was anger that knocked at her chest — anger for trusting, for allowing the vessel of her soul to actually feel, for forgetting that she was a demon who wasn’t supposed to partake in such humanly frivolousness. Then, it was fear that brought its luggages, sitting down on her sternum, blocking the alleyways of her breathing. Somewhere in this city Xantheia lingered, breathing the same air as her and walking past the same faces glued to their phones; but she didn’t show herself to Vyxaria. What they once had — what they weren’t supposed to have in the first place – had dissipated, wilted and withered, till all the life had been siphoned by the bloodshed, and she wasn’t sure the ashes could ever bring back was once stood so legendarily. And at last, it was grief that slithered its way down onto her heart, knocking down her arteries and bumping into the edges of her chambers – it was loss for the bond she thought she had, the rarest of luxuries she’d ever had the opportunity to hold; it was also loss for the person she’d been before that night and the person she could never be again. She could’ve lived in the shadows of her death if needed, but knowing Xantheia, her Xantheia, was alive and was probably hunting her … she didn’t know how to accept that fact. She had faced many deaths, met countless sphacelated bodies on her trail, but what was one meant to do when it was your twin flame that decided to put an expiration date on your being? How was one meant to retire from the shadows of loss when it perforated your every beat? She’d been hurt before; arrows digging their way into her body, unstitching her limbs till the ground beamed with scarlet maroon, but this, this was a tenebrosity and hurt she could have never imagined. That in itself was against her nature; she should’ve known, she should’ve expected it. How could she have given so much of herself, only to watch it crumble?

     Lost in thoughts, she recounted the night her and Xantheia had laid on the grass, admiring the dark canvas of the night’s cloak. It had been a break from the hunt, though the details of it were blurry. Her eyes had wandered over to Xantheia, taking in all of her features. Even when darkness veiled half of her face, she still was the most beautiful being to her, the only sight to quench her desires. Xantheia, ever the wise, had told her stories about how some beings connected the flecks of light in the sky to constellations, giving them their own stories. Vyxaria had wondered how the personages to come would then remember her and Xantheia. She imagined her face in the sky, those brown eyes that warmed her, her own apricity in the dark to seek each night. 

     And perhaps, that night had been a warning, a cassandran scream that Xantheia was just a fleeting star, never meant to be caught in the orbit of her life. Constellations after all are just made up lines, and their bond turned out to be perpendicularly shaped; walking on the same trail, meeting once, and leaving everything bereft in their meeting in the wake of their affair. 

  Ah, there it was. Another soft knocking against her door, another key being entered, valises in the corner and boarded windows open at last. Vyxaria had lied to herself; it wasn’t just anger, fear and grief that lingered – her love overstayed its stay too. She could pretend it wasn’t there and paint over its presence, but it knocked and knocked, till it squandered everything in its wake. Broken planks and azul rain were left in the destruction, and even then, Vyxaria could not distinguish the red of anger from the redness of love.

The knife in Walter’s hands paused midair as he caught the change in her expression, his eyes squinting slightly, as if weighing whether to illuminate the conversations she so desperately had run from, the one that had led her to his apartment. Even in her silent hours, he could read her too well. She hated it. It was mortifying to be known this deeply; it had never brought something good, clearly. Be it the silent nubes gathering in her shaky hands or the thunderous fury that swarmed out of her lips; he knew her too well. So before he could say or do anything — anything that could threaten the floods to open – she came closer and grabbed the knife from his hands. He looked confused, but let her take it. “Well, then. I might as well partake in this, right?” She took the onion and garlic and started working on chopping them. Surely it couldn’t be that hard. Not harder than trying to outrun the flaming ghosts of your life, she added mentally while pulling up her hair. The blade was long, pointed, and slightly curved, and the knife danced across the cutting board, its sharp edge slicing clean through the onion’s translucent layers with a satisfying noise. Vyxaria wasn’t a stranger to knives, though her preferred weapon was herself. She could master this with ease. She could do anything! With each cut, a crisp snap echoed through the kitchen, followed by the sting of its aroma creeping into the air. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and Walter remarked with a chuckle, “You’re chopping like you’re trying to murder it’’. Vyxaria scoffed, glancing down at the poor onion under her blade. “It deserves it.” He simply laughed, shaking his head in amusement. He watched as the garlic became her next enemy, yielding under the pressure of her hands, releasing a pungent, almost sweet scent as it was crushed beneath the side of the knife and finely minced into a fragrant paste.

 “You’re better at this than I thought’’, he remarked. 

She rolled her eyes, “I might just start believing you’re finally impressed by me. Well, at least you are.’’ 

The sentence should’ve been laced by a satirical tone, but as soon as the words were evicted, she could tell they felt anything but. Walter’s eyes worryingly looked at her, and before she could say anything, he passed her the sea salt. ‘‘What?’’, she asked, confusion draped on her expression. ‘‘Add chopped black olives, parsley, scallions, sea salt, and black pepper — that’s what the recipe says’’. She nodded confused and did as he asked. Meanwhile, Walter just silently stood there, watching her every move. He didn’t pry, didn’t ask, didn’t try to ungrave the thoughts bathing in Vyxaria’s face. He could read her like a passage whispered in the dark, like a prayer passed through folklore, and it was through that act of knowing her better than his own limbs that he decided to stay silent. He didn’t want her to feel attacked, pried open, laid on a table for all to see. But he also didn’t want her to feel alone, washed away on a shore on her own. So he simply added the vegetables to the bowl and asked her to stir it with the cornmeal mixture. He could see the evergreen confusion in her eyes, but he wanted her to be distracted, to be able to outrun at least for a few minutes the disquietudes that scourged her. He didn’t mind being silent with her if it meant her barricades’ troop could rest. To be voiceless was a game token, and her melioration his sweet shore. It didn’t matter that he knew that her heart didn’t reach for his own. He could sense it in the way she spoke of Xantheia, in the way her tone changed when her name was mentioned; softer, calmer, unlike what she presented to him. Her gaze would drift, recalling memories she’d locked inside a vault, as if reciting chronicles of a life that he could never reach; both in time and in closeness. It was almost venerated, as if keeping a star in the tips of her fingers, only for her to see. She was never like that with him, no matter how hard he tried. 

    He watched her grip the cutting board a little too tight, the way she had held onto him when tears had fallen while recounting the truth. It had been spread through soft whispers, as if speaking of it in itself was a sin, a reopening of the wound. He had held her tight that night — perhaps tighter than needed in his selfish desires — and let her spill the ink of her pain onto him, which he’d absorbed like his own. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he wanted to be that for her. He wanted to be the sponge that enthralled her ache, the hunter that kept away tingles and bruises. If he couldn’t be more, at least he could be a shield. As long as he was hers.

Her voice shook him out of his thoughts as she asked him for help; she had steamed the cuscuz and almost messed up and dropped the mixture because Seaweed had unexpectedly decided to deign them of his presence. With a smile, he helped her finish gathering everything while simultaneously petting the cat. ‘‘To you, the honour’’, he said, almost curtsying while holding the steamer basket; the last step of the recipe. She rolled her eyes, a laughter escaping her almost unthinkingly. God, that laugh, he thought as his heart picked up its beat, if he could never let its light shine on him, could it be enough to just bask it from afar? Would it ever be enough to just witness it in different orbs, like a supernova’s descending light years away? 

And when she spoke again, lining the steamer basket with a damp cloth and trying to spoon the mixture into it, she muttered, ‘‘I don’t know why I keep expecting this to get easier.’’ 

Walter could only nod.

He really didn’t know why.

[fallouthomestaedau]

food in the wasteland

this post is inspired by @newvegascowboy 's post on food in the wasteland (go check it out if you haven't read it, its wonderful), and it got me thinking, much of the world in fallout has one characteristic, in one way or another, there is always some group grasping onto the past, and i wondered how that could affect food

lots of folks hold recipes and family tradition close, and at the end of the world that's all some folks have, and with that thought i started wondering how culture would affect food and food would affect culture

a couple notes first, if yall will humour me

i wont be covering fallout 76 or prime (for now) as i have next to no knowledge of them

the Nuka world dlc will get its own post because of unique circumstance within the setting

this wont be all encompassing, it is a collection of thoughts and notes (which yall can use as a basis for any ideas)

yall are wonderful and enjoy

comonwealth

go to meats/eggs

radstag (doe,buck,etc)

brahmin (also used for leather, milk, fertiliser)

yao guai

deathclaw

deathclaw eggs

commonwealth fish

horseshoe mirelurk (young and adult)

mirelurk hunter

mirelurk eggs

(supposedly iguana and squirrel)

clam/oyster (farharbour item called oyster bucket, implies shellfish in general area (all other animals drop meat but it is less appealing or too much effort for everyday people)

major crops

mutfruit

razorgrain

tato

gourd

melon

carrot

corn

tarberry

all fresh variants aswell

foraged plants (food/medicine)

hubflower

bloodleaf

brain fungus

wild carrot flower

glowing fungus

wild gourd blossom

wild tarberry

wild razorgrain

wild mutfruit

wild corn

thistle

wild tato blossoms

silt bean

wild melon blossom

ash blossom

mutated fern flower

theoretical cooking components

butter

cheese

seed oils

tallow (brahmin or yao guai)

maple syrup/sap (maple trees are found in the commonwealth)

pre-existing recipes + theorized realworld components

noodles (ramen made by takashi): razorgrain noodles (alkaline water+razorgrain flower) cooked in broth (brahmin likely), may have additions

molerat chunks: cubed molerat fried in seasonings

radscorpion omelet: radscorpion egg mixed with milk, fried and filled with preference

stingwing filet: fileted and fried stingwing

yao guai roast: yao guai meat, cooked in a thin layer of water in a covered pan, cooked with chopped carrots and tatos (maybe some kind of seasoning or something)

radstag stew: cubed radstag, stewed with cubed gourd and chopped tatos, cooked with a splash of vodka (maybe other seasoning+carrots)

squirell stew: chopped squirell, stewed with chopped tato and carrots, seasoned with bloodleaf

mirelurk cake: chopped mirelurk mixed with mirelurk egg and day old razorgrain bread, fried in thin layer of oil

deathclaw wellingham: heat milk, razorgrain flour, and cheese in a pot till melted and thick, dice/grate tato's, after which mix them in then put to side to cool, mix deathclaw eggwhites till stiff, and fold into cooled-down mixture, place in can and bake

vegetable soup: cook vegetables and seasoning of choice till water becomes broth and vegetables are soft

deathclaw omellet: mix together a deathclaw egg and milk, dice carrots and or mutfruit for filling, fry and fill

sweetroll: mix milk, butter, razorgrain flour and an egg of your chosing, and bake into a small roll, cover with a sugar based glaze of choice

mirelur omelet: mix mirelurk egg with milk, fry and fill with prefference (like mirelurk)

pretty much any meat: fried/grilled/poached (use common sense)

moonshine: bobrov secret recipe

possible local foods

marinated roast beef

"lobster" roll

clam chowder

baked silt beans

clambake

yankee potroast

baked fish

boiled mirelurk

maple anything

fried clams

seafood soups

homemade razorgrain bread/rolls

new england boiled dinner

homemade doughnuts?

vodka

mutfruit cider/wine

wines made from most fruits

cornmeal breads

gravies

mashed tatos

boiled tatos

cooked/boiled vegetables

vibes of the food

hardy food, mostly local with a lot of proteins and carbs, stuff that lasts, especially through the winter. diamond city and goodneighbour have more high end food, good cuts of beef, venison and even deathclaw are found in the markets, takashi toils over hardy broths and succulent mirelurk paired with glowing fungus, fresh breads and high end cooking, down south and along the coast, theres lots of fish and mirelurk on the menu, small house gardens, while to the north there are many orchards, and fields, small by prewar status but mind blowing to folks who come from dc way, central boston is home to more merging of the local diets, but much more pre-war food, folks scrounge for food more than grow it. the food is almost reminiscent of the colonial days, lots of dried or canned goods

the island

go to meats

rad-rabbit

erratic/island radstag

yao guai

fog crawler

hermit crab

mirelurk

mirelurk hunter

commonwealth fish

mackrel

haddock

angler

barnacle

dolphish (dolphin creature)

wolf

clam/oyster (farharbour item called oyster bucket, implies shellfish in general area

crops (most likely to br grown on island)

corn

tatos

carrots most crops are likely shiped in, as growing conditions are rough

foraged plants

aster

black bloodleaf

blight

cave fungus

lure weed

raw sap (maple)

wild gourd (blossom)

wild mutfruit

wild carrot

hub flower

wild tato (blossom)

wild corn

silt bean

mutated fern

razorgrain (found growing feral)

theoretical cooking stuff

tallow

dolphish blubber

syrup (made from sap)

pre-existing recipe + theories of contents

chicken noodle soup: chicken thigh cooked with chopped carrots, razorgrain or cornmeal noodles and seasoned with black bloodleaf

ground molerat: cooked ground molerat meat

gulper slurry: gulper innards stewed with carrot and tato, seasoned with black bloodleaf

wares brew: alcohol distilled from sap

the captains feast: yao guai roast cooked with tato and carrots, cooked in vodka and seasoned with black bloodleaf

sludge cocktail: mix condensed fog, blight and water

seasoned rabbit skewers: fried rabbit and skewers seaoned with aster, black bloodleaf, lureweed and blight (fried in oil, oil coated rabbit as its cooked)

resilient sludge cocktail: condensed fog, bloodbug meat and rad-x

mirelurk jerky: dried mirelurk coated with tarberry juice

wolf ribs: rib meat of a wolf, seasoned with lureweed as cooked

possible recipes

chowder

cooked clam/oysters

boiled mirelurk

"lobster" rolls

ployes

clambake

needhams (made with tato)

mirelurk cakes

"indian pudding" made with syrup not molases

homemade "cornbread" (more bread like}

baked fish

fried fish

boiled fog crawler

cooked meats

homemade stews

fried eggs

homemade gravy

roast chicken

homebrewed alcohol

baked (silt) beans

razorgrainmeal (oatmeal stand in)

food vibes very hearty but humble, lots of seafood, meat heavy meals are meant for special occasions, salted foods are common, lots of preserved foods, very dense foods, very filling, typical of a town where you have to worry about fish people and ancient sea gods, it is the food of people who think that an easy week is half a day off after a full 50 hour work week, imported foods like mutfruit jam is saved for the guests kinda food

washington

meats

brahmin

molerat

yao guai

mirelurk

radroach

possibly iguana (iguana bits)

possibly squirell (squirell bits)

crops/plants

apple

pear

carrot

potato

mutfruit

crunchy mutfruit

cooking components

butter

cheese

tallow

pre-existing recipes + components and stuff

mirelurk cakes: mirelurk meat, eggs and potato starch, fried in oil/butter

noodles: potato starch noodles boiled in a simple broth

squirell stew: made with squirell, potato and carrots

cooked meat

possible recipes

boiled mirelurk

apple "jam"

potato bread

food vibes desperate and despair, most soil is unfarmable due to all the bombs, people eat what they catch, brahmin are sickly and produce precious little food, its inventive in a sad way, even with cleaned up rivers the fish are still unfit to eat, and will be for a while, the soil will take lots of tlc and hydroponics can only do so much, its a wasteland

the mojave

go to meats/egg

bighorner (used for milk, wool and hides)

brahmin (used for milk, fertiliser, transport and hides)

deathclaw

deathclaw eggs

gecko (used for hides too)

gecko eggs

perch

minnow

suposedly iguana and squirell (iguana/squirell bits)

molerat

crops (some imported)

crunchy mutfruit

fresh apple

fresh pear

fresh carrot

fresh potato

jalapeno

maize

mutfruit

pinto bean

foraged (and farmed) plants

barrel cactus

bannana yucca

broc flower

buffalo gourd

cave fungus

honey mesquite

nevada agave

pinyon nuts

prickly pear

white horsenettle

xander root

possible cooking components

butter

cheese

tallow

oil

chile oil

pre-existing recipes + components

brahmin wellington: brahmin steak, wrapped in ant egg puff pastry

caravan lunch: cram, instamash and pork and beans

desert salad: xander greens, topped with sliced barrel cactus, thin sliced dried brahmin meat and pinyon nuts

gecko kebab: gecko meat marinated in jalapeno and banana yucca

noodles: cornmeal noodles cooked in a broth

ruby's caserole: cornmeal crust filled with chopped molerat marinated in jalapeno and radscorpion venom

trail mix: fresh apple+pear, pinyon nuts and sugar bombs

wasteland omelet: deathclaw eg mixed with brahmin milk, filled with a mixture of blamco mac n cheese, mutfruit and lakelurk meat

possible recipes

Chateaubriand

onion rings (the strip)

ribs

cornbread

grits

tortilla

chicken fried steak

baked potato

mashed potato

homemade gravy

green chili stew

mutton stew (bighorner)

sagebrush salad

quesadilla

stuffed peppers

chile

sauted corn (corn, chiles. seasonings)

stews -soups

tamales

grilled maize

fried fish (near lake mead)

cactus fries

nopales

jalapeno poppers

sopapillas

homemade bread

homemade rolls

food vibes western-new mexico, the strip has more high end food but most of the mojave has more rural staples, very flavourful, kinda ranch food, keeps you going all day and makes you glad to come home, really homecooked vibes, lots of variations, like never ask for a recipe in a crowded room cause it will start a fight over whose grandma had the better recipe, lots of meat and vegetables, very little fish, not a lot of "pickyness" over food

zion canyon traditional

meat

perch

rainbow trout

yao guai

gecko

mantis

bighorner

molerat

plants

cave fungi

daturana

sacred datura

xander root

prickly pear

spore plant pods

bannana yucca

honey mesquite

pinyon nuts

cooking components

tallow

recipes

stews

fried meats

fried xander greens

fried fish

fried mushroom

roasted pinyon nuts

food vibes not highly intricate but somehow nostalgic, very traditional indigenous, simple in an uncomplicated way not a bad way, some of the best quality ingredients around, clean food and clean water, smoky flavors, food isn't meant to be showy or fancy, its meant to leave you full and happy as you spend time with family, its meant to be honored and not wasted

new California republic

meat

brahmin

deathclaw

deathclaw egg

gecko

gecko egg

fish

various wild game

crops

potato

onion

cabbage

maize

green mutfruit

fava bean

apple

rice

tomato

carrot

foraged

seaweed

recipes

shi rice: cooked rice served with a side of seaweed or fish

brahmin, any cut of meat grilled or fried

cornbread

grits

tortillas

cabbage soup

chile

cabbage salad

mashed potatos

baked potato

sauerkraut-coleslaw

pickled veg

jerky

mashed potato

baked potato

stews

soups

food vibes very diverse, lots of regional staples, San Francisco has lots of seafood while towns like Modoc have mostly brahmin meat and veg, Klamath has gecko, its very locale dependent ¨(out of character, fallout 1-2 is super bleak and sparse) food is often a matter of survival more than fancy, with the exemption of larger settlements and cities where imports are available and you can afford to experiment with food