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feyburner · 2 months ago

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hey man do you have any banging cinnamon recipes

Yes! Below are my recipes for Monkey Bread and Gooey Cinnamon Rolls.

They use the same enriched dough for a base. You can also use this dough for cinnamon babka, other types of sweet rolls or buns, etc.

Also here’s some recipes I want to try:

- Brown Sugar Cinnamon Shortbread (made this, it rocked)

- Cinnamon Roll Focaccia

- Pumpkin Cinnamon Sourdough

- Coffee Cake (King Arthur’s Recipe of the Year!)

Also check the giant apple pop tart thing I made in a recent post tagged “food” it was so good.

MONKEY BREAD

MAKES: 1 bundt pan (if no bundt pan, use 9x13” pan)

INGREDIENTS

DOUGH

3 ½ cups (420g) AP or bread flour

2 ¼ tsp (1 packet, 7g) instant or active dry yeast

1 cup (227g) full-fat milk, warm

2 Tbsp (25g) sugar

2 Tbsp (28g) butter, melted

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp kosher salt

CINNAMON SUGAR

½ cup (100g) white sugar

1 Tbsp cinnamon

BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE

1 cup (200g) brown sugar

½ cup (113g) butter

1 tsp salt

¼ cup heavy cream or evaporated milk

DIRECTIONS

In a large bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer), whisk together yeast, milk, and sugar. Cover and let sit 5 minutes until frothy, then whisk in butter, egg, and salt.

Add flour and mix for 2-3 minutes to form a very moist, sticky dough.

Let dough sit untouched in bowl 5 minutes so flour absorbs moisture. After resting, dough will pretty much immediately be smooth and workable instead of too sticky.

Transfer dough on a clean, floured surface. Sprinkle flour over the top. Knead, dusting lightly with flour as needed, until dough is soft, smooth, elastic, and springs back to form in 2-3 seconds when poked, 6-7 minutes.

1st Rise: Cover and let rise 1.5-2 hours until doubled in size.

Near the end of 1st Rise: Grease a bundt pan. Combine cinnamon sugar ingredients in a bowl.

Make butterscotch sauce: In a saucepan, combine brown sugar, butter, and salt. Bring to a boil over medium heat, whisking frequently. Turn off heat. Slowly pour in heavy cream (it will froth and spit). Stir until smooth. Put back on the heat until it reaches 240°. Then set aside.

Once dough is risen, pinch off bits the size of donut holes. Roll each dough ball liberally in the cinnamon sugar, then drop into pan. Halfway through, pour ½ of the warm butterscotch sauce over the dough balls. Reserve the other half. Sprinkle any leftover cinnamon sugar over the dough balls at the end.

2nd Rise (Proof): Cover and let rise until visibly puffy, 20-30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350°. Once dough is proofed, pour remaining ½ of butterscotch sauce over the top. Shake gently to make sure sauce sinks to the bottom.

Bake 35-40 minutes until top is a deep golden brown.

Let rest in the pan 15 minutes. Then carefully flip monkey bread onto a large plate. (If you remove too early, the sauce will be runny. If you remove too late, it will stick instead of coming out easily.)

Serve warm.

NOTES

- Butterscotch is just caramel but with brown sugar instead of white.

- Many recipes use a simple butter and brown sugar sauce, but it can result in a grainy, crystallized texture. Add cream and heat all the way to 240° to get a gooey, silky caramel texture.

GOOEY CINNAMON ROLLS

MAKES: 12 rolls (1 x 9x13” pan)

INGREDIENTS

DOUGH

3 ½ cups (420g) AP or bread flour

2 ¼ tsp (1 packet, 7g) instant or active dry yeast

1 cup (227g) full-fat milk, warm

2 Tbsp (25g) sugar

2 Tbsp (28g) butter, melted

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp kosher salt

FILLING

1 cup (200g) brown sugar

½ cup (113g) butter, very soft

2 Tbsp cinnamon

optional: 1 cup chopped walnuts

½ cup heavy cream or full-fat milk, warmed right before rolls go in the oven

optional: Vanilla Glaze (1 cup powdered sugar, 1-2 Tbsp milk, 1 tsp vanilla. Stir until smooth.)

DIRECTIONS

In a large bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer), whisk together yeast, milk, and sugar. Cover and let sit 5 minutes until frothy, then whisk in butter, egg, and salt.

Add flour and mix for 2-3 minutes to form a very moist, sticky dough.

Let dough sit untouched in bowl 5 minutes so flour absorbs moisture. After resting, dough will pretty much immediately be smooth and workable instead of too sticky.

1st Rise: Cover and let rise 1 hour until larger (if not doubled) in size.

Make filling: Beat all ingredients together into a smooth, dark paste.

Roll out dough: On a clean, floured surface, roll out dough into a large, ½”-thick rectangle about the size of a baking sheet, 12x17”. The thickness is more important than the size.

Spread filling over the dough in an even layer. Leave ½” of space at the edges, and 2” of space along the bottom for easy sealing. (If using walnuts, sprinkle over top.)

Starting at the top, tightly roll up the dough lengthwise. It helps to start in the upper corner and go sideways first, then straighten out. Roll tightly to avoid gaps. Pinch the dough to seal along the seam.

Using a large, sharp knife or unflavored dental floss, slice the roll into 12 pieces. If they get a bit misshapen, just pat back into shape as you go. They don’t have to be perfectly round.

Proof: Arrange the rolls in the pan. Cover and let proof for 30 minutes until puffier.

Preheat oven to 375°.

Pour the warm cream or milk over the tops of the proofed rolls, letting it pool in the bottom of the pan.

Bake the rolls for 25-30 minutes until the tops are golden brown.

Let rest in the pan for 15 minutes before removing. If using Vanilla Glaze, drizzle over the rolls while they’re warm but not hot.

NOTES

- Same dough as Monkey Bread. I’ve experimented with richer enriched doughs (most recipes use more sugar and 2 eggs in the dough) but I tend to find them too cakey. I prefer a soft, almost stretchy, bready cinnamon roll.

- Pouring warm milk over the rolls before baking = soft, moist, and gooey.

- I’ve found that baking at 350 takes too long for the tops to get golden brown. I go for a higher temp (I’ve gone up to 400) to avoid overbaking.

#food #recipes #feyburner ask

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mariacallous · 7 months ago

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For the first five years of my life, we lived in the apartment next door to my grandparents. I may have only been a toddler, but I still have vivid memories of being in that home with its many house plants overflowing in their pots, tchotchkes and art from the former Soviet Union, menorahs and other Jewish objects on display, and a welcoming coziness and warmth.

What I remember most about being at my grandparents’ home was the food. Often, there was a pot of something simmering on the stove. On the best days, that pot was filled with tefteli, otherwise known as Russian meatballs. I can still see myself sitting at my grandmother’s table in front of a steaming bowl of tefteli, eagerly waiting for them to cool down so I could start eating.

What makes Russian meatballs different from other kinds? While tefteli come in all types of variations and preparations depending on your own family’s tradition, one of their defining features is that they’re typically made with rice. It’s likely that rice was first incorporated into the dish as a means to stretch the meat, but it also adds a great texture and flavor. Unlike the Italian kind, most Russian meatballs don’t use breadcrumbs, or much by way of herbs or spice. Some folks make them with beef, some with chicken or turkey. The non-kosher versions are often made with pork, and are cooked in a creamy tomato sauce. Some cooks dust the meatballs in flour and then brown them before adding them to the sauce. Some bake them in the oven. Some make a sauce that ends up so thick it is almost shakshuka-like. Usually, shredded carrot is added to the base of the tomato sauce, adding sweetness.

Tefteli are also meant to be eaten on their own as a main course, and they are frequently served with creamy mashed potatoes, but I also love them with a side of polenta, or even with just a slice of good crusty bread.

Every time I make tefteli I try to replicate what my grandmother made for me. Yes, I’m biased, but her meatballs are the best I’ve ever tried. This recipe is fairly simple in terms of its ingredients and steps, but the key to her tefteli’s success is one step that you can’t rush or skip: caramelizing the onions. Caramelizing onions was my grandmother’s go-to flavor builder. When onions get golden and jammy from cooking slowly in a little fat, they add sweetness and umami to any dish. The rest of this recipe mainly involves adding things to a large pot. Leftover rice is great for the meatball mixture, but if you don’t have some on hand, I find the timing works out well if you cook the rice while you’re caramelizing the onions and making the sauce. I prefer to use dark meat ground chicken for this, but you can definitely make this with turkey or beef.

This is the kind of dish that rarely gets a written recipe. I’ve given you specifics, but deviating from what is suggested will only make this better. Taste and modify your tefteli and sauce to your own liking. For instance, my mom actually dislikes rice in her meatballs, so she adds breadcrumbs or matzah meal instead. I like to add chili flake for subtle heat, but that can be completely omitted. I find that these are perfect when they’re on the larger-side, but if you like smaller-sized meatballs go for that. In any form, these are best made in a big batch so that they can be shared with loved ones, and so that they can fill your home with warmth and the smell of good simple food.

I suggest serving these meatballs with a generous ladle of sauce, topped with chopped fresh parsley alongside mashed potatoes, your favorite side, or slices of good bread.

Note:Meatballs can be made several days in advance, and they freeze and reheat well.

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candy-floss-crazy · 11 months ago

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Jacket Potato Cart Hire

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frasermints · 2 years ago

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at what point is something a choice? would you say this to someone that is jewish? to someone that is muslim? neither of these people (typically) eat pork products. it will not be an anaphylactic emergency if they do, the way someone with a life-threatening tree nut allergy would if they consumed pesto or peanut butter.

but they could experience severe gastric distress if you snuck pork fat into the mashed potatoes you shared, or lied about their kosher burger being topped with turkey bacon, because the human body (typically) requires time to adjust to significant changes in diet, and animal protein is one of the biggest stressors you could introduce after prolonged absence.

not to mention that tampering with consumer food is a felony in the united states, and one that can result in life imprisonment. if you work in the food service industry, that applies to you.

so yes, while some people do make the "simple choice" of avoiding specific products, you don't know who these people are and you don't know their reasonings behind their dietary restrictions. they could be doing it for ethical reasons, they could be doing it because it's a fad diet, or they could be doing it because their bodies are literally incapable of processing specific types of foods and it will kill them if they try.

so i'll ask you this - how do you know who is who? do you have their medical records? are you going to ask insanely invasive questions every time you meet someone with a dietary restriction? are you going to doubt them when they tell you it's a legitimate allergy or medical concern, or are you going to take them at face value?

i say spread your compassion equally, and just be a good human no matter the reason. it's literally just not that hard.

On the topic of feeding your friends it's crazy to me how bad people are at accommodating their friends who have allergies.

I don't have any allergies but I have a friend who's allergic to both gluten and eggs and it makes me sad to see how surprised they get when I offer to bring snacks they can have to an event we're going to, or when I invited them over for dinner. And just how they're already prepared to not be accommodated and will preemptively say it's okay to not make food for them when it's actually not that hard to work around their allergies.

And I have another friend who is allergic to onions (except for garlic) and we became friends because they'd never had ranch and my partner made them a thing of ranch without onion powder in it. Like even coming from a culinary background that is so based in onions my family has a running joke about it I'm able to modify recipes to just not have onions in it.

Idk it just makes me sad to see people who are so used to being told their allergies are a problem that they are genuinely surprised and happy when people are able and willing to accommodate them, even when accommodating them is not that difficult. If you don't have allergies but you have friends that do just accommodate for them and don't make a big deal out of it because people don't deserve to feel like an inconvenience because of dietary restrictions they have no control over

#my additions #this shit grinds my gears

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dickwheelie · 3 years ago

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by popular demand on the discord server, a jonsasha fic! this incorporates a few different requests from the discord buds, but it boils down to: jon and sasha are on a "stakeout" for a statement and jon thinks it's purely for work but sasha is treating it like a date without him realizing.

this was my first time writing jonsasha and I gotta say it was super fun! I'll have to do more with these two in the future. please enjoy!

___________

"Anything yet?" Sasha asked.

Jon's leg had begun to fall asleep, and so he shifted his weight, leaning closer to the windshield. He squinted through the darkness at the doorway across the street, but it was as empty as before. "No, nothing," he said with a sigh.

Sasha shrugged. "Time to dig into the sandwiches, then." She reached into the backseat and retrieved the cooler she'd brought along for their overnight stakeout. It was two in the morning and they'd already gone through a packet of crisps and a candy bar each, as well as a handful of oranges, because Sasha thought they should try to be at least somewhat healthy. Now she pulled out two wrapped sandwiches, which looked like they'd come from Tesco's. She handed Jon the tuna one.

"So you can keep kosher," she said as she unwrapped her ham and cheese.

Jon looked at her in surprise. "Oh, er," he said, "thank you." Usually people forgot.

"Course." Sasha flashed him a smile. She'd been smiling a lot that night; Jon had no idea Sasha enjoyed stakeouts so much. He'd have to invite her to investigate statements more often in the future. He liked seeing her smile; she would scrunch up her nose slightly and it was very cute.

Almost as though she were reading his mind, Sasha said, "Thanks for inviting me out tonight, Jon. This has been fun." She craned her neck towards the passenger's side window. "Even if we're not having much luck. It's nice just to spend time together."

"O-Of course," Jon said. "Thank you for joining me. And for bringing the food." He paused. "And the car."

Sasha laughed. "Least I could do, really."

The truth was, Jon had asked her to join him mostly because Sasha was the best researcher he knew at the Institute, definitely better than himself. It didn't hurt that she was also a good friend, and one of the few people at work who seemed to like Jon. The only other one he could think of was Tim. But Sasha was . . . she was just different, somehow. She understood him, in a way very few people did. Now that he thought about it, not since Georgie had he so thoroughly clicked with someone. He was unaccountably relieved when she'd agreed to join him on what would have been a very lonely and very dull stakeout. Then again, Sasha had never shied away from a chance to do more thorough research.

The passenger's side window nearest to Jon was cracked open, and a sudden draft of night air blew in, making him shiver.

"Oh, are you cold?" Sasha said, and before Jon could answer, she removed the wool jacket she was wearing and placed it around his shoulders. Sasha was about the same height as him, perhaps an inch or two taller, but she was much broader-shouldered, and her jacket was large on him, encompassing him in its sudden warmth. He couldn't help but notice it smelled like her perfume. "Better?" Sasha asked.

Jon felt heat rise to his face, and drew the jacket a bit tighter around him. "Er, yes, much better." He definitely wasn't cold anymore, at least. He looked down at the jacket, running his finger along one of its many tiny enamel pins. He'd never tried to get close enough to look at them all. Now he could see, among others, a trans flag, a pan flag, an anarchist symbol, a pin with a drawing of the globe that said "Give Earth a Chance," and one that just said "int elligent;". He didn't understand that one but he supposed it meant something to somebody.

"I wonder how legal this is," Sasha was saying. "Staking out someone's flat like this. I mean, technically we're not breaking any laws, just sitting here in the car . . ."

Jon nodded. "Considering the kind of stuff I usually do, this is on the lower end of the legally dubious spectrum."

Sasha laughed. "How many carparks have you jumped the fence of again?"

"I believe the last count was six," Jon said, allowing himself a satisfied grin.

"Next time I expect you to invite me along to one of those 'research outings.' "

"Deal," said Jon, and they shook on it.

"Either way," Sasha said, settling back in her seat, "this has definitely been one of the more interesting dates I've been on."

Jon froze in his seat. Date? He had invited her out to help with investigating a statement, not for a date. His mind flashed back over the last three hours. Had he been on a date with Sasha this whole time, without realizing it? Had she not realized that this was a work thing? Oh god, what had he said to her when he'd asked? Had he made it sound like he was asking her out?

"Sasha," he said slowly, mind racing to figure out how best to break the news to her, "I . . . I'm so sorry, but I didn't--"

"Didn't know this was a date?" Sasha didn't seem angry. In fact, she was grinning at him. "I know. When you asked me to join you tonight, I said to myself, Sasha, this is the closest Jon is gonna get to asking you out. You better make it easy for him." She shrugged. "So, I made it a date. Assuming you're okay with that. If not, then it doesn't have to be one. Simple as that."

Jon stared at her, with her bright eyes and expectant smile. She really was very beautiful. He didn't ordinarily notice things like that, about anyone, but now that he was looking for it . . . And what an efficient way to go about things. It would be so much simpler if all dates could be arranged so easily. "Yes," he said, surprising himself at his own words. "That's . . . that's okay. A date is okay."

"You're sure?"

There was a spark of anticipation in his chest. "Yes."

Sasha's face lit up. "Brilliant." She leaned a little closer to him, resting an elbow up on the dashboard. "Is this alright?"

"Is what alright?"

"This." Sasha leaned across the gearshift and kissed him on the cheek.

Jon sat there for a moment, his heart racing. "I--um." He didn't have to give it much thought. "Yes." He leaned towards her. "Do it again?"

Sasha grinned, and pressed her lips to his. They were very soft. He could taste her chapstick, which was coconut flavored. It was wonderful. Her mouth shook under his for a second, as she tried to stifle a laugh. He pulled away, indignant, but Sasha was shaking her head. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just--you're so gentle. You don't have to be all careful with me." She pointed at herself. "It's Sash, remember?"

"I'm sorry," Jon said. "It's . . . been a while."

"Ah, same here. But I don't accept your apology."

Jon cracked a smile. "Can't get anything past you, James."

"No," Sasha said, faux-primly. "You can't." And then she kissed him again, and despite her insistence that he needn't be gentle, Jon melted anyway. Even with the both of them sitting down, Sasha's couple of inches on him were evident, and Jon gladly let her tower over him. He had always been a little self-conscious about his height, and having a partner that was taller than him was extremely welcome.

When they finally pulled apart, Jon said, "You're a genius."

Sasha looked puzzled. "I didn't know I was that good of a kisser."

"Oh, no, that's not--You're a really good kisser, yes, but I meant about the date thing."

"Ohh. That makes more sense. Yes, I am a genius. And a great kisser. Thank you for noticing," said Sasha, and Jon laughed.

The rest of the stakeout was, unfortunately, a bit of a wash. Neither of them spent much time watching the doorway, and they fell asleep on one another's shoulders around three in the morning. As a date, though, Jon would have to say it was a complete success.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonsasha #sasha james #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes #these two are so cuuuuuute wtf #this is set pre s1 before jon meets martin #cuz i can't deal with anyone being jealous or sad lmao

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pinkoptics · 3 years ago

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AU-gust 2021 Prompts

3. Hipsters / 16. Hippies

Erik detests hipsters and hippies and, to be honest, isn’t even sure what the difference is, nor does he particularly care. The things he will do for Charles…

Modern AU. Still have powers. Grumpy Erik. Adorable Charles. Meet Cute. Silliness.

3392 Words

Erik hated everything about this place.

Absolutely everything.

He could write a dissertation on its failings, which were abundant.

Its first sin was being directly across from his apartment building. When he looked out his window, he saw it. When he stepped out of the lobby doors, he saw it. When he pulled his car out of the parking garage, he saw it. It was an unavoidable part of every single day of his life.

Its second sin was what it had replaced. Previously, there had been a diner. A kosher diner. A diner that had tasted like his childhood. It had been a hole in the wall, never looked quite clean, but the coffee had been strong enough to caffeinate an elephant and the food almost as good as his mama’s. Most people had passed it by. Just another slightly dingy New York eatery that you didn’t give a second thought. Quiet. A refuge for those in the know. Then came the hipster gentrification, ruining not only his precious diner, but the neighbourhood in general.

Its third sin was its name. Plant. In and of itself the name ‘Plant’ was harmless, inoffensive. Just a word. It conjured images of a vegan eatery, bistro, restaurant, or maybe if taken 100% literally, a store that sold plants. All of which would have been fine. He had nothing against plants and, sure, he ate meat (kosher meat), but happily ate vegetarian dishes as well. But no, it was not a plant store or even a vegan eatery, it was a vegan coffeehouse. Coffee came from plants, Erik knew this, so the name passed on that technicality, but it did not scream ‘coffee.’ Why not ‘Bean’ if it needed to conform to the trendy one-word-naming that had for reasons unknown come with the gentrification. It was couched between ‘Table’ (a restaurant) and ‘Sweat’ (a boutique gym). Plant did not equal coffee, and that knowledge crawled under his skin every time he saw the stylized lettering.

Its fourth sin was the coffee. Erik wasn’t particularly picky about his brew, whether at home or out. Cheap diner swill, the finest Italian espresso, the Keurig at the office, the ridiculously expensive machine that produced the perfect cappuccino at Emma’s apartment, whatever. Plant’s beans were fine as beans went, the roast satisfactory, but then ruined with its accompaniments. They carried a variety of ‘mylks.’ Yes, with a ‘y’. He preferred lattes, and would have been fine with oat or almond— if only it was spelled with a fucking ‘i’. Every time he saw the pretentious letter, he felt the urge to take a sharpie and commit as many acts of misdemeanour graffiti as necessary until all the ‘y’s were gone.

Its fifth sin was its staff. He could have tolerated their always sunny dispositions (even if it were literally impossible for any customer service employee to be that happy all the time). He could have tolerated their ridiculous hipster (or was it hippy?) apparel, moustaches, beards and hairstyles (what was even the difference between the two?). What he could not handle was the way they called him ‘friend.’ Every. Single. Time. He could count his friends on one hand and none of them worked at Plant. Their ‘peace, love and joy’ vibe made him grind his teeth and wish he had a mutation that would allow him to send them back to the 1960s.

And yet…

“Good morning friend! Amazing day, right?” It was, in fact, pouring so hard the streets were borderline flooding. “Usual? Or do you want to try—”

Erik had long ago learned to immediately tune out the suggestions, but was sure he caught the word ‘sage.’ Who in their right fucking mind wanted sage in their coffee? Yes, he was inside the loathed establishment wasting precious brain cells wondering why anyone felt the need to mess with the simple perfection that was coffee and milk. Yes, he was there often enough that the employees knew him on sight. Yes, he had a usual order.

It wasn’t his fault.

It really wasn’t.

It was the fault of a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

This shouldn’t have been the case. The whole thing was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. The entire story more at home on the W Network or Hallmark, than in his very real, not-a-rom-com, life. And yet, here he was, having his 24th latte with mylk in a row and questioning his very sanity.

It had all started, just over a month ago, directly in front of Plant. To this day, Erik wasn’t sure whose fault it had been. He’d been on his phone, eviscerating a junior partner for a monstrous fuck up, and so livid that he was not at all paying attention to his surroundings. The blue-eyed man he’d run into, however, had claimed equal distraction, so perhaps the blame rested on both of their shoulders.

They had crashed into each other— papers flew, his phone flipped through the air and they ended up in a heap on the sidewalk, Erik atop the smaller frame beneath him. Already late for work, already pissed off with the junior partner beyond reason, Erik had been ready to re-direct his anger and tear whoever it was a new one, when the aforementioned blue eyes had arrested the words in his throat. He had admitted this to no one. Hell, he barely admitted it in the sanctity of his own mind because he was not a 12 year old girl, but a senior partner in one of the most prestigious architecture firms in New York. He did not go soft over a pair of gorgeous eyes (except, apparently, that he did), particularly when he hadn’t even seen the face that went with the eyes, which could have been grotesquely unattractive (it wasn’t).

The mouth that went with the eyes was absurdly red and absurdly kissable. The face angelic. To his eternal, internal embarrassment he had thought that exact word— angelic. He wished he could have blamed his temporary insanity on hitting his head, but having fallen on top, he couldn’t. If anyone had a concussion it was the ocean-eyed, ruby-lipped angel man. The ruby lips had spluttered apologies in a gorgeous British accent (not something Erik had until now found to be a turn on) as they scrambled off each other, righting clothes and belongings.

“Your phone!” the man had moaned. “Is it all right?”

The screen did appear to have a crack, but in another moment of lunacy, Erik pocketed it before the Angel could see and muttered something about it being fine. Instead, Erik helped him to collect the papers that had fluttered every which way, including the road, where they were already being demolished by a steady stream of vehicles.

“I hope those weren’t important.”

The man laughed, it was a very nice sound. “Not as such, no. I’m sure my students will be delighted to hear that their papers were torn asunder. They already mock me for printing them at all. I could mark them on my laptop like a proper 21st century individual, but there’s something about the feel of paper and pen that I just cannot let go of. It’s— and, as I go on and see your expression, I realize a simple ‘no’ likely would have sufficed.”

What did he see in Erik’s expression? A man besotted? Enamoured? Smitten? Any other number of words he had never used in regard to himself or anyone else in his entire life? Fuck. Erik tried to school has face into its usual disdain for the world and ninety-nine percent of the people in it, but if he was as in control of his facial muscles as he was of his thoughts, he knew he was failing miserably.

Erik handed him the last of the papers they could possibly retrieve. “I agree— about the pen and paper, I mean.” He did. As incredible as design software was these days, he always started on paper. The precision needed to draw the perfect straight lines and angles of a new building gave him a feeling of immense satisfaction in a way little else did.

“Oh, well, glad I’m not the only one who hasn’t forsaken the old ways.”

His smile.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Erik cleared his throat. “Let me buy you a coffee.”

Had he just said that?

Traitorous voice.

Was he gesturing at Plant?

Traitorous body.

He’d never been inside. On principle. Apparently, principle flew out the window for charming British men with cornflower (cornflower?!) blue eyes. The man blinked those eyes, as though not expecting the kindness.

Erik gestured at the papers. “I’ve clearly set your work back and I’ve ruined your—” cardigan. Erik blinked as his clothes came into focus. The man he was suddenly, desperately, attracted to was wearing a baggy, grandpa cardigan. Erik began to wonder if he had never woken up that morning. Maybe he was still in bed, across the street. Maybe this was a fever dream.

“Oh! I’ve dozens more just like it. It’s nothing.” He swatted ineffectually at the dirt covering one sleeve.

“Please.”

The man cocked his head. “Well… all right.”

So Erik had. In the end it had been a tea, not coffee. Earl grey with mylk. The interaction had ended there, awkwardly. Most likely his own fault. He didn’t do flirting with random strangers he’d just plowed into on the street. He didn’t generally do flirting at all. Moreover, he was now very late and had the junior partner’s fuck ups to fix before this afternoon’s meeting with their client. So, he’d left, stumbling over his goodbyes.

The day that followed hadn’t afforded much opportunity to think on the chance encounter. Not with employees to castrate and clients to placate. It wasn’t until he was home, looking out the bank of front windows at Plant that his thoughts drifted back to Blue Eyes. Which was, unfortunately, what he had christened him in his head because he’d never gotten the man’s name. Erik had gone to bed, mind clouded with thoughts, dreamt of him, and woken up with those same thoughts. Emma had always said his was one of the most disciplined minds she had ever encountered.

So much for that.

It was only a complete loss of that discipline that could possibly explain why he’d unnecessarily crossed the street the next morning and entered the obnoxious establishment for a second time, without even a moment’s hesitation. His eyes had immediately scanned for a mop of just overlong brown hair (yes, he’d noted that too, as well as just how much he wanted to run his hands through it). When they’d landed upon said hair, curling delightfully upon Blue Eyes’ forehead, Erik had been genuinely surprised. This clearly made the man a Plant regular, which should have been a point against him — a massive point — yet here Erik was, seeking him out regardless. Blue Eyes had looked up at him then, gifting him with a smile and acknowledging him with a nod, before returning to a set of what Erik had to guess were re-printed term papers.

Such was the story of how Erik had become a regular customer with a regular order.

Most days Blue Eyes was there before he came in, sometimes working on laptop or in a notebook, other times reading a book or a journal. Erik had caught a title once — The Oxford Journal of Genetics — which led him to conclude, that along with clearly being a professor, this proved the man must have a brain to back up the looks. Another point in his favour, as Erik had no patience for stupidity, no matter how pretty a package it came in.

Erik’s day was such that he usually needed to take his order to go. The few days where he could scrape together a few extra minutes, he grabbed his own table. He hadn’t once attempted to kid himself that it was because he enjoyed the ambience— that level of denial would have been absurd. No, it was clearly so he could spend a few extra minutes trying to stare, in a way that wasn’t blatantly obvious, at his… crush. Crush. He might as well think the word because that’s what it was. Only days after meeting him, Erik had caught himself, pen poised, about to doodle hearts on his notepad at a meeting. The mental pinch and knowing look Emma had sent his way had made him extra testy for the rest of the day. The wide berth everyone but Emma had given him was a testament to that.

And yet…

He never approached Blue Eyes. They exchanged nods, occasional hellos, but never anything more. Out of all of his out of character behaviour — and there was a lot of it at this point — this rattled him most. Erik had a reputation in professional and personal circles. He was confident, forbidding, occasionally arrogant, and brazen in pursuing designs no one else thought possible to execute. Erik went after what he wanted in life with borderline fanaticism.

He did not sit and observe from afar, mentally warring with himself, while also berating himself, for not having the balls to ask to join him, or buy him another tea, or inquire as to what he was reading. There were any number of conversational openings, but 24th latte in, he still hadn’t taken any of them. With each passing day the side of him that decided against it (or ‘chickened out’ as the nastier part of his mind supplied) became stronger and stronger. Blue Eyes hadn’t engaged with him either. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe Erik wasn’t his type. Maybe he was already in a relationship. The chances that he was being just as melodramatic as Erik was being in his own head seemed slim. So, Erik continued to act foolish — alternately wondering how long he would continue to do so and how good a kisser Blue Eyes might be with lips like that.

It was on latte #26 that everything changed— no thanks to Erik.

He had decided to sit at a table that day and engage in his usual ‘I’m staring but I’m not staring’ routine. He was in the ‘not-staring’ portion, scrolling through his emails without really paying attention to any of them, when he was startled out of it by the chair across from him suddenly becoming occupied.

Blue Eyes.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Wha—”

“You come in here every day. Every day. Sometimes you stay, sometimes you don’t. It’s baffling because there is one thing I know for certain— you hate it here. No, you loathe it. And, there are literally dozens of other coffee houses within walking distance. You clearly don’t belong—” Blue Eyes gestured up and down at what was likely Erik’s three piece suit, then at Plant in general, where there wasn’t a single person so much as sporting dress pants. Erik counted at least two man buns, one head of dreadlocks and a form of baggy pants Erik didn’t even have a name for. “—and I am fascinated by things that don’t belong. Things that don’t make sense. Puzzles. You don’t make sense. There is no way the coffee is that good. And yet, here you are. Oh! Where are my manners? I’m Charles.”

Blue Eyes — no, Charles — extended his hand across the table and, reflexively, Erik took it, shaking it gingerly.

Charles laughed. “I don’t bite. I entirely talk too much, ask anyone, but I don’t bite.”

Erik rather wished that he did.

“How did you— my suit?”

Thankfully, Charles seemed to follow his meaning. “Oh no, the suit is only corroborating evidence. As is the way you look down your nose at everything in here. It’s your mind.” Charles tapped his temple. “Telepath. I swear to you I haven’t dug any deeper than the surface swirl of utter distaste for this establishment. Then I’d know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be here asking.”

Telepath. Blue E— Charles was a mutant. Erik was fairly certain his knees went a little weak. Good thing they were sitting. However… what on earth could he say? ‘I’ve essentially been stalking you’ hardly seemed like an opener that was going to get him where he wanted to be. Erik cleared his throat, buying time, as those keen eyes continued to look at him expectantly. While Erik wasn’t verbose, he also never found himself at a loss for words, except for here and now, where the truth was exceptionally embarrassing.

His pause, it seemed, went on too long because Charles jumped back into the fray. “Good lord, I’ve ambushed you, haven’t I? Clearly, you don’t have to answer the mad man who mowed you down on the sidewalk and then ambushed the peaceful solitude of your morning coffee. I apologize and will bugger right off if you tell me to. However, if it helps any, I don’t like it here either. It’s trying too bloody hard to be ‘on trend,’ isn’t it? For a cultural subset who pride themselves on not being pretentious they’ve entirely failed, haven’t they? And, I’m English, I know pretentious.” He laughed self-depreciatingly at that.

A beat for his mind to catch up to the second verbal barrage and Erik finally had a response. “If you like it as little as I do, then why are you here?”

Charles’ mouth formed a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise. He scratched the back of his neck and, for a moment, looked everywhere but Erik. “Blast. I’m caught, aren’t I?”

His cheeks reddened adorably. Since when did Erik find anything adorable? Since now, apparently. This man broke all of his rules.

Charles gave an adorable (christ) little shrug of his shoulders. “I suppose I best come clean.” He looked Erik squarely in the eye. “You’re gorgeous. You bought me tea. I came back thinking I’d ask you out. But you’re so… I lost my nerve. Have been doing the same daily ever since.”

“I’m so… ?”

The cheeks reddened further.

“Entirely too gorgeous for me.” Charles gestured at today’s grandfatherly cardigan. “Besides that—”

“You’re perfect.”

Fucking hell. When had his mind decided to say things without his permission?

It produced another, adorable, surprised little ‘o’. “I’m sorry— What?”

In for a penny…

“I had never set foot in Plant before we crashed into each other. Never would have because I do hate everything about it. Everything except you, who I thought were a regular—”

“I thought you were a regular.”

“— and wanted to ask you out.”

“I’d never been here before ei— you wanted to ask me out?”

They stopped, collective words sinking into respective minds.

Charles threw his head back, laughing. “If I didn’t know better—“ He tapped his temple again. “— I’d think you’re having me on.”

His laughter was infectious and Erik found he was smiling despite himself. He gave his own little shrug. “I don’t lie.”

“No, you don’t, do you? I can’t believe we both—”

“Me either.”

“This is too much. Wait… Why are we still here?”

“I’m sorry?”

Charles leaned forward and plucked Erik’s latte with oat mylk from his hand. “Can I buy you a coffee? A real coffee? Where they know how to spell the word milk? At the cafe I actually frequented before I began co-starring with you in a romcom so terrible my sister wouldn’t even watch it?”

He was already standing up, as if assured Erik would say yes, which every single bone in his body was blaring loudly for him to do. It didn’t seem to matter to any part of him that he would be blowing off work, a thought he discarded as quickly as it appeared. Just another out of character thing to add to the list. He followed. “I’m Erik, by the way.”

Charles looked back, as he collected his belongings, and grinned sheepishly. “I know.”

That was the last time Erik set foot in Plant until exactly a year later. He ordered latte #27 with Blue-Eyed Charles on his arm, after having crossed the street from their apartment, to celebrate their first anniversary. As Charles smiled at him over his Earl Gray with mylk, Erik found he couldn’t quite hate the damned coffee shop as much as he had before.

#cherik #cherik fanfic #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #pinkoptics fic #au_gust #augustwritingchallenge

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docholligay · 4 years ago

Text

Chinese Food in The American West

One of the things I frequently come across as a student of the American West* is that people get most of their information from movies and TV and then act like they know things. Wyatt Earp was not a Lawful Good champion who always did his level best even when it was hard to know. (You want Seth Bullock or Bass Reeves). Racism was far more complicated than white vs not white (I’ve talked about this EXTENSIVELY in Strange Empire, so I’m not going to bore you here**).

And they didn’t just eat steak. In fact, they rarely ate steak.

Steak as cowboy food isn’t INACCURATE, but it is MODERN. From about the early 1900s on, you had less and less drives and more and more ranchers who were staying put, with less and less hands needed, and so food was grabbed less “on the go.” Cows could be slaughtered and used to feed the family, allowing for more opportunities for things like steak, yes, but also things like chili, a play on sauerbraten, southern-style biscuits. The cattle drives were a real blend of culture and race, and a lot of what we have left as “Western food” owes a great deal to that.

And if we leave the cattle drives and head into the towns of the American West, as we will today, we find things like oysters, pies, and various things like that. Far more well-heeled than the general expectation.

I mean, here’s the menu from the Occidental Saloon circa the late 1880s:

Soups

Chicken Giblet and Consumme, with Egg

Fish

Columbia River Salmon, au Beurre Noir

Relieves

Filet a Boeuf, a la Financier

Leg of Lamb, Sauce, Oysters

Cold Meats

Loin of Beef, Loin of Ham, Loin of Pork, Westphalia Ham, Corned Beef, Imported Lunches

Boiled Meats

Leg of Mutton, Ribs of Beef, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Russian River Bacon

Entrees

Pinons a Poulett, aux Champignons

Cream Fricasse of Chicken, Asparagus Points

Lapine Domestique, a la Matire d'Hote

Casserole d'Ritz aux Oeufs, a la Chinoise

Ducks of Mutton, Braze, with Chipoluta Ragout

California Fresh Peach, a la Conde

Roasts

Loin of Beef, Loin of Mutton, Leg of Pork

Apple Sauce, Suckling Pig, with Jelly, Chicken Stuffed Veal

Pastry

Peach, Apple, Plum, and Custard Pies

English Plum Pudding, Hard Sauce, Lemon Flavor

This dinner will be served for 50 cents.

-I got this from the book “Saloons of the Old West” by Erdoes

But none of that is precisely why I’m here, I just can’t stop myself from talking about this, why I’m here is that one of the things I say that often surprises people, is that Chinese food was incredibly common for the, well, common man to eat. There’s very much a conception that we as a non-Chinese American people did not start eating Chinese food until the 40s and 50s, and its truer that it took longer to catch on in the American East than the West simply as a matter of proximity and choice.

Not MORE choice but LESS. Part of what made the West so unique, historically, is that the lack of choice and the basic scarcity caused people to work with and patronize people that their general prejudices would have kept them from using back east, because they had CHOICES. But out in the west, less so. There were few choices for a quick, cheap meal on the go. That dinner I just posted above is a lavish affair, and a great deal at approximately $20.00 in today’s money. (Which does not allow for the fact that cost of supplies has gone up and this dinner would most likely be offered for no less than 70 or so today.)

People desperately wanted something that was cheap and quick, and the other options in the American West were few, far between, and not intensely pleasing. No one had really come up with the sandwich shop as of yet, and in any case, fresh meats and cheeses would have been too difficult for the low-cost supplier.

ENTER THE CHINESE POPULATION.

If you have read my Strange Empire blogs, I hope you know that Chinese people were a huge presence in the American West, mostly working for the railroad and various mines, but also doing things like laundry, work that was extremely hard but took little in the way of English speaking. They existed in Chinatowns, for a combination of cultural and legal factors, but it’s a misconception that non-Chinese*** people never went to Chinatown.

People are not new, and it was not unusual for non-Chinese people to use the laundries, tailoring, and other services of Chinatowns while suppressing the rights of Chinese people int he same breath. There were always individual Chinese people any given non-Chinese person liked and did business with.

In time, they discovered the inherent wisdom of the noodle bowl.

I don’t mean to suggest that all these early restaurants served was noodle bowls, but that was where it all started. Remember, Italian food had little prominence in America at the this time, as Italian immigration didn’t really get into full swing until the 1870s in America. While there are noodle traditions half of everywhere, and there is nothing new under the sun, what we today would consider a stir-fry bowl was wildly new to most of the non-Chinese folks in the West. That it could be offered up so cheaply, was so filling, and so delicious (more on this later) was a wild revelation. Everyone from simple cowboys (which, fun fact! Was a slur back then!) to mayors were swinging by Chinatowns to try the dishes.

By the 1920s, chop suey, a fully Chinese American invention derived from the words for “various leftovers” was a hugely popular American food among all sorts.

Doc, you may ask, was it just that these folks coming through to get medicines or laundry were SO adventurous? Not at all! Chinese restaurants back then actually, in a very short amount of time, realized that their non-Chinese townsfolk were an excellent way to make money as well, and began to adapt and change dishes to better fit the Western palate, leading what we call American Chinese Food today, which is a legitimate foodway I will defend to my death. Unfortunately, none of these menus survive today--the only ones we have are from places in San Francisco, places that were much more posh, and not the subject of this essay.

There is a scene in Tombstone where Wyatt and his brothers are eating Chinese food, and it’s one of the things people often ask me about, assuming it’s anachronistic. Actually, it isn’t at all--the anachronism is that there’s broccoli in those noodle bowls, which had not yet hit our shores by the time of the OK Corral. Chinese food was a huge hit, Chinese restaurants were doing extremely well, and some Chinese restaurants were even beginning to attempt to print menus in English, with sit down areas, instead of serving simple fare from food carts.

As the food from these “chow chow houses” grew in popularity, as we can infer from the advertisements of their competitors promising free potatoes with every meal, and other such niceties to entice, there was, as ever there must be, blowback. Anti-Chinese sentiment grew to a fever pitch, and with this came overt pressure for ‘Good Americans” to patronize ‘American restaurants’. The social pressure is actually where we get some of that old racist jargon about Chinese people serving dogs and cats, which people often think was spread by competitors to degrade the Chinese restaurants, which isn’t UNTRUE, but was just as often said sheepishly by someone who couldn’t stop themselves from going and grabbing a noodle bowl or even the American dishes they offered, such as roast chicken or pork chop sandwiches.

(I won’t comment with anything but an eyeroll on the bullshit of people saying they’re ~allergic to MSG~ okay I’ll believe you when you stop eating processed food, meat, aged cheese)

It actually kept this type of reputation as being slightly scandalous well into the early 1900s, as being something you ate after the bar, something to be had in the shadows, but it was all for naught, because Chinese food became an important part of American identity. But for all that, no one ever pictures the Lone Ranger chowing down (the American phrase ‘chow’ for food actually comes from these ‘chow chow houses’) on some chop suey, but there’s every reason to believe he would have. American Chinese food is just as American as the Germanically-influenced hamburger.

(There’s a whole subtopic to go down about Jewish and Chinese communities and Kosher Chinese Food, two marginalized and othered communities coming together, but that’s a WHOLE other topic)

(Also someone please buy me Chinese food. This shit always makes me so hungry.)

*The American West is a specific time period, as far as the study of history goes. It covers the period between the end of the Civil War and the New Century, generally, and is, obviously, concerned with the western half of the country. It doesn’t cover stuff like Lewis and Clark (that’s Expansion) or even the Civil War itself, though you cannot possibly hope to study the American West in any level of seriousness without understanding the Civil War. Anyway! I know a lot about America between 1865 and 1900, and am just knowledgeable enough to be dangerous on everything else. Most History nerds are highly specified like this. We’re not as much help to your trivia team as you think.****

**I actually have had little chance to talk about ~European-style xenophobia~ as it played out in the west, because Strange Empire takes a more modern pass at it. But there was a hierarchy of “whiteness” as well, as still largely exists in Europe, land of intentionally clean ethnostates.

***I use the term “non-Chinese” instead of white because believe it or not, non-white people were not magically free of racism against Chinese people. It was horrific and BASICALLY every non-Chinese person was guilty of it to some level, a wild-ass level of hatred that led to Chinese folks not being able to PURCHASE PROPERTY BY LAW in ENTIRE STATES. Being Chinese or Native in this place and time was your Worst Bet.

****I actually was on a competitive trivia team, you DO want me.

#That was Oddly Specific #Holligay is 34: The celebration

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lavenderek · 4 years ago

Note

So you're saying you don't think "underage" fic is gross. Is that what youre saying?

well, no. yuck. what i’m saying is, what exactly and specifically do we want to happen?

there should not be explicit fic about underage characters, got it. so what age can they not be under? 18? 16? what country’s laws regarding the age of consent do we prioritize? like, i think it’s gross that the age of consent is 16 in some places, but i’m an american, so i would, wouldn’t i? so ok, what if we hedged it a bit and put the age as like, 14? that way it’s not little kids, it’s all teenagers. but no, gross, 14-year-olds are children. fun fact: so are 16-year-olds. they are also children.

what about fic about two teenagers having a consensual encounter? should all romantic or sexual fic have to be about adults only? your answer to this may very well be “yes,” and that’s completely valid. a teenager writing fic might disagree. somebody who’s a big fan of a show that’s about a bunch of teenagers might disagree. should there be an adults-only section on the site? there’s already a “stop, you have to be 18″ box to check before you can access explicit fic, so how do we verify a user’s age? they can just lie about their age and click through anyway. you have to be 18 to make a youtube account and i’ve had one since i was 13. i remember very deliberately choosing a new birth year when it asked for my birthdate.

then you get to slightly greyer areas like large age gaps, or heavy role play between consenting adults. i have absolutely witnessed fic that’s clearly written to be CP, but it’s tagged as age play. so like, for all intents and purposes this is CP, but if you roll in like “hey, this is fucked up,” they can be like, “oh, so you read this picturing actual children, sicko?? you have a problem with two adults doing shit in the bedroom??? how dare you!!! don’t like don’t read!!!”

it’s kind of like on porn sites, how they make like nasty inc*st stuff but call it “stepmom” or whatever, like oh, they’re not actually related! sure, joseph, thanks for covering all your bases

so we can’t ban kinks. or can we? should we limit depictions of serious addictions or domestic abuse too? torture, or even body horror? these are generally accepted to be dark content.

i’m not trying to engage in whataboutism, i’m naming actual, relevant questions about shit that’s disturbing in real life (no offense to kink people who follow codes of consent and conduct) and can be incredibly upsetting to encounter online. shit that i can’t imagine wanting to read, let alone write.

these are the questions that we, you, i, people pro-a*3 and people anti-a*3, are all asking, and not a single one of us can or should answer them unilaterally.

so it’s like, oh, okay, so there should be no oversight at all? should there be no rules? no, obviously, that would be horrible, i don’t trust any of these fuckers to conduct themselves civilly. so there should be some rules, but not too many rules. that’s what we have now, and clearly the way things are now isn’t working because a lot of users are reasonably very upset.

should there be a voting system, and rules are set by a popular vote? should certain words be flagged and you can’t post the fic with that word in it? should there be a thing where when you post a fic, you have to select the ages of each character and that’s listed at the top of the fic? what if they age during the fic? should there be a flagging function, where you report someone for not using sufficient tags? users will find workarounds for all of this. you know they will. so mods will have to be very specific about the rules and introduce, like, a vetting system for it. which is a lot more manpower and a lot more chances for subjective judgments.

all of the above is why it operates on a tagging system instead. i’m gonna be real, i only go on a*3 to read comments on my own shit lmao, and even when i did go on there more often i never went in the tags searching for fic. so is there a blacklist function? is there a flagging function?

if there is a flagging function, maybe they make it so that if the flagged user has violated the rules, their account is suspended and their fic made private for the duration and until they add necessary tags.

cool, a compromise. but uh-oh, it turns out Mod A agrees that this fic is n*ncon, but Mod B thinks it’s just vague, not n*nconsensual, and doesn’t feel comfortable banning the fic. or it turns out User didn’t post anything flaggable, they were reported by somebody who is targeting them for some reason, or by someone who is more stringent about n*ncon than somebody else would be, like, it’s gotta be enthusiastic and verbal consent or else it’s skirting the edges too much.

it’s like, we’ve already witnessed censorship (please take this word usage gently, i know it’s touchy but it’s the word to use here) being a problem here on tumblr with their stupid nipple ban. there’s a double standard regarding whose nipples are explicit and whose are kosher for public consumption. people have to appeal their shit getting flagged and sometimes nothing gets fixed regardless. i’m sure other people are pleased that there’s less of a chance of them accidentally scrolling past a picture of a hard dick at work.

so you get it, this is a problem that’s more complicated than “all of x should be banned and if you post it there’s something wrong with you,” a belief you’re more than entitled to hold but can’t base, like, fanfic legislation off of. you get it you get it.

you get it, but like, what is the fucking deal with those “fandom moms” who go off on soliloquies about the days of old or whatever the fuck whenever this topic comes up? what about the weirdos who are like, “what’s next, banning gay fic????” yeah, if we allow gay marriage you can marry a tree, that’s how it works, thanks tiffany.

but no, the reason they do this is NOT that they think lgbtq content is comparable in any way to CP. the reason they do this is that this exact problem has taken place on every site that has ever hosted fic. and many previous sites did think lgbtq content was comparable to CP. it was categorized as adult content and hidden.

that’s why a*3 exists in the first place. it was to avoid godmodding and absolutism. it’s supposed to be more or less self-governed. i don’t want there to be CP on a*3 any more than you do, but i also don’t trust randos to decide what is and isn’t acceptable content. this topic is not new.

i’m in support of stronger government regulation in real life because it can be argued that certain actions and systems violate human rights. everybody deserves food and shelter, for example. the same can’t be argued in this case because some creep writing CP doesn’t violate my rights. i find it offensive and i don’t think they should be writing it, but my right to click the back button is intact. there is no institution making it impossible or even difficult for me to not read fanfiction. the creep could just as reasonably argue that their right to post what they want is being affected.

why is this response so long? is it because i can’t shut up? yes, but also because this is a complex issue and that’s why nobody has taken significant action on it.

people are also big mad.

i’ve never understood this impulse to see somebody not doing a thing you want them to do and assume it’s out of malice or incompetence, anyway. i don’t know anybody who volunteers for a*3 but it’s my assumption that given the choice to have us all pissed at them, or have us all not pissed at them, they would choose to have us not be pissed at them. it just seems like the reasonable reaction to have. and like, i’d be pretty shocked to part the kimono and find out they’re all CP-loving gargoyles and a*3 actually stands for A lot Of child abus3. that is the reason i have not been like, “fuck a*3.” because what are they supposed to do, you know?

there’s no simple or inarguably morally right solution here. the princess is in another castle. just post fic on tumblr, i guess? make another hosting site that’s exactly like a*3 but romantic characters can only be like, 21?

i actually think the legal age in the US should be raised to 21, not joking. your brain literally and biologically isn’t finished developing at 18. teenagers lack the world experience to make decisions that adults make.

somewhere there is an 18-year-old or a person who moved out and became self sufficient at 18 who hates this sentiment. there’s a teenager in an abusive home who would be intensely demoralized by the prospect of having to remain beholden to these people for three more years.

and there’s a parent who is relieved to know that their kid can’t be preyed on by army recruiters for three more years. there’s a person who got into a car crash with a teenager who misjudged whether or not they could make a turn who’s like, yeah, she could probably have benefited from a few more years.

nothing is as simple as it should be. i agree with you, but i’m not willing to pass blanket judgments with regards to actions that should be taken. and honestly, given how little i actually go on the site, i don’t even have a dog in this fight. so all my opinions on it are moot anyway.

(side note, if you are in an abusive home and you can’t make your own bank account, or if your bank account is monitored by your abusive parents, maybe try venmo? you can get a debit card that pulls directly from your venmo balance. a surprising number of places accept venmo payments, and this way you can save up money in secret.)

anyway uhhhhh seeya

#who is this even #haters #long post #please DO NOT REBLOG

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shokudou-boogie · 5 years ago

Photo

I’ve got a doozy of a post here, so it’ll be pretty long. Might have some coarse language as well, so just a heads up.

I woke up this morning thinking about mozzarella. I’m not entirely sure why, but nothing really inspired me or prompted me to make mozzarella. I just thought, “hey, why don’t I try making mozzarella?”

I recalled how simple it is from watching Ugly Delicious on Netflix, so I thought that I’d give it a shot since I was up early enough.

It’s safe to assume that everyone knows about mozzarella. It’s a cheese originating from Italy, and it’s traditionally made from buffalo milk. I don’t have any access to buffalo though, so whole milk was the next best option.

After going through a wild goose chase trying to find citric acid and rennet, I was able to buy everything else that I needed to make the mozzarella.

Doing some research on making mozzarella, it seemed pretty easy enough, and doesn’t take long at all, so I felt pretty confident that things would turn out okay. It was, however, the complete opposite, and I have never felt so nervous making something like cheese from scratch.

Hit the jump to read about my experience, and a recipe.

So, the recipe was simple enough, and only called for a few ingredients. Whole milk, preferably pasteurized, not “Ultra Pasteurized” or whatever it was called. Some rennet, citric acid, and salt.

I took a gallon of whole milk and poured it into a large 6-quart dutch oven, then poured in my citric acid and water mixture. Simple enough. Then I heated the milk up to 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

Devil number for funsies

After I removed it from the heat, I added the rennet and water mixture to the milk, stirred it in, and then the waiting game began. This is where the nervousness began to set in, because a lot of recipes called for a five-minute waiting time for the milk to stiffen up, almost like soft tofu.

However, I was not experiencing that at the moment. I even posted an Instagram story with the frustration that was starting to come through.

About ready to give up at this point. But at the same time, giving up was not an option.

I waited five minutes, then I waited another five. Still not getting the soft-tofu like curds to show up yet. I’m starting to get worried because I was not thrilled with the idea of pouring a bunch of milk with a bunch of crap in it down the drain.

So this time, I waited another 10 minutes, and then out of desperation, when I tried to cut the curds, it turns out I got that soft-tofu that I wanted!

YES

From there, I put the pot back on the heat so I can heat up the curds to extract more whey out of it. Up to 105 F, the whey started to separate from the curds, and it was looking more like what I saw on the YouTube tutorials.

Yuck. But YESSSSSSS.

After working it a little bit, I scooped out the curds with a slotted spoon and put them in a bowl. It was now time to heat up the cheese in a microwave to get it up to 135 F so I can shape the cheese and get the mozzarella to it’s deserved glory.

I was a little off-put by using the microwave, but almost every recipe I looked at kept mentioning the microwave. I’m no expert on cheese, so I’ll take any advice that I can get.

Slop time, baybee

I didn’t think I was going to yield that much cheese. I think I got about a pound of mozzarella. I didn’t think of it that hard though, since I wanted to make as much cheese as I could. The fact that I’m making my own cheese was exciting enough.

After warming up the cheese in NOT the bowl pictured above, I salted the mozzarella a bit to draw out the taste, and started folding, stretching, and working the cheese. However, it was kind of cold in my kitchen, so working the cheese was a little difficult, and I couldn’t really see how stretchy we could get the mozzarella. I think that’s something to ponder the next time I make this.

But this is what I was left over once I pinched off my small mozzarella balls.

Oh my god, what am I going to do with all this...

The experience of making my own mozzarella was fun, and I think there are going to be a few times where I make this, but I might try different things with it. For starters, I might use a different kind of rennet, since the one I used was something that no one recommended at all and that I should avoid (oops).

Overall, this was really fun to make. But enough of my rambling: here’s what I did to make this mozzarella.

Ingredients

1 1/4 cups of water

1 1/2 tsp citric acid

1 Junket rennet tablet

1 gallon of milk, whole

1 tsp. kosher salt

I’d like to note that you NEED a thermometer for this. Do not attempt to wing or ballpark the temperature. You will screw it up.

1. Take one cup of water and stir in your citric acid until it dissolves. Take the remaining water and put it in a separate bowl/container and dissolve the rennet tablet in there.

2. Pour your gallon of milk in a non-reactive pot (like a ceramic dutch oven) that’s about 6-7 quarts. Stir in your citric acid solution into the pot and then set the pot over medium high heat, heating up the contents up to 90 F.

3. Once the milk is 90 F, remove the pot from the heat and then stir in the rennet solution and start counting to 30. Once you get to 30, put the lid on the pot, and leave it alone for 5* minutes.

* I’d just like to note that if it’s still liquid-y, let it sit for another 5-10 minutes. I waited almost 20 minutes until I started getting the soft-tofu texture.

4. After the milk has set, cut a grid into the curds, cutting horizontally, then vertically, and that you’re cutting to the bottom of the pan. Once you’ve cut the curds, put the pot back onto medium heat, letting the curds reach a temperature of 105 F, while stirring gently.

5. Once the curds reach the temperature of 105 F, remove from the heat, and stir gently for another 4-5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to remove the curd and place into a microwave-safe bowl.

6. Microwave the curds for about a minute and drain off any excess whey. Fold the curds together so they hold together a little bit. You may want to use food-safe gloves so you don’t burn the heck out of your hands.

7. After folding it together a few times, stick the bowl back into the microwave for 30 seconds to heat up the cheese, and check the temperature. If it’s 135 F, the cheese is ready for stretching and shaping. If not, stick it in the microwave for another 30 seconds. You want the cheese warm enough so it’s easy to stretch and fold.

8. The more you work the cheese, it’ll become smoother, more firm, tighter, shinier. Once you get to that point, you can start pinching off balls of mozzarella in any shape that you want. Me, I pinched off four small balls so I could use it for my plating.

And... that’s it!

For my mozzarella balls, I’ve topped it off with some salt, some fresh ground pepper, and garnished it with basil and olive oil.

Everyone says that it’s good right away, and you can store it in a small container with some of the leftover whey with salt so that it doesn’t dry out.

With how easy this was, I’m definitely going to have to do this again. It’s so easy and it’ll save so much money, and now I can brag to people that I’ve made my own cheese.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this new format where I’ve tried to take pictures of the cooking process. I don’t know if I’d ever do that again, but I’ll admit it was fun. If I had another person with me that could take pictures, that would be ideal, but... yeah. *shrug*

#foodporn #food photography #mozzarella #cheese #home made cooking #easy recipe #food #italian #i don't know what other hashtags i could use

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spark-keto-pills · 5 years ago

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babylon-crashing · 5 years ago

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hughes’ offensive and defensive magic

... from: Michael M. Hughes, Magic for the Resistance (2018)

Resistance magic is not always nice.

While many popular books on witchcraft claim that magic should only be used for healing and “positive” ends, I strongly disagree. Magic has always been used for self-defense and in defense of others. The idea that it should not be used defensively or to inhibit the actions of others is a twentieth-century invention, and the entirety of the historical record, from ancient times through the present, makes that abundantly clear.

When I published the Trump binding spell, I expected to encounter resistance from fundamentalist Christians and orthodox religious types. After all, in their view, all magic is evil and the work of the devil, including magic done for healing and positive outcomes (benefica). I even baited them a bit by throwing in the phrase, “demons of the infernal realms,” knowing it would tie their underpants into knots and send them into paroxysms of prayer for their beloved “Christian” president.

But it takes a lot of work to conjure demons, as any competent ceremonial magician knows, and they're not just going to do what you ask them—like any employee, they won't work unless they're paid. And as I've stated elsewhere, I prefer to work respectfully with cooperative and helpful spirits, not the lowlife dregs of the astral realms.

However, as I replied to some of my fundamentalist critics, I would be absolutely delighted to have the cooperation of any and all infernal spirits willing take a whack at the horrid demons infestmg Donald Trump—the demons that make a man believe grabbing women by the pussy is kosher, for example, or the demons that make him enjoy mocking someone with disabilities. The demons that make him believe dumping coal waste in mountain streams is morally acceptable seem especially malign.

Not only did I expect harsh criticism from the religious right, I egged them on. Their overblown reactions even helped further empower the binding spell (because that's how magic works). What I did not expect was a wave of blowback from the witch and Pagan communities.

Many of my Pagan critics pointed to the threefold law of Wicca as their reason for condemning the spell. This law says that any negative magic (malefica) you do comes bouncing back at you with three times the consequences. If you curse someone and they break their leg, the bad mojo is gonna come careening right back at you and break your legs and your arms and burn down your house. It's a variant of karma, just with a moralistic edge against what is presumed “bad” magic.

I respectfully pointed out that the threefold law was very likely the creation of Gerald Gardner, one of the originators of modern witchcraft, and didn't appear until he inserted it into one of his novels in the middle of the twentieth century. And many witches, particularly non-Wiccans, don't consider it part of their tradition anyway. While I do acknowledge the reality of karma, my experience is that it is a much more complex phenomenon than the simple equation "do bad—get hurt." First, who defines what is good and positive or bad and negative? Like most ethical issues involving complex human beings and their societies, it is far from simple to label most actions simply good or bad.

Just think of something as simple as owning a pet cat that you've rescued from a shelter. A good act, right? Absolutely—both you and the cat would agree. But that cat requires food, which means meat (and please don't try to turn your cat vegan). So the fact that you saved the cat means many animals, most of which are raised in horrid factories, are suffering and dying to feed it. If you let the cat outside—which you may feel is a positive experience for your pet—it might kill endangered songbirds.

Some of my witch critics said binding spells were inherently negative because they aim to thwart the target's desires and intentions. That any magic inhibiting someone's will is, by definition, harmful. It's a good point, so let's examine it with a couple of thought experiments.

• Your child is being stalked by an adult with a history of abusing children. You have done everything you can to get police to detain or restrain him, with little success because you don't have actionable evidence. You know the abuser is still actively seeking your child because you saw him sitting in his car across from the school playground where your child was playing.

• A state senator is on the verge of passing legislation to pave a local wetland to put up a strip mall. The wetland has been declared critical for protecting the local watershed from nearby farm runoff. In fact, your well draws water from an aquifer that is threatened by the development.

• You just moved to a small rural town. You and your partner are married and have adopted two mixed-race children. A local fundamentalist minister is whipping his congregation into hating you because “marriage is between a man and a woman,” and “children need a father and a mother, not two mothers.” Your children are increasingly bullied to the point where they dread going to school. The teachers have tried to help, but the minister's hold on the parents is too strong. Today you opened your mailbox and found a letter threatening to kill you and your children if you “disgusting perverts” don't move out of town.

• The drug your mother needs to stay alive has gone from five dollars per pill to two hundred dollars, all thanks to a pharmaceutical company CEO. You have no idea how you're going to pay for the life-saving medicine.

So ... would binding spells or hexes be okay in those situations?

Yes, those are extreme examples. But every day corporations, politicians, corporate executives, lobbyists, cops, judges, ministers, lawyers, and other authorities make decisions that cause serious harm to accent people, animals, and ecosystems.

Witchcraft and magic are tools. When you, someone you love, or a place with great beauty and spiritual power is threatened, why would you not use all the tools at your disposal?

#michael m. hughes #magic for the resistence #quote unquote #resistance magic

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olicitysecretsanta · 6 years ago

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True Loves Gifts: AN 2018 SECRET SANTA GIFT

@christinabeggs: May you Holiday be bright and full of Olicity dessert. I hope you enjoy this fic. It gave me the gift OF writing again and finding the joy of creating something new.

TRUE LOVES GIFTS:

After months of long nights in the office, smoldering looks over the computer screen Felicity has a date with one of the most eligible bachelors in Starling City. A handsome billionaire her mother would be proud to call son. They share a concern for making their relationship public considering he is technically her boss. A few whispered conversations and an upcoming Winter Gala made Felicity his date.

Ray was everything she’d dreamed of as a potential husband. He was brilliant, charismatic, funny, he valued her mind as much as her body.

Felicity has a little over a week to find the perfect dress, make a hair appointment to touch up her roots. Her work schedule left her with only one day to get everything done.

She throws her hair up in a messy bun, her comfortable shopping outfit leggings and oversize sweater. Felicity grabs her purse, texting Renee about her hair emergency. Felicity is looking down unaware of the person standing in her hallway until she slams into the hard body.

Felicity lets out a yelp before falling backwards on her butt. Her glasses fall off her nose turning the world into blurry shades of green and brown.

“Hey!?” Felicity snaps. “Anyone get the name of the tree I ran into? Ouch, sorry I didn’t see you.”

She looks up at the man standing in front of her, he’s wearing head to toe camouflage. Half his face is covered with a full beard. His hair is shaggy under the green ball cap he wore. The rest of his face hidden behind dark sunglasses. On his shoulder is a stuffed duffle bag.

“I didn’t know camouflage works in urban hallways,” Felicity tilts her head to the side. She sees his lips twitch, at least she thinks they did. It was hard to tell with the dead animal on his face.

“Are you okay?” the tree of a man has a deep rich amused voice.

Something about him seems familiar. He reaches down helping her get to her feet. He smells of sand and a faint hint of spice.

“Oliver in 2B?!” Felicity says with a snap of her fingers.

He was a ARMY something or other and had been deployed for over eighteen months. She had a bit of a crush on him before he’d left but never had the courage to tell him. They had been friendly neighbors, he’d help her with projects around the apartment. She’d save his computer from him. On rare occasions he’d cook her dinner.

The first few months after he left she’d send him care packages full of cookies made by the bakery down the block and a few pictures of her Sunday adventures. She stopped writing when he never wrote her back.

“Felicity 2A, good to see you.” Oliver’s says softly.

Felicity looks down at her rumpled clothes, drags a hand over her hair.

“Welcome home,” her phone dings in her pocket. “I have to run, glad you made it back.”

Felicity rushes past him, she can feel his eyes watching her, she refuses to give him the satisfaction of turning back. Oliver had been a short term crush from some long ago dream. Ray Palmer was a viable future. She has a date to get ready for and no time to waste thinking about Oliver 2B.

….

Renee does an amazing job on her hair color. He practices a few different updos depending on style of dress. His vote is something short to show off her legs. She promises him pictures before running off for dress shopping.

She hits the major stores trying on different styles, colors, lengths, fabrics nothing feels right. Felicity finds a small boutique she’d only read about in a magazine. The dresses are stunning. The price tags shocking.

A skin tight beaded red dress catches her eye.

Standing in front of the mirror Felicity wonders what Oliver would say if he saw her in this dress. Would his eyes follow the deep V of the neck line or would he be drawn to the mid thigh length.

She shakes her head of Oliver thoughts. This dress isn’t for him, it’s for Ray.

It’s for her future.

Felicity runs her hand over the beads, her finger drawing along the intricate designs. She’d need a new bra, a little something intimate to match. A new pair of shoes that’d kill her feet and make her legs appear longer. It would be cold, Felicity is going to need a wrap to keep her warm. Is Ray the kind of guy to offer her his coat?

A few hours later, Felicity stumbles into her apartment. She spent way more than she should have. Probably will live off top ramen for a few weeks. It’s worth it. She puts away her purchases then collapses on the couch.

Pulling out her cell phone she considers calling Ray. Felicity puts her phone down when she remembers Ray turns his phone off on Sunday’s, she’d see him tomorrow. They have an early meeting with a new client.

A loud buzzing from her intercom startles her. Felicity press the button, the image of a teenager holding a bag filled the small monitor.

“Yes?” she asks in confusion.

“Delivery for 2A.”

“I didn’t order anything?” It has been a long day but she would have remembered ordering food.

The kid sighs, “well someone did and I’m supposed to deliver it. So do you want it or not?”

“What is it?” Felicity recognizes the logo on the bag. It’s the best kosher deli in the city.

“Latkes,” the teenager taps his toe.

She has only had Solomon’s Latkes a few times and they were amazing. “I’ll be right down. Oh, how much?” Felicity reaches for her purse.

“Paid for including the tip.”

“You sure they are for 2A?” Felicity is highly suspicious, also hungry.

“Come on lady I have two more deliveries, if you don’t want them I’ll leave.” The kid pulls out his phone.

“No way am I turning down Latkes, two minutes.”

Felicity runs out the door in her socks. Her feet slide on the hardwood floor, her arms pinwheel and she starts to fall back. A strong arm wraps around her waist and pulls her back into a warm chest. She inhales the smell of warm spices. The tip of her ear brushes against coarse hair.

“We got to stop meeting like this 2B.” Felicity’s voice is low. She licks her lips.

“Just trying to help 2A.” Oliver’s says in her ear.

His hands slide up her sides onto her shoulders and he gently places her steady on her feet. She misses his warmth instantly. He stays a few inches behind her, the heat radiating between them. Felicity fears if she turns around she will do something crazy and throw herself back in his arms.

“Very kind of you 2B. Well, I have latkes waiting.” Felicity steps away from him for the second time today. Each step harder than the first.

“Merry Christmas 2A,” Oliver calls out to her.

Felicity stops, she turns around. She sees him standing tall, his back straight, shoulder tight taking up the entire space of the hall with his size. He is out of the uniform, a black tee shirt cling to his chest. His arms were bigger, she wants to drag her hand over the lines of his chest. His jeans hug his hips. He is bigger, broader more gladiator than a simple soldier. His beard still covers his face. Unlike last time she could see his piercing blue eyes. When she meets his eyes something in his body eases.

“Thanks, but I’m Jewish.” Felicity corrects. She swore they’d talked about this before. Maybe she wrote it in a letter. Oliver didn’t remember, why should she care.

“Oh then, Happy Hanukkah 2A.” Oliver steps back, walks into his apartment and closes the door. .

“Lateks, I have Lateks.”

She hesitates another moment. She used to linger in the hall until he’d open his door and ask about her day. They would talk from their doorways until she’d slip out of her shoes. He’d tease her about being tiny and tell her to have a nice night before disappearing behind his door. The time he was gone the hallway felt empty and cold. She’d walk by his door and know he wasn’t home. The hallway became colder, everything a little more empty. It felt as if even the building held its breath.

Felicity smiles knowing he is behind the door, Oliver was home safe. It would take her time to get used to him being home. Maybe they would even get back to the way they use to be. Her letters never revealed how she’d felt, she has no reason to be mad at him.

She slowly turns away from the door and down the stairs. The teen gave up waiting, leaving her strange delivery on the front porch. Felicity brings the bag inside, locks her door and sets her alarm. She opens the bag, inside with the receipt, there is a note.

On the first night of Hanukkah my True love gave to me a platter of latkes.

She looks at her calendar and realizes that she’d almost forgotten in all her rushing. The card wasn’t signed. The only logical person has to be Ray. She’d told him about the deli and her love of the food. Felicity couldn’t believe he’d done this for her. It was thoughtful and sweet.

Facility hated surprises but she is sure this years Hanukkah was going to be special.

…

Each day following she receives a small gift arriving near sunset with a short message.

On the second day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me a dreidel made of wood.

She was sure it was handmade.

On the third day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me an ugly Jewnicorn sweater.

The blue sweater makes her laugh out loud when she pulls it from the box. A white unicorn surrounded by Stars of David and a blue and gold rainbow. It is terrible and she loves it.

On the fourth day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me a box of menorah cookies.

She eats half the box before lunch.

On the fifth day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me a Blue Nail polish.

Felicity changes her color that night, sure that it would be a sign to Ray she was enjoying his gifts.

Through the days she tries to talk to Ray, to thank him but he is constantly on the move. She can never catch him alone. He tells her to order a limo for Saturday night. He touches her elbow, his palms are damp and soft.

Felicity thinks about Oliver, wonders what he’s doing back home. She hasn’t talked to him since Sunday. She has seen him a few times through her window. She’s watch him running home in the early morning after his run. His clothes drenched in sweat. Before coming inside he scrapes ice off the Diggles car, they have two kids and always seem to be rushing. A few times Felicity would leave for work and her windshield would be clean.

She wonders how is he is adjusting to being home. How long will he be home? What if he leaves before she can fix their friendship. Did she want to fix it or advance it?

Felicity stares out the window, lost in thought. The voice around her sound far away and hollow.

“Earth to Felicity,” Ray’s voice cuts off her Oliver spiral. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you this week, but I need you to wake up and do your job.”

Ray storms off leaving a flabbergasted Felicity. He’d been wrong during their last meeting and when she tried to correct him he sent her out for coffee. Her ears turn red and she almost snaps her pencil in half. It’s only the sight of the blue nails that calm her down. Ray is having a rough week but still doing things that made her feel special. She brushes off his bad behavior and gets back to work.

On the sixth day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me a Blue Police Box from Doctor Who filled with treats.

Felicity opens the lid of cookie jar police box and the familiar sound of the Tardis fills her kitchen. Inside are gold foil wrapped chocolate coins. She loved these as a kid.

She grabs a handful before leaving her apartment. She stands in front of Oliver’s door, lifts her hand. Before she knocks, the door opens and she lets out a squeal.

“Damit 2B, are you trying to kill me.” Felicity smacks his arm.

Olive chuckles, “I don’t think so 2A. I just seem to have a strange effect on you.”

“Ha, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.” Felicity mumbles. Her heart is racing, her knees weak.

Oliver crosses his arms and a single eyebrow lifts. He leans against his doorframe.

“I mean not doing to me. Not that you’re doing anything to me or even talking to me. Why aren’t you talking to me? I want to hear about what you’ve been up too.”

Oliver stiffens, he pulls back from her. A wall comes down over his eyes. “You don’t want to hear about that. I’m back and that’s all that matters now.”

“I do want to hear about it,” she tries again. “I want to know about the pet you got on your face.”

“Listen 2A, I have plans. Did you need something?”

Felicity steps back, her eyes burning. She shakes her head. “I… Um wanted to give you some Gelt.”

She holds out her hand filled with coins. He reaches out his hand, his fingers drag down her palm. Felicity curls her hand prolonging the warm sensation burning up her arm and down her spine. Oliver stares down at their hands, Felicity watches emotion cross his face. His wall comes down for an instant.

“Oliver,” Felicity breaths out his name. She takes a small step closer. His head lifts up, his eyes meet hers. She longs to touch his cheek, to pull him in.

Her phone rings in her pocket and the moment is broken. Oliver steps back, his wall back in place, standing between them. She licks her lips and pulls out her phone, Ray. Of all the times for him to call.

“Hey Ray,” Felicity answers.

“Felicity, I’ve been thinking about you all night. How about I come over and we can go over my briefs.” Ray chuckles and hiccups into the phone.

“Have you been drinking?” Felicity couldn’t remember a time he’d ever called her drunk.

“Maybe! Want to join me? We could have a real good time. I want to have a really good time with you baby.”

Felicity looks over at Oliver, he is scowling. Can he hear Ray? Did she want him to be jealous? Could he get jealous? Why would he, they are long ago friends.

“It does not sound like you are up for any time beside bed time.”

“Mmm bed time, I like that sound of that. Will you be beside me?”

Felicity turns away from Oliver.

“We have plans tomorrow night remember. Get some rest Ray.”

“Don’t play hard to get with me Miss Smoak. I know you want it.”

A noise behind her makes her turn around. Oliver is cracking his knuckles. His eyes blaze. She inhales sharply. The phone forgotten in her hand. He moves fast standing in front of her, she steps back, he follows.

“O-Oliver?” her voice quivers. It’s not fear the making her body shake, it’s hormones. He is looking at her with unrestrained lust.

“No one talks to you like that. No one.” Oliver’s voice is a low dangerous rumble.

Felicity can feel his body press against her. He grabs the phone from her hand and ends the call. Gold gelt are on the floor around their feet. He leans in closer. The smell of spices surrounds her sense. Her head falls back surrendering to the moment. Oliver’s hand grazes over her cheek, down her neck. His thumb traces her lips.

“Felicity.” Her name on his lips is a sonnet, a poem she never knew she needed.

“If you kiss me, will you stay?” Felicity’s words slip out. She thought them a thousand nights.

“It’s not a good idea.” The wall slams down between them. Felicity is light headed, she is drunk on his scent. He steps away, she stumbles but refuses to fall.

“Which, kissing me or staying around?” Felicity demands.

“Both,” Oliver shakes his head. His eyes sad.

“Yeah, okay, you are right, this is a mistake. I wish you had stayed gone. Everything was fine before you came back. I knew what I wanted, I knew where I was going. But you come back and mess everything up. You spin me around and flip everything upside down.”

Oliver’s shoulders sag, he takes another step away from her.

“Just keep running 2B, it’s what you do best.” Felicity spins around and storms into her apartment slamming the door.

For an instant she let herself believe. Felicity grabs her cookie jar and the chocolate coins. Ray loves her. Yes, he was a little off during the phone call - it was in front of Oliver. Everything feels different around Oliver so it only made sense.

…

On the seventh day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me a candle to light up the dark when we are apart.

A three wick large candle arrives the next day smelling of homemade cookies and cinnamon. How long does Ray think they will be apart, Felicity wonders. She has a rough night tossing and turning. In a few hours the limo will be here to pick her up and she barely has enough energy to shower. Oliver would not ruin another night for her. She puts on her favorite playlist to let the music ease her out of her bad mood.

She removes the blue polish and puts on a dark ruby red. She shaves and lotions her legs. Slides on the dark red lace underwear and matching strapless bra. Tonight if everything goes right she will be showing these off. She curls her hair and leaves it down. Her makeup is dark, her blue eyes startling. Her lips are a long-wear red.

Felicity steps into her shoes and inspects her reflection. Hands on her bare hips, she thinks Oliver would swallow his tongue if he saw her now. Nothing but red pumps and lacy underwear. For a moment she considers knocking on his door and showing him what he is missing.

The thought of Ray being the one to see her tonight seems a little wrong.

Resigning to her choice she pulls on her dress. Grabs her purse and wrap. Before opening the door she hears voices in the hall. Using the peephole she looks out. She sees John Diggle standing in the hall. He is talking to a man in a suit with short hair standing with his back to her door.

“If you’re sure about this then I support you, I’ve been there I understand.” John says to the man.

The other man puts his hand on John’s shoulder.

“Thanks John.”

It’s Oliver in a suit and he got a haircut. She wonders if he’s shaved. Does he look different? Should she open the door show off her dress. Show him she doesn’t care. Before she could decide Oliver is walking away down the stairs and into the night. Felicity wonders what would happen if she chases after him.

Gripping the handle she pulls the door open, and rushes down the stairs. The crisp night is shocking. She tightens her wrap around her. Looking around she doesn’t see Oliver’s truck. Felicity’s chest feels hollow. She is too late.

“You must be really excited about tonight.” Ray Palmer is standing beside a limo. He’s wearing a sharp expensive tuxedo.

Felicity watches as he checks his reflection in the limo window.

“You look great Ray.” Felicity takes heavy steps toward him.

“Thanks, are you ready? Or do you need to fix your hair?” Ray’s eyes skim over her. Taking a deep breath she opens the door of the limo. Ray pops his head in.“Alright, if you’re sure. Scoot over, I’d hate to get my pants dirty.”

Shaking her head, she slides over. Felicity sees a flash of the driver from the rearview mirror. She sees a hint of a clean shaven face before he turns away.

“Driver, we’re ready. What should we do until we get there?” Ray purrs. “I know what you can get me for Christmas.”

He is breathing hot hair on her neck. She leans away, creating space between them. He moves in closer, leaning in for a kiss. The limo breaks hard, Ray slides down off the seat landing on the floor of the car. Felicity resists the urge to laugh. She catches a spark of blue from the driver.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ray snaps.

“There was a dog in the road,” Felicity explains before the driver can answer. She grabs the champaign. “How about a drink?”

Ray talks, asks about her plans for the Holidays. Asks if her mom is coming for Christmas. It didn’t take long for Felicity to realise there was no way that Ray was her Hanukkah True Love. The more time she spends with him, the more she knows she has no reason to stay.

“We shouldn’t walk in together, don’t want to give people the wrong idea.” Ray fixes his jacket. “Have the driver take you around the corner and I’ll meet you inside.”

“Yeah, make sure you hold your breath.” She shuts the door on his smug face. “Can you take me home? I don’t belong here.”

“Are you sure? It looks like a beautiful party,” his voice is a little muffled through the half raised partition.

“I’d rather go to Big Belly and get a milkshake.” Felicity sinks into the warm leather seat.

“It would be a waste of an amazing dress.”

“I wore it for the wrong guy.” Felicity looks out the window. She rubs her arms lost in thought.

“Who’s the right guy?” The driver pulls away from the curb.

“Someone I was scared to take a chance on. Someone I should have told years ago how I feel when I’m around him.”

“How do you feel about this someone?”

Felicity drops the wrap. She uncrosses her legs. “How do I feel about him? I feel like ripping his clothes off. I want to know how he tastes, explore his body with my tongue. Most of all, I want him to pull over and join me in the back of this limo.”

Felicity rubs her legs together, her hands drag up and down her thighs. It was the timber of his voice and the shape of his ear. The sense of comfort in his presence. Her heart would know Oliver anywhere.

The limo stops on a vista overlooking the coast. He is out of the car and joining her in the back. They reach for each other and he pulls her into his lap. His large hand cups the back of her neck. Felicity places her hand on his cheek he leans into her warmth.

“I thought I screwed up.” Oliver whispers.

“So did I.” Felicity close the space between them.

He wraps her up into his arms. He holds her close, his hands in her hair. He explores her mouth with his tongue, sucks on her lips. Kissing him takes her breath away, fills her up with molten lava.

They lose track of time in each others arms.

…

Felicity wakes up in Oliver’s bed, alone. The smell of fresh coffee draws her out of bed. She puts on a discarded flannel shirt. She finds him in the kitchen. He is sprinkling powdered sugar on a jelly donut.

“Hey, I was going to surprise you.” Oliver smiles. He leans over the counter to kiss her cheek.

“You made these?” Felicity takes a bite of the warm donut. Her eyes close in pleasure.

“You make that same sound when I kiss you behind the ear.”

“Prove it.” Felicity challenges.

“In a minute, I have something for you.” Oliver walks around her, disappears into his room. He comes back holding a blue box with a silver bow. He sets the box on the counter.

“What’s this?” Felicity laces her fingers through the bow.

“Open it and find out.”

She lifts the lid off the box. Inside is bundle of letters in a ribbon. On top of the buddle there is a note.

On the eighth day of Hanukkah my True Love gave to me his heart.

Felicity looks up at him. Oliver pulls out the bundle and places them in her hands.

“For five hundred forty-seven days I wrote you. Sometimes it was a multiple page letter. Others it was a short message about thinking of you. You were always on my mind. You were the only thing that kept me going. Kept me alive. I held on to every letter you wrote, every silly selfie you sent. I wanted to hand these to you. See your face, when I tell you that you are the love of my life. I love you Felicity.”

Felicity hugs the letters to her chest. Wipes the tears from her eyes.

“I should have known it was you. I sent letters full of my ramblings about my favorites places and things. You are the only person to ever truly see me. You are my true and only love. I love you 2B.”

“I love you 2A.”

#arrow #olicity #olicity fic #olicity secret santa 2018 #submission

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trcthfvl-a · 6 years ago

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@saioumotaweek

Day 3 of 7. Pets, Shared Apartment

“Hey there, kitty-kitty...” Stooping over, the sunlight glaring at his back... And a tiny mewl to answer him, orange eyes looking up at him. Ah! It’s melting his heart!

It started weeks ago. Every day on his way to his Uncle’s agency, bright and early, Shuichi passed through a quiet little street. It would have been entirely unremarkable if it weren’t for the lone denizen he often saw--a ginger-and-white tabby, happy to greet the rare stranger. The first weeks, he’d felt the compulsion to wave at them. This had to be their home, right? If it wasn’t from a house, then this street. It was a little scrawny, young, but unafraid even if he nervously couldn’t bring himself to approach.

It’s the next Monday by the time he could muster the courage to break this tentative trust. He approached, watching as they flitted their tail and moved a little away. No, not that good of friends. “Ah, sorry... I wasn’t going to shoo you away. Do you--do you want to greet me?” His hand outstretched toward them. Whatever it thought of it, it did sit down at least, passively accepting him. It warmed his heart a bit. “Is it alright if I pass through here? I have to twice a day to go to work and back.” Of course the feline wouldn’t care about it, but it seemed natural to talk to it like another person, hoping for the gleam of understanding in its orange eyes. He might’ve spent longer if he didn’t have the day booked--it was a lot of work, being an Ace Pet Detective.

By the time it’d been late that week, his boyfriends had already learned about it; it was hard to hide anything from them. “Oooh? Shuichi, are you saying you like cats?” That had been the first thing out of Kokichi’s lips, eyes filled with interest and bounding over to him. “What kind is it? A black cat, all spooky and bad luck and-”

“What? No, no! A ginger cat.” He could swear he saw Kaito exhale a held breath. Was Kokichi teasing him, using this as a--no, of course he was. “I don’t know if he’s someone’s. They’re really thin, so I’m a little worried about them in this summer heat... I brought a little milk with me yesterday for them.”

“You-” Kokichi faultered, surprise on his face. “You don’t know? Cats are super lactose intolerant when they’re adults. You probably made them sick.” There might have been concern there, but such simple a mistake, and with him being a pet detective no less-!

It had Shuichi freezing up, the feeling of a dull, aching pain rising up along his bones. A hell of an empathetic response if he ever had one, hands gripping at his shirt. “I must’ve made them--oh no!” He was a pacifist in his own accord, a boy who hated the idea of suffering in others, clinging to the vestiges of his own depression at times--so the realization was distressing. He’d never meant to hurt them.

“Whoa, hey, you didn’t--take a breath, man. Just don’t bring milk anymore. I mean, once its through its system, it’s alright, right? It’s like when you eat something with too much spice!” Kaito clenched a fist, gesturing at him. “Just bring some water next time!”

Stars, that sounded so simple. But Shuichi was a boy who always went the extra mile, and so he made a plan--he’d get some fresh fish from the market, and offer it. Surely that would amend things, right?

And so, to the mirth of his boyfriends, he took some extra change with him the next day and went on his walk. It wasn’t a work day, but he left at the same time as one, hoping they wouldn’t run from him after everything. He really hadn’t meant to poison them...!

Fresh salmon, fresh tuna... Ah, the tuna was a little cheaper, so maybe that’s better... Yeah, he’ll go with that. One slice was too little, that’d make the clerk annoyed with such a tiny order--so he bought enough for a lunchtime snack for himself and his boyfriends. One slice could be the cat’s.

Done with the market, he headed back toward his work, crossing the street into the clandestine block. He didn’t see the ginger cat immediately however, despite calling. Was it already too late...? Had he broken what trust he’d built?

...The blinds of a house moved. If he’d been wearing his hat, he would’ve missed it entirely, but sure enough, there was small scraping noises accompanying it, luring him close.

Ah-

The cat was inside someone’s home!

So was this the owner? He hadn’t seen anyone come or go, but he never waited too long on the street before, so he didn’t expect to. Would it be rude to...? No! He had to make up for his mistake!

Gathering his courage, Shuichi stepped to the front door and knocked on the wooden frame. It took a moment, but an old woman answered. “I’m sorry, we’re not interested in any products-”

“Oh! I’m not a salesman. I work at Saihara’s Agency--er, but that’s not why I’m here.” He had to make a mental note to relax his body. She seemed intrigued, which meant he hadn’t offended her. “I apologize for bothering you--the cat in the window... Is he your’s?”

“Oh my! Well yes, he is. I picked him up from the shelter not long ago, in fact. You must have seen him--he loves watching people pass through.” Her smile was wide, if not slightly awkward by her loose dentures.

“Yes, I’d seen him on the way to work. I don’t always walk back home so--a-anyway, I gave him some milk earlier this week and I was told that can make them really sick so--!” He fumbled with his bags, procuring the small single-slice package set aside from the rest. “Please give this to him!”

His ears must have been burningly red by the time she stopped laughing. It was like this could very well be the funniest thing she’d ever heard, before she wheezed and cleared her throat, taking the slice. “You did no harm, but I’ll give him this as a treat. You’re an incredibly kind and honest man. Not like a lot of boys your age.” Her eyes crinkled with her smile. “I hope you get home soon, though. It’s supposed to rain today, so I’ve kept him in with me--though he doesn’t like it. Might like it more after this.” The package was lifted a fraction, indicating it.

“A-alright, and thank you! Have a nice day!”

He parted ways.

As the days continued, he had to admit... He’d hoped they’d been a stray. The idea of taking an orphaned animal off the street was appealing and it’s not like their apartment was a no-pet-zone, but it seemed like fate had outwitted him. It’d been nice to have the companion in the mornings.

Late one afternoon, he came home to all but being swept into the kitchen under Kaito’s arm, Kokichi sitting with a box on the table. Large enough for a cake, he could swear, but it didn’t look like it was from a pastry place...

“Good thing you’re home! Kokichi and I have a surprise for you, since you’re been putting in all these hours at work and never ask for much.” Kaito’s arm slid lower, hooking around his waist to bring him close--the contact was nice. “Can you guess what it is?”

“A um... New shoes?”

“Whaaat? Why would we buy you dumb shoes? You gotta try them on to know if they fit anyway!” Kokichi burst out, snickering. “Try harder!”

“The package doesn’t look like it’s food, and it’s not a cake box... If it’s not shoes or clothing, I don’t know what else it could be. It doesn’t look heavy or delicate, so it can’t be anything too expensive.”

“He’s gonna be here all day guessing; just open the damn lid Kokichi.”

“Fiiine! Laaaaame.” The monochromatic boy stood up and pried off the lid, setting it aside and reaching in with both arms. And then--!

“Surprise! We got you a kitten!”

Was it kosher to cry over a gift? Well, he certainly was either way, because this had to be the best gift yet.

#New Danganronpa V3 #Saioumota #Saioumotaweek #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #Kaito Momota #drv3

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greenjudy · 6 years ago

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about that Glock

This is long. It’s an excerpt from a work of original fiction of mine. So you won’t have any idea who these guys are. It’s a draft; it’s loose. Still, for some reason, I thought this might be interesting to some of you.

I’m just getting the idea to maybe wash my dishes when I hear the door buzzer. It’s after 9-o-clock. It’s been weeks since anyone’s rung my bell who wasn’t delivering food.

“Coming,” I call, putting the Passarat into the waistband of my trousers.

“It’s me,” I hear, muffled, through the door. “Ce Ce recognized me and let me in the building.”

Mute, I open the door to my apartment. Eric and I are face-to-face with each other for the first time since I was suspended. I stand back and he closes the door, moving briskly for the hall closet, where he too-carefully, too-deliberately hangs up his trench and positions his hat on a peg. He is wearing a beautifully cut Dries Van Noten suit that is by far the most expensive garment I have ever seen him in. It’s wrinkled all to hell.

Without a word and without looking at me even once, Eric makes his way into my kitchen. He moves unerringly to the cabinet with my cups and glasses, fetches himself a glass and fills it with water from the kitchen tap.

He stands at my counter, his back to me, and takes long, desperate gulps of tap water. Then, still moving like a man surrounded by an armed Mezar array, he puts the glass in the sink and turns to face me.

“So,” he says.

“So,” I say. “Where’d you get the Glock?”

This is not even remotely what I’d planned to say.

Eric goes pale.

“I was there,” I explain. “The Marmoset sent me. I’ve been there a lot. Around, I mean. Ever since they lifted the suspension. She’s trying to figure out—“

“Where?”

“I was behind you in the alley,” I say.

“No, I mean,” Eric says, “you’ve been following me? Because I haven’t seen you.”

“I’m not that expertly stealthy or anything, but they do pay me for not turning up on security cameras. I would—it’s my job. Eric? You’ve researched me for a year. I’m a criminal, Eric. It’s really important.”

“Did you eat dinner?” he asks, cautiously.

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Not yet.”

“Are…are you hungry? Can I, uh…” I pull out my Passarat and slide the safety back on, feeling Eric’s eyes on the gun. I shove it in a drawer of the side table and come around the counter to stand with him in the kitchen. “I have leftover peanut sauce? I ate all the cabbage, but I could make more pasta.”

“I don’t know,” Eric says. “Yes. Okay.”

I’m not really hungry, but I sit down with Eric and together we eat linguini with peanut sauce. I put down two bottles of celery soda and a shot glass full of chili sauce on the table between us.

“Doctor this,” I tell him. “Spicy as you want.”

Eric is concentrating all his attention on winding linguini onto his fork. He is clearly very hungry.

“You actually eating?” I ask him.

“I’m eating. I’m eating this,” he says.

“That’s, that’s not—“

“Nathan,” he says.

“You do this thing,” I say, “where you stop eating. You sleep under your desk in the Earthquake Building and you forget to eat and then it’s Sunday and you end up scarfing stale Hostess Fruit Pies from the vending machine in the lobby, Eric—“

There is panic in my voice.

“Nathan, I’m eating. I’m eating right now.”

“Eric—“

“Shut up,” he whispers. “Drink your soda. Shut up for a second.”

We eat linguini in silence. Eric’s hair has gotten longer than I’ve ever seen it, and he’s pushed it behind his ears. I haven’t been this close to him physically in weeks and weeks and weeks.

He drinks half his soda in one long draught, wipes his mouth with a paper towel, and folds his hands on the table. His plate is empty. He still won’t meet my eyes.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he says.

“No?” I get up, taking our plates. I leave them in the kitchen sink, and find myself standing behind his chair.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” he says then, in a muffled voice.

I let my hands drop onto his shoulders, and gently pull him up out of the chair. He doesn’t fight, just follows me to the couch and folds into it like he’s lost the power to keep his feet.

“Take off your jacket,” I tell him.

“Cold.”

“I know. I have something better.”

He hesitates for just a second, then eases his suit jacket down his arms and offers it to me from the couch. I hang it up in the hall closet, smoothing it onto the hanger; it’s spectacular.

“I’m sorry about the heat,” I say, padding into my bedroom. “The building hasn’t adjusted the thermostat yet.”

I fish the Captain America hoodie—the warmest, fleeciest hoodie I own—out of my closet, and hook down a knitted afghan from the top shelf.

“Warm, coming right up,” I say. “You might want to roll the sleeves. I have ridiculously long arms.”

Eric doesn’t say a word, just zips up the hoodie and lets himself drop back against the couch. I throw the afghan over him.

“Where’d it come from, the Glock?” I ask quietly.

Eric, his cheek pillowed against the couch cushion, looks at me for a long time without answering.

“What did you do, while I was away? While you were suspended?” he asks finally.

“I thought you were tracking that. They didn’t keep you informed?”

“No. I tried. After Moontown…they’ve revoked so much of my clearance, I can’t even use the can on the executive levels.”

“I couldn’t figure out what they did with you for the longest time,” I tell him, settling next to him on the couch and pulling my legs up underneath me. “Eckbo finally made contact with me about the fifth week and he found you for me, but it took days.”

“You didn’t leave your house,” Eric says. “They told me that much. They didn’t say what you were doing. They didn’t say why.”

“Going outside felt pointless,” I say. “I didn’t have access to the Belltower servers; I knew that my keystrokes were being monitored, didn’t want to—didn’t feel like I could say anything meaningful to anyone online.”

“You weren’t just suspended,” Eric says. “That’s—that’s a total invasion of your privacy.”

“You wouldn’t believe where I found cameras,” I tell him. “The bathroom, great. In here, of course, all over, crazy redundant. Outside my door, 360 on the hallways: let’s clock all the neighbors too. In the pantry? Seriously? I ask you. So I took them out, one afternoon.”

“What happened?”

“The Specials came.” I rub my lower lip, remembering. They walked right in and put them back up: didn’t hide a thing, didn’t say a word. “I kept hoping it was my supervisor on the other end of the cameras, just because the alternatives were so fucking unsavory.” And scary, I don’t say aloud. Very scary.

“So I stayed away from social media; didn’t want to draw attention to the few friends I have left that aren’t under the big Belltower tent. I stuck to ancient television shows. Cop shows. Murder mysteries…and I ordered in.”

Eric is slowly, slowly, pushing his shoes off with his toes. His eyes are closed, and I’m watching the way his lashes look against his skin.

“What did you order?”

“Oh, god,” I say, “every fucking thing. Vitamins. Kitchen sponges. Chocolate mousse.”

“Chocolate mousse sounds good,” Eric says in a subdued voice.

“Feel like living dangerously? I could order some in right now. Get here in fifteen minutes; the whipped cream is optional.”

“I’ll think about it. What else did you order in?”

“Everything I ate came through that door. I stopped cooking. Breakfast cereal. Calzone and falafel and a reasonable facsimile of a Kosher hot dog. The best marzipan on the planet; I had it shipped from Turkey. It was stupid. I was suspended without pay. Just didn’t have the heart to go shopping. But you can get everything delivered in this town.”

“Everything?” Eric gives me a ghost of a smile.

I lift an eyebrow, returning his smile.

“What, you want me to order that too? Before or after the chocolate mousse?”

“I don’t even know what you ordered the first time,” Eric says. He’s pulled his legs and feet in under the blanket. I feel his knee make contact with mine.

“I didn’t,” I say. “I had the feeling that ordering that kind of entertainment in would end with me chucking myself off the balcony.”

“So you stuck to food,” Eric says, “and television.”

“I’ve never gone so long without even a simple conversation, not even when my mother would go on silent retreat in the dining room.”

“It’s hard to imagine you with no one to talk to.”

“Is it?”

Eric’s eyes open. We look at each other for a long time without saying anything.

“It’s awful,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay. Once Eckbo hacked my phone, everything changed. Margolis was able to communicate. I think she may have saved my life.”

“Good. That’s good. It’s…it’s good to see you,” he says in a strange voice.

“You, too, Eric,” I say carefully. “I’m sorry I had to stalk you.”

“You weren’t stalking me.”

“I was. I mean, I was on assignment. Stalking professionally.”

Eric makes a dismissive gesture.

“That was her,” he says. “Margolis. I know that.”

“About the Glock,” I say.

“Do you know I lived like that for five years?”

“What?”

“In my room.”

I look at him in shock.

“I was in Chicago for a long time. After I cracked the smuggling ring they were running out of the Chicago hub, I was transferred to Borneo. It was like…it was like being buried alive.”

I struggle to take this in, pushing my feet underneath the afghan. Eric, acting from some spasm of inborn automatic courtesy, promptly drops it over my legs. We sit, legs and feet touching underneath the blanket, Eric leaning back against the armrest, me just next door, arm along the top of the couch. With a minute adjustment of my left hand I could brush the hair out of his eyes.

We are so intimate, at this moment, I almost feel as if I could just ask him for Arthur’s file, and he might even give it to me. I don’t dare. I get the feeling that cooperating with me, even if it’s Eric’s inclination, could get him killed.

“Nathan,” he says, sounding half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“I’m never going to tell you about the Glock.”

#Belltower #The Orchid Keeper #original work

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candy-floss-crazy · 11 months ago

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They were valued for their vitamin C, and gold at that time was more readily available than nutritious foods! The potato was the first vegetable to be grown in space. NASA and the University of Wisconsin created the technology with the aim of feeding astronauts on long space voyages, and eventually providing a staple crop for future space colonies.DO YOU OFFER VEGGY OPTIONS; Yes, we can provide a range of veggy toppings, or a mixture of both. CAN YOU PROVIDE HALAL OR KOSHER TOPPINGS; Yes we can work up a menu to suit your precise requirements. HOW MUCH IS A JACKET POTATO CART; The price varies depending on where you require the service and how many guests you need us to serve, but expect to pay around £500 for upto 100 servings. WHERE CAN I HIRE A JACKET POTATO CART NEAR ME. We offer a service covering the full U.K. and can provide a cart for you. WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A JACKET POTATO AND A BAKED POTATO; In reality they are the same thing, basically the English call it a jacket, the Americans baked. U.K’s Premier Traditional jacket potato carts are available to hire throughout the FULL U.K. and Europe. Including the North East, The Midlands, London, Scotland, Lancashire and Yorkshire, and they are perfect for military balls, corporate events, college balls, weddings, parties, university balls, company fundays, barmitzvahs, bat mitzvahs and any other type of public or private event catered for. Hire Jacket Potatoes Near Me. Baked potato food trucks and carts for any event. Waffles make a perfect complement. 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