#sunday pot roast

[therealcoolfooddude]

(via Sunday Pot Roast) Indulge in the timeless comfort of our Sunday Pot Roast: Tender, slow-cooked perfection with savoury flavours that melt in your mouth.

[prettyplumpkitty]

Yesterday’s Eats

[nycfoodieblog]

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[stevviefox]

I need to drag out the roaster. It’s been a while.

Chicken pot roast

[local-grill-masters]

Best Slow Cooker Pot Roast Recipe

Family-friendly Crock-Pot recipes will never fall out of favor and this slow cooker pot roast is no exception. This recipe takes traditional pot roast from the oven to the slow cooker—the ultimate fix-it-and-forget-it Sunday meal! Chuck roast was made for the Crock-Pot: lots of marbling throughout means big flavor and it becomes meltingly tender when cooked for hours at a low temperature. Be sure…

[softaestluv]

Guard Dogs

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Neighbor!Reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Tags: Fluff, Angst, & Eventual smut

Summary: You were a proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy. Ghost only looked to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar. Even if Riley wanted more.

Tupperware becomes Simon’s weak excuse to see you in the evening. Carries it across the street once he sees you return home from work that next day. Maybe he should’ve waited another day to return it; he just saw you the night before. Keep it for later in the week when the weight of the food in his stomach didn’t remind him of your warmth anymore.

Though, Simon couldn’t find the lieutenant in himself to be patient. Especially when he sees you all dolled up once again, hair pulled back to show your pretty shoulders and neck. Races over before you even have the chance to think about changing or showering. Was it such a crime to want to see you in it up close?

You open the door like you had expected him to be standing there, but maybe you were. Gave him tupperware knowing he would have to come return it, have an excuse of your own to see him again. Asked him so sweetly if he wanted to come in.

So, he does. Can’t refuse you, not when you entice him with pot roast you’ve been letting set all day. He ate your leftovers for lunch, looked forward to it, but he still didn’t seem to have his fill. Jumps at the opportunity to taste more of your cooking.

He’s not exactly sure what happened in his life that graced him with the luck to eat dinner with you two days in row. If he squints hard enough, blurs the events of today in his mind he can pretend like he came home to you, his pretty bird. Pot roast and a soft smile instead of his dark and dull home. Has half the mind to feel bad for Riley, knows he would much rather be in your company also.

He feels guilty watching you plate his food for him, offers to do it himself. He doesn’t want you to feel like you need to do that, but you insist. Tell him you want to do it for him. Can’t remember the last time someone tried to take care of him, even down to something so minuscule as sharing dinner with him.

He listens to you tell him about your day, tries his best to listen to every word. But its almost impossible to spread his attention between the tender meat that dissolves on his tongue and the way your lips glisten from the gravy. It’s rude to stare, especially when someone’s eating; he knows this. All he could do was hope you didn’t notice his intense stare, the way his pants tighten in agony everytime you smile.

It makes the night go by faster; wishes he could cling to every second, slow it down somehow so he doesn’t have to return to his cold bed so soon. But it does anyways. Finds himself walking out just as fast as he walked in. Except this time he has a new container in his hand for lunch tomorrow because you swore you made more than intended.

He eats the leftovers the next day, spends his lunch thinking about you. Spends the entire day thinking about you— like he always does. Has your food to supplement the warmth you provide. Wants to return it that evening, would it be too desperate to show up another night?

So, he doesn’t. Doesn’t want to be too overbearing, suffocate you with his presence if you don’t want him around. If you don’t want another person to feed like a stray dog. Him and Riley the stray dogs you took into your home.

Plans to return it that weekend, shamefully hopes he could recreate last Sunday with you. But the stupid plastic is forgotten on the counter when he looks out the window and sees you on your hands and knees, plucking the weeds from your yard. His feet move on their own accord, rushing to your side before he even realizes.

“What are you doin’?” He asks, voice gruff like he was disgruntled.

You look up from your spot surprised, “Jesus, Simon, you terrified me. I’m pulling my weeds?”

“Why?” It’s a grunt. A dissatisfied one. But he never said he was one for words.

Your brows furrow, placing your hand above your eyebrows to look up at him better through the sun, “So they don’t kill my plants?”

“No, why are you doing it?” He clarifies, emphasizing his words, “Don’t worry I’ll do it.”

He reaches his hand out for you to take, meaty paws engulfing your slender ones as you accept it. Rough and calloused opposes your soft and smooth palms. Standing to your feet across from him.

“Gonna hurt your pretty hands,” He murmurs, “Should’ve asked me.”

You duck your head at his words, trying your best to hide the way your cheeks warm, “It’s fine. Couldn’t ask you to do something like that.”

Just how you insisted he takes leftovers, he doesn’t take your protests as an answer. Ushers you back inside to relax, bake, take a nap, something other than sitting in the sun, ruining your pretty skin. Besides, that’s what you have him for. So, he spends the rest of his day neglecting his own chores, so he can take care of yours. Not without negotiations from you to take breaks, feed him treats and tea when you deem it long enough since he’s sat down.

And because you’re an angel on Earth, you cook dinner when he’s done. Tell him you cooked dinner for ‘us’. Tries not to read into it too much, but his chest squeezes when you refer to you and him as a pair. He attempts to protest, only because he’s covered in sweat and dirt from working all day. Probably smells, knows he does, but you don’t let him get too far.

“What are you talking about?” You chuckle, “You’re like that for me. I don’t mind. I want to have dinner with you.”

His mouth dries.

“Unless I’m keeping you from someone.”

Simon is shaking his head as soon as the words leave your mouth. Would squish them from arising in your thoughts if he could. Someone else? He almost laughs. Just a cold bed waiting for him.

“Just Riley,” He jokes.

You smile at him, “Then stay. And bring him next time.”

Served him a plate of steaming lasagna, wishes he could take you in his arms right then and there. Sweat and all.

But he doesn’t.

Digs his palms into his thighs to stop himself. Buries himself in the lasagna to shove the urges away, pretend for a second that he hasn’t been craving you more than anything you’ve placed on his plate.

“Do you want some wine?”

He’s not much of a wine drinker, prefers the burn of whiskey. Helps him blame the bitter taste in his throat on the alcohol instead of the ugly images his memories conjure. But the taste isn’t as bad when he’s with you; when you wash away pain and blood with your presence. Replace it with your food and warmth instead.

He doesn’t feel the need for something so strong around you, so he agrees. Probably stays longer than he should, sweat dried tacky on his skin, but it’s hard to walk away when the two of you move to your couch. When you sit closer to him than before. When he can feel the warmth radiating from your body. When he looks down at you and your cheeks are decorated in a pretty pink from the wine.

“I don’t drink often,” You confess.

Simon chuckles, “I can tell.”

Your cheeks burn for a different reason now, “Am I being dumb?”

His brows furrow, you’re the smartest person he knows, “What? No. I would never say that.”

“Do you drink often?” You ask.

He doesn’t want you to think bad of him, doesn’t want you to know that he craves a glass every night when he’s trying to sleep and all he can think about is his past. Doesn’t want you to know that he doesn’t feel that way when he’s with you.

“When I have a bad day.” — Just doesn’t tell you that’s most days.

You laugh, “Me too.”

He wants to ask what makes your days bad, what can he do to make sure you don’t have days like that. Ask if he makes your days better the way you do his.

You never asked about his family before even between the countless questions you asked about his life. Maybe it’s the wine in your blood system, but tonight you do. Has his heart racing in his chest because what will you think of him if he tells the truth?

He gulps before he says it, knows you can hear it, “Just me and Riley.”

He doesn’t want you to sympathize for him, doesn’t want you to treat him like a weak dog who needs your saving. Doesn’t look at you when he says it, doesn’t want to associate the empathetic stare in your eyes with you. But it never comes.

“Just me, too,” You mumble, and if he hadn’t been so close he probably wouldn’t have heard it.

He hates the way it makes him want to protect you even more. Gives him the exact feeling he was hoping you wouldn’t give him, but he does. Can’t help it when you’ve been so sweet, perfect, angelic to him. Such a kind soul even though you share similar loneliness, contrasts the evil deeds he’s done.

When he leaves, you halt him at the door. A new container presented to him despite the lack of his last return of the plastic. Lasagna filled to the brim, a muffin for breakfast you explain, and cookies for dessert. Tell him you will have more than enough dinner for him if he wants to stop by tomorrow. Doesn’t even have to stay, come and take your fill and leave if you want.

So, he returns the next day like an eager puppy when he sees you arrive home, two Tupperware containers in hand. Doesn’t even feel the need to be embarrassed when you greet him with the same tender excitement at the door.

It becomes a routine he shouldn’t grow used to; a simple cycle of returning plastic and being invited in to share dinner. Except some days there’s no lunch, no dinner, no plastic, but he still stands at your door anyways. Doesn’t need those things to see you anymore.

Most weekends he spends time at your house more than he does his own. Brings Riley with him because you insist. Works on the monstrosity of your backyard that you left to fester into a jungle. And Riley enjoys every second, runs around the yard while Simon works on it. Finds a spot on your couch when you and Simon are sharing dinner.

Thinks it might be developing too far when you buy Riley a bowl of his own for your house. Have your own collection of dog food and treats you learned he likes. Always have two plates on your table, always cook more than enough for one person even if he doesn’t show.

But that’s the thing about his occupation. Taught him not to get too used to a routine, no matter how much he wished for it.

Finds himself at your doorstep one night, no Tupperware in hand, no plans to stay. You open the door in a soft dress, prettiest smile he’s ever seen. You greet him so warmly, tell him to come inside, but he doesn’t accept.

“I have to go.”

You looked at him confused, “What?”

“My work,” He explains because he doesn’t know who else to ask, “Will you be able to dog-sit Riley?”

You nod your head, let Riley run into your home as you stare up at him.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

He watches your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

“Or if I’ll ever come back.”

He can’t even explain the emotion on your face, the feeling numbing his entire body.

“What? Simon, what are you talking about?” Your voice is shaking, fright written all over your face.

“Riley will protect you, don’t worry.”

Leaves you at that. Doesn’t have time to explain, lucky he got the chance to even bring Riley to you. Clings to the happy image of you before he left you. Both of you left to the cold alone.

Glass barrier growing incredibly thicker as he realizes he’ll never have what he wants. Knows where he belongs, on the other side of the stupid glass, but atleast Riley found where he belongs. Found warmth in your home. Even if he wishes it was him too.

tag list: @rockinraccoons @crypticenbug @c1garette-nightmares

*if I added you & you no longer wanted to be tagged for updates just let me know & I’ll take you off!! thank you!!*

[ditzyredrobin]

“-and you know, the whole Interpol thing.” Tim says cutting through his slice of pot roast. Which was apparently a mistake because when he looks up, all eyes were on him. “What?”

Dick was mid bite, eyes suddenly wide, and Jason was leaning back, looking unfazed as always, if not amused.

“What Interpol thing?” Bruce is the first to speak, brow furrowed.

Tim shrugs. “I mean, it’s not that big a deal. There was this thing months ago but it’s handled now.”

-

Y’know, that time in Red Robin Tim was probably definitely wanted by Interpol. Just another normal Sunday dinner in the Wayne household.

Will I continue this? Probably.

[gremlin-girly]

Day 14: Winter Soup

Pairing: Winter Soldier x gn!reader

Fandom: MCU

Tags/Warnings: FLUFF, insinuation of ptsd/past abuse, ya'll are just having some nice soup :), petnames (sweetheart)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be translated, copied or reposted or put through an AI machine.

Summary: When a strange man turns up in your home for some unknown reason, you decided to offer him some soup.

Word Count: 448

Prev | Next | Fluffcember | Flufftober 2024 | Navigation

Not many people know what to do when there's a strange man in their kitchen. The usual ports of call, according to life and TV, is to:

a. Scream

b. Call the cops

c. Hide

d. All of the above

But somehow you created your own special fifth option (hereby referred to as option e): Give him soup.

He pokes at the soup with his spoon and you watch him over your own bowl. You can't tell if he's about to burst into tears or dart off into the night. There's something about his eyes, something that tells you he's a lost, stray in need of food and probably a hot bath rather than a six foot lug of a man in tac gear.

After a particularly hot slurp of soup, doing the whole hoo-ha-ooh charade, he looks up at you.

"Sorry," You mumble with an apologetic look. "Hot."

He nods but doesn't say anything. So, he clearly understands English. You watch as he stirs his soup again before finally bringing it to his lips. The air is heavy. You don't know why you care about what he thinks of your soup, but you do.

You want to make a joke; asking him not to kill you if it's awful but you think better of it. You still don't know if he would kill you.

His hum catches you off guard and you jump, looking over at him. His eyes flutter, and you think he definitely will cry. He sniffs a few times and raises a shaky hand with a second spoonful again, before he's suddenly gorging the soup.

His spoon clatters against an empty bowl and he looks over at you worriedly and you just smile at him around your own spoon.

"Want seconds, sweetheart?" You ask gently, getting to your feet and angling yourself to the stove. You're face is blasted with the smells of basil, garlic and roasted tomato as you lift the lid from the pot. You hold out a hand for his bowl which he carefully hands to you.

Ladling the soup to the brim (thank God for Bulk Soup Sundays), you reach into the bread bin and butter two slices of bread, placing them next to his soup when you set the bowl down. Retaking your seat, attempting to finish your own bowl, you watch him curiously.

He mumbles a thank you as he tears into the bread with his teeth, and you offer a warm smile.

"No worries. Help yourself to as much as you need."

You had the strangest feeling like your life was going to change, thanks to the stranger before you. Although, you didn't know just how much.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Jason having a secret partner is so in brand. Man would have a whole ass kid and not tell anyone bc of crippling anxiety spite

"How long did you know?" Bruce asked sourly, accepting the mug of tea Alfred proffered.

"I've known almost from the beginning," Alfred admitted, trying and failing not to sound smug.

Bruce's eyes narrowed and the butler shrugged. "I counseled him to tell her the truth if he thought she was trustworthy. By happy accident she was working at a restaurant that Cobblepot was using to launder cash at the time."

"So-"

"So," Alfred continued, "By happy accident she was well placed to feed him information no one could trace back to her. AND she happens to be a fantastic chef."

"How did they meet?" Bruce sighed. He had a headache. This IS something Jason would do. Have a double life stacked on a double life.

"They're usually vague on the details. But at least one of them was inebriated. Of that I'm reasonably certain."

"Hn."

"She's lovely. And her mother adores Jason."

"You've met her mother?" And more importantly if you had family how much did THEY know? If your mother was close enough to you to 'adore' Jason-

"Of course. A couple Sundays a month they host informal dinners. And of course dinner for the strays- as Miss Y/N is pleased to call anyone who doesn't have another place to go for holidays."

"Hn."

"Lively certainly but not quite my cup of tea."

"Hn." Jason had a life. Friends. A whole network and none of them had even known.

"Don't pout," Alfred scolded. "You can't blame-"

"It's dangerous."

"Your love interests have criminal records," Alfred scoffed. "Her fondest ambition is to own a farm-to-table restaurant and teach ex-convicts to cook."

"Alfred-"

"She's delightfully normal. And she makes a lovely pot roast."

[feyburner]

Last weekend I roasted a chicken for a medieval food themed DND: HAT movie night. The next day I used the leftover chicken to make a chicken pot pie for a LOTR: TTT movie night. Today I am using the carcass and giblets to make a rich and hearty stock and on Sunday I’m walking to the farmers market to get soup vegetables and cara cara oranges and the most gorgeous fat snap peas I’ve ever eaten. Thank u chicken for being so many things. This is what it’s all about

[otakubimbo]

Sunday Dinner

Logan Howlett (Worse Logan) x AFAB Mutant Reader !

Slight Angst. SLOW Burn. Minors DNI!

You were preparing for your regular Sunday dinner when you get a few unexpected guests at your doorstep.

previous | next

Music flowed through your apartment as you busied yourself with making your Sunday dinner. A simple menu, pot roast, smashed potatoes, broccolini, and homemade gravy to go on top of everything. Unfortunately, you didn’t have time to make a dessert, and you knew Wade was bound to complain about it, rolling your eyes preemptively at the future tantrum. Right as you were finishing up on the gravy, leaving it to simmer there was a knock at your door.

You excitedly went to open the door, you actually loved Sunday dinners, with a smile on your face you opened your door to see Al, Peter, Wade, …... and Logan.

“You don’t mind that I invited my lil honey badger. Ya know he's basically part of the family now anyway.”  Wade grins making his way into your apartment.

“I brought pie,” Peter says excitedly handing it to you as he also makes his way inside.

“that’s actually great because I didn’t have any time to make dessert.” You place the pie on the counter, waiting for the inevitable tantrum from Wade. It didn’t take more than a second for him to start his spiel about \how you must not love him anymore since you had forgotten about his favorite part Sunday dinner. “Oh, shut the hell up,” You comment as you begin to put everything in the serving dishes., “I got caught up at the studio, there's a gallery showing coming up soon and I was asked to submit some pieces. You can go one Sunday without a homemade dessert.”

Even with your very valid excuse, Wade acts as if you’ve shot him multiple times.

“Your dumb ass lucky she still invites you over. Don’t worry about that jackass. But if you ever need some inspiration, you know where to find me. “Al tells you, knowing that she’s definitely talking about doing drugs. You giggle softly and thank her.

“Gallery?” Logan surprisingly asks and you’re taken aback, almost forgetting that he was here.

“Ah yes, our lil matter-of-fact is a painter. She gotta pay the bills somehow, even though I've been told her that with a body like that she can get a lot more money elsewhere” Wade interjects before you get to respond, throwing his arm over your shoulder which you push off with a scowl. 

“And I’m a freelance artist, I have some of my paintings around the house.” You say trying to sound confident in your creations, you don’t know why he's making you feel shy, you had so much pride in your art. There was a piece of you in every painting you did, a page from the story of your life.  Logan didn’t move from his seat, but his eyes wandered around the room, taking in the paintings that graced your walls, some of your more happy-inspired pieces. But there was one that particularly caught his eye, a painting truly straight from your own heart. His gaze was locked on that one for longer than you would have liked, he almost looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t. Luckily for you, there was another knock on your door.

“Anyways that’s probably Cat, she said she was going to try to make it, she had deadlines for her column that she needed to finish.” You wipe your hands on the frilly apron that you’re wearing, Logan smirks at your appearance, that apron didn’t match you at all, but it was cute.

As you open the door with a bright smile on your face to greet your friend, you are face to face with not your friend at all. It was the face of your ex-boyfriend, the one who cheated on you and whom you haven’t contacted since you found out.

“I knew you would be home. I need to talk to you.” Caleb looks at you, then past you to the guests in your apartment then back to look at you.

“The offer to cut his dick off still stands,” Wade says from his position at the dinner table, making you sigh, pushing Caleb out of your doorway and shutting the door behind you.

“What are you doing here Caleb?” You question as your brow furrows, hands balled to your sides.

“We need to talk, and you won’t answer my calls or texts.” He huffs as if he should be the one who’s annoyed by this circumstance.

“There’s nothing to talk about. We are over, that’s it” You fold your arms over your chest in an attempt to protect yourself somehow.

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” He rubs his face in frustration, “You know how difficult it is being with you, and it just took a toll on me for a minute and I made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” You ask, attempting to keep your voice level, not trying to garner any of the attention from your guests inside, “You slept with Liz, how the hell is that a mistake???”

“You don’t understand.”

“There is nothing to understand, you need to leave.”

He groans again at your difficulty to speak to him about this, “Just hear me out for fucking once, I was under a lot of stress and then having to deal with your stuff on top of that. It’s a lot, you’re a lot. I just needed a little stress relief; you have to be able to understand that.” So this was your fault? You were the reason he cheated on you because you were so difficult to be with, but then why was he here? For your forgiveness? To get back with you? Fuck, you didn’t even care because it felt like you were about to break. You didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of him.

“Leave, Caleb.”

“Ugh you’re not listening to me; this is one of the problems right here.”

Before you can tell him to go again, you feel the warmth of a chest on your back and a hand making you take a step back into your apartment.

“I think you’re not listening to her bub; she told you to leave” Logan basically growls at your ex. A little shaky you look up at Logan, his jaw is set tight, and he looks right pissed, your gaze then falls back onto Caleb who takes a scared step back.

Caleb looks between the two of you, and scoffs laughing bitterly, “Looks like you moved on quickly” he turns his attention to Logan, “Don’t waste your time with her, she’s dangerous and damaged goods, no fixing that one.” His last comment before Logan slams the door in his face, going back to his spot at the table.

It takes a moment to process all that just happened, but you shake yourself out of it quickly, “Anyways, let's go ahead and eat I put too much work into this to get cold.” You put on your fakest smile as you sit down and start serving yourself. It’s clear someone wants to say something.

“So that offer about his dick.”

“Shut it Wade” Logan growls as he follows your lead, reading the room surprisingly well, “You got anything good to drink?”

“Uhm yeah,” you say as you get up, wiping your hands on your apron again before taking it off, this made Logan notice the tattoo you had on the back of your shoulder. The X-Men symbol, so you really did use to be one, interesting. You smiled as you pulled out a bottle from your alcohol fridge, you preferred your drinks chilled.

“Okay so this is a rum, but it was aged in a whiskey barrel, I think you’ll really like it.” You say as you pour him a glass, he raises an eyebrow at you.

“We will see,” Logan responded, and you just sat back with a confident smirk as he took a sip. He hums after the first taste, “Not bad” he raises the glasses towards you.

“Told you, “You smile for real this time and dinner commences.

Eventually, everyone leaves and now it’s just you and your thoughts. You sigh as you clean up your place, wash and put away dishes and Caleb’s words stay on your mind. The way he blamed you for his actions and there was a part of you that actually thought the same. After finishing cleaning, you grab your emergency pack of smoke and make your way outside. You didn’t smoke often, you tried not to at the very least, even if you were a mutant that had some regenerative powers, they weren’t perfect, and smoking was still terrible for you.

As you light your cigarette, stepping outside your apartment building you spot Logan, leaning on the rail smoking a cigar.

His eyes catch yours, as you take your first drag, “You smoke?”

“Occasionally, what are you doing out here?” You ask as you stand across from him.

“Too much Wade.” Which makes you snort before taking another drag, “And you?”

“Too much thinking,” you say casually, he just hums in understanding. The two of you stand in silence, a sense of ease coming over you as you finish up your cigarette. You take your last inhale, throwing the butt to the ground and stepping on it before going to head back inside. Before you can open the door, Logan grabs your attention.

“He’s wrong you know,” Logan states nonchalantly.

“What?”

“He’s wrong about you, you don’t seem like damaged goods. I would know. Everyone has their demons.”

You don’t know whether it was the cigarette or his words making you feel lightheaded, but your face softens, and you give him a small smile, “no, he is right but that’s okay, good night, Logan”

As you go to walk inside Logan grabs your arm to stop you, he drops it almost in an instant as he feels a strange scar on your wrist. Your gaze tells him you don’t want him to ask but the feeling of the scar has a question on the tip of his tongue. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t ask, and leaving him behind with questions.

[fortytworedvines]

Maybe Audrey, Siegfried, and Jimmy spending a day together playing, picnicking, and taking a walk along the river? A little escape from reality?

And for @the-grain-of-salt "first kiss".

A summer's walk

It’s become a habit this spring and summer; that on Sunday afternoon, after the dishes have been cleared for Sunday lunch, Mr Farnon and Mrs Hall take little Jimmy off for a walk to give his parents a precious afternoon to themselves.

James and Helen are grateful. Jimmy, now scampering around the house, falling over and into things and chattering away in a language that is only occasionally understood, is something of a handful. And for Mr Farnon and Mrs Hall, these walks have become a place to take the tentative steps in their relationship. It’s easy for Aunty Audrey and Uncle Siegfried to become only Audrey and Siegfried on these gentle afternoons.

On this particular day, the sun is bright, the wind gentle and the river babbling softly as it flows through the Dales. Jimmy is scampering along in front, Dash with him. Jess is at home – she’s getting older now and a relax on the living room carpet is more to her taste than a walk with a toddler. Dash understands Jimmy, tolerates pudgy toddler fingers grasping his fur, exploring his ears. Right now, Jimmy’s hand is on Dash’s back as they head towards the part of the bank where they can slip down from the grass onto the shingle stones and splash in the river.

Audrey and Siegfried stroll along behind them. Audrey carries a bag with a number of snacks in it. Though lunch was not long ago, Jimmy has the veracious appetite of a growing child. Siegfried carries a bag with a towel and a change of clothes for Jimmy. Over the course of these walks, they have learnt to come prepared.

Their hands have brushed together as they walked through Darrowby, down the field. Now, along the river, Siegfried slips his fingers into Audrey’s and holds her hand. She smiles at him and he smiles back.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he murmurs.

She blushes. In private, he’s open with his compliments these days but it will never cease to make her flush, make her heart race.

“Better that than the Jabberwocky,” she says, always disguising her feelings with tartness.

He merely grins at her; he understands her so well these days.

Ahead, Jimmy and Dash are scrambling down the bank. Jimmy is fiercely independent these days and will not brook any assistance, so Audrey merely watches and only a tighter grip on Siegfried’s hand betrays her concern.

The pair make it down to the shingle beach.

“We’d better catch up,” Audrey says.

“Dash won’t let him come to harm.” But Siegfried speeds up anyway.

Siegfried helps Audrey down to the beach, where Jimmy and Dash are paddling in the shallows. Jimmy has taken off his shoes but failed to remove his socks. “It’s a start, I suppose,” she sighs.

They stow their bags safely away from the splashing and then Siegfried guides Audrey to the large rock they usually sit on. But today, when he pulls her down, he puts his arm around her shoulders, pulls her in close to him.

“This is nice,” she murmurs.

“Isn’t it.” He brushes a kiss against her head.

Her heart thumps. “Siegfried…” She lifts her head to look at him. He’s staring at her with such tenderness and love that it makes her shiver.

It’s Sunday and she’s wearing her hair loose and he twines his fingers into a lock of it and curls it. “Beautiful Audrey.” His other hand cups her cheek. “Beautiful, lovely Audrey.” His eyes flicker to her lips.

She can hardly breathe with anticipation. The joyful sounds of dog and boy splashing have faded and all she can hear is the thud of her heart.

“May I kiss you?”

They’re so close now that their noses are brushing. She doesn’t bother to reply, just leans forward so that her lips brush against his, a brief caress.

She pulls back enough to see his eyes have gone dark and then he’s urging her forward again, covering her lips with his and now she knows that he tastes of tobacco and roast potatoes, that he kisses with the single-mindedness that he does everything, that his fingers at the nape of her neck send desire shooting through her. She could kiss him like this forever.

A louder splash draws them back into reality. Jimmy has tripped and tumbled full-length into the river. He stands up again almost immediately, beaming. “I wet!” he shouts, full of glee.

Their mouths have parted reluctantly but they are still entwined.

“No point getting him out now,” Audrey says. He won’t catch cold, not on a glorious day like this.

“We’ll change him later. When he’s worn out,” Siegfried agrees. He trails his hand from Audrey’s cheek to her chest, pressing against her thin blouse. “Your heart is pounding,” he murmurs.

She copies his gesture, spreads her hand on his shirt, splaying her fingers out to touch as much as possible. “So is yours.” She wants to slip her fingers between the buttons, feel his skin. She resists.

“I love you, Audrey.” His eyes are calm but they glow.

“I know,” she whispers.

“I want everybody to know that I love you.”

She kisses him again and the desire sparks up immediately, leaving her breathless, wanting. For the first time, she wishes that Jimmy and Dash were somewhere else, that she could love Siegfried recklessly, here on the sheltered riverbank.

He groans into her mouth. “I want to take you to bed.”

“I want that too.” Her voice is shaky but she is sure.

His hand has moved to the very edge of propriety, just thumbing the curve of her breast and she wants, wants, wants. “Tonight?” she asks.

“We’ll send them all to the pub,” he agrees.

“I hungry!”

Jimmy’s loud, demanding voice just inches from them makes them jump. How thoroughly wrapped up in each other they have been and Audrey feels a twinge of shame that she has been neglecting her childminding duties.

She twists, away from Siegfried’s loving, dangerous hands, to retrieve her bag. “Here you are, love,” she says, handing over a cheese sandwich.

“T’ank ‘oo,” Jimmy says, his mouth full.

“Good boy,” she says approvingly.

He’s absolutely sodden and he crams the sandwich into his mouth and drips river water onto the shingle.

“What a child,” Siegfried says into her ear.

She looks at him then. Wonders what his – what their – child might be like. They’ll go to bed together tonight, and she’s still young enough, the change hasn’t come upon her yet.

He reads her mind. “You’d have to marry me,” he says quietly. “Would you marry me, Audrey?”

It is sheer midsummer madness. It is only a few short weeks since they first held hands. They’ve only just had their first kiss.

“Yes,” she says.

[sirenjose]

Analysis of the Food/Diet of the Lower Class in the Victorian era

(It was a bit tricky for me to find sufficiently detailed answers about the time and group I was looking for, as I wanted a bit more than the basics. Apologies for any mistakes)

Bread was a staple of the lower-class diet, such as wholemeal, rye bread, unleavened bread (like oatcakes), etc.. For the poor, it was often made of cheap-quality flour and likely denser than modern bread.

These could be supplemented with whatever vegetables that were cheapest as well as locally available at that time of year. Onions were among the cheapest (half penny for a dozen, cheaper if they were bruised) and available all year. They were more expensive in late spring, at which point they could be substituted by leeks. Watercress was another cheap staple (halfpenny for 4 bunches from April to January/February) and were regularly eaten at breakfast. Cabbage was cheap and easily available, along with broccoli, with lettuce and radishes available in summer. Carrots and turnips were inexpensive staples, especially in winter, and they along with cabbage were often used in stews and soups.

As for fruit, apples were the cheapest and most commonly available (from August to May). Cherries were also fairly cheap (from May to July). Pears, blackberries, and plums were available throughout autumn. Then there were gooseberries, plums and greengages (in late September), raspberries, and strawberries. Not all fruits were affordable, like oranges, which were imported from Spain in winter but were expensive and often given as gifts, and pineapples, which were a sign of wealth.

Potatoes were another staple and were prepared in various ways, including boiled, mashed, roasted, or fried. They grew well in Britain’s mild weather, making them easy to produce and sell, meaning they were cheap and thus became a frequent meal.

In terms of meat, the lower class ate it infrequently, maybe once a week, with the worst off even less often. Pork was 1 of the most common types of meat, when it could be afforded.

As a result, the poor made the most of it (using and eating every part of it). For example, a cook would boil a piece of beef or mutton with vegetables one day (probably Sunday, the only day many people had off from work), then return to the boiling pot the next day and skim the fat off from the top to be used for frying or pie crusts. Then he or she could set the liquid back to boiling, adding a stingy amount of oatmeal (one recipe recommends a tablespoon of oatmeal for every pint of liquid) to produce another nourishing meal from the broth. Recipes call it a pot liquor soup; we’d more likely call it gruel.

Gruel, made by boiling grains, like oats, rice, or barley, in water or milk, was a common food option for the poor as it required minimal ingredients and was easy to prepare. It often served as a breakfast or basic meal.

Porridge refers to a thicker and more substantial version of cooked grains, usually oats, in water or milk. It was typically cooked for a longer amount of time, resulting in a creamier and heartier consistency. It was also a popular breakfast choice due to it being nutritious and filling.

They tended to buy cuts and trimmings of meat no one else wanted, which were referred to as “block ornaments”. Examples included sheep’s organs, shanks, gristly bits, and heads. Most of these cuts were tough or didn’t have much meat on them, but they could produce a filling broth. Tripe (lining of stomach of animals like cattle, sheep, and pig), liver, meat on the bone (shin or cheek), and offal (aka organ meats like brains, hearts, sweetbreads, liver, kidneys, lungs, and intestines) were also cheap.

Chicken was rare, as the birds were kept for eggs, and usually not eaten unless the bird stopped laying eggs.

Later in the Victorian era, bacon became a popular choice at breakfast (alongside kippers aka a type of fish made from herring, eggs, and porridge).

Drippings was another common part of the lower class diet. Drippings refer to the fat that is collected as a result of cooking meat. When meat, such as beef, pork, or poultry, is roasted or grilled, the fat present in the meat melts and drips down into the pan or tray. This fat is then collected and saved, typically in a container or jar, for later use. They add flavor and richness to dishes and are commonly used for making gravies, sauces, or to enhance the flavor of roasted vegetables, as a few examples.

Since meat was a luxury, the lower class tended to go for cheaper proteins, like eggs and legumes.

Many East End homes kept hens in their backyards, with a couple hens able to produce up to a dozen eggs per home per week. Hard cheeses like cheddar was produced countrywide and so available all year round, meaning it was able to enter the diet of the lower class. It was a good protein, kept well, and even stale it could be eaten toasted with bread.

Regarding legumes (ex: beans, peas, peanuts, lentils, etc…), they were a cost-effective source of protein, fiber, and nutrients. Dried legumes were more affordable and available all year round. Beans (good from July to September) were a staple for many lower class, often cooked in stews, soups, or baked dishes. Peas (affordable from June to July) and lentils were also commonly consumed.

In terms of drinks, tea was very common. It became more affordable with the help of increased trade, improved transportation, and advancements in production methods. The poor drank tea that tended to be weaker, as they reused the tea leaves several times before disposing of them. Black tea was common, the most popular being those imported from countries like China and India.

Milk was widely consumed but not usually in large quantities, due to cost and adulteration fears (aka fear of contamination). Beer was also common (made with low alcohol content so you didn’t get drunk), even for women and older children, as water wasn’t safe to drink back them (easily contaminated, but the brewing process killed off the germs). Coffee was another option, but it tended to be more expensive than tea, beer, or milk.

Sugar became cheaper at least after 1874, but still tended to be relatively expensive, especially for those on lower incomes. Thus it remained more of a luxury item and consumed in mostly smaller quantities or for special occasions.

Butter, like sugar, would’ve also been considered a relatively expensive item, and thus not as widely consumed. Instead, they used cheaper options of fat, like lard and dripping.

Nuts were another slightly more expensive item. But there were some options if a poorer individual could afford them. Chestnuts were the most common (favorite street snack in chestnut season, running from September to January). There were also filberts and hazelnuts (available from October to May) and walnuts (seasonal). Imported almonds and brazil nuts were more expensive, but commonly consumed around Christmas as a “treat”.

Even if they could afford things like sugar, butter, or nuts, the lower class likely would’ve typically used their income on more basic necessities and things they needed for their job or life.

Individuals were paid on Saturday, and that plus the absence of refrigeration affected the weekly menu. It’s possible the lower class at least may have possessed basic cooking utensils, like a skillet, pot, or kettle. The ‘best’ and relatively most expensive meals were taken on Saturday evening and Sunday, though the poorest would often buy food at the end of Saturday trading, at the cheapest possible prices. Menu choices became cheaper through the week: purchases of food would diminish in quantity as the food budget shrank, and meat would often only be purchased once a week, though vegetables and fruit were usually purchased and consumed on a daily basis.

The very poor might purchase cheaper older fruits, vegetables, and meat on the verge of edibility, though this didn’t really diminish the nutrients in them much.

The lack of refrigeration facilities meant that meats eaten hot on any one day were almost inevitably consumed (cold) on the second day. Any more leftovers were, due to incipient spoilage, curried or hashed on the third day. Spices and the higher heat involved in frying the hash would disguise any taint to the meat and lessen the chances of food poisoning.

Men worked on average 9–10 hours per day for 5.5-6 days a week, giving a range from 50–60 hours of physical activity per week. Factoring in the walk to and from work increases the range of total hours of work-related physical activity up to 55–70 hours per week. They likely required around 5000 calories a day.

The daily wage for poor miners back then may have been around 3-4 shillings, with the weekly wage then around 18-24 shillings. In dollars, 3-4 shillings was likely around $1. In today’s money, 3-4 shillings a day may be around £4 to £5 or $5 to $6.

[mychemicalraymance]

Having a Sunday pot roast and one of the oranges the person picked out on insta cart is ..... SO fucking perfectly round. This orange is correct to the 99th percentile

[jerzwriter]

Ethan and Kaycee have a little secret... there's a big reason to celebrate Father's Day this year. But when Kaycee's plans go awry, she learns Ethan's were just falling into place.

Story/Fandom: Open Heart (Post Series) Pairing: Ethan Rasmsey x Kaycee (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 1,600 Summary: Please see above A/N: Last year, I wrote Mother's Day fics and left the poor dads in my world unloved. lol This year, I switched that up a bit (sorry, moms!) I hope you enjoy this! :) Participating in @choicesjunechallenge2024 - Threshold/new beginning - I didn't have much of a chance to edit. I hope it's not dreadful! :)

Kaycee had locked herself in the bathroom. A pretty drastic step for remaining undetected, considering Ethan was still fast asleep, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Confident her emotions were finally under control, she attempted to stand up from the bathtub’s edge where she had been perched, only to sit back down when another wave of tears washed over her.

“This is ridiculous,” she mumbled as she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her bathrobe.

She was never out of bed before ten on a day off, but that had changed lately. Ethan finally respected her sleeping habits; based on the snoring she heard coming from down the hall, he had even adopted them for himself. But morning sickness was something else. Morning sickness had no respect, so being awake at 8:00 on a Sunday morning was no longer very strange.

Six weeks earlier, they celebrated Mother’s Day – at least Kaycee did. She had told her parents Ethan couldn’t get time off of work, but that wasn’t entirely true. Mother’s Day was difficult for him – he sold it as his disdain for Hallmark holidays, but Kaycee knew better. What she hadn’t known was a reason to change his mind already existed. Something she’d discover a week later, alone, in this same bathroom, and she still found it hard to believe it was true.

It was still early—so early that the only others who knew were Kaycee’s parents and Sienna. Based on the side-eye and attentiveness received by the rest of her team at Edenbrook, Kaycee was pretty sure they suspected, but she and Ethan had decided that until the first trimester ended, no one else was to know.

They had no way of knowing last Mother’s Day was of significance to them, but their baby-to-be made themselves known early enough for Father’s Day to be viewed differently, but Ethan put the kibosh on any celebration.

“It’s too soon,” he whispered, with his hand protectively laying on his wife’s stomach. “I don’t want to jinx anything.” “Jinx!” Kaycee sputtered. “You’ve never been superstitious! Not once, and now you decide to be!” “Maybe I finally have something to be superstitious about,” he smiled.

She had wanted to argue the point, but exhaustion took over, and when sleep was possible these days, she took it. But as the day got closer, Kaycee couldn’t let it go by without acknowledgment. Ethan Ramsey was going to be a dad! And as much as she wanted to scream that from the rooftops, she would respect his wishes and refrain. But the man wouldn’t deny her making the day special for him, of that she was sure.

So, she set her alarm for 7:30, just in case the nausea didn’t come through. Her goal was to make him a special breakfast—his favorite: eggs benedict with Hollandaise, rosemary-roasted potatoes, and mimosas—at least mimosas for him.

Kaycee being in the kitchen was a rarity – as much of a miracle as Ethan’s pending parenthood, some would say. But as she quietly took out the pots, pans, ingredients, and utensils that would make her husband’s first Father’s Day breakfast, she couldn’t have been more excited or relieved.

The waves of nausea that had become commonplace were nowhere to be seen until she attempted to drop that raw egg into the boiling water. Poaching an egg, how hard could it be? At another time, perhaps not hard at all, but during her first trimester, the faintest smell of boiling eggs sent her running to the bathroom. By the time she was well enough to return to the kitchen, the potatoes had started to burn. Tossing everything in the trash, she gave up. At least she could order in.

But that didn’t go as planned, either. The order had been placed, and instructions were to leave the bag with the doorman. The app notified her of their delivery, and she rushed downstairs, only to be disappointed again.

Henry, her favorite doorman, saw her face fall and was full of concern. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“These aren’t eggs benedict! They sent tofu scrambles!”

“Well, that doesn’t sound anywhere near as appetizing!” the old man empathized.

“Ethan would hate it,” she said with a sigh. “Would you like it?”

Henry crinkled his nose. “I’m afraid I’ll have to side with Dr. Ramsey on this one – a true rarity,” he chuckled before offering to give it to someone in the maintenance department who would appreciate it. Grateful it wouldn’t go to waste, Kaycee got back into the elevator. But by the time she reached their floor, her hormones took over again, and her thoughts began to race.

She couldn’t get anything right. Why had she even attempted to cook? Everyone knew her skill set was best served outside of the kitchen. Would she be able to cook for her baby? She was going to be a terrible mother. She had already ruined Ethan’s first Father’s Day, after all, no matter that he was still sleeping. When she stumbled in the condo door, she headed right to the bathroom again. That’s how Kaycee found herself here, perched on the bathtub with a face full of snot and tears. Her only consolation? Ethan was unaware of any of this, but a knock on the door changed all that.

“Kaycee, honey? What’s going on in there? Are you OK?”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, splashing cold water on her face. “Just uhm, going to the bathroom.”

“Why are you in the guest bathroom?”

“I, uhm... didn’t want to wake you.”

Ethan always understood Kaycee, even when he was determined not to. But after their years together, she couldn't fool him.

“Kaycee, open the door, please.”

She opened the door, her face red and eyes puffy, and fear struck his heart.

“Kaycee...”

“I'm fine," she reassured. "Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and leading him back to bed.

“I’m sorry,” she cried into his shoulder. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Nice... for what? What are you even doing up this early? You know if you’re sick, you should get me.”

“I wasn’t up because I was sick, well, at least not at first. I wanted... I wanted to make you a nice breakfast, but everything went wrong!”

She relayed the story of the eggs that betrayed her – no wonder they’re called Benedict! – then the burnt potatoes. She attempted to rectify it with delivery, only to receive a tofu scramble. Ethan waited patiently, rubbing her back soothingly until she was done.

“That’s terrible,” he acknowledged with a half smile.

“I know!”

“First, it appears the alarms I set up to keep you out of the kitchen failed miserably, and then... a tofu scramble? No wonder your morning sickness returned after that!”

"Ha-ha-ha," she jeered, poking his chest as her tears turned into laughter. “I know you said you didn’t want to celebrate Father’s Day; you think it's too early, but I wanted to make the day special for you.”

“Well, you’re wrong about something. I did want to celebrate it in my own way. In fact, I already had plans on how to do it.”

“You did?” She marveled.

“Yes. The plans were me, and you, home alone with me spoiling you as much as possible."

“But, it’s Father's Day. Shouldn't I be spoiling you?"

“Not at all, without you, I would have never even imagined being a father, yet look at me now. So I’m going to spoil you rotten today, and you're going to let me."

“Ethan," she sighed.

“Ethan, nothing. If all goes well, you have years of making cards with handprints, buying gifts, and preparing meals with our child – God help them..."

"Hey!" She said with a smack to his shoulder.

"This year is extra special, but you’re doing all the work to get our little one here, so let me spend Father’s Day the way I want to... by showing you the kind of husband I am and the kind of father I intend to be."

Kaycee broke into tears once again.

"Are you OK?"

"No! How dare you say something so sweet to me when you know my hormones are a freaking mess!"

"Come on," he smiled. "Let's get you in the bathtub and I'll make breakfast for you. What do you want?"

"I have to think on it, but not eggs benedict, and definitely not a tofu scramble."

“Well, whatever you decide? I'll make it happen."

A short time later, the couple sat on their balcony overlooking the Charles River. Kayce, in a fresh new bathrobe, with her attentive husband at her side.

"You really don't have to eat this, too," she said, biting into her breakfast.

"Why not?" he asked, trying to swallow his bagel with peanut butter, bananas, greek yogurt, and lox. "This is a delicacy in some... you know what, I can't even lie. This is horrible. The thought of eggs benedict made you sick, but this doesn't?"

"Hey, I don't make the pregnancy rules! If we did, we’d both be otters and then you would be the pregnant one!"

"Kaycee, you're being otterly ridiculous."

"Kaycee, you’re being otterly ridiculous."

"Thank God you're gorgeous and a brilliant doctor," she laughed. "Because you would have never made it as a comedian."

"I love you," he smiled, then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"I love you, too," she replied. "Now, what do you have planned for the rest of the day."

"Easy. Romcoms. If your emotions can handle them."

"You're watching romcoms with me! Willingly!"

"Mmm-hmm, until we cap the day off with watching the Eras Tour again."

Kaycee let out a soft gasp. "The world has no idea what a big softie you are, Ethan Ramsey."

"Shhh," he whispered. "Let's keep that our little secret."

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