#that includes anything from glass pieces to hollowed out carrots

[timelordthirteen]

Desperate Souls 6/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn’t long before they both realize they’ve made a deal they didn’t understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: Another evening, another dinner, but this time Belle surprises Gold and herself.

Notes: IT HAS BEEN 84 YEARS. I am so sorry. Basically March and April were catastrophes, mostly of a work variety. A lot of things happened, I got super burned out, and I thought a lot about quitting my job. BUT... things are looking up significantly, and the muse is back. This is what Belle is wearing. ;)

[AO3]

Thursday evening, Belle arrived at ten minutes to six.

Gold seemed surprised when he opened the door, and she wondered if the events of the previous day, including their little tiff in his shop, had made him think she wasn’t coming for dinner. He was wearing a deep purple shirt, striped with a darker shade, and a plain tie in yet another purple tone. The look was topped off with a set of gold sleeve garters just above his elbows.

He’d held the door, taken her coat with little more than the usual Miss French, and guided her into the dining room, where he presented her with a plate of lamb chops and sizzled garlic, dressed with a mint and rosemary, chimichurri style sauce. To the side was a mix of roasted carrots and parsnips, sliced and blistered under the broiler, and tossed in the drippings from the lamb. It smelled amazing, and though she had initially thought the mint sauce would be too bold and overpowering, it melded perfectly with the earthy flavor of the lamb and vegetables. It was as if Gold was overtly trying to impress her with his prowess in the kitchen.

“Do you - like lamb?”

Belle looked up from her plate and blinked at him. “Um, yeah, yeah it’s good. The sauce especially.”

He nodded and stabbed his fork into the center of a carrot. “Good.”

She picked up her wine and took a long swallow as he focused back on his food. Perhaps she had made a mistake in coming over early and assuming that what had happened yesterday wasn’t going to affect anything. The silence lingered, broken awkwardly by the occasional scrape of silverware, and despite the food being delicious, she had barely eaten anything. Her stomach felt even more hollow than the first time she’d come over, and all she wanted was for the whole thing to be over so she could go home and ruminate on the mess her father was in.

She hadn’t quite sorted out what the hell to do about that situation, and though she didn’t know for sure where the money had gone, she worried that Moe had slipped back into the old, bad habits he had developed in the years after her mother died. They had been part of the reason for their move from California all the way to Maine. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t be pulled into that again, that she wouldn’t let his vices upend her life.

The abrupt sound of a fork clattering against a plate shook her from her rumination. She looked up to find Gold staring across the table at her, his silverware resting against the china, and his hands folded and held up in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

Belle’s head tilted slightly, and he sighed.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t let you know about the - situation - with your father.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I put the blame on you instead of where it should be, which is squarely on my father. The terms of his loan are between you and him, and probably confidential anyway.”

Gold lowered his hands and shifted in his seat. “Yes, but I still could have said something, perhaps hinted, or suggested that you speak to him about the loan for the flowers. Instead -”

It was her turn to sigh. “No, it’s fine, really I -” He held up a hand, and she stopped, her fingers twisting her napkin against her thigh.

“Let me finish,” he said softly. “My business with Moe, and my arrangement with you, are completely separate things as far as I’m concerned. One does not have any bearing on the other. I understand that isn’t the case for you, and that your father’s financial situation has possibly made yours worse.”

“Yeah...” She looked away, turning her gaze towards the living room doorway which had a view through to the front window. The porch lights illuminated the light snow that had started falling shortly after she arrived.

“As for your father not being truthful with you...” He trailed off and exhaled heavily.

She let out a humorless, scoffing laugh and glanced at Gold’s face before turning her gaze to her barely eaten meal. “It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, sadly.”

He gave her a look that was as much a smile as it was a grimace. “It’s deplorable, and I’m sorry for that as well.”

Belle shook her head again. “It’s not your fault, but thank you. I should probably apologize as well.”

“What for?” He frowned and reached for his wine glass.

“For marching into your shop and yelling at you.”

He waved a hand and gave her a half smile before he sipped at his drink. “Consider it forgotten.”

She relaxed at his words, and the awkward tension that had been present since he had first opened the door faded as they went back to their meal and companionable small talk. She hadn’t expected him to apologize. He was known to do so rarely even when there might be blame to lay at his door, but in this case there was none at all, and yet he had seemed compelled to clear the air. To her surprise, he appeared genuinely contrite, and his concern for her situation with her father felt quite sincere.

Gold frowned over his glass as he watched Belle make a little grouping of carrots at one side of her plate. He was glad that they had resolved things between them, but not knowing what Moe French was doing with the money he’d borrowed was concerning. He presumed Belle still didn’t know either, or if she did that it was bad enough she would never say so. At this point, Gold would consider it a miracle if Moe managed to pay him back by the deadline he’d set. Given her current financial situation, helping to pay her father’s debt as well would only make things worse for the both of them.

He was mulling over how to handle that particular situation, when he noticed Belle was watching him. “Finished?”

She smiled and glanced down at her empty plate. “Yes, and it was amazing and delicious, as usual.”

He chuckled, secretly pleased by not only her praise, but also by her choice of words. As usual. There was something shared and familiar in that which he liked far more than he should.

Abruptly, Gold pushed back from the table, and Belle watched as he stood and began to clear the dishes. When he reached across for hers as well, she tried to catch his gaze, but he seemed to be focused on his task.

She stood as well, and eased her way towards the doorway to the living room, intending to take the long way around to the foyer and the small half bath where embarrassment inevitably awaited her. “I’ll um, just go and - and change.”

At that he paused, plates stacked, silverware crossed over the top. His shoulders moved slightly as he let out a breath, and then gave her a brief nod. It was the first time she’d actually said it out loud. Before it had always been the unspoken next step; he cleaned up from dinner, and she went to put on something scandalous. It was the thing they both knew was coming, yet seemed content to leave in a state of plausible deniability.

The closed door of the powder room loomed, and the flutters in her stomach increased with every step, until she almost stumbled through it. A faint gasp slipped out when she flipped the lights on and saw what Gold had left out for her to wear. She pushed the door closed with her weight as she leaned back against it, her eyes trailing over the sheer lace.

This piece happened to be one of her favorites; a lacy, flirty babydoll nightie in a deep purple with a matching panty. Belle took a breath and licked her lips, steeling her nerves as she shrugged off her cardigan and unbuttoned her blouse. A few minutes later, she was tugging the flimsiest pair of purple underwear up her legs, adjusting the thin elastic over her hips before regarding herself in the mirror.

The front of the garment was low, covering the majority of her breasts with a soft lace pattern, but leaving ample cleavage exposed all the way down to the ribbon where the seams met. There was no underwire, but the elastic that went around her chest combined with the cut of the fabric had a slight lifting effect, which in another circumstance might have pleased her, but in this felt like she was offering herself for something. The fabric was even more see-through now that she had it on, and she was thankful that the lighting in the study was soft and dark.

The lower half of the nightie overlapped in the front, and fell in soft pleats above a wide strip of lace near the bottom. The overall effect made it slightly less sheer, but still transparent enough to reveal where the panties did and didn’t cover her. She turned around and looked over her shoulder to see that the hem ended just passed her backside, and swallowed hard.

Facing the mirror again, she braced on the wall and wiggled her feet back into her strappy black heels. She had decided when she was changing clothes after work that she was tired of walking around in bare feet in Gold’s house, and black heels went with nearly everything.

As she was about to exit the powder room, a thought occurred to her. It seemed almost certain now that Gold was working his way towards more and more revealing items, pushing her limits one week at a time. Perhaps she could push back.

Belle smiled to herself as her eyes perused the floor to ceiling bookshelves. Towards the top she could see wide, hefty tomes that reminded her of the encyclopedias she’d grown up with in school, before the days of Wikipedia and Google. Down at a more reachable level, there was a row of well worn volumes, and she touched the spines as her gaze took them in. He had several limited and first editions the likes of which she’d only had access to because she’d worked in libraries, yet here they were one shelf above more contemporary titles. He seemed to have everything from murder mysteries to classic poetry, and her smile grew as her fingers brushed over every published Bronte sister.

Shifting to her right, she came to stand next to the case with the kintsugi tea set, and a strange, warm feeling washed over her as she gave it a fond glance. Above the case however, was something quite unexpected. She’d initially thought it was an art piece, but now that she was truly looking and taking it in, it appeared to be a page from a manuscript in a gothic style lettering. Her eyes scanned the words, going wide as she realized what she was looking at. The title, the bold capital letter surrounded by scripted decoration, the odd, 17th century English spellings...

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice it.”

Gold’s voice startled her, and she gaped at him for a long moment before her eyes drifted back to the framed page. “Is that from -?”

“From a 1611 King James version of the Bible?” he finished for her, sauntering into the room with a bemused smirk.

Belle blinked. “Yes?”

He flashed his teeth and came to stand beside her, his cane planted in front of him and his hands folded calmly over the handle. “Yes.”

His voice was soft and almost reverent as he looked up, and she gave him a brief glance before skimming the words on the page, her mind automatically adjusting to the strange letters as she read.

“The Apocrypha?” she asked.

Gold smiled crookedly. “Yes, again. I’m surprised you recognized it, considering it’s not the the title page.”

She shrugged, and looked at him, her lips curving. “I have an affinity for the texts that were removed from the Bible. And other religious books too. I always wanted to know what the powers that be didn’t want people to know.”

Her gaze moved back to the page, while his stayed fixed on her, watching the quirk of her lips as she read the words again.

“You were the kid that read all the banned books, weren’t you,” he said, finally.

Belle bit her lip and grinned at him. “I considered it a matter of pride to read all of them as soon as I learned there was such a thing. It’s why I became a librarian. I wanted to make sure that people could always find them if they wanted to.” She looked up, nodded her head towards the Bible page. “There’s always a reason a book ends up on that list, something that makes the man say you shouldn’t read it, and most of the time it’s precisely the reason you should.”

After a pause, she met his eyes and shrugged. “You disagree?”

He shook his head slowly, somehow managing a reply through the dazed fog in his head. “No, no. Quite the opposite.”

He had meant to tease her, and to distract himself from looking too long at what she was wearing, but her response was so earnest, and so well matched to his own thoughts on the matter, that he could do nothing except hold her in even more esteem than he already did. It was another sign that his plan was failing miserably, and yet he refused to be the one to end their deal. He was certain that there would come a point where her sensibilities would get the better of her, pushing her to refuse the silent request hanging in the powder room, and that, combined with whatever disaster was brewing with her father, would be the end of it. He need only be patient.

She looked away and shifted from one foot to the other, temporarily relieving the pressure on her toes. Her shoes were starting to pinch, but the strange, post-dinner conversations she kept having with Gold gave an air of comfortable intimacy to the moment that she didn’t want to dispel. He seemed as surprised by her answers as she was by all the books and objects he’d collected. The pawn shop had always been an eclectic mix of things, which she’d attributed to the nature of the business, but she now suspected it was entirely due to the eclectic inclinations of its owner. Inclinations which only made her want to know more about each one of his possessions, and Gold too, if she was honest.

Abruptly, Belle turned, blowing out a quiet breath as she crossed to the bar next to the fireplace. Behind her, she heard the thump of Gold’s cane, and looked back at him with as much of a smile as she could manage through her nerves.

“Why don’t you sit down,” she said, “and I’ll get your drink.”

Gold blinked at her, his head tilting slightly, before he nodded, and by the time she was done filling the glass with scotch, he was seated in his usual place. She took her time replacing the bottle on the shelf, and then pivoted slowly on her heel, smirking inwardly as she walked towards him.

He was noticeably off kilter, if his wide eyes and white knuckle grip on the arm of the chair was anything to go by, and she decided at the last second to push the envelope. She came close to the right arm of the chair, a hair’s breadth from his hand, and leaned forward ever so slightly to set the glass down on the side table. It was an unnecessary motion that served only to give him a full look at her breasts, but the way his lips parted, and the faint intake of air, sent a tingle down her spine. She returned to her usual spot by the end of the ottoman, and turned around all the way, once, before facing him again and letting him look.

Gold had no idea what was happening. His head felt almost dizzy, and he was vaguely aware that he’d lost control of the evening. She had been so close only a moment ago, her bare thigh a whisper from his fingers, her chest filling his vision for too brief a time. The glow of the fire had illuminated her as she turned and moved to stand by the ottoman, her silhouette leaving nothing to the imagination through the sheer fabric.

She stood still as he openly looked her up and down, and then, without a word or gesture from him, she turned slowly for a second time. He could feel his body react as the hem danced against her backside, and he reached for the glass of scotch, taking a quick sip to calm himself.

Belle found herself oddly amused as she watched Gold take a second gulp of his drink. She’d wrested back a little bit of control, and it had clearly surprised him even more than she’d intended. After a few seconds, he sent the glass aside, and she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her once more. It wasn't lecherous or discomfiting, as she thought it might feel were it anyone else. Instead it made her feel - warm.

“Thank you, Miss French.”

She gave him a small smile, and left to change, but something was different, she was different. She had put Mr. Gold on his back foot, something which few, if any, in Storybrooke could claim. The bathroom door closed, and she kicked off her heels, giving her feet some much needed relief on her way to leaning over the sink. She let out a slow breath and looked up, meeting her own gaze in the mirror and shaking her head.

The way he had looked at her, both when she was going on about banned books, and when she was modeling for him, gave her an unexpected rush. It was - intoxicating - and she was surprised to discover that she liked it. There was something powerful about what she’d done, owning the moment, and leaving no room for the usual embarrassment or awkwardness. A smile crept over her face as she remembered leaning towards him and the sensation that had come over her.

She shivered and rubbed her arms as she straightened, then set about changing back into her clothes. The babydoll was left on the same hanger on which she’d found it, panties included, which felt just a little bit dirty and wrong. Before she stepped back into the hallway, she looked back at it, wondering if she should take it with her or not. So far she’d chosen to leave each item behind, not wanting to take home something that had made her feel so uncomfortable to wear. She didn’t dwell on what he might do with them afterwards, but this piece, and this night were so different that she was almost sad to be leaving it.

Gold was waiting for her by the front door, holding a plastic container. She frowned and then realized it was leftovers from dinner.

“You didn’t need to,” she said, but he only shrugged in response as he handed it over.

The prospect of a second helping of a delicious meal made her smile, but it faded quickly when the yellow envelope came into view. He held that out for her as well, a simple, nondescript thing, but bulging a bit to one side where the money was tucked. It had dulled her good mood with the reminder of what their deal was all about. Still, she managed to thank him, awkwardly, and he bid her good night.

He waited by the door until she was out of sight, swallowed up by the late winter shadows, and then made his way to the powder room. Sighing, he reached for the hanger, and the lingerie that she had once again discarded. It wasn’t part of the deal in any way, but his assumption that she would want the items back, was obviously wrong. She probably saw them as even more tainted than when the fiancé she'd bought them for left her flat broke.

Upstairs, Gold made his way down the long hall to his bedroom, feeling the telltale ache in his bad leg from too many hours on his feet. Moving around the kitchen to make a rather complex dinner had been the last thing he’d needed to do after standing most of the day at the shop, rearranging a couple of the display cases, but it was worth it. Belle had enjoyed the meal, and they had cleared the air between them, at least somewhat.

He stepped into the walk-in closet, passing the neat row of suit jackets and trousers, and the angled shelves of polished dress shoes, to a short hanging area at the back wall. The hook of the hanger made a light clank as it went over the bar, and he sighed. The purple nightie swayed for a few seconds before the fabric stilled, hanging next to the two other items abandoned by Miss French.

Hesitantly, he reached out and touched the black chemise from her first visit, drawing the silk between his fingertips. Swallowing hard, his hand brushed the softness of the pink nightie, up and down with the back of his hand from hem to the edge of the lacy cups and back again. There was another pause before he slipped his hand under the sheer purple fabric from this evening, seeing for himself how transparent it truly was, and recalling once more the shape of her in the firelight. It was still slightly warm, and he sucked in a breath, catching a hint of her lingering scent.

His eyes closed as he inhaled again, and though there was no need for a cold shower tonight, he had begun to consider the fact that he may have made a deal he didn’t understand.

[sabraeal]

In Plain Sight, Chapter 3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Obiyuki AU Bingo Any AU of Your Choice (Witness Protection AU)

The thing about lying is: Shirayuki is terrible at it.

“So, Claire.” There’s no way her neighbor can know it’s a fake name, there’s no way she can be stressing it, not this perfect-picture Texan housewife who probably hasn’t thought about Witness Protection since the last time she watched Witness. “What is it you do?”

Shirayuki stares dumbly, mouth dry. She has a-- a brief or whatever, sitting somewhere in her luggage since it seemed silly to just whip it out during the flight, letting everyone seated in row eight see her new identity, but she--

She has no idea who she is. Who Claire Roos is.

“Um,” she manages, scuffing the edge of her sandal on the curb. “I, ah--”

Don’t have a job yet seems like a terrible way to start a conversation, especially right in front of a dream house that is too big for one single academic and definitely cost quite a bit of cash, so thankfully she’s saved the indignity by the unmarked white van that skids straight up to where they stand.

Oh, good. Now would actually be a great time to be kidnapped. Anything to save her from this.

“Excuse me, young man,” Mrs Kino calls out stridently as a man twice the size of them struts out of the driver’s side, her mouth pulled into a disapproving frown. “This is a neighborhood with children!”

Shirayuki stares at her. So does her kidnapper, popping one of his earbuds out. “Come again?”

If anything, this only makes Mrs Kino’s countenance more forbidding. “We have children here, sir.” When he continues to stare blankly, she clarifies, impatient, “Please drive with more care!”

“Oh.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Roos?”

His gaze swings between them in question, but his slouched posture gave the impression he wasn’t all too concerned with the answer.

“Not me,” Mrs Kino says, sending her an expectant look, and--

Oh. Roos. That’s her. She’s Roos.

“That’s me. Roos!” she blurts out smoothly. “Claire Roos.”

“Okay. Great.” He slides open the side of the van, and she braces herself--

For him to drop a half dozen boxes at her feet. White boxes, with the word WALMART emblazoned on the side.

“What?” she murmurs, toes shying back. “I didn’t--”

“Have a nice day,” he says, slamming the door. “Make sure you give the delivery five stars, okay?”

“O-okay.” She stares down at the siege of low-quality home goods around her. “But I really didn’t--”

He’s already got his earbud back in, strutting around to the driver’s side and-- and she’s stuck with whatever is in these boxes. Probably pin-up girl shower curtains and whatever the doormat version of The Kiss poster is, if her handler had a hand in this.

She glances up at her house, dread squeezing her chest. He might have decorated the whole place. He might have even picked this house out for her. There might even be a galley kitchen in there.

“Well now, looks like you planned ahead!” Mrs Kino remarked, surveying her sea of boxes. “Wouldn’t have even thought to get a delivery on moving day.”

“Oh, I didn’t--” she bites down on the words-- “even remember it was coming.”

“Ain’t that just the way.” Mrs Kino shakes her head, giving a wry laugh. “Moving just gets everyone all turned around, doesn’t it? Anyway, you best get those inside. Don’t want anything to go bad right out here on the lawn, do we?”

Shirayuki just stares, wondering how cheap home goods could expire any more than they already have. “Ah...right. Of course.”

“You need help carrying these up?” her neighbor nods at the winding steps up to the door. “Might save you a trip.”

Oh gosh, the stairs. They’re nothing now, just a lovely little accent built into her yard’s natural hill, but in the winter, she’ll have to--

Her whole body jerks to a stop. She’s not in New England anymore, she’s in-- in Texas. The South. She won’t have to shovel them.

“Claire?”

She wipes the grin from her face. “Um, yes! If you don’t mind.”

Mrs Kino smiles up at her brightly. “Why, not at all. It’s the neighborly thing to do! Around here, we’re all as close as family.”

“Oh.” Her lips pulls tight against her teeth. “Just perfect.”

“That looks like all of it,” Mrs Kino pants, dropping the last box up at the door.

It takes every last ounce of willpower for Shirayuki to not just collapse on the stairs. She knew it would be warmer here-- after all, going south mean getting closer to the equator, and the equator means hot, so it made sense that the further south she went the more heat there would be, but--

Garack once had to do a timed experiment for four hours in the warm room, and sometime around hour two, when Shirayuki thought that if she dared to move she would collapse like melted ice cream held together by the magic shell of her skin, Garack announced that this was as miserable as Satan’s asscrack, and well--

This place is worse than that. By at least an order of magnitude.

Mrs Kino casts a pointed look to where she clenches the wrought-iron rail and asks, “You sure you don’t want help bringing them in?”

“Oh, no!” Shirayuki waves her hands, keys jingling against her palm. Even the sound is strange, like how room keys jangle when on vacation, hollow and far too few. “The house, it’s really--”

She doesn’t know what it’s really, because she’s never seen a single piece of it. Which is part of the problem, since presumably people look at the houses they’re going to buy, even if they’re clear across the country.

“Messy,” she settles on. That’s safe, at least. “I’ll need a few days to get it into ship-shape.”

“Oh, of course!” Kino gives her a wide smile, more earnest than she deserves. “I know just how it is. But you just holler if you need anything. Me and Harold are just a hedge away!”

“Ah, yes! Right!” She edges back toward her door, fishing for the keyhole. Holding this smile is starting to hurt. It’ll be the last thing left of her if she melts, just a pearly white set of teeth on top of a pile of vaguely Shirayuki-ish goo. “I’ll...holler.”

“Good.” Kino makes it nearly two stairs down before turning back. “Oh, I clear forgot to mention. I always have the ladies of the neighborhood by Thursday afternoon. Just a small little get-together. You’ll have to come.”

Oh no. No.

“Of course.” The reasonable part of her watches in horror as instinct takes over and her body nods. “I’d love to, Mrs Kino.”

“It’s Martha, please,” she laughs, waving her off. “I’ll have to let all the girls know you’re coming by. They’ll be pleased as punch, I can tell you.”

Shirayuki watches her walk away with a pit of dread growing in her gut. “Great. I...can’t wait.”

With a grunt, Shirayuki hauls the last box into the foyer. She’s half tempted to just crawl the last step in rather than walk. As it is, she barely stumbles over that hurdle, hauling herself up the last half foot before she collapses against the door. Its cool surface is a godsend; she slides down it with a long, loud squeak, leaving a trail of sweat behind her. She’d be horrified, if it didn’t feel so good.

The AC is blasting, and the vent hits her where she sits, cold air cooling the slick surface of her skin, turning it blissfully sticky instead.

Well, those are words she never quite thought she’d use in that order.

The sweat she’s been dripping onto the beautiful natural wood floor beneath her slows to a stop. With a sigh, she leans her head against the door, grimacing as her hair sticks to her neck. She needs a shower.

But first the boxes. Then she can think of a way to thank Mrs—Martha for her help, and next Thurday when she goes to—

Oh no. Lunch. A ladies’ lunch. What was she thinking?

She needs an adult. Ridiculously, she wonders if Agent Jiang would pick up.

No, not him. Agent Jiang-- Obi was probably the one who thought ordering home décor from Walmart was the pinnacle of adulthood. He’s the sort of man who has one kitchen towel, and it has chili peppers on it.

A sweaty palm claps to her cheek. A ladies’ lunch. Oh gosh, she’s going to have to make something.

She doesn’t even have groceries. She’ll have to-- to go out and find a store and buy them. The produce might not even be local. They might have a bad organic section. There may not even be a Whole Foods for miles. The World Food’s aisle might only have pasta in it.

Shirayuki isn’t cut out for this-- this whole moving thing. She likes knowing that the Roche Brothers on the corner buys their produce local, but that the Market Basket has the better selection of spices. Or that the Whole Foods is cheaper but the Trader Joe’s two towns over has a better freezer section. Now she doesn’t even know if there is more than one store, and she--

She breathes. In. Out. She’ll just have to live with it. One step at a time.

Step one: open up these boxes. Better to find out now what inappropriate shot glasses her handler got her to christen the kitchen.

Slipping her key between her knuckles, she slices the first box open, flipping the lid to find--

Shirayuki blinks. Tilting the box, she reads Walmart, right on the side, big star in the middle. That...can’t be right.

She peers back inside, but the contents haven’t changed: fresh produce, still leafy and green. Carrots, spinach, a couple of cheerful looking eggplants, and even a clamshell of strawberries is tucked underneath.

“Well,” she murmurs, stymied. “That’s...unexpected.”

She turns to the next box, a heavier one, and it’s packed to the top with spices. Cinnamon, coriander, garlic, oregano, basil, thyme, curry, cumin-- big bottles she would have had to buy out of the Goya section back home. And now they’re all sitting in this box from Walmart.

Settling back on her heels, Shirayuki surveys the last four boxes, just as big as the first two. One of them is cold to the touch.

She blinks. “Walmart sells groceries?”

The only answer is her echo, but that-- that’s fine, because every box she opens is packed to the gills with foodstuffs-- chicken and beef and shrimp in one; flour, sugar, a dozen other baking needs, including two bags of chocolate chips; another filled with butter and eggs and milk. By the last box, she has a fully stocked kitchen, plus or minus a few personal needs.

“Well,” she breathes, “looks like he might know his way around the kitchen after all.”

That, or he has a very helpful coworker. Either way, she has food, and a--

“Kitchen!” She peers down the hall, curious. “I need to find the kitchen.”

Hauling herself to her feet, she lifts the box of dairy and detours past the stairs, leading into--

Oh, well. That’s a surprise.

Shirayuki can admit it: Marshal Jiang has outdone himself. Or at least, whichever agent vetted this house for purchase.

The kitchen could be straight out of one of those home and garden magazines Oma liked to have laying out around the B&B: track lighting hung right over the kitchen island, granite countertops, a double oven with separate range. It’s every improvement Opa had vetoed to their own, saying it was all a pipe dream when they still had repairs to do to the bathrooms, and the roof would need to be redone in the summer--

A summer that never came. And never would, now.

Her hands tighten around the box. There’s no time to dwell, not now when she has perishables to rescue and a kitchen to organize.

Start with what you can fix, Opa would say, the content of his tool box littered around him, and forget about what you can’t.

“Right,” she murmurs, setting the box on the counter. “Dairy first.”

The entire house, once she’s showered the sweat off and is finally able to explore, is as impressive as the kitchen. The whole first floor is open concept, kitchen flowing into the living room on one side and the dining area on the other, bathroom and home office tucked down a small hallway-- and every inch of it is homey, done up on soft fabrics and warm woods, looking both lived-in and clean.

But the pièce de résistance is the master bedroom, because--

“Oh gosh.” The words are muffled through the world’s fluffiest duvet. “It’s memory foam.”

Shirayuki flips onto her back with a sigh. It’s definitely not home-- nothing could be-- but it’s something. Something she can try to make into one.

“Hot in!” someone yells, muted, and Shirayuki bolts upright, heart pounding in her chest.

“So hot in here!” they continue, a siren blaring behind the words, and she realizes-- it’s her phone. Her phone is...singing to her.

She frowns, reaching across the bed to snatch it up from the nightstand. There’s no picture on the caller ID, just the words Sugar Daddy.

She definitely does not know anyone named that.

“Hello?” she squeaks, dragging herself further onto the bed. “Who is this?”

“It’s me,” says the man on the other end, and the quick jolt in her belly identifies him better than a name could: Marshal Jiang. Obi.

Anxious butterflies beat against her rib cage. He must have some-- some reason for calling. Official reasons. Marshals don’t call their charges just to chat.

Probably. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He sounds amused through the speaker; she can almost imagine the smug grin he has on his face. “I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’ve settled in all right. Hear any complaints.”

“Oh, right.” She rolls upright; they might be on the phone, but lounging on a bed while talking to Obi seems...weird. “I’m...good?”

He hums, amused. “No trouble?”

Besides him abandoning her to her fate on her front lawn, and her inability to lie for more than three minutes at a time?

“Well, I don’t think I said anything strange in front of my neighbor,” she says instead, stomach clenching as she rifles through her memory. “She invited me to meet the other neighbors at lunch, or, um, tea? Something like that. I’ll have to make something, I think.”

“Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s something.”

“It’s the neighborly thing to do,” she informs him. “I think I might go with cookies. That’s simple, and everyone likes cookies.”

“I know I do,” he agrees, and she has no idea why it sounds like he’s on the verge of a laugh. “But I mean: no signs of Umihebi or her people? No one lingering outside your house? No unmarked vans? You feel safe?”

“Oh!” Right, because that’s what he’s worried about: her getting shot. Or kidnapped. Or whatever it is that mob bosses do to girls like her. “Yes. I mean, no. No one hanging around. Though the Walmart van was unmarked, but-- groceries.” She lets out a laugh. “Did you know they deliver groceries?”

He’s definitely smothering a laugh. “I sure did, miss.”

Right, because he’s probably the one that ordered it. Or had a PA order it, or whatever. “I didn’t realize they had, um, food.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “It’s popular around here.”

She goggles. “For groceries?”

“Sure is.” There’s a pause, and she can just feel his shrug, even if she can’t see it. “There’s Kroger’s too, and I think a Stop and Shop a few towns over, if you look real hard, and a Wegman’s that just opened in the strip mall--”

“Do you live here?” She cringes. She could really do to sound less interested. “I mean, close by? Nearby?”

“Close enough.”

She raises a brow. That was more than a little cagey. “Close enough to know all the grocery stores.”

“Close enough for you to tell my boss I’m a very helpful handler when review time comes around.” He lets out an amused huff. “I can tell you who has the best pizza too.”

“Oh, um.” She’s half-tempted to ask, but that seems-- personal. He might like that greasy Mediterranean style, and she just-- she doesn’t need to know that about him. “Well, you can give my compliments to the person who decorated the house. It’s lovely.”

“O-oh?” He’s suddenly removed, almost shy. “You think so?”

She runs a hand along the duvet, floral and yet somehow not grandmother-y. “Very. She did a great job.”

“Right. Yes. She did.” He hesitates, clearing his throat. “Anything in particular you like? For, uh, feedback reasons. She loves to hear specifics.”

“Well, the kitchen is--” Shirayuki sighs, content-- “heaven.”

“The kitchen is the heart of the home.” He coughs. “I mean, that’s what she says. A lot.”

Shirayuki smiles. “Well, she’s right.”

“Mm,” he hums, absent. “And the couch is okay?”

“It’s the perfect softness,” she enthuses. “I don’t disappear into it, but it still hugs you, you know?”

“Good, great.” His fingers drum in the background. “That’s the hardest part.”

“Oh?”

“I mean--” he hesitates, so long she can hear him breathe-- “so she says.”

“It’s perfect.” Shirayuki settles back onto the pillows-- there’s a thousand of them, just like she likes, all different sizes and shapes, a veritable army of throw pillows like any self-respecting bedroom should have. “And I haven’t slept on it, but the bed--”

Shirayuki stops herself. He isn’t-- Obi probably isn’t the best person to be talking about beds to, not when her lips still tingle from touching his. That’s not...safe.

“It’s fine,” she finishes lamely. “Is there anything else she’d like me to compliment? I’d be happy to get her into heaven, if she wanted.”

“I think she’d be happier with a raise.”

She cocks her head, pressing the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Something to mention around review time?”

He sniffs. “Only as an addendum to how handled you feel under me.”

He doesn’t mean it as-- as anything, just trying to be funny, but something sweeps through her, not heat but-- but something like a shiver, like the tingle of a limb waking up, and she’s not sure if she likes it.

“Well,” she manages, mouth utterly dry, “I don’t know how they’ll feel about the nickname Sugar Daddy...”

“Ah, well.” He at least has the grace to sound contrite, even if it’s in no way sincere. “You’re welcome to change it. You’ll be paying for all this yourself anyway, soon.”

It’s good they’re on the phone; he can’t see her grimace. All this on what will probably be an adjunct’s salary. She feels faint just thinking about it.

“Which reminds me,” he continues, “I’ll send over your new resume tomorrow. You’ll probably want that when you apply for jobs.”

Shirayuki bites back a groan. It’s a herculean effort not to ask why the government could pay for all this upfront, but somehow not arrange for a tenured position. Or at least an interview. “Great.”

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks. “I’m here to serve.”

“Aren’t you here to handle?” The words just fall out of her before she can stop herself. “I mean, ah...”

This is terrible, how much she wants to impress him. Shirayuki’s known him for less than twelve hours, and her palms are sweaty just talking to him. Every time his voice drops, she thinks about how he laughed as her mouth chased his, how he’d said I’ve missed you too--

Ugh, if this is what middle school was like for everyone else, they can have it back. This is torture.

“Handling you is already the most fun I’ve had in years,” he remarks, so casual, like he doesn’t even know how that’s going to make her heart misbehave in her chest. “But nothing else.?”

She doesn’t want to end on this, on her just blurting out an innuendo and letting him think she means things, so she grabs at the first thing she can think of. “Can I change the landscaping?”

“Wha--?” he replies, eloquent.

“It’s just…” She clears her throat. “Lawns consume a lot of water, and just are for show. If I put in a garden, or natural grasses, I could—“

“Sure,” he chokes out. He’s laughing. “I think you can do whatever you want.”

“Great.” Now he thinks she’s--weird. That’s fine. That’s...probably accurate. “Good. So, um, good night?”

“Yeah.” It’s quiet when he says it, a little more than a breath. “Good night.”

Shirayuki thumbs the End Call button, watching as Sugar Daddy flashes before disappearing from the screen. That went...well. As well as could be expected, considering how all she can think about is his hand threading through her hair and his hand at her back and--

Things. Professional things. Professional things she can totally handle. Because she is not thinking about how her handler could definitely handle her, and--

She takes another breath. In. Out. It’s fine. She may be experiencing this whole-- attraction, but it will pass. Hopefully. And if it doesn’t, well... she only has to deal with this for the rest of her life.

Shirayuki drops the phone like it burns, claps her hands over her face, and screams.

[quickbuffet02]

Homemade Halloween Treats For 2017

As the kids dress up to travel trick-or-treating, you'll get into the spirit of the season, too. There’s no reason to not celebrate this spooky season. simply because you're an adult, doesn’t mean this holiday can’t be fun. With drinks, appetizers, or desserts, there’s always something exciting to make . Whether you’re handing out candy at the door on October 31 or having a topic party, here are some haunting recipes you'll try reception .

Fun Homemade Halloween Treats For 2017

This recipe is very easy it’s scary! Just use your favorite bloody mary recipe, and put your imagination to figure garnishing it. For the complete recipe, visit Instructables.

Peel radishes to form them appear as if bloodshot eyes, and cut a hole just deep enough for a blueberry pupil Cut the tip of red baby carrots to form severed fingers Use black sugar to coat the rim Top it off with candy glass to feature even more of a gruesome look Your next Halloween party are going to be a smash hit!

Find Business Caterers Near You Corporate and Office Caterers in Manchester

Cheese balls are a celebration favorite. Put a spooky twist on this one by using licorice or coloring to form veins, and cut some pieces of fruit to create a bloodshot eye. Display it on a cobweb platter, or use cobweb decorations to feature an additional creepy touch. Find the complete recipe here.

Maybe Halloween isn’t your thing. Perhaps you enjoy celebrating the harvest with friends and family while you enjoy cooler weather. That’s ok, too! Hollowed pumpkins are an excellent dip holder! Use them for fruit and veggie trays with coordinated seasonal colors or use them for chips and salsa at your Mexican themed harvest party.

Jack-O-Lantern Bowls jack-o-lantern bowl Come to consider it, pumpkins are great anything-holders! frozen dessert , salad, soup, cereal. There’s no limit to the items you'll use them for to form your holiday just a touch bit more festive. Or creepy. Or whatever! Find the complete recipe at Delish.

Be creative. After all, that’s what Halloween is all about. Dressing up your kitchen with clever creations are often even as fun as dressing up yourself. You can’t fail with any of those ideas. it's easy to feature your special touch to any of them, so make certain to possess fun.

Under the direction of Chef Noelle Salinas, Fresh From The Kitchen has won numerous awards including the industry’s highest achievement, The Couple’s Choice award. Other achievements include being named the 2013, 2015, and 2016 Best Event Caterer by Arizona Foothills Magazine and catering the 2015 Maxim Magazine featuring Nick Cannon Super Bowl Party.

[micky-cox]

FORGETTING A FATHER or, I've Lost as Orpheus by Sarah McCann    September 10, A Shatterin In the house, vigilant (a disgusting vigilance, including sleep) I am a kid in a kid’s room. Playing with the wall, I’ve wrapped my fingers into some skull on the far one— a transparent shadow mass, the light rushing around my hands like a bandage. An hour earlier I jailed a night toad, only one inch long, only thirty seconds long, then flicked him off (toads, with their gentle bones and the grace in their double-stretched skin, still are never shes). I flicked him back in the grass. Crumbs of meaty earth in my palms left from the toad’s umbrella toes. I spread the wart-dirt all across my cheeks to blush into ugliness, to become a troll. I remembered, though, that I didn’t want anything to do with being a toad.  The mud ran like lava down the sides of the sink. Dad, you are lying dead in the next room with your dog tags on. My hips could not hold my weight, or the weight of paper, even if I could will myself to stand. Your eyes are the size of your pocketwatch, even closed. I am afraid. I will sleep awake tonight. The first dream was like this: You’ve gone to change your name. The explanation: onomatopoeia and you love me. I think: you’ve just been around too long Chincherinchee. Waratah. Gaga. The next: The ship went down. Candles thicken the unhealthy smell of the room. Dad, you have turned into the one wearing a séance. You forgot to talk to me. I played the knife game today, fingers spread on the glass cover of the coffee table. The problem: my eyes closed too many times. My hand looks chewed, a loose piece of knitting. How is it that, still, we can keep someone dead in the house? A whale on land is not hematite, striped silver, not liquid, not mercury, not a whale. This whale, dragged from the dune and sandy, is no one I know. Grounded completely. He was never that. A heap of rotting hay. I’d burn it tonight if I could. Do you hear that, Dad? Dirty clothes. Fireplace left over from a fallen down house. Ears where lightning struck eyes squirrel hollows nose a shriveled sunless branch no mouth (he was quiet) hands the oyster shell shapes of fungus wing flutters his knees tight gnarled knots in the skin the leaves a halo bothered by wind.                             September 8, Distilled I took the sleeper car to see him the last time. I had been drinking since Mom called. I found this on a club car napkin: The train windows are drunk— lips licked with whiskey, brown-tainted, swallowed in caramel. Pine trees dip through the slurred puddles dragging their lacy feet. When we are quick the trees are whipped into mud. Burial mounds aching, all stuck through with bones, aching in solitary pain— lost hills of death— now run together like ocean waves. Even the creek we travel with begins to look liquid, fast as glass, and slips along shimmering and ridged like a clear earthworm. The man who left this at the bar was wet, from the knees down. I imagined about him: I see a man right now in the middle of a business suit in the middle of a rain finding a seat on the sidewalk then pulling a garbage bag over his head all around him. I immediately think of punishment, lost babies that people throw in dumpsters in plastic. I think to save him. He is just hiding. Again, there are babies in my head. When you can’t see, there is nothing truer, that no one can see you back. The man is simply in a place with not so many colors. It isn’t that he disappeared. That can be blamed on the rest of them. The rain has something to do with this: the black of oil churning in circles separating to turn into everything. Wings of color, all directions. The man looked down to see his grief diving and swimming in smiles. And a car ran over this. When he crossed the street, some splashed on his shoes. He caught a little of the all in his pant cuffs. So he sits. None of this is important though. It matters that he is still there, that I am still with him, though across the road. But in the train. Nearly there. Now I am wishing there is no drink limit: I empty the whisky into the hollow-eyed tire swing.  It drips slowly out, like a sloppy tradition, from a nail-hole in the tread. New whiskey, steeped in old oil and dirt road, rubber.  I sit underneath, mouth open to catch the tired rain.  A golden looking glass down my throat.  Spreading. The train slows in time to my blood. The amazing thing about me is that I am as pale as water in an ash marble fountain. You can see right through my skin. Lacy capillaries twinkling like angels. My dejected, frown of a liver. Downstream, muscles wrapped as Valentine gifts. Ovary arrowheads. Lungs, one broken wagon wheel. My ribs, flirty, and always slightly unzipped, show a winking heart, like a lighthouse. I direct everyone home.                                           September, One Wing The trees—long-lasting fireworks. This branching in everything: streams fall in ribbons, broken around a rock arms to fingers little thoughts, like “Kiss me there” limbs into “and there” to the twig of “one more” lightning Nothing stays one, together. But nothing ever comes unattached. Look at each cold breath growing lie a crystal tree in the air. Every bit of air drawn in is immediately lost in a web of veins tributaries ending in still more gossamer. It is just as possible to branch in a circle as it is to fall together there, but the branching is what lasts.                                           September 12, Grub A lovely dinner— guests easy to please— and not after long we napped in the backyard in the bog. I floated down to dine with nine corpses this evening. We ate the flower’s meat twine-green bones. I prepared this salad: unzipped the muslin dress of lettuce, split and spilled the whole heart of a carrot’s arrow, cut the diamond of an onion chandelier, unplugged a throbbing tomato from its juice. I did more.  My fingers are stained radish. All our life’s work is dying. Look at any face. you will see shriveled kidneys left too long in an oven. at the same time, a bloated liver strung with a flood of poison. knees crumbling in a concrete way from their business in the slums. (I am taking the body apart again) the library of the lungs each book weighed with mold. I tossed a few of my own teeth with salad, for croutons.                                           September 10, The Last of the Season I hate to realize what I’ve been doing since ten.  Raking in the wind. Peeling impaled leaves, leather butterflies, off my rake. It is homemade and wooden. I may as well have a broom. Trucks encourage the wind and, the lonely ones, on the road for weeks, see me, a girl, and yell out. They must miss some one. I think, if Sisyphus and I were the same age, we’d have a good time. I could walk on top of his rock like a log roller, rake in hand, sweeping the wind to get the flyaways. Whoever finished first would buy the end-of-the-day beers.  We could finally sleep. Dad would rather leaves rot in our marsh of a lawn than to rake. His plan was a forest of mushrooms and the under-stone smell that clings to the legs of grey feathery insects.  Our yard was left to its own.  Once, it thought itself into a pond and drowned. I stand between the wind and my lighter and touch each of the eight shriveled fingers. A rake on fire looks like a strange, scared man. I dropped him in the gutter.                                           September 13, Burial To think like a tree, first let yourself into the ground.  Sometimes your roots go down, sometimes you must dig a hole to stand in.  The religion of dirt heads into toes, then rides the sap up the body.  It slows you down like meditation. Tar for blood.  Now, a tree. The touch of onion chiffon on fingers, a wet light bulb, the way a sharp star smells. Onions look like full clouds when the clouds are so large the veins of the sky thicken soon to rush again with rain turning the land rusty. The clouds all day have looked like my dog— not the shape of Aslan, but the pipe smoke quality of him— something you feel like you should be able to hold, but can’t. Each swelling of the skin of the clouds is a single curl of Aslan’s fur. He actually stayed on my bed when I put him there for two minutes with the window’s wind on his nose then ran off to find where the breeze went. I stayed at the window. Some of the grass after the long assembly decided that the air was no good. The rebels (the union) have started growing back into the ground, head-first and loopy like a strange, one-color needlepoint. The trees, when they heard about all this grew mournful.  Again. It’s nothing new.  They cry about having lost everything, and they have. They look like they have. The stage of winter. Teachers say it is the less light that throws people on their knees in the snow. It is really the teacher of the trees, their tragedy.  A little Oedipus, part Hamlet, and always Death of a Salesman.  The no communication that is communication. The trees think they are sad, sure. But they are making people cry. With all this nonsense going on, the tulips have decided to stay in their leafy eggs forever.  A dreamy hibernation that lasts, swirled in satin licks, the insect-black inside. Clouds bandage the bruised sky above my unhappy yard. Aslan has come back his head under my hand for a second. Is it coincidence brains are shaped like clouds? A tree’s tiara?                                           September, Graves: those that are cared for every Saturday, marble rinsed down, dead daisies removed, azaleas trimmed those set in diagonals with rose marble, not ash enumerous those that are warm boiling over with dirt ones that are empty, not drawn yet, but surely will be above the ground below rain-riddled, or roots dusted with lilacs, with the taste of dusk ones sculpted as angels those with candles in wind-proof glass ones for children, with dolls with snow on top sometimes, the ocean forgotten the skin, when one dies alone those that have been robbed, lockets snapped from crackling spine rings slid off white sticks the skin, when one wants to die                                           September 30, How I Made The Day I went diving in a water cave, a dark-lit, placid, ocean grave where sharks were sleeping like dull blades, and kept far from the nightmare waves. Stalagmites crawling with sea lice this well where Mayans sacrificed held gold that seemed to melt like ice when I brought it to the surface for light. Each honeyed tear dripped again to the ground to form a glassy, glowing mound like lave worming, turning sound the cursed gold coiled pools around. I saw this frozen light become a thousand eyelids, then just one. It opened to let out the sun, from under this water the day was spun. A tarry sea was tempered to the water that can teem and chew, a phoenix and a wildfire brew. The ocean from black drowsy gold to blue.                                           After All, Renovations The finish is inching off the floors. Unpainting itself in rays. Unraveling your work. Your fingers were splintered like a cactus.  And now, are sinking into wood, spilling into each bare fiber. There’s your whirlpool thumbprint— no, a mat dark in the plank. Is that your elbow’s scar I’m standing over? My toe closes your eye. No, that’s not right. A tangle of knee?  Dizzy. Turn around, turn it all back to wood. October’s End, All Souls’ Sunset Skeletons clank woodenly in the dark Light through the ribs— wind all over Mexico. a dead red prism.; The blanket on you, Witch costume, ragged at the knees. frozen prism, Stringy hair, echo of fringe. was woven on such a night, A painted girl pulls her hat, turns strings of dusk shy, at a dog. the weft, Later, the real demons, stars strung as shy warp. the children gone. You were born after sunset. Your face is so open, It is right you should be gone eyes closed, and always begs: at the same time. “Just one more sweet. Children are begging pesos I’m in light up to my elbows as ghosts. A small devil but not drowned yet” alights at my elbow. The blanket settles. A skeleton has begun to show through The cloth holds onto your old body, the settling blanket. the wind to the shore.

http://www.mortarmagazine.org/forgetting-a-father

[melissagarcia8]

14 International Foods to Try With Locals Around the World, Part II

You’ve taken the flights. You’ve checked into your hotel. You’re settled in. Then, sure enough, the rumbling starts. You’re hungry. It’s time to eat. Where do you go first? Which international foods should you try?

If you’ve already made your way through Part One of our international foods list, we’ve got another leg of the foodie journey waiting just for you.

You’ll find in many places that food is served family style. Take this opportunity to try local cuisine and learn more about the region and culture from the heart of their roots – the people. Fair warning, once again: Use caution when reading this list on an empty stomach… You may find yourself planning your next trip around your international foods bucket list!

GALAPAGOS

The Galapagos Islands are known the world around for incredible wildlife viewing. Often referred to simply as “The Galapagos,” it’s actually a province of Ecuador. And what that means is: fresh seafood! If saltwater fare isn’t your favorite, don’t worry – you’ll also find meat, potatoes, grains, and fruits here. No matter your preference, you’re in for light, bright, and fresh Ecuadorian inspired international foods!

Encebollado

This thick, fish-based soup (regarded as a national dish) will hit the spot and fill you up at a great price. In most Galapagos Islands households and restaurants, you’ll find encebollado with yucca, chilies, and onion included. If you’re more interested in lobster or shrimp (or even sea cucumber, if you’re feeling daring!), these are usually options as well.

Photo: travelrouteco.blogspot.com

Ceviche

Easily one of the most popular local foods, ceviche is a must try if you’re a seafood fan! Red onions and various types of seafood (from crab, clams, or lobster, to octopus or squid) are chopped in marinated in lemon or lime juice. Depending on where you order ceviche, you may also find mango, mango juice, jalapeno (or other peppers), tomatoes, and/or cilantro included. For a more authentic experience, try your ceviche with clams, lobster, and/or octopus (what you’ll usually get in the states is shrimp and/or white fish). Regardless of the variation you try, its bright, sparkling fresh flavor will dance across your tongue to the very last bite.

Photo: Laylita.com

GUATEMALA

This Central American country – just south of Mexico – prides itself on food that comes from various backgrounds, making most dishes truly “international foods.” Here you’ll find Mayan and Spanish influences, African and Caribbean updates, and even some Chinese and American quirks. Trying Guatemalan staples is a must, but don’t pass up dishes that sound totally “Mexican” either. We’ve heard more than once or twice that the nachos in Guatemala were the best that travelers had anywhere!

Chicken Pepian

While central and south American countries are known to use chicken in many meals, this dish has an interesting twist. The national dish of Guatemala, “Chicken Pepian” features chicken smothered in a spicy (but delicious) pumpkin and sesame sauce. You man even hear locals refer to it as Mayan curry. If the menu you’re ordering from doesn’t have much English, look for Pepian de Pollo.

Photo: theguardian.com

Kak-Ik

Stop what you’re doing. Just stop right there. Remove from your memory the thought of the family gathered around the table ready to dig into ‘the bird.’ This turkey is not the Thanksgiving staple we know so well – no, this dish packs a powerful punch of flavor. Welcome to the most interesting bowl of turkey soup you’ve ever had. Spiced with coriander, achiote pepper, and chile peppers, you mustn’t leave Guatemala without giving this an enthusiastic slurp.  

Photo: Guatemala.com

INDIA

It would literally be impossible to showcase India’s wide array of tantalizing dishes in a blog post of any length. The best rule of thumb here: Order international foods that you wouldn’t necessarily find or order at home. Anything. Honestly. The fragrant, rich spices are around every corner and give nearly every dish that special ‘something’. Pair this with a culture that enjoys taking the time to do things the right way and you’ll have the ultimate ‘home cooked’ meal, thousands of miles from home!

Idli

Start your morning with this south Indian staple. Meant to be a breakfast food, Idli is a bit dense, so don’t plan for a giant meal. At first glance, you may think they’re ‘unpopped’ rice cakes – and you’d be wrong. These delicious little pucks of goodness are actually a fermented batter of ground rice and lentils. The round shape comes from steaming in small circular moulds. This savory dish may not floor you with strong flavors (which some people like in the morning!), but is often served with condiments (like chutney) for extra zing.

Photo: food.ndtv.com

Gulab Jaamun

If you have a sweet tooth (but filled up on a bunch of other great Indian dishes at dinner), this bite-sized dessert is exactly what you need. These slow cooked gems are actually small balls of dried milk (often made from freshly curdled milk). Boiled simply in a sugar syrup, you’re in for a sweet treat. Top it off with some dried nuts for a final little tasty kick.

Photo: Foods & Flavors By Shilpi

PERU

Have you met anyone from Peru? If you have, you probably knew before too long that they were very proud of their culinary heritage. And really, what’s not to love? Traditionally influenced by Spanish ingredients and European stews and sauces, Peruvian food is one of the world’s original ‘fusion’ cuisines. Ceviche again?! Yep – ceviche is also popular here, as the country’s national dish. (See above for more on ceviche.)

Aji de Gallina (Creamy Chicken)

Does a combination of chicken, cream, ground nuts, chili pepper, and cheese sound odd to you? Think twice! This traditional Peruvian dish will have you wondering why your shredded chicken isn’t bathing in a perfectly creamy sauce with a crunch and a slight bite.

Photo: Comedera.com

Cuy

A list of must-try international foods wouldn’t be complete without something you have no chance of finding at home, right? Imagine a perfectly roasted (or fried, or braised) cut of meat with skin so crisp it nearly shines – and tender, smoky dark meat that rivals the best poultry you’ve ever had. Add to that local herbs and a side of expertly cooked potatoes, and you have what sounds like an ideal dinner, right? Hear us out. Yes, cuy is actually guinea pig. In the states, we think of them as pets. But in this region, cuy is actually one of the most popular meat sources available (alongside alpaca). If you see it, you should consider giving it a taste.

Photo: Vice

SOUTH AFRICA

With historical influences ranging from German, Greek, Italian, French, to British descents all playing some small part in South African food, you’re in for a culinary tour of international foods without ever leaving your chair. These flavors, paired with indigenous cuisine and ingredients, guarantee you all of the jazzed up grains, roasted game, and locally grown vegetables you could ever hope for.

Chakalaka & Pap

A South African mainstay, Chakalaka & Pap are pretty close to any American comfort food you’d enjoy around the table with your family. Chakalaka is a vegetable dish typically including peppers, carrots, tomatoes, beans, and spices. You may find it warm on occasion, but it’s usually served cold. Pap is served with chakalaka and is essentially the South African equivalent of grits. As is, this is a vegetarian meal. Stop there, or order it served alongside barbecued meat!

Photo: PickNPay.co.za

Bunny Chow

Before you get weirded out, no, you won’t be eating rabbit food. Nor will you be eating rabbit, actually. “Bunny Chow” is a tasty (yet portable) street food out of Durban. Pop by any food truck serving the dish and be on your way with a delicious hollowed-out (small) loaf of bread stuff with curry (vegetarian, pork, chicken, or mutton). It can be a bit spicy, so be sure to ask about its level of heat before chomping down.

Photo: AMC

TANZANIA

Similar to their neighbors to the south, Tanzanians (East Africa) love their proteins. Roasted and barbecued meats are staples in Tanzania, and are usually paired with types of bread, rice, grains, and some vegetables.

Ugali (maize porridge)

While technically a “maize porridge,” ugali is actually the perfect side to have with stews, curries, and soups. This easy (but tasty) side is made from cornmeal and may remind you of its Italian cousin polenta. “African cornmeal mush” is what you might hear people call it, but don’t worry – it’s not mushy at all. Break a piece off and get to dipping!

Photo: Taste of the Place

Nyama Choma

If you’re going to East Africa, you’re going to run into Nyama Choma. Literally translated, this dish is roasted meat. You may not think you need to travel thousands of miles from home for great “barbecue”, but hear us out. This fresher-than-fresh goat (or beef or chicken, depending on the area you’re in) is as natural as it gets – grass-grazed, free-range, and slow roasted to perfection. Kill two birds with one stone by having one of the most common South African dishes on the side: Ugali!

Photo: Migrationology.com

THAILAND

Much like we didn’t recommend a Cuban sandwich in Cuba, we’re going to skip Pad Thai in Thailand. Yes, it’s wildly popular. Yes, it’s delicious. Sure, if you love it, give it a try. But you can get some pretty legit Pad Thai closer to home – which is why we’re recommending two slightly less common finds. Give them a try!

Jim Jum

If you enjoy hot pot cooking (traditionally Chinese), you’ll love Jim Jum. This is essentially Thailand’s equivalent of hot pot. Gather round the table with some friends, take a seat by your small clay pot, and get ready for a hearty (and fun!) meal. Your host (or server) will bring veggies (almost always to include cabbage), meats (pork and liver are most common), eggs (already beaten), and glass noodles. Throw ‘em all in your pot filled with pork-flavored broth, let it boil, and you’ve got yourself a quintessentially Thai dinner at your fingertips.

Photo: Malaysia Most Wanted

Sang Kaya Fug Tong

We like things to end on a sweet note, so we’ll wrap up with a delectable dessert. Bye bye, pumpkin pie. Hello Sang Kaya Fug Tong. As visually pleasing as it is tasty, this interesting dessert is actually pretty simple. This hollowed out pumpkin is filled with the most luxurious, creamy, tongue-hugging custard you’ve ever had. Once the custard sets up, the pumpkin is cut like a pie and you’ve got a slice all to yourself!

Photo: fork.my

Still hungry? Take a culinary tour through our other favorite destinations & their dishes here!

What are the most interesting international foods you’ve tried?

  The post 14 International Foods to Try With Locals Around the World, Part II appeared first on Volunteer Vacations | Discover Corps.

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