#the brave can chuck in a garlic clove

[website-com]

mustard pickle, american mustard, seeded mustard, home grown tomato, weird lettuce and kewpie mayo. with a side of pickles i changed the brine on. make this and enjoy it as i have

[peterparkers7evilexes]

when you’re ready [3/9]

[Masterpost]

It’s reality TV, so drama crops up eventually. What started as a perfectly lovely group date ended with Heinrich shouting at T’Challa and multiple people storming off, and Peter ends the day in tears.

He’s found a miraculously quiet corner of the mansion to hunker down in, but it’s not long before his cameraman finds him. Tony pokes his head into the kitchen pantry, giving Peter a crooked smile. “Got a second?”

Peter hiccups and wipes at his eyes, giving Tony a half-hearted glare. “Do you mind? I’m having an emotional breakdown,” he says, trying to hide himself behind a wine barrel.

“I know,” Tony grins, shutting the door behind him. “Got some very embarrassing footage of you running in here.”

Peter scowls and throws a clove of garlic at Tony's head, but the man just ducks, laughing loudly at his attempt. “This sucks.”

To his astonishment, Tony sits down cross-legged on the floor across from him, setting his camera gear down gently beside him. “You can't tell me you're ready to quit already,” he says, raising a surprisingly perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “It's only week three, Pete. That crap out there isn't even close to the worst thing that's happened on this fucking show.”

Peter huffs. “What are they arguing about, anyways?”

With a little smirk, Tony shrugs. “I'm contractually obligated to not share information with you.”

“What's this then?” Peter asks indignantly, pointing between themselves.

“This? I'm just taking my break. You just so happen to be in my space, princess.”

“Don't call me that,” Peter snaps, pulling his knees tight against his chest. He hesitates, seeing a sincere look of regret flicker over Tony's face before it's masked with his aloof, easy smile again. “... You're really not gonna film me?” he asks, nodding to the camera.

Tony shrugs again. “Bad lighting,” he excuses, but Peter begins to get an inkling that there's more to Tony than he says.

“Why… Why are you here?”

“Producers worried you'll do something stupid.” At Peter's incredulous look, Tony barks out another loud laugh. “Man, you really haven't seen this show before, have you?”

“I was conned into it!” Peter says indignantly. “But no, I actually meant, why do this? Crew this show? You don't seem like someone who'd like to follow other people around all day.”

Tony narrows his eyes - they're a startlingly clear shade of blue, Peter realizes. It's a strikingly handsome combination with his inky dark hair. “Are you asking me date questions?”

“What?” Peter laughs in a high voice, his face going hot. “N- No, I was just asking!”

“‘Cause you’re definitely not supposed to sleep with the crew.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Peter snaps, positive that his entire face has gone bright red. “Asshole.”

Tony grins again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mirth. He’s really handsome when he smiles. “Got sick of doing what people wanted me to do,” he says, gesturing to his camera rig. “So I said ‘fuck ‘em’ and did what no one thought I could or would do. And besides, it can be fun.”

“Yeah?” Peter looked curiously at Tony, watching the way his fingers move with a natural self-assurance over the mechanics of his rig. “Are you having fun now?”

Tony levels him with a flat stare. “You’re flirting again.”

Peter splutters, then picks up another clove of garlic and chucks it at Tony’s face, hitting his mark this time. “I am not!” He says indignantly. “Stop, you’re gonna get me in trouble!”

Laughing, Tony picks up the clove, tossing it back into Peter’s lap. “Right now? Yeah, I’d say I’m having a good time.” The smirk he gives Peter makes his heart kick up in his chest with attraction. “But tell me, Peter Parker, lab tech from Queens,” he says, resting his chin in his hands with a lazy smile. “Why are you here?”

He thinks about the recited answer he gives to the camera, but looking into Tony’s clear blue eyes, he decides he doesn’t want to tell that particular lie. “I’m scared,” he blurts out. “I’m scared of holding onto someone because I-- it’s so easy to lose people. And I get in my own way, I’ve self-sabotaged every date I’ve ever had because I can’t handle the thought of getting close to anyone only to-- to lose them. And everyone here is… kinda the opposite of that. Everyone’s brave and reckless and stupid about love, and I guess I’m hoping that out of all these guys, maybe one of them can meet me where I am.”

Tony doesn’t laugh or look disdainful, he just nods slowly and gives Peter an appraising look. “And how do you think that’s going so far?”

Peter shrugs his shoulders, his face growing hot again under Tony’s intense gaze. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

[Masterpost]

[tackleoutfood]

Edward Maitland Smith is Head Sommellier at TOF's monthly supper club Quintessentially Siftonian a job for which he earns £50,000 per annum. He celebrates the move towards the new normal with a beautiful Italian recipe and some ugly English words This week’s contribution comes to you from a haze of bad miasma, an exuberance of phlegm, and a very poorly head. Yesterday saw the birthday celebrations of a dear friend amidst the remnants of The Great Exhibition in Crystal Palace park, and as such, I am both pleased and ashamed to say that I drank far too much of St John’s delightful Picpoul. As a result, I suffer today much like St. Sabastian - peppered with arrows, in my of my own fletching. Nevertheless, we move forward. I was reminded by dear Saint Seb of a dish I sampled in a small Italian trattoria - an anomaly in the town of his namesake San Sebastian, in the Spanish Basque country - and attempted to recreate this fiddly, and visibly not-worth-the-effort meal for you. I hope you look kindly upon it and take to heart its worthy teaching that some things are just better when they’re served to you by a duo of Italian brothers, running a successful business in a foreign land, and who know what they’re doing. It also helps if they haven't chugged three bottles of Languedoc apiece. This recipe also, bizarrely, appeared in almost exactly the same form in the FT Weekend Magazine, upon which I am not prepared to comment at this time. Thank you.

Gnocchi with artichokes, jamón serrano, and garlic

Ingredients

3 large baking potatoes 1l of water 1tbsp salt 150g plain flour 2 egg yolks 1 egg white 50 grated parmesan Fresh nutmeg 3tbsps olive oil 2 garlic cloves, peeled, crushed 150g tinned artichokes, sliced Salt and pepper 50 jamón serrano

Method

Place the potatoes as they are into a pan of water, just cover them with water and bring to the boil. Salt. Semi-cover and simmer for 35-40 minutes Remove from the pan and allow to cool to the extent that your hands are only slightly scorched due to inattention Peel with your fingers, and grate onto a large chopping board Create a well in the centre and add half the flour, eggs, parmesan, salt and a generous grate of nutmeg Work into a dough that holds its shape - you may need more flour than you think as was the case with my somewhat flabby offerings Flour the board, and roll the dough int four lengthy sausages, and cut the gnocchi into 2cm pieces - don’t be tempted to make them too large otherwise this meal can rapidly become doughier than my late Great Aunt Jennifer Set them aside and flour lightly Set a pan on the stove to heat with salted water for the gnocchi In a separate frying pan, heat the olive oil, and add garlic and artichokes, toss to colour and season. Tear in strips of the jamón and allow them to crisp slightly As the water separately comes to boil, insert/chuck/dump your gnocchi, and watch as some lose shape, some disintegrate entirely, and a brave few sink to the bottom. This is all fine. As soon as they float to the surface, they are ready. With a slotted spoon, drain and transfer them to the frying pan and stir everything together, add chopped parsley, and serve. Grate of parmesan and nutmeg if you like, and tuck into an amorphous mass of potato and flour the likes of which would, I know, make both Antonio and Gino curdle with anger were they to know they were indirectly responsible for this gastronomic war-crime. Goes splendidly with a glass of Picpoul. I, however, made do with the vast quantities of it still coursing through my bloodstream.