#the fat consul

[howtodrawyourdragon]

"This," said Alvin grimly, "is the Heir to the Hairy Hooligans." "The extraordinarily powerful warrior you were telling me about?" Asked the Fat Consul. He looked at Hiccup in astonishment. "But he's so very, very small!"

No, he's compact.

[writingsofwesteros]

Request:

Dark Aegon the conqueror takes the daughter of a king who refused to bow to him as his wife after he defeats her father and makes her remaining family watch as he consulates their marriage on her father’s thrown.

AN: Hi, I hope you like it x

NSFW

The dark chuckles of the conqueror echoed in her ears as his larger, hungry hands groped at her sweet, soft body. The dress that had clung to her curves that drew Aegon’s eyes to her in the first place was now in a puddle at their feet; ripped apart by the dragon King. “I think they enjoy witnessing this.” He cruelly began to whisper in her ear.

“They can see how much you enjoy this.” Aegon continued as his arm snaked her body. His fat, throbbing cock stuffed inside her weeping pussy. The King had not moved since he had bottomed inside her; teasing her as she whined. Her toes curling as soft gasps echoed around the throne room each time his fat cock twitched inside her.

“No..no, I’m not…” She hated the breathless tone of her words as her head fell back. His chuckling is only louder now. Aegon leaned in and began to mouth at her soft neck, marking her pretty, sweet skin for all to see. The pain and pleasure mixed deliciously inside her as the King began to rock his hips. “Hmm, so wet for me.”

It was something she could not deny as the wet, obscene noises echoed around the room full of her Lords and Ladies. The ones that had watched her grow, she thought to herself before his softer than she thought lips captured her own. His larger hand reached for her soft face and kept her impossibly close against him.

His fat tongue pushes in; dominating her own sweet one without any care or fight. All the while his thrusts continue and only push deeper. His hand snaked around her stomach that bulged as his cock only moved quicker. The wet, obscene noises echo once more as Aegon still darkly chuckles into her ear and watches her bright blush move over her sweet, soft body.

Aegon could only smirk as those bright eyes of his found the section where her family were standing. “It seems your brother is enjoying this a little too much.” The king whispered as she so prettily gasped out. Her eyes fell onto her older brother and whined at the sight of the dark desire moving over his eyes. A small smirk tugged on his lips as she moved to find comfort in Aegon’s touch.

“It seems you are more desired than you thought.” Aegon purred; smirk tugging on his lips before he leaned in and burrowed into her neck. The marks he had prettily planted on her sweet tasting skin only had his cock throbbing inside her warmth some more. Gods, how he had lasted this long, he will never know.

Her delicate, ringed hans reached for the throne to steady herself as he bounced her body up and down his thick length that was covered with her own wetness. Her stomach was only tightening in anticipation as the sound of their bodies slapping against each other echoed in the audience’s ears. She fought against staring at her family before Aegon realised her intent.

“Oh, my love…do you not like them watching?” He hummed as he gently took her neck in his hold. Aegon’s dark chuckles sounded out as her creamy, sweet pussy clamped down on his cock at the action. Oh, that would be something to explore later, he thought to himself as he guided her gaze towards her family. 

“I may have to bring them with us..” Aegon cruelly threatened as his larger hand slowly moved to her bouncing breasts. He ripped the thin material of a dress that was now below her station and soon those sweet, ample breasts of hers were now free for him to torture. The cold air brushed over her and he watched in delight as her pink nipples pebbled.

His mind flashed with how her body would change once he had claimed her completely; starting with those delicious breasts. Aegon grunted as his own desires got the best of him. Those larger hands of his moved to her hips as he helped the pretty Princess move against him, taking his throbbing cock deeper once more.

Aegon leaned in and passionately captured her lips; the sweet girl could only gasp as his tongue forced against her own again. Her body began to shake like a woman possessed whilst she reached for his hair. She tugged without care as the pleasure drove her to the edge whilst the King could only enjoy the ride immensely. 

His fingers soon replaced his thick, hot tongue as he began to thrust them at the same speed. Her drool soaked him as her climax ripped through her sweet, shaking body without warning. “Fuck…that’s it..” Aegon groaned; head falling back as he forced her to still bounce on his fat cock. Her orgasm squirting from her with each thrust.

The bruises that would litter her soft skin in the morning only brought more arousal to Aegon as he brought her against his chest. She could not escape even as her body fought to hide from the intense pleasure continuing its assault. Her toes curled as his fat, mushroom head pushed against her soft, spongy spot with ease.

Her sweet, creamy pussy milked him with ease as Aegon palmed at her breasts without any care. For a moment, those bright eyes of his found his pretty wife’s brother and the smirk on his lips only widened. Oh, he was going to have so much fun. His slender fingers slowly moved down her body now and began to rub at her too sensitive clit. 

Aegon was running out of patience now. The dance had been going for too long and now he just wanted to claim her. His larger hand came down on her arse as she cried out; tears welling up in those big, doe eyes of hers that had pulled him under a spell. Now, he would never allow her to leave his side. Aegon knew by the time he was finished with her - she would not want to either.

“No..please…not , not inside…” She stuttered out, much to his amusement as his cock throbbed. Aegon only hummed and forced his pretty bride to look at him. Her face was screwed up in pleasure as she whined and thrashed. Her movements only brought his own release now as he pushed deep and stayed there.

It was at that moment the fight began to leave her. Her body seemingly hummed and began to milk his still leaking cock as his cum flooded her with ease. Aegon had saved himself, forbidding his sister wives from his bed so he could fill his new bride. His cum slowly began to leak down his length as her soft eyes rolled back.

His hands moved to gently grope her breasts now as she cockwarmed him. Still, he needed to ruin her more - in her own eyes and the ones before him. Her mind had softened with ease as she lolled against his chest. But only a moment later did they flash open as a sharp gasp of hers echoed around the throne room.

She began to wiggle but Aegon’s grasp as ever was strong. The soft licking of her clit had her whimpering before she looked down. The familiar eyes of her brother locked on as she cried and shook her head; those delicate hands of hers moved to his head to force him away but Aegon only gently captured them and placed them behind her back; trapping her with ease.

Aegon only hummed as she thrashed some more but it only had her body rocking against her brother’s face. “It seems you are just a little whore after all.” The King purred and watched as she shook her head before her second climax ripped through her once more. “Did I tell you to stop?” He ordered the boy on his knees as his hand reached for the back of his good brother’s head and pushed him closer.

After that, he did not need any guidance as his hunger controlled him. Aegon’s fat cock began to harden at the mere sight of his bride losing herself once more. She whined and clamped down on him again as she wiggled. Aegon only smirked and leaned in; his spit falling into her mouth as she cried out. Her image was destroyed as was her spirit.

[sammaggs]

4x04 Mojo Rising | Tart

A tiny, totally inconsequential, Canadian inside joke and ex-pat grievance lay in the middle of Mojo:

It is very difficult to find lard for baking in America!!!!!!!!!

That is why the lard Dief eats is very specifically in the Consulate kitchen. Can’t get it elsewhere in Chicago.

I know this because I am a baker and I BEMOAN THE HIDEOUS LACK OF LARD HERE CONSTANTLY A LONG-TIME PERSONAL GRIEVANCE LAID BARE ON SCREEN so I ship Tenderflake to myself in the mail, a sad bastardizarion of the way in which god intended me to receive my pure, rendered pig fat

You know what else yall don’t have while I’m at it FROZEN TART SHELLS. I WANT TO BAKE SOME BUTTER TARTS. WHERE ARE YOUR FROZEN TART SHELLS!!!!!!!!! I wouldn’t have to be making my own butter tarts if yall had those either but HERE WE ARE

barbaric down here sometimes istg

Quiet Canadiana in due South [more]

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #2

Latex Love 🖤 / Masquerade Ball 💃

For a culture that eschews Mundane holidays as strongly as it does, the Nephilim world goes buck fucking wild for any reason to celebrate. Alec has counted sixteen ice sculptures in this room alone, all made of Seelie ice so they’ll barely melt over the course of the evening, and that’s not even counting the carved ice runes keeping the raw bar cold. 

The occasion? It’s Consul Penhallow’s fiftieth birthday. Or it’s her fifth service anniversary? Alec’s not really sure. Izzy whispered it to him behind her hand after two glasses of champagne and he’s pretty sure she didn’t know either. 

He shouldn’t even be here. He has acres of paperwork piling up and a brewing civil suit between two rival warlocks that’s going to give everyone in a ten-block radius an ulcer if he doesn’t defuse it in the next few days. The last thing he needs is to be holding another glass of champagne in the ballroom of one of Lorenzo Rey’s insane properties, wearing a mask that obscures most of his face and half of his vision. 

Not to mention the inherent food safety risks of the raw bar. Eurgh.

He peels away from Jace, who’s diligently trying to figure out who literally everyone in the room is, with Clary hanging over his shoulder offering hints, and goes to inspect the rest of the appetizer offerings. He squints through his mask at the overembellished script on the little toothpick flags at the front of each platter. If Izzy weren’t already two drinks deep and totally bought into the quote unquote romance of a masked ball, he would have ripped the thing off half an hour ago, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion she’s got some kind of tracker on him to make sure he complies with the theme.

“What a spread,” comes a velvety voice from behind him, and Alec whirls, almost sweeping a platter of salmon tartlets to the floor. 

“Uh — what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the stranger, not sounding it. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just admiring the opulence. Clearly the Clave spared no expense to celebrate Consul Penhallow. If only they’d devote the same resources to infrastructure.”

Alec, caught off guard, huffs out a laugh. “I know, right? We could actually convert to green energy instead of just saying we will every few years.”

He can’t make out the stranger’s eyes behind his elaborate mask, which is disconcerting. With his luck he’s probably talking to someone responsible for the green energy initiative. 

But the stranger laughs. Alec could swear his voice sounds familiar, but it’s so loud in here and everything echoes off the flagstone, so maybe he’s wrong. He doesn’t look like anyone Alec knows, from what he can see of him. He’s wearing a suit made from deep, rich purple material with a gold floral design that looks like it would have a texture if Alec reached out and touched it. His hair is dark and falls in a glossy swoop over the right eye of his intricate gold mask; the left side of his mask is adorned with peacock feathers so Alec can’t see either of his eyebrows. He’s a bit shorter than Alec, and he’s a lot rounder. Like, a lot rounder. 

“But still,” the stranger is saying. “I can’t complain. I’m here, aren’t I? I never could resist a party.”

Alec tries not to stare, because he can’t actually think of anyone in the Clave — anyone in the Nephilim world, really — who’s fat. Is that weird? That’s probably weird, right? 

But this guy — maybe it’s his size, maybe it’s his whole purple getup and the peacock feathers, but he looks like the word he uttered a moment ago: opulence. Hoping he can’t see too much through his mask either, Alec subtly checks him out: a round face beneath the edge of his mask, pretty lips, soft double chin. Thick arms, plump hips, a rotund belly that sets his stance wide. His suit fits him well, and he carries his weight like he’s not interested in making himself smaller. Alec’s throat is suddenly as dry as his love life.

“Like what you see?” asks the stranger, his voice tipping up coyly. He turns in an exaggerated circle for Alec to drink in, finishing with a graceful little bow that makes his stomach pour forward. 

“I, uh, just — I really don’t know who you are,” Alec stammers. “But I guess we’re not supposed to tell, right? It ruins the mystique or something?”

“I’ll ruin your mystique,” the stranger purrs, and Alec must look verklempt because he adds hastily, “Care to accompany me through the hors d’oeuvres? I’m famished.”

He holds out a hand like the Southern belles in that Mundane movie phase Izzy went through back when she was thirteen. He’s even wearing lace gloves, for god’s sake.

Alec is zero percent sure about taking some random guy’s hand in a crowd of his coworkers, friends, and loved ones, but then he remembers that probably no one can tell who he is, either, and so why the fuck not. 

He takes his hand. The guy’s hand is warm and soft beneath the lace, nails glinting darkly, and his grip is firm in a way that makes Alec feel secure. They’re just two guys being dudes, cruising the appetizer table in a very casual way.

“Not feeling the raw bar?” Alec jokes nervously, and the guy purses his lips. Can the guy feel his hand sweating? “No? Not an oyster guy?”

The stranger scoffs. “Once you’ve had them prepared the selkie way off the coast of the Hebrides, nothing else quite measures up. And besides, I haven’t lived for centuries just to go belly-up from some improperly chilled oysters. Seelie ice hardly maintains the temperature that premium seafood requires.”

Alec momentarily gets derailed by belly-up and can’t help dropping his gaze down to where the stranger’s stomach rounds out just inches from his own. It’s oddly tantalizing, and he swallows once, twice, before trying to latch onto some more relevant information. Centuries — so he must be a Downworlder. 

 “Centuries?” Alec echoes. “Which was your favorite?”

It feels for a second like it might be a stupid question, but the stranger replies without missing a beat. “I’ve a taste for the Baroque period, if you couldn’t tell.” He gestures to his outfit with a flourish. “I sat for Rubens back in the day, if you get my drift. I actually had this mask specially crafted for a ball in Antwerp back in, oh, it must have been 1611, maybe 1612.”

Alec doesn’t know what half of those words mean, but from the guy’s tone, he thinks he might be flirting. “I don’t know who that is,” he admits, taking a plate for himself and handing one to the guy. “The Shadowhunter education isn’t big on art history.”

“Really,” says the guy, and he sounds genuinely interested. “But — all the angels!”

“Yeah, I mean, half of those aren’t actual angels. They don’t really look like that. Or, I guess, maybe they would to a Mundane, but they’d get blinded by divine light way before they could tell what an angel looked like anyway.” He takes a Gruyère puff for himself and then, on what feels like a daring whim, puts one on his stranger’s plate as well. The stranger’s pretty lips curl into a smile. There’s glitter on them, or something? Izzy would know what it’s called, and she would never stop making fun of Alec if he asked. 

“You know, that’s oddly reassuring,” muses the guy, popping the Gruyère puff into his mouth and reaching for another. “I’ve always wondered if those horrible little ill-proportioned cherubs are what you Nephilim see in times of crisis.”

Alec bursts out laughing despite himself. “I don’t think the Clave could take itself half as seriously if they were.” The stranger smiles too, warm and soft, and Alec backtracks: “Hey, wait, you still have to tell me about sitting for Ruben or whoever.”

The guy hesitates, and for a horrible second Alec is sure that he’s blown it. But then the guy leans in and says, his voice low and rich, “Proposition: Let’s fill some plates and find somewhere a bit quieter.”

It sends a chill through Alec in the good, sexy way. He nods his agreement, and the guy gives one quick, pleased nod, as if to say, It’s decided. “There’s a courtyard around here somewhere, if I’m not mistaken.”

Alec smirks. “Oh, so you’ve been to Lorenzo’s parties before?”

“Have I.” He grimaces. “A necessary evil in my line of work, I’m afraid. One must keep things diplomatic, no matter how tacky one finds them.”

Alec snorts. Part of him wants to say fuck the food, let’s go hide in the courtyard, but all he can see is this guy’s perfect mouth and he kind of wants to see more of it. And if there’s something mesmerizing about watching him carefully choose and then eat appetizers, well, then, Alec is simply not going to dwell on that right now.

He throws some stuff on a plate and tails his stranger through the room, breathless despite the fact that his legs are longer and he doesn’t need to work to keep up. Alec’s spent a lot of time quietly lusting over all the stupidly hot things guys do when they don’t know someone’s watching, but watching slim, muscular guys amble around the training room and strut around in leather is very different from watching this guy. His big belly pulls him forward, and the slight sway of his gait makes it clear that his thighs rub together despite his fancy suit. His ass is tremendous from behind, not just in size but in — Alec doesn’t know what word to apply to it. It’s majestic. He thinks about running his hands over it, skimming over the rolls of his wide hips and up to the ample plush of his belly, and he almost drops his plate.

“Oh — here,” says his stranger, hanging a quick left and directing Alec out a hidden door to what appears to be a small, private jungle. “It’s quite lovely, I’ll give him that. Even if it’s a bit — gauche.”

The air outside is cool and a little wet, not humid but almost dewy in a hopeful, vernal way. His stranger sets his plate down at a little wrought iron table in the corner by a small waterfall set into the lush greenery and rockwork. His stranger eases into an iron chair beset by frilly curlicues, and it is not lost on Alec how much he overflows it. If the seat had arms, he certainly wouldn’t fit; as it is, he has to scoot the chair back from the table so it doesn’t dig into his belly.  

“I wanted to be chivalrous and get you another drink,” sighs the guy, reclining a bit in the chair in a way that puts not just his gut but the bulk of his thighs and snug seams of his trousers, “but alas. Now that I’ve sat, I fear I won’t be getting back up for a while.” He palms his enormous belly, and Alec, eyes wide in sudden, abject enchantment, swears he can see him wink through his mask. “It’s a lot of effort to haul all of this around.”

“I’ll get drinks,” Alec barrels over him, and before the guy can even finish his sentence, he’s off and running, practically colliding with the first cocktail waiter he sees. He grabs two champagne flutes and gets halfway back to the buffet before realizing he has no earthly way of carrying two glasses and a plate. Suddenly it feels like the most important thing in the world to get this guy something nice to eat now that he went to all the work of taking Alec to his romantic secret courtyard. Either the alcohol is going to his head or he’s literally under a spell, and he’s pretty sure that the Clave’s suite of pre-event warding would prevent the latter.

His stranger has worked through quite a bit of his plate by the time Alec returns, panting, and sets the glasses down between them. The guy tips his head up to Alec, chin muddling softly into his soft neck, and smiles at him dreamily. “Thank you, darling. Sit, eat, and I’ll explain Rubens to you.”

Alec sits and eats and watches his guy eat too. Between bits of his anecdote, his guy has something to say about each hors d’oeuvre, remarking on the flavor balance or mouthfeel or seasonality, and Alec soaks it all in, rapt.  

“And so Rubens,” he’s saying, “had a penchant for — fuller-figured girls, if you will, like yours truly.” He pauses, preens. “I was quite large even then; it’s a shame it’s been rather lost to time. If I remember correctly, I was Rubens’ only male nude. It’s truly a triumph; he painted me spilling out of a dressing gown, fresh from the bath, all rosy and damp —”

Alec chokes on a crumb of tartlet crust. His brain feels like that video Jace showed him of an entire fireworks display going off at once. 

“And by ‘lost to time,’” concludes the guy cheekily, “I mean ‘spelled into oblivion in my apartment, lest the Met acquire one of my greatest honors.’”

“You’ll have to show me,” Alec grinds out. The guy’s lips curl into that smile again, and slowly, he reaches one plump, begloved hand across the table. Alec takes it. And maybe he is under a spell, because he can barely believe the words on his tongue even as he cues them up.

“Can I kiss you?” 

His guy’s smile widens. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And well, Alec’s not going to make him get up for it, so he scoots his chair closer to his stranger and leans forward until he’s practically sprawled across the guy’s stomach. He cups his soft cheek in one hand, breathes in his sweet, spicy, incense-y smell —

— and their masks bash together.

“God damn it,” says Alec, and the guy laughs. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. You’ll see it in the Rubens eventually, I hope.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Alec, grinning back. His own mask is pretty plain — black with some silver scrollwork. Izzy picked it out under strict instruction to get him the least obnoxious one available. “On three?”

“On three,” his guy agrees, and they count together: one, two, three.

Alec pulls off his mask, already feeling a big dumb grin spreading across his face — until he looks across the table, and the grin falls away as his mouth drops open.

This guy’s eyes are familiar — golden, expertly made up. His pudgy cheeks belie his high cheekbones, and the coquettish, self-assured look on his face rings one too many bells. No. No no no no. He has not spent the last hour getting hot and bothered over Magnus Bane, serial flirt, general pain in Alec’s ass, and half of the warlock civil suit that’s currently driving him insane.

“Well,” says Magnus as Alec gapes, “I must say that wasn’t quite the response I was hoping for.”

“No!” says Alec, categorically unable to process this. “I know you! You’re — you’re —”

“Thin?” supplies Magnus. “Slender? Trim? The masculine ideal? A South Asian Adonis?”

“Yes!” says Alec helplessly. “Why are you even at Lorenzo’s if you’re in a fucking lawsuit against him? Wait, is this a disguise? Is that it? What the fuck, Magnus?”

Magnus, to his credit, looks only marginally fazed by all of Alec’s to-do. “No, darling,” he drawls, drawing a hand down the wide, lush expanse of his middle. “Not quite, at least. This isn’t the disguise. But the body you’re familiar with? That’s camouflage, Alexander. Look around. Do you see anyone at this party who looks like me? Do you think any of them would take me seriously in this body? For the ones charged with stewarding the supernatural world, Nephilim have a list of prejudices as long as both of your legs.”

Alec goes quiet. 

“And yes,” Magnus goes on, “I am, at present, legally entangled with Lorenzo Rey. However, that doesn’t mean I’m going to miss out on the chance to sneer at his decor and enjoy his bonnes bouches and champagne. Et voilà: in this body, he’d never guess.” He gives a theatrical shrug and fixes Alec with a coy, catlike gaze. “What can I say, I’m a petty creature. Still want to kiss me?”

And the thing is that Alec does. Maybe he could stand to learn a thing or two from the Downworld about how shortsighted the Nephilim can be, and maybe he’d better also do some soul searching about whether he’s got some newfound preferences or if he’s been repressing these like he’s been repressing everything else. 

“On one condition,” he says, and Magnus lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Yes, darling?”

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, giving Magnus a hand up and going a little weak in the knees as Magnus rocks forward and levers himself up with a soft noise that Alec wishes he could play back again and again. “Let me at least buy you dinner first. It won’t be bone bush or whatever you said, but there’s a really good Italian place up near the Institute. Cloth napkins, everything. My treat. And the chairs don’t have arms, either. And, um.” He laces his fingers through Magnus’s, and Magnus steps closer, the heavy curve of his belly brushing the front of Alec’s suit. 

“Yes?”

Alec’s finding it a little hard to breathe. “I don’t want you to think that — you’re still, uh, — I think you’re still —”

Magnus waits. 

“I think you’re really hot like this,” Alec finishes. “Like, you look so good that you’re making it hard to talk. Or think. I don’t want you to think that I don’t think that about this body. I do. Like, I really, really do.”

Magnus cups Alec’s face in one hand, and he’s so close that Alec can feel the warmth radiating from him, the soft give of his body. “Alexander Lightwood, a romantic,” he purrs. “Who would have thought?”

“It’s my mystique,” says Alec, jamming his own mask back over his face and gesturing for Magnus to do the same. “Come on, before anyone realizes we’re gone.”

Magnus’s hand is snug around his as they spill out of the party. The sweet, soft air smells like hope.

[corellianhounds]

Bar Talk

Media: Star Wars (Original Trilogy)

Rating: Gen

Word Count: 2,742

Warnings: None

Art Credit: Johannes Holm on ArtStation

Summary: Set sometime after the Battle of Endor, Luke and Lando talk shop and discuss the difficulties it takes to rebuild after the war.

Base XIV had few amenities but the makeshift cantina was a popular one. It was just out of the way enough to have the illusion of a hole-in-the-wall dive, and it provided several much-needed distractions after days spent training, conducting briefings and debriefings, managing inventory, and performing routine maintenance. The uprisings against Imperial outposts and institutions across the galaxy demanded the remaining rebels’ support and there was little time to celebrate before yet another sector needed their help.

Too often many of the leaders forgot the second half of the sentiment “Work hard, play hard,” though, so the cantina had to work a foot in the door before it became a semi-permanent fixture by virtue of the fact volunteers kept it up and running in what valuable free time they had to spare. By the time the fussier lieutenants’ complaints made it up the chain of command, the infantry folks had reallocated improvised construction materials for the outer shell, and by the time it got to the commander’s desk, Leia was seen leaving with Wes Janson and Lieutenant Verlaine, so deconstruction was deemed a moot point and the lieutenants’ complaints were dismissed.

Lando had made time to meet up with Luke on a rare night off to catch up and chew the fat. Consuls had no end of paperwork and planning to attend to between missions, but they’d each somehow found themselves in a lull where most projects were waiting on the decisions of others, so the cantina now hosted the two war generals in a corner of the bar, overlooked in the hustle and bustle of a busy night and granted the rare-found indulgence of anonymity.

Lando was having a Takadian Sunrise, a flavorful and aromatic cocktail made with tihaar. The salt-and-pepper captain from Mon Cala, Toren Qavis, brewed the tihaar himself as a hobby on the side, and since it appeared his background in chemistry translated well to distillation, he occasionally supplied Jhon the bartender with it. Due to the limited nature of housing and storage space, Lando had had to ignore his more naturally inquisitive nature regarding how Qavis was able to create such a steady flow of tihaar. There were rumored suspicions cast on the ugly little C2-R4 droid that trundled about doing odd jobs near Qavis’s rooms: the man was a notorious pack rat and the droid— advertised by its Skor II creators as having limitless functions— was always picking up organic and inorganic material equally. The less Lando thought about the C2-R4, the better he was able to enjoy the home-brewed spirits. Ignorance was indeed bliss.

Captain Qavis’s tihaar never tasted exactly the same. Each batch was brewed in small quantities which meant those who enjoyed quality control had to gamble on whether they’d be getting a flavor profile they liked, and those more adventurous were never for want of a new experience. The monotony and tedium of what it took to build bureaucratic infrastructure could wear people down just as quickly as the constant fighting did, so Lando didn’t mind a bit of mundane unpredictability amongst his new delegations, and he enjoyed visiting with his friend over a hand of pazaak and good humor. Those days were coming fewer and farther in between, though.

Luke was barely into his twenties but the enormity of his responsibilities and the expectations placed on him were starting to show on his youthful face. As he sat next to Lando at the bar, Lando could see the far away contemplative thoughts sitting behind his eyes— Luke had been carving a divot into the wooden bar top with his thumbnail as he and Lando breezed through the daily trough patter they both knew by rote.

Baron Calrissian was more accustomed to bureaucracy than the farm boy was. Despite his efforts spent scouring databases and archives for information and history on the Jedi, Luke’s time was demanded of in a number of areas as they established the New Republic, and the divided focus was frustrating him. Point the boy in one direction and give him a clear objective and he’d accomplish it with aplomb. Split his focus and tell him to figure out how to manage both his time and his people in a number of unfamiliar settings and you get a fledgling Jedi and consul member forgetting important meetings and snapping at dignitaries they needed support of. He and Han were similar in those respects, and between their own harried schedules Lando and Leia had had to make time to smooth over diplomatic relations Luke had inadvertently ruffled the feathers of.

When it came down to it, Luke was a hands-on guy more accustomed to solving physical problems than he was performing administration. Gifted pilot? Yes. Ingenious mechanic? Yes. Unparalleled martial artist, strategist, and swordsman? Of course.

Diplomat? Not so much.

“Plan on digging a trench all the way across?” Lando asked. “A router would take you less time.”

Luke shook his head, resting his knuckles on the bar top. He was three black ales in and didn’t seem fazed by them at all. Lando wondered if there was much else to do on a backwoods planet like the one Luke had come from besides shoot vermin, drift speeders, and knock back ‘shine with the old-timers when you weren’t doing manual labor. Lando had met several hicks whose hold on liquor rivaled Coruscanti ironworkers— Union men were a sturdy breed, and still they’d stagger from going shot-for-shot against a scrawny hayseed with a competitive streak. Luke wasn’t a big man and still he’d shown no signs of flagging under the stout black ale that must have made up a quantifiable percentage of his body weight by now.

“Sorry, Lando, my focus is shot today. Meditation only gets me so far on the weeks we’re moving bases.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m surprised it's in your schedule at all; haven’t you been taking ten-twelves?”

“Something like that,” Luke said wryly. “I get it in during airtime.”

“Seems to me like that’s still work.”

“Eh, flying’s methodical,” Luke shrugged. “That’s the work I like.”

“What’s the old man have to say about your multitasking?”

“Haven’t asked him.”

The two of them chuckled. Lando slid the untouched tray of Zuǒ chicken over next to Luke’s forearm.

“Those bags under your eyes may match your wardrobe, but they aren’t a good look on you,” Lando observed. “Tell Leia you need to take a retreat, go to Dagobah for a bit and get your head straight. You’ll feel better after.”

Luke shook his head. “No need. I’ve got some downtime during the refinery recon and the meetings later this week.”

“Recon isn’t downtime. What’s eating at you, kid?”

Luke studied the wood some more while the fried food settled to room temp beside him. The general din of the cantina stayed at a low hum, sentients squeezing past each other but somehow still skirting the alcove they’d commandeered.

“… You ever been expected to give a speech on something you’re told you’re supposed to be an expert in but you’ve only heard of by word-of-mouth? Like somebody’s asked you to play a song nobody knows or has recordings of?

Lando frowned. “Is this about the Jedi business?”

Luke continued like Lando hadn’t spoken. “I can’t find any original codices for the Order. The representatives from other systems in the charter keep asking questions I can’t explain. “Why does the Force protect some people but not others? If the Force connects every living thing, how can so much evil go undetected for so long? The Empire wouldn’t have had the reach it did if the emperor had been stopped long before he took over. Are the Jedi really meant to live cut off from everyone else, or is that why they failed on Coruscant in the first place?”

“… Heavy stuff.”

“You’re telling me,” Luke said. “I’m just one guy and I’m expected to have all the answers.”

“Kenobi not been much help?” Lando asked curiously.

Luke shrugged and dragged a hand down his face with a sigh. “He’s irritated with me for arguing the logistics every time we talk. I think there’s a point to people’s questions but he’s still teaching from the old rule book.” Here he turned to Lando. “I know he’s only teaching me what he knows, but if the Jedi believed in accepting change, why can���t he see that the way we study and live by the Force now has to change? How can you reconcile a life of non-attachment with the very thing that binds us together?”

“A rope and a net will both keep you from falling but one’s going to do it better than the other.”

Luke couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. “See? You get it. Maybe you should be the Jedi.”

“Pass.”

“Smart choice.”

Lando tapped his fingers on the bar in thought. As far as he was aware the rebuilding of the physical Order wasn’t expected to be underway so soon anyway. Luke was one of the most wanted men across the galaxies; they were all keeping low profiles for a reason. The sheer enormity and reach of the Empire’s stranglehold meant there were still millions of Imperials and Imperial sympathizers stationed across every sector. There was no shortage of people who wanted him dead. If he revealed too much or didn’t remain off the grid, diligently toiling away at finding resources and forming covert connections, he could put so much they had worked for— to say nothing of millions of lives depending on them— in jeopardy. To not even have council members believe the Jedi were necessary or worthy of rebuilding in the first place meant Luke was fighting against the tide every time he didn’t gain a delegate’s trust, let alone support.

But to hear Luke struggle with how he viewed the original tenets of the code reminded Lando of just how new all this was to him, too.

“What is it Kenobi and Yoda do all day if they’re not giving you immediate resources?”

Luke drained the rest of his glass and tapped the bar twice for Jhon to refill it. “I won’t say they haven’t been helpful, but they ask more questions than they answer mine.”

“To what end?”

Luke put his hands up in a gesture of “Your guess is as good as mine,” baffled and frustrated. “To stretch my critical thinking skills, I guess— But I don’t have time for that. I need actionable directions. Contemplation and self-reflection are selfish right now when what people need is immediate help. How can I find others if they won’t give me the tools?”

Lando mulled it over. He could see where Luke was coming from and sensed he had a point. Han had told him a fortnight back that he’d found Luke working out his frustrations in bay 4-9 stripping down an X-wing from canopy to keel, muttering something about philosophy and accountability. By the time he emerged he was sweaty and covered in grease, but no closer to whatever conclusion he’d been using the ship’s maintenance as a stand-in for because his stormy expression remained in place and he immediately started in on another ship.

Grains of sand could beget pearls over time, but if you flooded a shell with sand without jetting out the buildup all you’d get was a dead mollusk.

So Lando changed the subject.

“How do vaporators work?”

Luke snorted and gave him a sidelong look that implied Lando was asking a stupid question (which, in all fairness, was part of the point). He held up his glass, water running in rivulets down the sides.

“Same way this does,” he said. “Why? Plan to invest in stocks before the dry season?”

“Naw, nothing like that.” Lando didn’t take offense to Luke’s sarcasm. “I was born on Socorro but my family lived so far removed from farm life I didn’t know how most essentials got from farm to table. I didn’t stay there long enough to learn anyway. Didn’t interest me.”

“And now suddenly it does?”

“The base camp up in the mountains put in a request for on-site equipment to help sustain them so they don’t have to rely solely on supply lines,” Lando explained. It was a true enough statement, though Luke needn’t know that the issue hadn’t necessarily crossed Lando’s desk. “There’s budget and time constraints they don’t have time to quibble over, and the railways are in poor condition because of the rockslides.”

Luke’s barstool swiveled a little more loosely to his left as he tapped his gloved, mechanical hand on the bar. “Vaporator cores run refrigerant through the main shafts to keep them chilled; they collect condensation and funnel it down to a tank beneath the ground,” he said, picking up a bit of chicken and chewing around his words. “Tatooine gets up to forty-two degrees on average and the mists rise at suns-up— Most of the water is collected in that window of time, and the rest of the day your work is spent on repairs and withdrawal rotations. The base camp is already up on the leeward side of the mountains though— Fog nets would be more efficient and easier to maintain. Higher elevation, less even terrain, and the fog’s already there. It would cost more money and effort to bore out the rock to install vaporators than they’d be worth in the long run.”

Lando stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What would the number of man-hours for maintenance be, assuming they have the space to dedicate to them?”

“For the whole compound? Maybe thirty hours across a standard week. The nets take up less space and there’s nothing mechanical or electrical to maintain. You could get the bigger cisterns and spend half the time across two shifts doing all the work at once, but the more often they’re maintained the less likely they are to build up mold. It’s not worth putting it off if it means running the risk of the whole supply making everybody sick.”

“What about groundwater?”

“Larger cost upfront to install the equipment, more work to purify it,” Luke said, shaking his head. Lando waved the barkeep down for another basket of Zuǒ as he talked, making a point to take some himself so Luke could continue uninterrupted. He had a bit more color to his skin than before, and the haze of stress and alcohol was a little clearer with a problem in front of him he had enough experience to solve in his sleep.

“Everyone can be cross-trained on nets, that way you can sub people in when needed. A specialized crew may sound more appealing but if they’re all waylaid or too many people are taken out you won’t have anyone to harvest a supply at all. You’ll need a foreman to track down screw-ups if you rotate schedules, though. Or you can give that job to a droid.”

“Any downsides to having droids do all of it?” Lando asked.

“… Droids just can’t get the taste right,” Luke said. “They’re good at filtering and testing for problems, and the water would technically be fine, but at the end of the day you need someone who’s going to care about more than just utility.”

The conversation reached a natural lull, and Lando didn’t feel the need to add anything else. He had what he needed.

Luke scrubbed at his face, sitting back in the stool and contemplating the condensation building up on the glass. “Seems all I’m good for some days is everything except restoring a creed. At least there’ll always be farming.”

Lando thought back to Qavis and the C2-R4, the cantina bartender and the makeshift pub carved into a quarry. He stood from his chair and dropped some credits on the bar before he put a hand on Luke’s shoulder and hoped it conveyed the reassurance he didn’t know how else to give.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Luke. There’s a lot you’ve got to contend with on your own, but you’ve got us to help with everything else.”

“… Ben thinks I can rebuild an entire order single-handedly,” Luke muttered sardonically. “But it feels like all I’ve gotten from him are criticisms and pushback.”

Lando shrugged. “If Kenobi didn’t want you in charge, he shouldn’t have left.”

Luke finally cracked a grin, the first Lando had seen in a long time.

“Besides,” Lando reasoned, “Seems to me like you’re already used to making something out of nothing.”

—

Notes:

Tihaar is a strong, clear spirit distilled from fruit. The inspiration for this specific home brew is taken from San Miguel beer in the Philippines circa 1980. Brewed in small batches, no two beers ever tasted the same. An older friend of mine said that during his stint overseas he was never happier than when he had a San Miguel beer in one hand and roasted monkey on a stick in the other.

Here is a link to a post I made about the C2-RV droids.

What Lando says to Luke about Kenobi is something my dad once said at a funeral. He was talking to his aunt (my great-aunt) at the last of her brother’s funerals, and she said in her normal matter-of-fact tone “Welp, I’m the last one. Guess I can raise all sorts of hell now.” To which my dad said “Well if they didn’t want you in charge, they shouldn’t have left!”

[omnipointmuses]

The First Soul

The first soul radiates a soft aura an is in the shape of a feline demi-human. As you get closer it recants it's tale.

I was Queen Xocolati's first husband, taken so she could assume the title and responsibilities without pushback from the noble class even though they sneered at my status as a now former slave. Despite my marriage being out of mere necessity I had little to complain about, though I did have fears about how my queen would see me but to my surprise she treated me as an equal and often sought my consul about how to properly run her kingdom, together we even outlawed and dismantled most of the slave trade within The Golden Desert region.

My end came when I retreated with her to our bedroom for the final time. Her touch was always softer than I was ever used to and she never crossed the limit I set, but slowly but surely I grew to find a certain comfort to be under her power, her expansive girth. Eventually I found myself pushing my way into her open maw, over her tongue that licked so tenderly as if to savor every taste of me. Eventually her mouth crested over my admittedly wide hips and by then I knew I was hers in body. Despite how vast her unsealed form was her stomach held me with a cozy embrace behind her thick wall of fat I once embraced. Even then I could faintly feel her, graciously patting her gut as if I was the best meal she's had in a long time and heard her voice assuring me that she would either let me out soon or could reform me later. I rejected both offers, I felt that this was right becoming completely one with her and after an agonizing moment she asked if I was sure, I was. So she obliged my desires, I have to admit that the idea of all safety nets were cut made my pulse pound and I selfishly gave into those impulses and pleasured myself against her walls, coaxing her into reaching down and squeezing her gut, squeezing me, milking me for everything I could offer until my form fell apart through the churning chyme, but still I didn't leave, I couldn't leave. I don't know if this was one purpose or if she was even away but when my soul fled my slurried form it could not escape the confines of her gut so instead I sank deeper and became one with it and thus she claimed me in spirit. I see the world through her eyes and await the day she seeks my consul again, and maybe I would experience her touch once more.

The shape vanishes in a plume of light and what remains is an urn atop a pillar made of sandstone along with a cube of resin that contained a pair of thongs. Below it there's a plaque that reads.

Here lies the First King of The Golden Sands Husband to Queen Xocolati Danos (Blank) Danos (First name lost to time.)

[hellcab]

{{ Honestly, if I ever make an overlord oc ( which I will. promise. ) it’ll either be the fucking skeleton overlord. Whose just a fucking skeleton. Or, some fat bastard roman consul who owns Hell’s wine production. All he wants to do is drink wine, have fun and occasionally have gladiatorial matches. Other than that, he’s a pretty swell guy. }}

[aaronburrdaily]

October 23, 1809

Copenhagen, October 23, 1809. No theatre was opened last evening, nor was there any public amusement. After strolling an hour, during which mus. mauv.; 1 d.¹ came home; took tea as my supper; engaged a servant at 3 marks a day; not, however, to attend me exclusively. LI. de ch. gro. pas mauv. mus. encore.² My room, a very large and elegant one on the first floor, looks into the square, and it is again my good fortune to have a military parade and band of music under my window in the morning. After breakfast sent cards to Olsen, formerly minister plenipotentiary from this government to the United States, and to Nailsen, formerly judge in Santa Cruz, who passed some time in New York on his way home. Both were abroad. Olsen at some distance at a country seat. Sent also Baron d'Albedÿhll's letter to M. de Coningk, conseiller d'etat³ with card. Hearing that G. Jay, American consul for Rotterdam, lodged in this house, sent my name by a servant. Walked about town an hour or two. It is regularly laid out on a plain. The harbour artificial. Very few vessels. Houses almost universally of brick, but generally made white or stone-coloured. Had a bowl of soup, with a bottle of Rhenish wine, in my room for dinner. In the afternoon took a servant to pilot me to the Observatory. The height is said to be 160 feet, placed nearly in the center of the town, and affords a most perfect bird's-eye view of the whole, with a prospect of the ocean; a fine landscape in the interior; the Palace of Fredericksberg, finely placed on an eminence. The Swedish coast. The ascent to the top is singular; not by steps, but an inclined spiral plane, paved with brick. It is said that a former King drove up with a coach and four, which is very practicable till you come within about ten feet of the summit, where you have steps, but how he got back is not said, for it is utterly impossible to turn. Paid 1 mark, and one more to my conductor. Home and alone the evening. La flick⁴ later.

1 For muse mauvaise; 1 dollar. Bad muse; 1 dollar. 2 For Fille de chambre; grosse, pas mauvaise. Muse encore. The chambermaid, fat, not bad; muse again. 3 State Councilor. 4 For la flicka. French and Swedish. The lass.

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Alvin tries to warn the Fat Consul about Hiccup, but he doesn't listen.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 9 June 1840

8 10/..

2 50/..

very fine morning R18 ½°+ and F74° now at 9 ¾ - reading vol. ii Dubois – breakfast over at 10 40/.. – the Cossack had inquired – no carriage to be had – had found a man that would repair the kibitkas but he could not come till tomorrow – sent for our landlord – knows of no carriage or kibitka to be had in Tiflis but of Hein – enough – the straight struck me to call 1st on Madame Golovin and ask the general en chef to order 2 kibitkas to be repaired – then sat reading till 12 – out at 12 10/.. – called on Madame Golovin – not at home – left cards – then admitted chez les Kotzebue – explained – asked Madame K- to ask the general to give an order for our 2 kibitkas to be repaired by the soldiers – then to the Braïkos – admitted – he kind and good and useful as ever – we have not owned more to anyone, than to him during our stay here – home at 1 ¼ - the droshky at 4 3/.. (Madame Scallons��) took us to dinner at Madame Chwostoffs’ – off at 4 10/.. arrived in 5 minutes – nobody to meet us but the ex-French consul Mr. .......... and his successor le baron Sauveur de la Chapelle a fat dirty-figured (dirty nails) vulgar self sufficient Frenchman unable to taste anything with onion in it but calling for Cognac to his coffee – no sort of help about our carriages – home per droschky at 5 50/.. – locked out – went and sat with Madame Bonjouroff A- about ¾ hour and I an hour till 6 50/.. – then sat reading or talking till about (after) 8, when Madame B- came to us – drank tea and staid till 1 5/.. – had Mr. Saltzman about German carriage and voiturier – much lightning and thunder and heavy rain from about 10 p.m. or after till between 1 and 2 in the morning (fine day – very hot) Note from Madame Kotzebue about 6 this evening – not très poli – her husband “bien fâcher de ne pouvoir vous server dans cette occasion”

[scentedbarbariannut]

Western Region Rhapsody on the Tip of the Tongue: A Foodie's Northern Xinjiang Food Adventure

Text/Greedy Cat Ali

Day 1: Sweet Critical Attack in Urumqi

At 7 o'clock in the morning, I was awakened by the sesame aroma wafting from the naan pit. Pushing open the wooden window of the "Consulate Lane" family hotel, Abdu, the naan master downstairs, was throwing the dough into a moon. The moment the dough "slapped" against the inner wall of the naan pit, the wheat aroma mixed with the smell of firewood exploded, startling the gray doves that landed on the grape trellis.

"Girl, do you want the freshly baked rose naan?" Abdu's iron hook hooked up a golden full moon from the bottom of the pit, and the rose sauce in the center of the naan was still bubbling like volcanic lava. I tore off a piece without caring about the heat. Under the crispy sesame layer, the Hotan rose mixed with Mulei honey set off a storm on the tip of my tongue, and the aftertaste was actually a little minty and cool - it turned out that he kneaded Chamagu leaves in the dough!

I rushed into the main store of "Blood Station Big Plate Chicken" at noon, but was intercepted by the secret weapon on the tricycle at the door. In the glass cabinet of Uyghur lady Gulinar, yellow noodles were soaked in light golden soup, the gluten was full of saffron-dyed brine, and drizzled with walnut pieces and wild chive sauce. When the teeth bit through the noodles and slid into my throat, twenty Tianshan cows danced on my taste buds.

"Don't poke with chopsticks, pick like combing your hair." Gulinar took my cutlery to demonstrate. Her wrinkled wrist shook lightly, and the noodles turned into a translucent round umbrella on the tip of the chopsticks, and were put into the mouth with crushed chickpeas - this is not noodles, it is clearly the flowing moonlight on the Silk Road!

Day3: The taste maze of the old city of Kashgar

In the morning prayers of the Id Kah Mosque, I was like an ant falling into a honey pot, lost in the thousand-layer routine of the century-old teahouse. Uncle Maimaiti, wearing a flower hat, raised the silver-studded teapot above his head. The dark brown medicinal tea drew an amber arc in the air and fell accurately into the coarse pottery bowl in front of me.

"This is saffron-added maren tea, paired with this." He pushed the maren candy inlaid with almonds, and the candy was solidified with figs, raisins and wild honey from Tianshan Mountain. When the tea soup broke the candy shell, the sweetness and bitterness played a love of life and death in the mouth, and I vaguely saw the desert caravan sharing the last food under the starry sky.

Turning the corner, I ran into the smoke of the steamed buns shop. Fifteen naan pits erupted at the same time, and the masters wearing white gloves threw the dough into the sea of ​​fire like throwing grenades. I grabbed a hot "Samusa". The moment I bit through the crispy shell, the hot sheep tail oil mixed with the skin and teeth juice gushed out, and the cumin seeds exploded between my teeth. The spicy taste came from the green agate pepper hidden in the meat filling - this pepper must be soaked in camel milk for seven days before drying!

In the evening, I squatted in front of the pigeon meat stall in Khan Bazaar and watched the boss Ali dissect the pigeon with one hand. He first twisted the neck to bleed, then took out the pink organ string from the lower abdomen, and finally stuffed the pigeon covered with secret sauce into the naan pit. When my teeth sank into the crispy pigeon legs, the sour and sweet taste of wild sand dates oozes out of the bone marrow. It turns out that he added dried purple mulberries that have been dried in Turpan for three months in the marinade.

Day5: Cream Revolution in the Ili River Valley

At the morning market at Horgos Port, Kazakh herders use saddles as chopping boards to cut horse intestines. The smoked horse meat was rosin-colored, and the fat layer was like a sandwich crystal. Uncle Buick, the stall owner, used a dagger to cut off a thin piece: "Eat it with this!" He handed over not garlic paste, but fermented mare's milk in an ox horn cup.

When the sour liquid wrapped in smoked meat slid into my esophagus, I felt like riding a Ferghana horse and galloping on the grassland. Suddenly, I was attracted by the commotion in the stall next door - three Kyrgyz men were fighting for the last piece of baursak. This fried dough cake fermented with camel milk swelled like a hollow golden ball. I took the opportunity to break off the remaining pieces and dipped them in butter. The pastry broke into a thousand milky stars in my mouth.

It was purely accidental to break into the wedding banquet of the Xibe courtyard in Chabuchaer. The bride Tajiguli was sprinkling wild chives into the "Nimha fish stew". In the copper pot with a diameter of 1.2 meters, Ili salmon and wild mushrooms were floating in the sea of ​​milk skin. When the Xibe mothers sang the "Wedding Song", the fish gill meat I was given melted on the tip of my tongue, and the freshness swept through every taste bud cell like an avalanche.

Day7: The Ice and Fire Trio of Turpan Huoyan Mountain

In the 48-degree high temperature, I collapsed in the shadow of the drying room in the Grape Valley. The Uyghur boy Ai Erken suddenly handed me a bowl of "Shalang Dao Ke". A wooden spoon was inserted into the small hill of crushed ice. After pouring yogurt and honey, he took out a Hami melon as big as an ostrich egg like a magic trick.

"Watch it!" He swung the knife to split the king of melons, scraped the melon flesh into snowflakes and dropped it into the smoothie. When the cold and sweet mixture slid across the burning throat, I heard the Huoyan Mountain roaring unwillingly. What's even more amazing is the surprise hidden at the bottom of the bowl-the raisins become crispy and hard at low temperatures, suddenly awakening the drowsy taste nerves like a hidden weapon.

Visiting the barbecue camp next to the ancient city of Jiaohe at night, I found the "king of dark cuisine" grilled camel liver. Forty dark red meat skewers curled up in the charcoal fire, and after being sprinkled with chili powder, they actually glowed blue-purple fluorescence. The moment I closed my eyes and bit into it, the strong iron smell rushed straight to my head, but three seconds later, the sweetness came back, like swallowing a piece of melting raw chocolate - it turned out that this was a special flavor marinated with camel thorn juice!

Day9: The Carbon Water Nuclear Bomb of Taklimakan

Before crossing the desert highway, I went crazy at the Hotan Night Market. In the giant naan pit of Maimaiti, twenty "Kumaki" were stewed between sand and charcoal. This meat naan wrapped in sheep stomach is like a landmine. When I cut it open, the steam blew off my sun hat. The hot lamb and pumpkin flowed in the dead dough. The most amazing thing was the dried apricots on the bottom - they had already melted into a natural sweet and sour sauce under the high temperature.

Challenging the "spicy skin naan" is pure self-torture. The whole naan is covered with Anjihai chili peel that has been dried for 180 days. Under the black red chili slices is a secret weapon: wild garlic paste fermented with sea buckthorn juice. When the burning sensation of the first bite faded, a strange fruity aroma grew out of the ruins of taste. When I drank the third bowl of yogurt shaved ice, I found that my lips were swollen like the head of a Dongbula.

At two o'clock in the morning, I was lured into the alley by the aroma of "watermelon barbecue". The flesh of a half-person-high watermelon was hollowed out, filled with lamb chops, chickpeas and dryland fragrant rice, and the melon rind was covered with river mud and thrown into charcoal ash for stewing. When the old Uyghur craftsman knocked open the charred shell, pink steam with fruity and meaty flavor gushed out, and the rice grains were full of watermelon juice and sheep fat, each of which was like a miniature taste universe explosion.

Epilogue: A fragmented night on the Bayinbuluke grassland

When I drank the tenth bowl of mare's milk in the yurt, the starry sky began to rotate. The herdsman Chaolu carried a whole roasted lamb to the table. The lamb's eyes were inlaid with red wolfberries, and the hind legs were tied with ribbons made of sand onions. I pounced on the lamb's back with the Yingjisha knife in hand. The fat layer trembled like solidified fat under the blade. Suddenly, I found a surprise hidden in the lamb's abdomen - a lamb belly stuffed with wild mushrooms and pine nuts!

When Aunt Qiqige brought the finale "milk barrel meat", I was lying on the saddle to sober up. The three-year-old milk tofu wrapped with lamb meat was slow-cooked in a hollowed-out spruce barrel for eight hours. The moment the lid was opened, the strong aroma woke up the sheepdog three kilometers away. When collagen stuck to my lips, I tasted the moonlight, morning dew and tumbleweeds of the grassland.

The last memory before the blackout was Chaolu's ten-year-old daughter Narentuoya, who used my sports camera to shoot the roasted whole cow at the "Zha Ma Banquet". The rotating cow body in the firelight gradually became a shadow, and her silver bell-like laughter mixed with the sound of oil bursting came: "Sister! Your camera is emitting the smell of oil!"

Postscript:

On the return flight, my taste buds were still playing time-lapse photography:

The sparks in the naan pit are stars that never fall,

The carrot cubes in the pilaf are solidified sunsets,

And the fat lines on the horse sausage casings are the contour lines of the Tianshan Mountains.

The stewardess looked at me crying over the lunch box,

and secretly gave me a pack of Hotan rose naan -

This is probably her last mercy to the food pilgrim,

[lovingarcadementality]

Western Region Rhapsody on the Tip of the Tongue: A Foodie's Northern Xinjiang Food Adventure

Text/Greedy Cat Ali

Day 1: Sweet Critical Attack in Urumqi

At 7 o'clock in the morning, I was awakened by the sesame aroma wafting from the naan pit. Pushing open the wooden window of the "Consulate Lane" family hotel, Abdu, the naan master downstairs, was throwing the dough into a moon. The moment the dough "slapped" against the inner wall of the naan pit, the wheat aroma mixed with the smell of firewood exploded, startling the gray doves that landed on the grape trellis.

"Girl, do you want the freshly baked rose naan?" Abdu's iron hook hooked up a golden full moon from the bottom of the pit, and the rose sauce in the center of the naan was still bubbling like volcanic lava. I tore off a piece without caring about the heat. Under the crispy sesame layer, the Hotan rose mixed with Mulei honey set off a storm on the tip of my tongue, and the aftertaste was actually a little minty and cool - it turned out that he kneaded Chamagu leaves in the dough!

I rushed into the main store of "Blood Station Big Plate Chicken" at noon, but was intercepted by the secret weapon on the tricycle at the door. In the glass cabinet of Uyghur lady Gulinar, yellow noodles were soaked in light golden soup, the gluten was full of saffron-dyed brine, and drizzled with walnut pieces and wild chive sauce. When the teeth bit through the noodles and slid into my throat, twenty Tianshan cows danced on my taste buds.

"Don't poke with chopsticks, pick like combing your hair." Gulinar took my cutlery to demonstrate. Her wrinkled wrist shook lightly, and the noodles turned into a translucent round umbrella on the tip of the chopsticks, and were put into the mouth with crushed chickpeas - this is not noodles, it is clearly the flowing moonlight on the Silk Road!

Day3: The taste maze of the old city of Kashgar

In the morning prayers of the Id Kah Mosque, I was like an ant falling into a honey pot, lost in the thousand-layer routine of the century-old teahouse. Uncle Maimaiti, wearing a flower hat, raised the silver-studded teapot above his head. The dark brown medicinal tea drew an amber arc in the air and fell accurately into the coarse pottery bowl in front of me.

"This is saffron-added maren tea, paired with this." He pushed the maren candy inlaid with almonds, and the candy was solidified with figs, raisins and wild honey from Tianshan Mountain. When the tea soup broke the candy shell, the sweetness and bitterness played a love of life and death in the mouth, and I vaguely saw the desert caravan sharing the last food under the starry sky.

Turning the corner, I ran into the smoke of the steamed buns shop. Fifteen naan pits erupted at the same time, and the masters wearing white gloves threw the dough into the sea of ​​fire like throwing grenades. I grabbed a hot "Samusa". The moment I bit through the crispy shell, the hot sheep tail oil mixed with the skin and teeth juice gushed out, and the cumin seeds exploded between my teeth. The spicy taste came from the green agate pepper hidden in the meat filling - this pepper must be soaked in camel milk for seven days before drying!

In the evening, I squatted in front of the pigeon meat stall in Khan Bazaar and watched the boss Ali dissect the pigeon with one hand. He first twisted the neck to bleed, then took out the pink organ string from the lower abdomen, and finally stuffed the pigeon covered with secret sauce into the naan pit. When my teeth sank into the crispy pigeon legs, the sour and sweet taste of wild sand dates oozes out of the bone marrow. It turns out that he added dried purple mulberries that have been dried in Turpan for three months in the marinade.

Day5: Cream Revolution in the Ili River Valley

At the morning market at Horgos Port, Kazakh herders use saddles as chopping boards to cut horse intestines. The smoked horse meat was rosin-colored, and the fat layer was like a sandwich crystal. Uncle Buick, the stall owner, used a dagger to cut off a thin piece: "Eat it with this!" He handed over not garlic paste, but fermented mare's milk in an ox horn cup.

When the sour liquid wrapped in smoked meat slid into my esophagus, I felt like riding a Ferghana horse and galloping on the grassland. Suddenly, I was attracted by the commotion in the stall next door - three Kyrgyz men were fighting for the last piece of baursak. This fried dough cake fermented with camel milk swelled like a hollow golden ball. I took the opportunity to break off the remaining pieces and dipped them in butter. The pastry broke into a thousand milky stars in my mouth.

It was purely accidental to break into the wedding banquet of the Xibe courtyard in Chabuchaer. The bride Tajiguli was sprinkling wild chives into the "Nimha fish stew". In the copper pot with a diameter of 1.2 meters, Ili salmon and wild mushrooms were floating in the sea of ​​milk skin. When the Xibe mothers sang the "Wedding Song", the fish gill meat I was given melted on the tip of my tongue, and the freshness swept through every taste bud cell like an avalanche.

Day7: The Ice and Fire Trio of Turpan Huoyan Mountain

In the 48-degree high temperature, I collapsed in the shadow of the drying room in the Grape Valley. The Uyghur boy Ai Erken suddenly handed me a bowl of "Shalang Dao Ke". A wooden spoon was inserted into the small hill of crushed ice. After pouring yogurt and honey, he took out a Hami melon as big as an ostrich egg like a magic trick.

"Watch it!" He swung the knife to split the king of melons, scraped the melon flesh into snowflakes and dropped it into the smoothie. When the cold and sweet mixture slid across the burning throat, I heard the Huoyan Mountain roaring unwillingly. What's even more amazing is the surprise hidden at the bottom of the bowl-the raisins become crispy and hard at low temperatures, suddenly awakening the drowsy taste nerves like a hidden weapon.

Visiting the barbecue camp next to the ancient city of Jiaohe at night, I found the "king of dark cuisine" grilled camel liver. Forty dark red meat skewers curled up in the charcoal fire, and after being sprinkled with chili powder, they actually glowed blue-purple fluorescence. The moment I closed my eyes and bit into it, the strong iron smell rushed straight to my head, but three seconds later, the sweetness came back, like swallowing a piece of melting raw chocolate - it turned out that this was a special flavor marinated with camel thorn juice!

Day9: The Carbon Water Nuclear Bomb of Taklimakan

Before crossing the desert highway, I went crazy at the Hotan Night Market. In the giant naan pit of Maimaiti, twenty "Kumaki" were stewed between sand and charcoal. This meat naan wrapped in sheep stomach is like a landmine. When I cut it open, the steam blew off my sun hat. The hot lamb and pumpkin flowed in the dead dough. The most amazing thing was the dried apricots on the bottom - they had already melted into a natural sweet and sour sauce under the high temperature.

Challenging the "spicy skin naan" is pure self-torture. The whole naan is covered with Anjihai chili peel that has been dried for 180 days. Under the black red chili slices is a secret weapon: wild garlic paste fermented with sea buckthorn juice. When the burning sensation of the first bite faded, a strange fruity aroma grew out of the ruins of taste. When I drank the third bowl of yogurt shaved ice, I found that my lips were swollen like the head of a Dongbula.

At two o'clock in the morning, I was lured into the alley by the aroma of "watermelon barbecue". The flesh of a half-person-high watermelon was hollowed out, filled with lamb chops, chickpeas and dryland fragrant rice, and the melon rind was covered with river mud and thrown into charcoal ash for stewing. When the old Uyghur craftsman knocked open the charred shell, pink steam with fruity and meaty flavor gushed out, and the rice grains were full of watermelon juice and sheep fat, each of which was like a miniature taste universe explosion.

Epilogue: A fragmented night on the Bayinbuluke grassland

When I drank the tenth bowl of mare's milk in the yurt, the starry sky began to rotate. The herdsman Chaolu carried a whole roasted lamb to the table. The lamb's eyes were inlaid with red wolfberries, and the hind legs were tied with ribbons made of sand onions. I pounced on the lamb's back with the Yingjisha knife in hand. The fat layer trembled like solidified fat under the blade. Suddenly, I found a surprise hidden in the lamb's abdomen - a lamb belly stuffed with wild mushrooms and pine nuts!

When Aunt Qiqige brought the finale "milk barrel meat", I was lying on the saddle to sober up. The three-year-old milk tofu wrapped with lamb meat was slow-cooked in a hollowed-out spruce barrel for eight hours. The moment the lid was opened, the strong aroma woke up the sheepdog three kilometers away. When collagen stuck to my lips, I tasted the moonlight, morning dew and tumbleweeds of the grassland.

The last memory before the blackout was Chaolu's ten-year-old daughter Narentuoya, who used my sports camera to shoot the roasted whole cow at the "Zha Ma Banquet". The rotating cow body in the firelight gradually became a shadow, and her silver bell-like laughter mixed with the sound of oil bursting came: "Sister! Your camera is emitting the smell of oil!"

Postscript:

On the return flight, my taste buds were still playing time-lapse photography:

The sparks in the naan pit are stars that never fall,

The carrot cubes in the pilaf are solidified sunsets,

And the fat lines on the horse sausage casings are the contour lines of the Tianshan Mountains.

The stewardess looked at me crying over the lunch box,

and secretly gave me a pack of Hotan rose naan -

This is probably her last mercy to the food pilgrim,

[maheshnadgir]

Achieve Your Desired Shape with Expert Liposuction Surgery in Thane

liposuction surgery is a cosmetic procedure designed to eliminate stubborn fat deposits from areas such as the abdomen, thighs, hips, arms, and neck. This procedure is ideal for individuals struggling with fat that doesn’t respond to diet or exercise. Unlike traditional weight-loss methods, liposuction focuses on body contouring, helping patients achieve their desired shape and boost their confidence.

About Dr. Amit Bhalotia

Dr. Amit Bhalotia is a distinguished plastic surgeon with exceptional qualifications, including a DNB in General Surgery, an MCh in Plastic Surgery, and certifications like FDAFPRS from the UK. Honored with the All-India Gold Medal in 2016, Dr. Bhalotia serves as a consultant at the prestigious JJ Group of Hospitals.

Who is an Ideal Candidate for Liposuction?

Before exploring the liposuction surgery process, it’s essential to identify the right candidates, Ideal candidates for liposuction surgery near me typically:

Individuals with localized fat resistant to diet and exercise.

Those within 30% of their ideal weight.

People with good skin elasticity and overall health.

Non-smokers with realistic expectations.

It is essential to note that liposuction is not a weight-loss solution but a body contouring procedure.

The Liposuction Surgery Process: Step-by-Step

Understanding the liposuction surgery process is crucial for anyone considering this procedure:

Anesthesia: General or local anesthesia with sedation is administered.

Incision: Small incisions are made to insert a cannula.

Fat Removal: The cannula loosens and suctions fat using a vacuum or syringe.

Closure: Incisions are closed, and the treated area is dressed.

The procedure typically lasts 1 to 3 hours, depending on the areas treated. Most patients can resume daily activities within a week.

Liposuction Surgery Success Rate in Thane

Thane boasts a high success rate for liposuction surgery due to advanced medical facilities and skilled surgeons. Factors like the patient’s health, the surgeon’s expertise, and cutting-edge technology play a significant role. At Aanvya Hospital, patients benefit from personalized care that ensures optimal outcomes with minimal risks.

Choosing the Best Liposuction Surgeon in Thane

Selecting the right surgeon is critical to achieving successful results. Key factors to consider include:

Extensive experience in performing liposuction.

Proper certifications and credentials.

Positive patient reviews and success stories.

At Aanvya Hospital, our experienced surgeons and advanced techniques ensure excellent care and results.

Recovery After Surgery

Post-surgery care is vital for optimal recovery and results. Patients undergoing liposuction surgery can expect:

Swelling and bruising, which typically subside within weeks.

Use of compression garments to aid recovery and shape retention.

Gradual resumption of normal activities, avoiding strenuous tasks for 4 to 6 weeks.

Liposuction Surgery Cost in Thane

Selecting the best liposuction surgeon in Thane is one of the most crucial decisions in the liposuction journey. Here are a few tips to help you make the right choice: Aanvya Hospital offers competitive pricing and transparent consultations, ensuring patients understand the value and benefits of the surgery.

Why Choose Aanvya Hospital?

Aanvya Hospital stands out for:

Skilled Surgeons: Highly experienced professionals with a proven track record.

Modern Facilities: Equipped with advanced technology for superior care.

Comprehensive Care: Supportive guidance from consultation through recovery.

Patients consistently report high satisfaction rates, thanks to our personalized approach and excellent results.

Final Thoughts

If you’re considering liposuction surgery near me, Aanvya Hospital is a trusted choice. With a team of top liposuction surgeons, state-of-the-art facilities, and a high success rate, we ensure safe and effective procedures.

Contact us today to schedule your consultation and begin your journey toward your desired body transformation!

FAQs

What is liposuction surgery? Liposuction is a cosmetic procedure that removes excess fat from specific body areas like the abdomen, thighs, hips, and arms for body contouring.

Who is an ideal candidate for liposuction? Ideal candidates are within 30% of their ideal weight, have localized fat deposits, good skin elasticity, and realistic expectations.

Is liposuction a weight-loss surgery? No, liposuction is not for weight loss but for removing stubborn fat to improve body contours.

How long does liposuction surgery take? The surgery typically takes 1 to 3 hours, depending on the number of areas being treated.

What type of anesthesia is used in liposuction? Liposuction can be performed under general anesthesia or local anesthesia with sedation, depending on the treatment area.

How soon can I return to normal activities after liposuction? Most patients can return to light activities within a week, but strenuous activities should be avoided for 4 to 6 weeks.

What are the risks associated with liposuction? Common risks include swelling, bruising, infection, and in rare cases, blood clots or skin irregularities.

Will the fat return after liposuction? Fat cells removed during liposuction are permanently gone, but maintaining a healthy lifestyle is crucial to prevent fat from accumulating in other areas.

How much fat can be removed during liposuction? The amount of fat removed varies but generally ranges between 5 to 10 pounds, depending on safety considerations.

Why should I choose Aanvya Hospital for liposuction in Thane? Aanvya Hospital offers experienced surgeons, advanced technology, and personalized care to ensure successful outcomes and patient satisfaction.

[thefishbread]

The Role of the Vice-Consul

The Vice-Consul is like a small ambassador. His work is more about diplomacy than consular tasks. He has many chances to show his intelligence and skills. Often, he is quite young and might still be thinking about playing cricket or football. Most people in his home country don’t even know he exists. Yet, he is part of a group of educated Englishmen who live in faraway countries, often in quiet houses, and remind the people around them of the strength and importance of Britain.

The Turk as a Ruler

The Virtues of the Turk

Many people say that “The Turk is the only gentleman in the Balkans.” This was a common statement I heard while traveling, usually from Englishmen. However, some also believe the Turk is not a good ruler, and that Europe should accept that the Turk cannot be easily changed into a government style others believe is good.

The Image of the Turk

Most Western people, especially women, are afraid of the Turk and think he is unclean. They believe his main quality is sensuality, thinking of him as fat, greedy, and only interested in the pleasures of his harem.

The Reality of the Turk

The Turk may not be perfect, but he is just as moral as an average Englishman, American, or Frenchman. It is rare for a Turk to have more than one wife. The harem system, which many people joke about, is actually more organized and less harmful than the promiscuity found in some Christian European cities. If you compare them, the average Muslim man is as moral as the average Christian man.

The Turk’s Faith and Morality

I don’t intend to discuss the benefits or drawbacks of the Muslim faith, but personally, I have experienced many good qualities of “real Christianity�� in Muslim countries: kindness, courtesy, and hospitality. The Turk follows his faith strictly. He is usually clean and prays at the appointed times. He is not someone who gets drunk and does not skip his prayers.

[lifestylemanagement]

The Role of the Vice-Consul

The Vice-Consul is like a small ambassador. His work is more about diplomacy than consular tasks. He has many chances to show his intelligence and skills. Often, he is quite young and might still be thinking about playing cricket or football. Most people in his home country don’t even know he exists. Yet, he is part of a group of educated Englishmen who live in faraway countries, often in quiet houses, and remind the people around them of the strength and importance of Britain.

The Turk as a Ruler

The Virtues of the Turk

Many people say that “The Turk is the only gentleman in the Balkans.” This was a common statement I heard while traveling, usually from Englishmen. However, some also believe the Turk is not a good ruler, and that Europe should accept that the Turk cannot be easily changed into a government style others believe is good.

The Image of the Turk

Most Western people, especially women, are afraid of the Turk and think he is unclean. They believe his main quality is sensuality, thinking of him as fat, greedy, and only interested in the pleasures of his harem.

The Reality of the Turk

The Turk may not be perfect, but he is just as moral as an average Englishman, American, or Frenchman. It is rare for a Turk to have more than one wife. The harem system, which many people joke about, is actually more organized and less harmful than the promiscuity found in some Christian European cities. If you compare them, the average Muslim man is as moral as the average Christian man.

The Turk’s Faith and Morality

I don’t intend to discuss the benefits or drawbacks of the Muslim faith, but personally, I have experienced many good qualities of “real Christianity” in Muslim countries: kindness, courtesy, and hospitality. The Turk follows his faith strictly. He is usually clean and prays at the appointed times. He is not someone who gets drunk and does not skip his prayers.

[lifestylehotels]

The Role of the Vice-Consul

The Vice-Consul is like a small ambassador. His work is more about diplomacy than consular tasks. He has many chances to show his intelligence and skills. Often, he is quite young and might still be thinking about playing cricket or football. Most people in his home country don’t even know he exists. Yet, he is part of a group of educated Englishmen who live in faraway countries, often in quiet houses, and remind the people around them of the strength and importance of Britain.

The Turk as a Ruler

The Virtues of the Turk

Many people say that “The Turk is the only gentleman in the Balkans.” This was a common statement I heard while traveling, usually from Englishmen. However, some also believe the Turk is not a good ruler, and that Europe should accept that the Turk cannot be easily changed into a government style others believe is good.

The Image of the Turk

Most Western people, especially women, are afraid of the Turk and think he is unclean. They believe his main quality is sensuality, thinking of him as fat, greedy, and only interested in the pleasures of his harem.

The Reality of the Turk

The Turk may not be perfect, but he is just as moral as an average Englishman, American, or Frenchman. It is rare for a Turk to have more than one wife. The harem system, which many people joke about, is actually more organized and less harmful than the promiscuity found in some Christian European cities. If you compare them, the average Muslim man is as moral as the average Christian man.

The Turk’s Faith and Morality

I don’t intend to discuss the benefits or drawbacks of the Muslim faith, but personally, I have experienced many good qualities of “real Christianity” in Muslim countries: kindness, courtesy, and hospitality. The Turk follows his faith strictly. He is usually clean and prays at the appointed times. He is not someone who gets drunk and does not skip his prayers.